by Lisa Jackson
“Brandon!” she cried, wounded to the depths of her soul. She stood on shaking legs, staring at her son, fighting tears that seemed determined to run from the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t tell you because I promised and it would only have made things worse, but of course I know who he is—was—and I probably should have told you sooner so you could have met him as son to father.”
“Could have?” he whispered, his fists clenching in frustration. “What happened? Is he dead?”
“He was killed, Brandon. Just last summer.”
“Killed?”
“Ned Jansen ran him off the road at Elkhorn Ridge.”
The earth seemed to split open. “You don’t mean—”
“I do, Brand,” she said wearily, tears streaming down her cheeks in rivers. “Jonah McKee was your father.”
“No!” he bellowed, hearing the sound like that of a wounded calf as his cry hit the walls of the old house and bounced back at him.
“Brand, just listen—”
“I can’t believe it, Ma!” he said, then felt like a fool.
“Why would I lie?”
“Why have you lied for the past thirty years?”
“I had a pact.”
“Oh, for the love of Jesus! Don’t tell me about pacts or deals or honor, for God’s sake! You’re telling me that Jonah McKee was my father and I’m supposed to just sit here and take it and understand? Do you know what you’re saying? Do you?” he asked, aching inside, his emotions severed and frayed. “That my whole life has been a lie. That my father lived a stone’s throw from me but never once, never once, damn it, so much as looked in my direction. He never spoke to me. He never—”
“He did what he could,” she said, her shoulders quivering. “And you can’t blame just him. I was there, too. I got involved with him, knowing full well that he was married.”
“This is sick, Ma. Sick! You’re telling me that Max McKee is my half brother?”
“And Jenner. Casey’s your—”
“I know what she is! I can figure it out. My legitimate half sister, right? Favored daughter, while I was a secret to be swept under the damned rug! Holy Mother of God, I can’t believe this,” he whispered savagely, trying to gain control of his raging emotions. He felt as if he’d been mentally drawn, quartered and disemboweled. Everything that he’d known, all he’d believed in for over thirty years had been a lie! A twisted, ugly lie that had grown with each passing year.
Was it true? Could he possibly be a McKee? A McKee? A bad taste rose up the back of his throat as he thought of all the years of envying Max McKee and his brother and sister for their wealth, for their stability, for their loving parents. Even that was a lie. Jonah, his father—his damned father—had been a philanderer and a cheat.
Nausea roiled in his stomach and he didn’t want to believe the truth. It was so much easier to think that his father was a low-life drifter, an ambitionless man who had no time to step into the role of fatherhood. But to know that his old man was the richest damned son of a bitch in the county, a family man devoted to seeing that his precious children got the best—always the best—ripped a hole in his already-bruised heart. While Jonah’s legitimate children, his pride and joy, had been showered with gifts and money, and groomed to inherit Jonah’s vast empire, Brandon, the bastard, the boy without his name, had been completely ignored, never once spoken to, never once praised, never once reprimanded. Aside from the monthly checks—hush money—he was treated as if he didn’t exist, because there was no room in Jonah McKee’s well-laid-out life for a bastard.
Brandon squeezed his eyes shut and listened to the dull, mocking roar inside his head—the silent screams that he refused to utter.
“Brand?” Venitia whispered.
“I don’t believe it, Ma,” he said, but the defeat in his voice must have given his true feelings away. The truth explained so much, yet left twice as many holes in his life.
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No, Ma, you’re wrong. You should have told me years ago and the old man should have come forward.” He drew in a deep breath. “So how did it happen, huh?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Like hell!” He walked to the couch and leaned down to face her. “Were you in love with him?”
“Oh, God, Brand, don’t—”
“Were you?”
“No!”
The truth slammed through him like a runaway freight train. He nearly stumbled. “No?” he repeated, feeling disgust gnaw at his insides.
“No.” She drew in an unsteady breath. “It would be easy to lie and say I was seduced by his power, his wealth and his money. That I was young and naive enough to believe that he loved me or we loved each other or some such nonsense. The truth of it is we happened to meet at a political rally. I was . . . well, more involved than I am now. It was held in Bend at one of the hotels on the Deschutes. Anyway, the candidate whom Jonah had backed won and we all partied.”
She ran a trembling hand over her forehead. “The truth of the matter is that I got drunk and woke up in Jonah McKee’s hotel room.” She shook her head at the thought. “I didn’t know much about him, but I did realize that he had a lot of money and a wife and kids. I was horrified at what I’d done—I’d never been with a man before, never . . .” Her voice broke, and Brandon, transfixed, wished he could turn the wheels of time backward, that he could ease away her pain.
“Anyway I turned up pregnant and even though . . . even though I didn’t love Jonah, didn’t really know him, I wanted the baby. I had no one in my life and a baby . . .” She blinked rapidly and let out a shuddering sigh. “I know you didn’t have a lot growing up, I know it hurt you that you never knew your father, and I know that you’re wounded now because I lied, but believe me, Brandon,” she said, grabbing hold of his arm in a surprisingly strong grip, “I did everything because I loved you. From the day I found out I was pregnant, I loved you!”
His throat closed in on itself. “And Jonah?”
“He . . . he wasn’t happy with my decision, but was decent enough to take care of me financially. He was a lousy father to you, I’ll admit that much—”
“He wasn’t a father at all.”
“I know, but he did take some responsibility.”
Brandon needed to spit. The foul taste in his mouth wouldn’t go away. “He could have talked to me.”
“He probably would have, son. He didn’t expect to die—”
“We all die, Ma. That’s no excuse.” Gazing down on her, he saw all the pain she’d endured, all the humiliation because of him. His anger was misdirected if he leveled it at her and yet the rage burning so white-hot inside him couldn’t be extinguished with a few calming words. “Look, I just need some time to digest all this.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his face, as if massaging the tense muscles would erase some of the pain. It didn’t work. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”
Her eyes shone with tears and defeat. “You’d rather discuss putting me away.”
“Not away, Ma. Think of it as a vacation.”
Her gaze cut right through him. “A vacation?” she snapped. “Oh, Brandon, don’t act like I’m that stupid.” Squaring her shoulders, she stood. “Okay, I’ll go give the clinic a whirl, but promise me that you’ll take care of Chris. I can’t stand the thought of some do-gooder social worker taking him away.”
“You know I will, Ma.”
“Good.” She seemed about to say something more, to unburden yet another secret from her heavily laden soul, but she held her tongue. “My bags are already packed. Chris is at Barry Hargraves’ house. He’s spending the night—it’s already arranged. He knows that I might be leaving for a while, but I didn’t fill him in on all the details. This was your idea, so I figured you could do it,” she added bitterly, then before he could say a word, rushed on. “The Hargraveses’ phone number and address are tacked to the bulletin board. I told them you’d probably be picking him up ar
ound eight in the morning. If that doesn’t work out, give them a call. They’re reasonable and easygoing, so whatever works for you will probably work for them, as well.”
“I’m glad you accepted this,” he admitted, relieved that there wasn’t more of a fight.
“I haven’t accepted anything, Brand. This is a prison sentence. You and I both know it. You just haven’t given me any choice in the matter.”
* * *
“You miserable low-life scum,” Brandon growled as darkness settled over the land and he stared at the grave of Jonah McKee. The air smelled fresh from the recent rain and the wind blew steadily from the east. Stars twinkled above, and the headstone, an imposing slab of marble engraved with all sorts of sentiments, stood nearly as tall as the man who rested six feet below the earth. Fresh flowers, brought weekly, filled vases at the head of the grave. Jonah’s wife, Virginia, was nothing if not loyal. Even her husband’s death didn’t end her loyalty. Even knowing that her husband was a class-A cheating bastard. Brandon laughed at the irony of it. Who was really the bastard?
“You should have talked to me,” Brand said, emotion clogging his throat. “You should have told me, let me know, explained what it was that you couldn’t accept! Hell, McKee, the least you could have done was own up to it.”
He looked across the grassy knoll. Anger clutched his stomach and he nearly threw up all over his pathetic father’s grave. “And Ma. She deserved a helluva lot more than a check each month. God, she still thinks you’re some sort of saint because you doled out a little change to her, but I know you for the black-hearted son of a bitch that you are!”
Sneering, he wanted to spit on Jonah McKee’s grave, but he didn’t want the old man to have any satisfaction—even in death—of seeing his pain. So he strode back to his Jeep and decided that the night was just damned perfect to get drunk. Not just tipsy, but fall-down-on-your-face, stumbling drunk.
As he climbed into the rig, he thought of Dani. Wouldn’t she get a laugh out of this? Because of Skye, Dani was an in-law to the McKees, practically in the family, and now he was Jonah’s damned bastard.
So convenient. So tidy. So sick.
There was an old half-full bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cupboard. Brand twisted on the ignition and the engine fired. Easing off the clutch, he drove through the open cemetery gates, engine roaring, gravel spinning beneath his tires.
“Good riddance, McKee,” he growled under his breath. “I hope you rot in hell.”
* * *
Restless, Dani had walked through the fields surrounding the house, checking the fence line, thinking of Brandon, knowing that she had to tell him about their son. Sloan had tracked down the nurse who’d been working in the hospital the night her baby was born and he thought he’d come up with some answers soon. Whether she wanted to or not, Dani would have to tell Brand the truth. He’d be furious with her, probably never speak to her again, but she had no choice. Her conscience wouldn’t let her lie any longer.
Sighing, she felt the cool breath of night against her back and listened to the crickets beginning to stir. Somewhere nearby, a horse nickered softly and was answered by the plaintive hoot of an owl. The moon was full—a perfect silver disk that rode high in the sky and was surrounded by thousands of stars, winking jewel-like in the night-black sky.
As she turned toward the house, Dani saw the lights burning in the ranch house and noticed smoke curling from the river-rock chimney. Though it was the dead of summer, Brandon had built a fire. The thought of cheery coals glowing in the old grate warmed her heart and she was tempted to visit him.
“Don’t,” she warned herself. She’d avoided him in the evenings, preferring to have their short conversations in the light of day when the surroundings were less intimate, when her defenses were less likely to be overcome.
She’d stepped through the gate when she saw him, propped against the support for the porch and watching her intently.
“Evenin’,” he drawled like some kind of cowboy.
“Hi.”
“Thought you might want to come in for a drink.”
“A drink? I don’t think so,” she said without much conviction. Truth to tell, she wanted very much to be with him, never mind the drink. Standing there, one shoulder braced against the beam, his arms folded over his chest, he looked all male in his faded jeans and open-throated work shirt. Its sleeves rolled to his elbows, the shirt stretched tautly over muscles that were evident even in the darkness. His jeans rode low on his hips.
Involuntarily, her pulse beat a little more quickly.
“Suit yourself. How ’bout some conversation then?”
“You want to talk?”
“Need to, is more like it.” There was a thread of steel in his voice, a determination that usually wasn’t so evident. “Come on in.”
She was aware of her heart pounding as she crossed the gravel yard, her boots crunching on the sharp stones. This is a mistake, an inner voice warned. An irreversible mistake.
He held the screen door open for her and she noticed a gleam in his eye—something was definitely on his mind—and the set of his jaw, as if he’d been provoked way too far. He knows, she thought frantically. He found out about the baby and now he knows! Why didn’t you tell him earlier? It would have been so much better for the news to come from you! Misery slid through her insides, like a snake coiling, getting ready to strike. How could he have found out? No one, not even her own mother, knew that he was the father of her child.
Suddenly chilled, she walked into the living room where the fire crackled merrily against dry, pitchy chunks of pine. Though her insides were as cold as ice, she began to sweat and didn’t argue when he poured her a chilled glass of Chablis. Anxiously she twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers. No lights were on; just the hazy red glow from the fire illuminated the room.
He was drinking whiskey and this wasn’t his first shot, she suspected as she stared at him. He leaned against the window and the ticking of the clock resting on the carved fir mantel was in sharp counterpoint to the pounding of her own heart.
“Wh-what is it you want to talk about?” she asked, deciding two could play this game—whatever it was. Standing next to the couch, she watched the play of emotions on his face; repressed rage caused a muscle to tic beneath his eye.
Darkness settled in his eyes.
Here it comes, she thought with fatalistic certainty and steadied herself against the back of the couch ready for the blow that was sure to hit and hit hard.
“Well,” he said. “I learned a lot this afternoon.”
Oh, God. “You did?” She took a sip of wine. It slid cold and easy down her throat.
“Yep. Things that happened a long while ago.”
Give me strength. “Oh?”
“I was in the dark about a lot.”
Knees threatening to buckle, she waited, holding her breath, ready for the one-two kick, a drone beginning in her head.
“Believe it or not, Dani, you and I, we have a lot in common.”
Her throat was as dry and scratchy as cotton.
“Yes, sirree. Here you are an in-law to the old McKees and you probably never guessed that I was one of ’em.”
“Wh-what?” she stammered, hardly daring to believe her ears, or maybe she’d misunderstood his words over the buzz echoing through her brain.
“That’s right. Old Jonah had a fling with Ma. I’m the result. There is not and never was a Jake Kendall.” Pain and quiet fury etched the brave lines of his face, but there was something more, something deeper as he gazed at her.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “How did you find out?”
“Ma. She told me. Just before I took her to a clinic in Bend.”
“A clinic?” He was talking in circles. “Is she ill?”
“Yes, but the first disease we’re tackling is her addiction to alcohol.”
Dani flushed as she looked down at her own glass of wine.
Brand offered a twisted smile. “
I know. Ironic isn’t it?” he said, staring into the amber liquor in his tumbler. Then, as if repulsed, he tossed the rest of his drink, ice and all, into the fire. In a violent hiss, flames shot upward. “Damn it all to hell anyway,” he growled, slamming the empty glass onto the mantel and striding over to Dani. As if to drive away the demons in his head, he vaulted the couch, stood in front of her and stared straight into her eyes. “I’ve made more than my share of mistakes in this life,” he said, taking her wrist in his. Her wineglass rolled gently to the floor. “Walking out on you was one of them. I think it’s time to change things.”
“Change?”
“Take care of past mistakes.”
“But—”
“Right here. Right now.”
“Oh, Brand, don’t. You’ve been drinking and—”
“I’ve thought about this a long time, lady,” he said, his blue eyes unwavering. “I want you. And not just for now.”
The words were simple and straightforward. They seemed to pulse in the semidark room. And there was a thread of tenderness in his voice that touched a dark corner of her heart.
“Wanting isn’t enough.”
“But I want you forever.” His voice was low and seductive and he moved closer so that she stepped around the couch trying to keep a few inches of distance between the heat of their bodies. “It’s time we made up for all the years we lost. The years I threw away.”
“What?” Her heart was a drum. “You don’t—”
“I do. Marry me, Dani.”
The words she’d waited so long to hear were now hollow. She couldn’t marry him, not with so many obstacles in the way. “No, Brand, you don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I sure as hell do. Marry me.”
“I can’t.”
He jerked on her wrists, pulling her roughly to him, slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss that was rough and gentle, hard and persuasive. The room seemed to spin and Dani’s legs began to give way, but she couldn’t make promises she couldn’t keep. If and when he found out about the baby . . .
He tasted of whiskey and the scent of his soap mingled with the smell of burning wood. Her mind quit arguing as he touched her lips with his tongue, applying pressure. Sweet, sweet pressure.
