by Lisa Jackson
“Come on, Mom,” he said, gently lifting her off the couch. It was barely seven o’clock, hours away from nightfall. “Let’s get you into bed.” Then, as he had since he was twelve, he hauled his mother into the bedroom, laid her on the bed, drew the covers to her chin and closed the door softly behind him.
“She’s pathetic, isn’t she?” Chris’s voice was thick, filled with unreleased sobs. He stood in the shadows of the hallway, his hair falling into his eyes.
“No, she’s—”
“Just don’t tell me she’s sick, okay? That’s what that neighbor lady, Ida Kemp, is always telling me, but I’m not a baby anymore. I know the score. Mom’s drunk. Just like always.”
“She’s got a problem.”
“I’ll say. She can’t go one day without a drink.”
“It’s deeper than that.”
“Bull!” Chris ran into the living room, snatched up the wineglass and hurled it against the window. Birds perched on the feeder on the other side of the glass squawked and flew off, feathers fluttering, a cat near the window slunk behind the couch and blood-red stains ran down the old panes. Chris’s rage wasn’t spent. “She’s a drunk, Brand, and everyone in town knows about it! Some lady from social services has been out a few times, and no one says it but I think . . . I think they’re going to take me away from her!” His chin wobbled before he sniffed loudly, wiped his nose with his sleeve and fought tears. “Maybe it would be good,” he muttered, disgust twisting his face.
“No, Chris—”
“You don’t know how it is!”
He did. Oh, God, he knew. The lies, the hidden bottles, the numbing fear that he’d find her dead instead of just passed out, the ever-present knowledge that he might be taken away from her. “I know it’s tough.”
“Do you?” Chris challenged, then ran from the room. He slammed his door shut, just as Brandon had a hundred times before.
A lock clicked as Brand walked down the hall and rapped with one knuckle on the stained paint of the door to the room he used to sleep in. “I think we should talk.”
“Nothin’ to talk about.”
“Sure there is.”
“Go ’way.” A minute later, heavy-metal music of some kind thrummed through the wood panels.
“I’ll be in the living room.”
No answer, just the nasal wail of a singer and the thick beat of bass guitars.
Brand wanted to break the door down, to try to talk some sense into the boy when there was no sense to be made. But maybe the kid needed to cool off. Everyone was strung tight, much too tight.
Brand would wait on the couch, all night if he had to, then he’d set down some rules. This might be his mother’s house but if she didn’t pull herself together, she’d lose her younger son. Her older one would see to it.
* * *
Dani dropped the last box onto the end of the old couch and rubbed the kinks from the middle of her back. Her stomach rumbled, sweat dripped down her face and back and a headache was building behind her eyes. Every muscle in her body ached from packing crates and hauling them up the stairs. She’d barely slept four hours last night, tossing and turning and staring out the window at the moonlight-drenched fields or the hours on her digital clock radio. Thinking of Brandon and the baby. Rotating her neck, she winced as she walked to the sink and turned on the water. Creaking pipes and a rush of water the color of rust greeted her. “Oh, great,” she muttered, waiting until the water was clearer before splashing some on her face. In her rush to move out before Brandon landed permanently, she’d forgotten that these pipes needed replacing.
She wasn’t worried about getting the job done—she’d become an ace plumber and electrician ever since she’d been on her own—but she hadn’t had the time.
“Add another job to the list,” she told herself and found a diet cola in the refrigerator. She’d have to live on bottled water until she could find the time to replace the pipes and faucets in both the kitchen and bath. “The joys of being single.” She popped the top off her can of orange soda and gulped down half of it. And now she’d have to deal with Brandon Scarlotti and all the emotional baggage he brought with him.
Of all the people to lease the place—why Brandon?
Destiny.
She let out a brittle laugh and reminded herself she didn’t believe in that kind of hogwash. She flopped on the couch, an old one made up of rawhide-covered cushions tossed over a scratched maple frame. A basket of laundry, not yet folded, rested near a wagon-wheel coffee table. She rifled through the clean clothes looking for a handkerchief or towel and settled for a clean sock to mop the sweat from her forehead. She was used to hard work—hours in the saddle, wrestling a calf to the ground, shoveling manure or fixing broken pipes—but this move was different, emotionally draining as well as physically exhausting.
She’d promised herself that she’d never be dependent upon a man again. But she’d never learned how to forget—or how to face the past, which she would have to do every time she looked into Brandon’s blue eyes.
“Damn it all,” she muttered, staring wretchedly at her surroundings. Her other furnishings consisted of a small end table, two chairs, braided rug, one free-standing lamp and a table with drawers that served as her desk. Behind a screen was her bed and a mirror, the bureau near the front door. There was a bathroom big enough for one person to stand in and a kitchen complete with two-burner stove, midget refrigerator and sink tucked behind folding doors.
She searched vainly for a bottle of aspirin and ended up walking to an open window, where she leaned against the sill and listened to the sounds of the evening—crickets beginning to chirp, a saw shrieking in the far distance and somewhere a dog barking. Dusk was laying dark shadows over the land and she saw a star glimmering in the lavender sky.
Star light, star bright
First star I see tonight . . .
How many nights had she seen the evening star and whispered those words? How many times had she thought about the child she’d borne? Her child. Brandon’s child. A nameless, faceless couple’s child.
Headlights caught her attention and the smooth purr of an engine cut through the night. Her heart squeezed as she trained her eyes on the dark blue car streaming down the lane, leaving a plume of dust in its wake. She forced all thoughts of her baby from her mind. She couldn’t be maudlin or emotional, not now.
Because, like it or not, Brand was back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The slacks, tie and jacket were gone, replaced by sun-faded Levi’s and a loose-fitting shirt with the sleeves shoved up to Brandon’s elbows. His hair was mussed and he didn’t seem to care as he strode to the front door of the house and pounded loudly.
“Go on in.” Dani stood at the top of the stairs that angled up the side of the garage to the front door of her apartment. She felt grimy even though she’d quickly washed her face and hands after she’d spied his car in the driveway. “It’s not locked.”
At the sound of her voice he turned, tilting his head up to look at her. Incredibly, though it had been years since he’d kissed her, her silly heart fluttered. “Thought you were going to give me the grand tour.”
“It’s almost dark.”
“Not quite.” His back to the door, he stood, legs apart, looking too much like a perfect specimen of a man. Broad shoulders, lean hips, black hair falling over a strong forehead. Blue eyes stared up at her from a face that was tanned and sharp featured. “Seems to me when I leased this place, it came with electricity.”
“Very funny,” she muttered as she hurried down the steps, though she didn’t want to show him that she was the least bit amused. His sense of humor wouldn’t catch her off guard, wouldn’t fascinate her or remind her of their few happy weeks together. No way. She’d be immune to him, even if it killed her.
Determination setting her jaw, she swept by him and shouldered open the door. “Here we go.” Her boots rang on the old plank floors, recently oiled and gleaming, as she switched on the lights. “
Thought you already saw this.”
“Just peeked in the windows.” He walked a few steps behind her, viewing the empty house that smelled of cleaning solvent and polish. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
“If you only knew,” she whispered, trying not to notice the faint scent of soap that clung to him or the way the denim of his jeans stretched taut as he bent over to examine the antique andirons in the old river-rock fireplace. Muscles worked in his forearms, strong arms that were dusted with dark hair.
“Knew what? That I intrude?”
She caught her breath, surprised that he’d heard her.
Dusting his hands, he straightened, leaned his shoulders on the old mantel and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes bored into her. “Okay. Out with it. Something’s bugging the hell out of you—something about me—and since we’re going to be neighbors for the next year or so, we’d better clear the air right here and now.”
“Year or so?” she repeated. “Last I heard, you were committed to about six months even though the lease runs for twice that time.”
“I just don’t know how on schedule the project will be.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
His smile was downright devastating. “Yeah, well, a lot can go wrong. I like to give myself a little leeway. Is that a problem?”
“Not unless you plan to overstay the lease.”
“It’s only day one. We’ll renegotiate later, okay?”
Blast the man, he had the audacity to smile as if he enjoyed sparring with her. Great. Just what she needed.
His eyes held hers and he didn’t give an inch, just stood there, waiting. What could she say? She felt like a fool and a dirty one at that. She hadn’t even had time to wash up properly before he showed up. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. What did he care if she smelled of horsehide and sweat?
“It’s because you and I slept together, isn’t it?” His words seemed to echo in the room and in her heart.
She glanced up sharply. “Pardon me—”
“You’re this way—”
“What way?”
“Prickly, because we slept together.”
She wanted to look anywhere but at his face, but the magnetism of his gaze held her fast. “You really don’t believe in beating around the bush, do you?”
“Do you?” He craned a dark brow.
“No, I guess not, and to be perfectly honest, yes, I thought the past might get in our way.”
“Not a chance.”
A silly flicker of hope—that he still cared, that when he walked away from her there had been some regret—died a quick and excruciating death. “Oh.”
“Is it a problem for you?”
She could lie, but what was the point. “Maybe.”
“Why?” The question hung in the air. When she didn’t answer, he pushed it. “Because I left you?”
She felt as if a horse had kicked her in the stomach. Honesty was one thing. Being out-and-out blunt was altogether different. “That has a lot to do with it, I suppose.”
“Still? It’s been what—twelve years?” She nodded and was horrified when she saw the ghost of a smile play upon his lips—that same devilish smile that had coaxed her into foolishly believing in happy-ever-afters. “Don’t tell me I made that much of an impression on you.”
“It—it was an impressionable age.” She stood her ground, crossing her arms under her breasts, wishing she could level him with the news that he was a father. But that was just anger and one-upmanship talking; she’d never do anything so cruel for shock value.
“I remember.” Something flickered in his eyes, something very much alive and exceedingly dangerous, but it quickly disappeared as if it had been willed away, and she told herself that she was imagining things; what had happened between them was long over.
“I’ll show you the rest of the house. It was one of the original settlements around here, you know.” Lovingly she touched the smooth log walls, walking him through the kitchen, dining room and three bedrooms, all of which had been added on to the original homestead cabin during various stages of remodeling. “I thought it was strange that you didn’t want to see inside before you signed the lease.”
“As I said, I looked through the windows. It seemed to fill the bill.”
“Which was?”
“Privacy, I guess. Room to set up an office. Close enough to the project to get there in half an hour, far enough away so I can relax. An extra room for my kid brother to come and visit if he wants.”
“You have a brother?”
“Half brother,” Brand said, shaking his head. “From what Ma says, he’s hell on wheels already and not yet twelve.” Dani nearly missed a step, hearing him speak of a boy about the same age as their son. Brand walked to the center of one of the bedrooms, his eyes scanning the walls for electrical outlets and closets. “Girls keep calling him and he’s got a screwed-up sense of values. Thinks owning an expensive car will solve all his problems.”
“And you don’t?” she asked. He took in a swift breath.
“Not anymore.”
“Good. I guess you’ll have to straighten your brother out.”
“I plan to,” he said solemnly. “But it won’t be easy. Chris is a handful.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t heard of him.”
“Why would you? Mom only moved back to Dawson City two—no, closer to three—years ago, and unless you have some connection over there, how would you know a kid by the name of Christopher Cunningham?”
“I give weekly lessons to my niece—well, Skye’s stepdaughter—who lives in Dawson City with her mother part of the time. Hillary’s pretty gregarious and she knows a lot of kids. I thought she might mention him.”
“Chris is in junior high.”
Of course he was. What was she thinking? The kid was nearly twelve, almost a teenager. Just like her son. “That explains it,” she said, showing him the bathroom with its claw-footed tub, which was probably original, and the glass-and-cedar shower, which wasn’t. “Hillary’s in elementary school—she’ll be in first grade this year, I think.”
As she showed him the rest of the house, they made small talk, discussing telephone hookups, electricity and gas connections, satellite dishes and mail delivery. He wanted to convert the third bedroom into an office with a computer, fax capabilities and all sorts of electronic gear that would have to be wired and installed.
“So you want a ranch away from it all, then you want to bring it all back to the ranch,” she said as they passed through the kitchen and he glanced at the scarred wooden countertops, old wood stove and newer appliances.
“Something like that.” He chuckled softly.
“You must be some kind of big wheel.”
“Not that big.”
She threw out a hip and shook her head. “Don’t start in with the false modesty bit. You went to California to prove something, to make it on your own, and it looks to me like you did it. Big time.”
“Who would have guessed?” he said, his voice suddenly harsh, his words filled with an anger that burned deep.
“What?”
“That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it—that no one would have thought it possible?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Brand,” she said, stung. Honesty controlled her tongue. “I always knew that you’d accomplish anything you set out to do.” His gaze sharpened on her and Dani looked away, afraid he might notice the emotions she knew were surfacing in her eyes. She crossed the room and opened the back door, where she motioned past the torn screen to the porch. “My washer and dryer are out here and there’s no room in the apartment, so I thought I’d leave them here. We could both use them . . . unless you have your own.”
“Yours’ll be fine.”
“Good. And as I said, the phone company is supposed to come out next week and install a phone in my apartment. I have the name of a serviceman who can probably install yours at the same time. It’s—” she walked over to the counte
r where the phone and answering machine sat and tore off the top piece of a notepad “—Sam Burton.”
“Thanks,” he said, his voice low as he took the paper and followed her back to the entry hall. The front door was still ajar and a moth had slipped through the crack to flutter near the light. Brandon cleared his throat. “Most of my stuff will be here tomorrow. If I’m not here, will you let the movers in?”
She reached into the front pocket of her jeans, withdrew a small ring of keys and slid one off. “Here—you can do it yourself if you want.” She handed him the key. “It works both the front and back doors, but sticks a little on the back one. I also kept a second one hanging by the light on the back porch, in case I ever got locked out. The only other one is with the owner.”
“One should be enough.”
“You don’t have a . . .”
“Girlfriend?” He shook his head and rubbed the side of his jaw. “Never found the right woman I guess.”
“So you’ve never had any children?” she returned, unable to resist bringing up the subject.
He frowned as he walked outside. Dani snapped out the lights and waited as he locked the door. Darkness had fallen and his face was in shadow as he slid the house key onto a ring that jangled. “I’ve never had time for children. And I don’t believe in having any unless you’re married. I know that sounds old-fashioned, probably even archaic, but that’s the way it is. All these women having babies on their own—maybe it sounds great but then when the kid reaches eleven or twelve . . .” His voice drifted off.
If you only knew, she thought, condemning herself for never telling him the truth.
“I would probably have been better off, less determined to raise hell, I think, if my old man had stuck around.”
“You don’t know that,” Dani said defensively as she, too, had grown up without a father. How would she ever be able to tell him about her child—his child, their child?
