Donovan Kincaid hated being in the hospital. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. Soldiers of fortune earned their scars one at a time.

This was a hard time to be stuck in a bed. Bryn said Pru was fine, but he needed to see her with his own eyes. He needed to find a way to tell her—

It had seemed easy up in the mountain, in the heat of action. Now it didn’t seem so simple. Her memory was back and she’d learned the man she’d called father all her life was dead. She needed time to mourn his loss. If he told her the truth now, she’d lose her father twice. She’d taken so many knocks in the past few days. How could he hit her with one more?

He shifted restlessly in the bed. His back hurt, where the knife had entered.

Grady had damn near killed him. A pointed reminder he’d gotten soft. It was time for him to get out of the security business and go back where he belonged—in the heat of battle. Surely there was a war somewhere he could dive into.

A soft movement in the doorway caught his attention. He looked up. It was Pru, looking at him with her usual aloof, far too serious gaze. She was dressed in something drab that tamped down the spirit he now knew was there. His heart hurt just looking at her. Before he could stop himself he said, “Damn, you look like your mother.”

Her smile broke across her face like the sun broke over the mountains. “Really?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

She came closer, her walk as fluid as her mother’s had been the day he met her.

“He never told me anything.” She sank into the chair by the bed.

Her face was even with his. Her eyes were her mother’s. They didn’t welcome him the way hers had. Despite the smile, they stayed cool, but interested. They saw him. He didn’t think that had ever happened before. He shifted uneasily. Her eyes made him aware of all the things he hadn’t been—like in her life.

“Who am I?”

He drew in his breath sharply. It hurt like hell. “You’re—”

“—not John Knight’s daughter. He told me that day.”

Donovan scowled. “What a bastard.” He hesitated, then asked, “Did he tell you who—”

She shook her head, but the most amazing thing happened. Her eyes opened. The shutters lifted. He could see her soul.

“I think,” she said, her hand lifting to rest on his gripping the blanket, “that I’m a little like my dad, too.”

He covered her hand with his and gripped. “You’re a lot like your dad. Sorry about that.”

She gave a sigh that trembled a bit and laid her head on his shoulder. “No apologies necessary…Dad.”