by Lisa Jackson
“No, Turner, I’m not. But if Adam stays here, so do I.”
He started to argue. Hell, the last thing he wanted here was Heather Tremont Leonetti. She’d be in the way. She’d be a distraction. She’d interfere with him getting to know the boy, always overplaying the part of the mother. But he could see by the set of her small jaw that it was all or nothing, and he wasn’t enough of a bastard to barter with the boy’s health. No way could he say that he’d only agree to the tests if the kid would be allowed to come here alone. A son! He had a son. The very thought knocked the breath out of his lungs. He noticed her watching him and rubbed a hand over his chin.
“All right, lady, you’ve got yourself a bargain,” he said, letting a slow, lazy grin drift across his face. Deliberately, he let his gaze rest for a long moment on the hollow of her throat. “But it’s not going to be easy.”
“With you, nothing is,” she said, not backing down an inch. He approached her and she didn’t move; in fact her eyes widened and she parted her lips ever so slightly. If he didn’t know better, if he didn’t still feel the sting of her hand against his cheek, he’d swear she was coming on to him. But that was crazy, or was it?
The look she sent him fairly sizzled. “I’ll call and set up an appointment with the doctor and the hospital,” she said, and impulsively he touched her arm.
“I think we should talk some more.”
She paused just a second, as if deliberating. “I don’t see what good that would do.”
“Give me a break, Heather. It’s been six years. I think we have a lot to discuss.”
“I—I don’t know—”
“We’ll call a truce. Temporarily at least. There’s a lot I want to know.” The fingers curling over her forearm tightened and she stared deep into his eyes. “You owe me this much.”
Quickly, she yanked her arm away. “Let’s get something straight, Turner. I don’t owe you anything. But I know that you have a lot of questions. I—I’ll be back later. Right now, I’ve got to go into town and talk to my mom. Good enough?”
“I guess it’ll have to be.”
“What time?”
“I’ll be through with my chores around seven.”
“I’ll be back at seven-thirty.” With that, she was gone. In a cloud of tantalizing perfume, she stormed away, never even looking down at her blouse where the dirt from his fingertips still stained the silken fabric.
She’d gotten tougher over the years as well as more sophisticated. To Turner’s mind, she was more deadly than before, because now, unless she was lying through her beautiful teeth, she had his son!
* * *
HEATHER SQUINTED THROUGH the dust that collected on the windshield. Badlands Ranch was located to the northwest of Gold Creek, and the main road leading back to the town was a narrow ribbon of asphalt that wound around the western shore of Whitefire Lake. Through the trees, Heather caught glimpses of the water, now blue and pristine, unlike the white misty lake from which she’d taken a long sip this morning. It had been a foolish ritual, and now, if she hadn’t felt so desperate, she would have laughed at herself. But she could barely concentrate on anything except Turner and the fact that he wanted to make love to her again. She’d seen it in his eyes—the passion rising to the surface. And he’d even tried in a crude way to suggest that they could make it happen again. He’d been bluffing at that point, trying to force her out of his life by proving he wasn’t the kind of man she wanted.
But he hadn’t known how desperate she was. And he hadn’t known that this would have been the perfect time to make love to him. And he hadn’t known that should she make love to him and become pregnant with his child, she would be giving their only child another chance for survival. But she hadn’t been able to do it. She couldn’t deceive him so coldly, nor could she plan to conceive one child just to save the life of another.
Or could she?
She’d always wanted another baby. The fact that Dennis had been unable to father children had been a big disappointment for them both. And the thought of giving birth to another son or daughter with Turner as the father touched her in a romantic way that bordered on lunacy. Just because Adam had turned out so well was no reason to think that another child would fit into the life she’d carved out with her son.
But a sibling could save his life. Every doctor she’d talked to had stressed that donors for bone marrow are usually a brother or sister of the recipient. The more siblings a recipient had, the better the chance for a match. Already she knew that she couldn’t help her son; there was a strong chance Turner couldn’t, either. But a sibling…
The thought turned her stomach. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, even think about another pregnancy, another child.
But if it means Adam’s life? And why not have another baby to love? Adam needs a sister or brother and you need another child.
“Another child without a husband. No way,” she told herself as she approached Gold Creek. She followed the road past the dip beneath the old railroad trestle and through the sprawling suburbs that were growing eastward into the foothills of the mountains. Several homes were for sale, white-and-red signs for Fitzpatrick Realty posted on the front lawns. She drove past the park where children played in the playground and concrete paths crossed the green, converging in the center where a white gazebo had become a shrine to Roy Fitzpatrick, eldest legitimate son of Thomas Fitzpatrick and the boy Jackson Moore had once been accused of killing.
But that was a long time ago, and now Heather’s sister, Rachelle, was planning to marry Jackson. His name had been cleared and some of the scandal of the past had been erased.
She slowed for a stoplight, then turned onto Main Street, past the Rexall Drugstore where, sometimes after school, she and Rachelle and Rachelle’s friend, Carlie, had bought sodas at the fountain in the back. Rachelle hadn’t much liked Heather tagging along, but Carlie, whose mother had worked at the fountain for years, hadn’t seemed to mind that Rachelle’s younger sister was always hanging around.
A few blocks farther and she passed the Buckeye Restaurant and Lounge. Her stomach tightened as she heard the country music filtering through the open doors. More than once she’d had to wait at the back door while a busboy or kitchen helper had searched out her father, who, smelling of cigarette smoke and liquor, had stumbled into the parking lot and walked the few blocks back to their house with her.
She pulled up in front of the little cottage where she’d grown up. One story, two bedrooms, cozy but in need of repair, the bungalow had been home, but Heather had only wanted out. Away from a mother and father who bickered continually, and later, away from the scandal that had tainted her family.
Her mother didn’t live here now. In fact, Heather owned half the cottage, so all that running hadn’t done anything. This still could be her home. She shuddered at the thought. Could she bring Adam here, to grow up riding his bike along the same cracked pavement where she’d cruised along on her old hand-me-down ten-speed?
She didn’t stop to think about it for too long. There was a lot to do. Her insides were still in knots because of her having seen Turner again and presenting him with the truth; now she had to do the same with her mother.
“God help me,” she whispered as she turned around in the driveway and drove the two miles to her mother’s small house on the other side of town. Recently separated from her second husband, Ellen Tremont Little would be in no mood to hear about her youngest daughter’s problems.
* * *
“I DON’T BELIEVE YOU!” Heather’s mother reached into the drawer where she kept a carton of cigarettes. “This…this story you’ve concocted is some crazy fantasy.” She clicked her lighter over the end of her cigarette and took a long drag.
“It’s the truth, Mom.”
Ellen wrapped one arm around her thickening middle and squinted
through the smoke. “But Dennis—”
“Dennis isn’t Adam’s father.”
“He knew about this?”
“Yes. From the beginning. Remember the night he left here so angry with me. It was right after I got home from working at the Lazy K. I told him about Turner—”
“Turner?” Ellen’s head snapped up. “Not—”
“Turner Brooks.”
“Oh, God.” She sank into a chair at the table and cradled her head, her cigarette burning neglected in her fingers. “John Brooks’s son.”
“Yes.”
Her mother let out a long, weary sigh, then drew on her cigarette. Smoke drifted from her nostrils. “How will I ever hold my head up in church?” she asked, staring out the window to the bird feeder swinging from the branch of a locust tree. Several yellow-breasted birds were perched on the feeder. “Cora Nelson will have a field day with this. And Raydene McDonald… Dear Lord, it will probably be printed in the Clarion!”
“I don’t think so,” Heather said, and saw her mother attempt a trembling smile.
“Why would you ever want a boy like Turner Brooks when you had Dennis?”
“Don’t start with me, Mom,” Heather said with a smile, though she meant every word.
“He’s never done anything but ride horses and get himself busted up.”
“He took care of his father.”
Ellen stubbed out her cigarette. “I suppose he did.”
“He’s not a bad man, Mom.”
“So where was he when you were pregnant? He didn’t marry you, did he? No…Dennis did.” Shoving herself upright, she turned to the dishwasher and started taking out the clean dishes. “We Tremont women have a great track record with men, don’t we?” she said, her words laced with sarcasm. “Well, without us, what would the gossips in town do?”
“I’m not ashamed that Turner is Adam’s father.”
“No, I suppose you’re not. But what were you thinking, Heather? Why fall for a rodeo rider when you could have had any boy in town including…” Her voice drifted off. “I guess I’m beginning to sound like a broken record, aren’t I? Well…we’ll just have to change that. After all, nothing matters but Adam’s health, and if Turner’s willing to do what he can to save my grandson, then I’ll just have to quit bad-mouthing him.”
Heather chuckled. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve accepted Jackson. I never thought that would happen.”
“Neither did I.”
“And he and Rachelle are getting married.” She stacked two glasses in the cupboard and wiped her hands. “You know, I was wrong about Jackson—the whole town was wrong about him. Maybe I’ll be wrong about Turner, too.”
“You are, Mom,” Heather said with more conviction than she felt.
“I hope so. For everyone’s sake. I hope so.” She hung her dish towel on a rack. “Now tell me, what happens if Turner’s tissue doesn’t match Adam’s?”
“Don’t even think that way.”
“But it’s a possibility.”
A good one, Heather thought to herself. What Adam needs is a sister or brother… Oh, God, not this again!
“He’s not in any immediate danger,” Heather heard herself say as she repeated the pediatrician’s prognosis. “His remission could last for years. If so, he won’t need a transplant.”
“But if he does?” Ellen persisted.
“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Heather replied, while she tried to tamp down thoughts of a sibling for her son.
Ellen’s brow was drawn into a worried frown. “We’ll have to talk to your father and anyone else in the family—any blood relation—who might be able to help the boy.”
“Turner will be the most likely donor,” Heather said, and tried to still the beating of her heart. She thought of facing him again and her insides went cold. There was still the attraction; she’d felt it in the barn. Now she had to decide how she would deal with him. Would she keep him at arm’s length or try to seduce him?
CHAPTER SEVEN
TURNER WAS WAITING FOR her. Seated in a worn-out old rocking chair on the front porch, a bottle of beer caught between his hands, he watched as she parked her Mercedes near the barn. “It’s now or never,” she told herself as she climbed out of the car and slung her purse over her shoulder. She’d changed into a pair of white slacks and a wine-colored T-shirt, pulled her hair back into a ponytail and left her jewelry in her makeup bag back at the cottage.
The evening air was heavy, weighted with the coming night. Insects droned and lavender clouds shifted across the darkening sky. Twilight. A summer evening and she was alone with Turner. Just as she had been six long years before. But now they had a son—a son with an illness that could be fatal. Oh, God, why?
“I thought maybe you’d chicken out,” he said, the old chair creaking as he stood.
“Not me.” She forced a smile she didn’t feel and realized just how isolated they were. No bunkhouse full of ranch hands, no attic rooms with kitchen help, no guests dancing or laughing or playing cards in the dining hall, no Zeke, no Mazie. Just Turner and the windswept hills that were Badlands Ranch.
Her heart drummed loudly and she only hoped that he couldn’t hear its erratic beat over the sigh of the wind.
“You didn’t have to show up,” he said, finishing his beer and setting the empty bottle on the rail of the porch. As he walked down the stairs, she noticed his limp, barely visible, but evidence of the pain his body had endured for a life he loved. “I would have gone through with the tests, anyway.”
“I figured I owed you this much,” she said, trying not to observe his freshly shaven jaw, or his slate-colored eyes, or the loose-jointed way he sauntered across the hard earth. Or his limp. The reminder of the life he led. In jeans and a faded shirt, with a backdrop of a run-down ranch house and acres of grassland, he was, without exception, the sexiest man she’d ever seen. That was the problem. What they’d shared had been sex—in its young, passionate, raw form. Naively she’d thought she’d loved him, that he’d loved her, but all that had been between them was a hunger as driven as the winds that blow hot through the California valleys in August. Even now, as she tried to seem relaxed, she felt that tension between them, the tug of something wild and wanton in her heart, the hot breath of desire tickling the back of her neck.
“Tell me about Adam,” he said. “Where is he now?”
“He’s with the babysitter, Mrs. Rassmussen. She lives two houses down from mine.”
“How sick is he?”
Her heart twisted. “He’s in remission. It could last indefinitely, but then again…” She shook her head and bit on her lower lip. “Adam’s pediatrician’s name is Richard Thurmon—he’s the best in San Francisco. I’ve told him about you and all you have to do is call him. He can tell you anything you want to know.”
“I will.”
They stood in awkward silence and Turner stared at her, sizing her up, as if he still didn’t believe her. “I tried to call Zeke today.”
“To check my story.”
His lips twitched. “He’s in Montana. Won’t be back for a couple of weeks.”
“What about Mazie?”
“She doesn’t remember much about that summer, but she does think you called, that you wanted to talk to me.”
“She doesn’t remember me practically begging her for your address—for a phone number where I could reach you?” Heather said in disbelief. Though she hadn’t confided in Mazie, she’d been near tears, her voice choked with emotion. But Mazie had probably taken more than her share of teary phone calls from women Turner had left behind.
“She didn’t say.”
“Well, it’s the truth, damn it!” Heather crie
d, then threw her hands up in despair. Turner still acted as if she were a criminal, and she was no better about trusting him. One minute she was fantasizing about him, the next she wanted to wring his neck. “Why don’t we go for a ride,” she suggested.
“A what?”
“A trail ride. Like we used to.”
“Why?” The look he sent her silently called her a lunatic.
“Because I can’t just stand here and have you start accusing me of God only knows what! It used to work, you know. Whenever we were angry with each other, we’d ride—get rid of our aggressions. You do have horses around here, don’t you? What about Sampson?” She didn’t wait for a response, just stormed off toward the barn where she’d seen the ugly reddish horse earlier in the day.
He caught up with her in three long strides. “You’re crazy, lady,” he accused, as she flung open the barn door and stepped into the dark interior. She reached for a switch, found none and fumbled in the dark. “We have a son, a kid I didn’t know about, a boy who needs a transplant, for God’s sake, and you want to ride?”
“I just don’t want to argue anymore!” She swung around and faced him. High in the rafters of the barn a bat’s wings fluttered. “I’m scared, Turner. Scared out of my mind. And I don’t want you or anyone else to start in on me about what I did or didn’t do wrong. I only want to deal with the here and now!”
“You want me to forget about six years?” he asked, his voice low and angry.
“Yes. Because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except Adam’s health!” She found the latch to a stall and opened it, but the stall was empty.
“For God’s sake, Heather, I have questions. A million of them.”
“What you have is accusations!”
He grabbed her so quickly that her breath came out in a rush. Suddenly she was slammed against his chest, her back pressed into the rough boards of the barn walls. “I’ve spent the last six hours wondering how the hell this happened and why you didn’t tell me about Adam.”
“I explained that I—”
