“This isn’t over,” she said, the words coming low and hot. “You’re not off the hook, yet. If you go off half-cocked and do something stupid, I’ll never forgive you.”
She huffed out a breath and dropped her arm to her side. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Under the bravado, she looked so uncertain that it made him ache.
“I’m not going to do anything stupid, Jamie.” He hung his head. “I’ve got too many stupid mistakes I’m still trying to fix.”
“Who doesn’t?” she said, touching his arm again.
“I mean bad mistakes.” He swallowed. “I’m not the man you think I am.”
“I don’t care.” Tears sparkled in her eyes now.
“You should.” Though he knew he shouldn’t, he wiped his thumb across her cheek, where one warm droplet glistened. “You truly see the best in everyone, don’t you?”
She covered his hand with hers, pressing it against her cheek, then her lips. “I see the truth,” she whispered. “I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”
Then she turned, scooted beneath his arm, and ran out of the barn.
Slowly, he walked back to his cabin. He looked at the jumbled clothing on his bed while his heart beat fast and hard against his eardrums.
That shouldn’t have happened. He hadn’t intended to tell Jamie anything, let alone touch her. But she was relentless and this secret had been festering inside him since the letter had arrived, making his chest hard and tight, like a wound that needed lancing. When she turned those sparkling eyes on him and started probing, it was all he could do not to pour the whole sordid mess out before her, bow down, and await her judgment.
But she didn’t deserve that. She would give and give and give if he let her, and what kind of man would he be to do that to someone like her, when he knew how she felt about him?
His burdens were not hers, and sharing them went above and beyond their friendship. He didn’t want to imply an intimacy he couldn’t give her.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling his breath return to normal, and looked at the half-packed duffel bag.
Jamie was right. Ambushing Lana was the worst thing he could do. She was scared. Showing up uninvited and angry would only make her more defensive.
She’d provided her cell phone number and email address. That’s what she wanted, so that’s what he’d do.
* * *
The soft sounds of evening drifted in on the breeze as Jamie lay curled in a ball on the love seat facing the fireplace, where Daphne had sent her after she’d broken one of her favorite patterned china plates on the edge of the cast-iron sink.
She hadn’t corrected Daphne’s clucking assumption that her clumsiness was a delayed reaction to the episode on the beach.
Better to have Daphne focused on her so-called heroism than to think she was mooning after Gideon.
She wasn’t mooning.
She was hurt.
With a touch of worry thrown in.
Ninety-nine percent hurt, one percent worried.
She forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, then tugged the quilt off the seat back and flopped backwards. A couple of the guests were playing cribbage nearby, and she definitely didn’t want to talk to them.
None of the usual calming elements of evening—the soft breeze, the occasional nicker of the horses in the nearby corrals, birdsong, quiet conversations of people in the great room—were doing the trick.
Even taking Chaos for a quick romp in the apple orchard hadn’t helped. He’d found and rolled in the carcass of something indescribably foul, which meant she had to hose him off, which made her late for KP, which made her rush, which led to the plate incident, which led to . . .
Here now, on the couch, mad at herself for not returning the pup earlier, like Gideon had told her.
She punched a pillow. The man was making her crazy.
She’d never seen him like this. He hid it well, and maybe no one else noticed, but his shoulders rode higher than usual lately and that line at the side of his mouth had grown deeper.
Okay, ninety percent hurt, ten percent worried. That was still a lot of hurt.
She rubbed her arm where she’d scraped it on something. Her shoulder ached, too. Those kids had been heavier than they’d looked.
But not nearly as heavy as whatever lay in the back of Gideon’s eyes.
Sixty-forty.
The warmth of the quilt started creeping into her bones and she snuggled deeper into the thick upholstery. What kind of trouble was he in?
The carbs from Daphne’s lasagna headed straight to her brain, doing what carbs always did.
A few minutes, she thought, already drifting. That’s all she needed.
At the sound of Gideon’s voice, her eyes flickered open a crack. The subtle change of the light told her she’d dozed off. She hadn’t heard him come in.
He spoke low and slow as always, in the same soothing, firm tones that eased the horses and sounded, to Jamie, like the surf on a calm night. But solid, like an old-growth forest. She could listen to that voice for hours.
“You sound good, Lana.”
Her head popped up, and she peered cautiously over the edge of the couch. Gideon was leaning against the post near the window, his cell phone pressed to his ear.
Lana.
His ex-wife.
Or whatever.
Already in Jamie’s mind, a picture had formed of the woman who’d once owned Gideon’s heart. She’d be a cute little blonde who wore high heels and false eyelashes and push-up bras and had impeccable manners and clean hands and could make polite dinner conversation with the Queen of England, if she happened to drop in.
She probably had a fancy degree from some college back east, with a gaggle of sorority sisters she went on retreats with. She’d have a career in interior design or health care or management. Something clean, something necessary. Something with benefits.
Because she was smart.
Jamie was smart, too.
But while other people had been preparing for a lifetime as a productive member of society, Jamie had been lurching from moment to moment, sleeping with one eye open, picking locks and stashing food under her bed. Future planning hadn’t exactly been on the docket.
And where had this paragon been when Gideon was in prison, she wondered? What role had she played? Had she been supportive? When had they split up?
So many questions. And what if the answers weren’t what she wanted?
She could ride a half-pipe in the morning, green-break a colt in the afternoon, and still exchange barbs with Daphne while slinging hash at supper, but she had no armor against women who were pretty, smart, and stylish.
Sexy, she could pull off. Sexy biker chick, no problem.
And apparently, that wasn’t Gideon’s type.
She hazarded another look. He was gazing at the sunset, clearly unaware of her presence.
“Yeah, I know.” A pause. “Too long.”
She recognized the low softness in his voice for what it was: intimacy.
Something twisted inside her, and she was suddenly eager to leave. Who Gideon talked to was no business of hers.
Then his tone changed.
“Can I talk to him? Please?” His voice cracked on the simple request.
Jamie froze. Gideon rarely asked for anything. He certainly didn’t beg. But he was begging now. She needed to leave, but the optimal moment had already passed. Seeing her now would only embarrass them both. She hunkered back down and pressed a pillow over her ears.
But she couldn’t block out the conversation.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, his voice growing lighter, brighter. “How are you doing, son?”
Son.
The pillow fell away from her head. What the heck, if he wanted privacy he should have stayed in his cabin.
She strained to hear more. She must have misheard him.
Gideon, who kept a polite distance from chubby, drooling Sal, as if babies were a contagion, who was convenient
ly busy when guests with small children showed up, who’d never given the slightest indication that there was a small someone in his life, couldn’t be a father.
Could he?
“You’ve never ridden a horse?” he was saying. “We have to change that.”
He spoke differently, his voice a little softer, a little higher, a little more . . . tentative.
“Your mom and I have to figure that out,” he said next. “I know it’s confusing, to find out you have a dad you haven’t met. I’m sorry about that.”
She shoved her fist against her upper lip.
A dad you haven’t met?
What?
No. Not Gideon. He wasn’t the kind of man who abandoned a child. He couldn’t be. Questions whirled through her head. How old was the boy? Why hadn’t Gideon seen him?
Is that what he’d meant when he’d said he wasn’t who she thought he was?
No shit, Sherlock. Her breath came quick and fast, as if something were on fire inside her chest. Had he abandoned his family?
Surely not. She knew how it felt to be fatherless, adrift, and unclaimed, like a piece of lost luggage with no label, nothing to explain where and to whom she belonged. Surely Gideon hadn’t put that on his child intentionally.
Then a worse thought arrived.
Maybe he was going back to them, despite what he’d said. Maybe he had a white-picket-fence life in the suburbs somewhere, with a woman waiting for him to come to his senses, and a kid and no doubt a dog, too. A family.
No wonder he wasn’t interested in her. He had a whole other life, somewhere else. Sanctuary Ranch was just a pit stop. He was someone else entirely.
She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them with her elbows, putting her hands over her ears, but it was no use.
A pause. “Oh. All right. Have fun with your friends. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
There was an undercurrent in his voice Jamie didn’t recognize. A desperate friendliness. He was talking too much, trying too hard. That was her style, not his. This mysterious child of his meant a lot to him.
“Look, Lana.” The intensity was back. “All I want is a chance. I know it’s been a long time. I didn’t want to push you. But I should have. I want to see my son.”
Anger burned through the hurt inside her and she sat up, fully. He deserved whatever he felt.
“Ahem,” she said.
He jumped, nearly dropping the phone. “Jamie! What . . . no. Sorry, Lana. There’s someone here. I have to go.”
Jamie crossed her arms over her chest, and fixed her gaze on him. His skin was pale beneath the tan, almost grey. The tendon in his throat twitched. She could hear the voice on the other end of the line now, high and demanding, not letting him go.
He tried to talk but couldn’t. Finally, the voice stopped and his hand dropped away from his ear. He looked utterly spent.
“How much did you hear?” he asked.
“Enough. No. Cancel that. Not nearly enough.” Jamie felt the words bubble up out of her and knew she should hold them back but couldn’t. “You have a son, Gideon? And you never thought to mention it? Last Christmas, when you were here, with the rest of us, you had a kid celebrating somewhere else? What’s his name? Why doesn’t he know you? Do you have other kids you haven’t told anyone about?” She got to her feet but didn’t approach him. She balled her fists and glanced toward the other room. The crib players were still doing their thing, and she could still hear Daphne banging around in the kitchen.
“How could you do this? You said I didn’t know the real you, but I never imagined this. Tell me, how does your wife manage? Does she have to work two jobs to support your child? Is she forced to leave him with resentful grandparents because there’s no baby daddy to help out?”
She made herself stop. This wasn’t about her or Grandma Ellen. Surely Lana was a responsible mother. Surely she didn’t drink too much, or forget to buy groceries or drive her car into lamp posts.
Surely Gideon wouldn’t have left his child with a woman like that. Gideon wouldn’t have gotten involved with a woman like that in the first place.
But then again, he was the rescuer of kittens, a hero to the forsaken, the keeper of secrets, and a friend to the friendless.
And she didn’t know him, after all.
For long, stretched-out moments, he stood at the window, motionless, following the sun as it continued its inexorable slide into the sea.
“His name is Blake,” he said dully, without looking at her. “He was born two months after I went inside. Three months before Lana dumped me. I told you I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Well, I’m trying to undo one now. It might be too late. But I’m trying. And,” he added, “she’s my ex. But we were never legally married.”
He started to walk out of the room.
Jamie leaped off the couch and stumbled after him. “Not so fast, Buster.”
She lowered her voice and smiled as they walked past the guests at the games table, but as soon as they were outside, she grabbed his arm.
“That’s not all,” she said. “Something’s changed. What is it, Gideon? You can trust me.”
He looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes fathomless, unblinking.
She waited, not wanting to break the connection. He trusted her, she knew he did. But he was being eaten up inside and she so desperately wanted to help.
“A month ago,” he said finally, “I wrote to her through my lawyer, requesting visitation.”
Relief flooded her. He was trying. He hadn’t abandoned his child. “That’s great, Gideon. When will you see him? I can’t wait to meet him!”
She put an arm around his waist and side-hugged him, but he only patted her arm and pulled away.
Uh-oh. “What’s wrong? She didn’t turn you down, did she? She can’t do that. Surely your lawyer—”
“It’s not about what she can or can’t do,” Gideon replied quietly. “It’s about what’s best for Blake. Being torn between the two of us won’t do him any good.”
“Hold on.” It took her a moment to process what he was saying. “You mean you’re thinking of giving up? Of not fighting for him?”
“I don’t want to.” His voice was harsh. “He’s my son. I want to know him, I want him to know me. But he’s just a kid. Meeting me would turn his life upside down. Lana’s not wrong about that. Maybe the right thing is to let him go.”
“Bull, comma, shit, my friend. Let me be clear. What’s best for Blake is to know the truth. You’re his father, you’re awesome, and he deserves to know you.”
At some point, they’d clasped hands, and now, he looked down at their interlinked fingers, then lifted tortured eyes to meet hers.
“It’s not just that, Jamie. Lana’s finally settling down, getting her life in order. She’s getting married. To a guy she’s been with for the past three years. The guy who’s helped raise Blake. The closest thing to a father he’s ever known.”
“So what? He’s still your son.”
Gideon exhaled, then swallowed. “She’s marrying Blake’s stepfather. This guy, her fiancé, wants to formally adopt Blake.” He paused. His Adam’s apple bounced as he struggled to regain control.
“Gideon—”
He dropped her hands and put his up, palms out, to stop her. Whatever she had to say—and even she didn’t know what that was—he didn’t want to hear it.
“I’m not on the birth certificate, Jamie. To Blake, I don’t even exist.”
Chapter Nine
Tell your dearest wish to the first star you see in
the celestial sphere tonight.
—Jamie’s horoscope
The little dog howled.
“No, no, shh!” Jamie dropped to her knees. She knew just how he felt. She’d accused Gideon of going off half-cocked and then what had she done? Unloaded on him like a nervous cow.
“Until I figure out what to do with you,” she told the puppy, “you need to keep a low profile.”
Something he see
med incapable of.
A knock sounded on the screen door. Perfect.
“Shush now, you,” she whispered. Chaos put his head down on his paws and sighed.
She opened the door slightly, using her body to block the view inside.
Abby Warren stood in front of her, a wicker basket of flowers slung over one arm and a pair of pruning shears in the other. Her chestnut-brown hair curled softly over her shoulder, where she’d tied it back in a single side ponytail.
Jamie put a hand to her own mud-colored locks, still growing out the latest jagged cut.
“Hey, Abs,” she said. “I’m on my way to the main house. I’ll walk with you.”
Abby peered over her shoulder. “Oh, what a cute puppy! Can I see him?”
Jamie sagged, then pulled open the door and let her in. “He’s supposed to be a secret.”
Abby laughed, set down her items, and reached over the exercise pen to pet him. “Good luck with that.”
Her voice always made Jamie think of smoky jazz bars. Not at all what you’d expect from someone so fresh and perky.
“He’s a stray,” Jamie said. “I found him in the forest while I was riding. He’s not staying so don’t bother telling Haylee.”
“Like she’s focused on anything but the baby right now.” Abby pulled a twine-tied bouquet from the basket and handed it to Jamie. “The rudbeckia is fantastic right now, but it’s running a little wild. I thought I’d share the cuttings, rather than tossing them on the compost heap. Have you got a vase?”
Jamie spread her hands out. “Do I look like the kind of person who has a vase?”
Abby cocked a beautifully arched eyebrow at her. “Everyone has a vase.”
“Not me. But I might have a pasta sauce jar in the recycling. Hang on.” She pushed the puppy aside and dug around in the cupboard beneath the sink. She usually ate in the main house with the rest of them, but now and then she chose to hang out on her own. Daphne could always be trusted to bring a plate of leftovers or a basket of breakfast pastries. She had a sixth sense as to when someone needed a little privacy, but refused to let anyone starve. Not on her watch.
Jamie found the jar, and Abby took it from her.
Driftwood Creek Page 8
