Page 8 of Wild Hearts

"His family does." I glanced over at her to catch her awed expression.

"I'll be living on a ski resort then?"

"Right now, Walker is staying in one of the cabins. He wanted you to have privacy and space to get to know each other."

"I'm going to be stuck on a mountain?" Dakota grumbled, and it was the first time I caught a bit of the teen angst I was expecting.

"The cabins are new, and I've heard they're considered luxurious. I think you'll like it." I'd inspected the cabin with Eli after he told me their plans. It was more than suitable for Walker and Dakota.

I pulled up to the last cabin and parked next to Walker's truck. He'd mentioned purchasing one as soon as he moved home. My impression was that he was all in with Dakota. I just hoped she'd give him a chance. But I had some experience withkids who were rehomed. It took a while for them to come around, if they did at all.

I turned off the car, and Walker came outside to wait on the porch. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and he rocked back on his heels.

I waited for Dakota at the hood of my car. She was slower to get out and join me.

"Dakota, this is Walker Wilde. Walker, this is your daughter, Dakota." The pronouncement had tears stinging my eyes. I needed to get it together. Walker wasn't mine anymore, and this meeting was work related not personal.

Walker blinked, his expression overcome with emotion. "It's so nice to meet you, Dakota." When she remained quiet, he asked, "Do you want to come in?"

She nodded, and Walker gestured for her to precede him inside.

When she disappeared inside, he looked at me. "Why do I feel like I'm already messing up?"

I rested a hand on his arm. "You're not. Remember, she's been through a lot, and you're a stranger to her."

"I don't know what to talk about. I don't want to overwhelm her." He closed his eyes for a second. "I can't believe I have a daughter."

I nodded, my own tears threatening to spill. "Just be yourself, and keep it light."

He nodded. "I'll do my best."

I headed inside, finding Dakota in the kitchen, gazing around the space. The cabin was clean and tidy even though Walker had moved in since I inspected it. There were no framed photos or books to indicate who Walker was now.

He'd left at eighteen, and he could be a totally different person than he was back then. He might have matured and grown into someone different than the teen I knew.

"Are you hungry?" Walker asked her.

Dakota frowned. "I just ate."

"You want a tour of the place?" he asked hopefully.

Dakota nodded, and I waited in the kitchen while he showed her the bedrooms, the loft that doubled as a gaming room with a couch and another TV. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water.

I wanted to give them space, and this seemed like the perfect time to do it. Dakota was interested in the cabin. That was a good sign. I knew she had reservations about staying away from town, but hopefully, the luxurious accommodations made up for that.

When they returned, I set my glass next to the sink and joined them in the living room. Dakota took the couch, so I sat in the armchair. Walker sat in the only other available armchair. "I thought you might want to know a little something about me. I enlisted in the military at eighteen, wanting to be independent and responsible. I liked the routine and the discipline. I thrived in that atmosphere."

"But didn't you quit because of me?" Dakota asked, surprising both of us.

Walker glanced over at me and, at my nod, said, "You're my daughter. I've already missed thirteen years. I didn't want to miss one more."

Dakota's expression faltered for a second, and I saw the vulnerable girl, the one who'd just lost her mother, before she recovered. "My home is in Virginia."

"I know this is hard for you. You've lost your mother, and now you're moving across the country to live with a virtual stranger."

Her jaw tightened. "Then why are you making me do this?"

I held my breath, hoping Walker was capable of fielding her questions. It wouldn't be the first time she brought this up.

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