by Brenda Novak
This time he took the baby when she held him out, and she hurried to the desk to find a paper and pen.
“Where can I get those items?” he asked, peering over her shoulder while she wrote.
“Finley’s Market is open till ten. But it’s a forty-minute drive to town, so you’d better hurry if you plan to go tonight.” She ripped off the sheet and handed it to him. “You can follow me, if you leave right away. I drive right past there.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll do that.”
Braden squirmed and reached for her, which made Dakota hesitate. Tyson seemed tense, unsure of himself. And the way he was holding his son—out away from his body instead of cuddling him close—concerned her. What if Tyson really was taking drugs? “Are you on something?” she asked.
Two deep furrows formed between his eyebrows. “What?”
She glanced anxiously toward the door but stayed where she was. She couldn’t conscionably leave until she knew the baby would be okay. “I’m asking if you’ve been snorting coke, shooting heroin, swallowing pills…you know.”
“Of course not! Do I look like I’m on drugs?”
She refused to blanch at his angry response. “Sort of.”
His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes narrowed. Obviously he wasn’t used to hearing the hard truth. But she had a responsibility to the baby. “I’m not,” he insisted.
“Not even steroids?” Steroids affected behavior, sometimes caused undue anger, right? She’d read that somewhere.
“Not even steroids.”
She wasn’t sure he’d admit it to her even if he were. But she didn’t dare argue further. Braden was his baby. There wasn’t anything more she could do. “Good.” She headed for the door, her mind now fully focused on getting home to her father, but Tyson intercepted her.
“What time can you be here in the morning?”
“When would you like me?”
“I’ll give you a key, so you can let yourself in at dawn.”
Dawn? She almost protested. She’d have to get up before five to get back here that early. But the nine thousand dollars she’d earn working for him would stop the bank from taking possession of their home. They were nearly five months behind on their mortgage.
Hopefully, her father would behave so she’d be able to get some sleep tonight.
“Fine.” She waited for him to fish an extra key out of the desk. Then she gave Braden an affectionate pat. “If you want to follow me to Finley’s, you’ll have to keep up,” she told Tyson. “I’m in a big hurry.”
But it didn’t take long to realize he wasn’t going to fall behind. While her 1992 rattletrap Maxima could barely do twenty-five miles an hour on the winding road, Tyson’s red Ferrari had no such limitations. His headlights never left her rearview mirror.
Where he’d put Braden’s car seat in that sports car, she had no idea. Obviously Tyson Garnier wasn’t much of a family man. That Ferrari was as much of a chick magnet as he was.
“You’re some father,” she muttered. But these days her own father wasn’t anything to brag about, and she grew more and more anxious as she drove closer to home.
CHAPTER THREE
Grandpa Garnier: If you want to forget all your troubles,
take a little walk in a brand-new pair of high-heeled
riding boots.
DAKOTA WAVED HIM OFF at the small supermarket in the middle of town, but Tyson didn’t stop. First he wanted to see where his new nanny lived. Under her care he hadn’t heard the baby so much as whimper all afternoon; he wasn’t about to let her drive off without at least knowing where to find her.
Two blocks later, she pulled onto the side of the road. “You missed it,” she called when he came up even with her and lowered his window.
“I know.”
“So where are you going?”
“I was…” He couldn’t divulge too much, or she’d know how inept he was, and his inability to be a decent father was the last thing he wanted spread across the front page of tomorrow’s paper. He deserved a little privacy, didn’t he? But he knew from experience he had only as much as he could fiercely guard. “…curious to see where you live,” he finished.
Her face filled with irritation. “Why?”
“Because I’m trying to learn my way around.”
Her car rattled and shook as if it was a struggle just to keep idling. “My place is not a landmark. Besides, you don’t have time to mess around. You’ll miss the store, and you can’t survive without diapers, remember?”
“I’ve got thirty minutes.”
“It’ll take you that long to do your shopping.”
He thought he could get what he needed in fifteen. But whether he had time or not wasn’t the real issue. She obviously didn’t want him following her any farther. He couldn’t imagine what it’d hurt, but she was scowling as though it was out of the question. “Okay.”
The tension in her face eased. “You have my phone number. Give me a call if you need anything.”
Did she really mean that? “I will.”
“Good night,” she said pointedly and maneuvered her heap of junk back onto the road.
Tyson nearly turned the Ferrari around. He was being ridiculous. Surely he could make it through eight hours on his own.
But then Braden started to fuss and pull at the harness restraining him, and fear that they’d pass another night like the last one slithered up Tyson’s spine. He couldn’t do it; he didn’t have the patience or the emotional reserves.
Waiting until he could barely see Dakota’s taillights, he pulled onto the road and trailed her at a much more discreet distance. She’d said he could call her, but what if she was a deep sleeper and didn’t pick up? It wouldn’t hurt to see where she lived, just in case.
Initially, he’d expected her to turn into the drive of one of the small brick houses surrounding the high school. It seemed that most folks in these parts lived there. When she passed those neighborhoods, however, he figured she had to live in one of the ranchettes on the outskirts of town. But he was wrong again. Beyond the cemetery, as buildings began to give way to the surrounding countryside, she entered a dusty trailer park that didn’t have so much as a patch of grass or a few trees to recommend it.
Tyson crept forward. Cast-off tires, cardboard boxes and wine bottles littered the weed-filled spaces in between twenty or so single-wide trailers. A few cars rested on blocks, and red lava rocks had been used to spruce up those units whose owners had even bothered with landscaping. His mother would’ve been appalled. If his mother had anything, it was good taste.
“She can’t live here,” he muttered, trying to avoid some of the deeper ruts in the dirt drive.
Tyson knew his car was hardly the kind to blend in. He couldn’t follow Dakota any farther without drawing attention, even in the dark. So he parked next to a Dumpster that had apparently been looted by kids or animals—or both. The trash scattered on the ground smelled worse than Braden’s dirty diapers, but the Dumpster provided some cover as he stepped out.
Dakota pulled into a lean-to carport attached to what a sign boldly proclaimed was Unit 13. At the far back, it was one of the shabbiest trailers in the park. But someone had hung some cheap wind chimes from one of the beams that supported the carport and planted flowers in front. Tyson could see the flowers in the pool of light coming from the streetlamp right next to her trailer. He was willing to bet they were wilted and badly in need of water—everything here looked wilted and badly in need of something—but Dakota didn’t so much as glance at her surroundings as she hurried up the four steps of the landing and let herself in.
The door slammed shut. Then the lights went on.
Tyson rubbed the whiskers on his chin as he listened to those wind chimes tinkling in the evening breeze, a television blaring through an open window of another trailer and a woman in the trailer closest to him ranting at someone, presumably her husband: “Get your ass in here, Willy. How many times do I gotta tell
ya to empty your own damn ashtray? You’d think you could get up off that couch at least once a day….”
No wonder Gabe had promised Dakota that he would triple her pay, Tyson thought. This place was freakin’ depressing. He didn’t want to stick around. He couldn’t, anyway. Braden was crying again, probably tired of being in his car seat. But Tyson wasn’t sure taking him out would do any good. Last night, nothing had calmed him.
He sighed. The torture was already starting. Eight interminable hours yawned before him, during which he wouldn’t know what to do with the little human he’d inadvertently helped to create. But seeing Dakota’s home put his own problems in perspective. Life could be worse, right? He could always live here.
Settling into the familiar comfort of his leather seat, he turned around and drove to Finley’s Market.
* * *
HER FATHER’S TRUCK was in the drive but he wasn’t home.
A sick feeling descended on Dakota as she hurried inside. She hoped he’d gone to bed, but she knew better.
Sure enough, his room was as empty as the rest of the trailer. From the mess in the kitchen, he’d fixed himself dinner, at least, which was good. But there was no note on the fridge, on the counter amid the stacks of bills, or on the cluttered side table that held his glasses, his newspaper, his solitaire deck and, typically, his beer. If he was merely out for a walk or over at Johnny Diddimyer’s to play poker, he would’ve left word. He knew she’d worry.
Covering her face, Dakota tried to steady her nerves. She didn’t feel as if she could go through again what she’d been through last week. But she couldn’t eat and go to bed. If her dad was already drunk and acting up, the police would put him in jail until he was sober and he wasn’t well enough to withstand that. Having to walk with a cane wasn’t the worst of his problems. He could have a stroke or a heart attack at any time. He already needed a new liver.
Dakota’s stomach growled as she passed the kitchen. She was hungry because she hadn’t felt comfortable helping herself to Tyson’s food without an invitation—and he hadn’t emerged from his office to give her one—but she didn’t have time to scrounge through the refrigerator for leftovers. If her father had somehow managed to get to the Honky Tonk, she needed to reach him sooner rather than later. He could get so belligerent, so violent when he drank. It had been tough taking care of him since the accident, but it was getting more so as time wore on. He wasn’t himself anymore. Sometimes he scared her so badly she didn’t know if she’d survive the next few months.
She rubbed the bandage that covered the cut on her arm. She was pretty sure she should’ve gotten some stitches, but she hadn’t dared seek medical care. If anyone found out her father had come at her with a knife, they’d insist she put him in an institution. Most people told her to do that already. But where would she get the money? He received a small check from the state each month but even combined with what Dakota earned, it wasn’t enough to pay for institutionalized care. Besides, she couldn’t abandon Skelton. It was because of her that he lived in constant pain.
Hesitating at the door, she threw her shoulders back and lifted her head. It’d be okay. She’d find him, and she’d bring him home where she could take care of him. He’d cried—literally broken down and sobbed—when he realized what he’d done last time. Surely he wouldn’t hurt her again.
* * *
TYSON DIDN’T KNOW what he was going to do. Braden had fallen asleep during the ride home and had stayed asleep as he was gently transferred into his crib, giving Tyson hope that they’d have an easy night together, after all. But it was only midnight, and the baby was already awake and crying. Tyson had changed his diaper and given him a bottle. He’d even tried the pacifier he’d bought at the store—which he’d boiled just like it said on the package.
Nothing seemed to work.
He considered calling his mother for advice, but he’d tried that last night and it hadn’t done any good. Priscilla Garnier, who was single at the moment and living in Phoenix, didn’t know what to do with a baby any more than he did. Her suggestion had been to put Braden in his crib and let him cry, and to get some rest, but that answer was completely unacceptable to him. He’d taken Braden away from Rachelle for neglect. He wasn’t about to follow in her footsteps.
“What do you want?” he asked the baby, so on edge he felt close to tears himself.
Braden’s face turned a deeper shade of red, and his mouth remained open but no sound came out.
“Breathe!” Tyson said in a panic.
Finally, Braden hauled in a breath and let go of another earsplitting wail.
That was it, Tyson decided. He had to call Dakota Brown. He hated to do it, especially in the middle of the night. But it looked as if she could use the extra cash, and no price was too high if it’d bring him and this baby some relief. He’d promise her another five hundred dollars, or whatever it’d take, to get her to come back right away. He’d been stupid to let her go in the first place.
He wanted to put Braden in his crib and shut the door, so that he’d be able to hear on the phone, but he didn’t dare. What if the monster quit breathing completely? Died of SIDS?
He continued to scream as Tyson carried him to the office. Dakota’s number was in a very prominent place—he’d made sure of that—so it wasn’t difficult to find. But instead of a sleepy voice on the other end of the line, he got a recorded message.
I’m sorry, this number has been disconnected. If you feel you have reached this recording in error—
What? She’d given him that number just today!
Had he dialed wrong? He thought that might be the case, but when he tried again, he got the same message.
Shit. Now what was he to do? He couldn’t keep pacing the floor. Something had to be wrong with Braden—and they were way up in the mountains in an unfamiliar state, completely out of Tyson’s element. He didn’t even know where to find a hospital if he needed one.
Grabbing the car seat, he strapped the baby inside—which wasn’t easy because Braden was straining and kicking so hard—then loaded his demon son in the passenger seat of the Ferrari and drove like a bat out of hell.
* * *
BY THE TIME Tyson reached the trailer park, Braden had cried himself to sleep. The silence was absolute bliss, but he knew better than to turn around. He wasn’t about to fall for the temporary nap trick. Anyway, the peace didn’t last long. Tyson could hear shouting the second he opened his car door.
At first he thought it was coming from the trailer next to Dakota’s. The light was on there, too. But he soon realized the neighbors were only awake because of the ruckus. He could see an old couple peeking through their blinds, trying to get a look at what was going on next door.
He was wondering himself. He couldn’t imagine the father Dakota had mentioned as having “health issues” using the kind of foul language that rang so clearly on the cool night air.
“Make him stop,” the old lady called out when she spotted Tyson. “Or I’m calling the cops.”
Tyson closed the door of his car before the noise could wake Braden. “What’s going on?”
“They’re at it again,” the woman answered.
“At what again?”
“Fighting! Can’t you hear?” the man said. “He gets drunk and goes after her every now and then, more often lately than before.”
“I swear, he’s gonna kill her one of these days,” the woman fretted.
Alcoholism was Dakota’s father’s “health issue”? Tyson nearly groaned aloud. What was he doing here? He was standing at the back of a neglected trailer park in the middle of the night in a town of about 1500 people, which he’d never visited before. And he had a baby with him. His baby.
God, how life could unravel. Maybe his grandfather had been right. Maybe he should’ve stayed in Montana where he belonged.
“Give me the keys!” a male voice roared. “Or so help me, Dakota—”
“Stop it! Dad, listen.” She attempted to lower her vo
ice, but Tyson could still hear her. “You’re going to wake the neighbors. Then they’ll call the police. Again. Do you want to spend the night in jail? You have to calm down—”
“Don’t you tell me what to do!”
A scream and a thud reverberated through the air. Then a crash.
“What the hell?” Tyson sprinted for the door and, after flinging it open, found Dakota trying to keep a table between her and her attacker. A vase lay broken on the floor. Several strands of her long black hair clung to her T-shirt, as if her father had gotten hold of a handful and yanked it out. But it was the blood trickling from her mouth that enraged Tyson. Who was this old man to think he could get away with beating up his daughter?
“Sit down!” Tyson shouted.
The man who turned to face him had a yellow cast to his skin and a bulldog’s sagging jowls. He also had a mean glint in his eye, and he wasn’t pleased to see he had a visitor.
“Who the hell are you? Get out of my house!” He tried to raise the cane he’d been brandishing at Dakota, but Tyson wrested it from his grip. Mr. Brown wasn’t all that mobile. His feet were so swollen he could hardly walk. Had Dakota been out where she could run, she would’ve had no problem getting away.
Tossing the cane out of reach, Tyson grabbed the older man by the shirtfront, dodged a clumsy blow and shoved him onto the couch. “I said sit down.”
“Stop! You’ll hurt him!” Dakota cried, but Tyson was more concerned with what her father was saying.
“You little prick, I don’t even know you! Who do you think you are?”
“I’m your worst nightmare if you don’t stay put and shut up,” Tyson said. And then, just when Dakota’s father looked as if he’d get up and try to take another swing, he blinked and his rage evaporated.
“Hey, you’re…Tyson Garnier? The Tyson Garnier? What the hell are you doing in my trailer?” he asked, and laughed as though he hadn’t been trying to kill his daughter thirty seconds earlier. “Imagine that,” he said, sounding awestruck. “Tyson Garnier, right here in my living room.”
