She rehashed their entire, brief exchange for the first half of the ride home, kicking herself for not saying more. For not being completely honest about her feelings.
Why wasn’t I brave enough to throw my heart on the line and tell him I loved him? How often do you get the chance to fight for the man you want to spend the rest of your life with? But she’d taken the high road, the safe road. Her parents would be proud of her for not making a scene. Her brother would shrug… because big emotions scared him. Mack would shake his head in disappointment.
The second half of the ride she just cried.
By the time she curried Skipper and gave him some extra feed, hugged a dozen or so sleepy ’pacas and dragged herself to the house, she was tear-free. She’d done the right thing. That was what mattered. Sure, her heart was wrecked and she was going to miss Austen something fierce, but life came with no guarantees. Neither did love.
She made a cup of tea, showered, and got ready for bed before she came back downstairs to lock up. Only then did she spot the mail on her kitchen table. She didn’t feel like tackling bills at the moment, but a pale lilac envelop about halfway down the pile caught her eye. Hand-written, she thought, studying the shaky bird-scratch of her name and address. No return address, but the postmark was Seattle.
“Who do I know in Seattle?”
Maybe one of Peyton’s friends, she thought, sliding her finger under the flap.
A folded piece of paper rested inside a beautiful card, which sported a photograph of a lighthouse. Somewhere on the west coast, she guessed by the ragged, windswept rock it rested upon. “Pretty.”
She unfolded paper the thick linen stationary and began to read.
“Oh, my God,” she cried, her free hand clapping across her mouth.
Her heart thudded so loud in her ears she thought she might be having a stroke or something. She clenched her arms around her middle and rocked back and forth, trying to make sense of the words—and they found their way to her.
Hands shaking, she called her brother. She thought she called his cell phone but apparently her shaky finger hit his and Macklin’s landline number.
Mack answered on the first ring. “Hey, doll. What’s up?”
“Is Pey… Peyton there?” Her voice sounded rusty, odd.
“Nope. He’s at a gamer-con in Vegas. I was supposed to go but Hildie threw a fit at the new kennel… what’s wrong? You sound upset.”
“I just opened a letter from my birth mother, Mack. I… she… she says she was my stalker. Accidentally. She wanted me to look for her, but I wouldn’t, and now she’s been told she’s sick… really sick… terminal. She found me. I don’t know how, but—”
“I gave her your address, Serena,” Mack said.
“You?” She fumbled with the chair and nearly wound up on the floor. “Mack,” she cried, too shocked and angry and hurt to think. “How could you? Who died and made you God?”
“She emailed Peyton. He didn’t want anything to do with her, but he let me read her email and I have to admit, I was moved by it. She seemed genuine and real. She reminded me of you.”
“Me? I’ve never abandoned anyone I love in my life.”
“That’s what I’m counting on, dearest.” He sighed. “Serena, I love you, but you and your brother both have the most uncanny ability to turn a blind eye to the obvious. You refused to look for your birth parents because you were afraid having a living, breathing birth mother would somehow make your brother feel slighted or diminished. Believe me, honey girl, it won’t. The past doesn’t play a factor in Peyton’s world. His brain isn’t wired that way.”
Was this true? Maybe. Yes.
She leaned forward, resting her head in her hand. She knew the immediate gratification aspect of Peyton’s personality, but she’d never thought it applied to his personal history. “He never talks about his mother.”
“Because he doesn’t give a damn. I hate to break it to you, dear, but he doesn’t listen when you talk about yours, either.”
She let out a long sigh. “What should I do about this letter?”
“Whatever feels right,” Mack said firmly. “You’re someone who is honest enough to admit when she’s made a mistake and then will try her best to rectify it.”
She ran her fingers over the spidery signature. “Her name is Miranda Lewis.” My flesh and blood.
“Yes, I know. We spoke for nearly an hour.”
Serena waited to see if he’d share more of their conversation. He didn’t. That was so Macklin. He wasn’t a gossip but nobody had a better handle on the big picture. “Thanks, Mack. I still love you. I’ll let you know what I decide.”
“I’ll be waiting with baited breath. Your brother…? Not so much.”
She laughed—her first since arriving home.
“Hey, different subject. I saw on Twitter tonight—hashtag #montananewsflash or some such nonsense—that your non-cowboy boyfriend was cleared of all wrongdoing—that being a relative thing where politicians are concerned, in my opinion. What’s that mean for you two?”
“You’re on Twitter?”
“It’s Peyton’s new shiny thing. He set up a feed for all things Montana.”
“Pey’s version of brotherly love. I get it,” she said. “To answer your question, what happened with Austen means… I have time to meet my birth mother.”
* * *
“Is she the reason you won’t kiss me back?”
Austen stopped pacing in front of his fireplace to look at Sheri. Gorgeous, sexy, available Sheri… and he’d forgotten she was there. He set his empty champagne flute on the mantel and walked to the couch. “Yes. We’ve been seeing each other a few weeks.”
“And it’s going somewhere you and I were never headed?” Her question held just a hint of finality.
He sank against the thick cushions of the couch. “I was starting to think I could see myself in a life here. Is that crazy?”
“Yes. From my perspective. Austen, you lived and breathed the rarified air of state politics. You’re a player—and I mean that in the political gamesmanship way, not the sexual horn dog way.”
Was he? Maybe once, but all of that bullshit seemed like it must have happened to a different Austen Zabrinski.
“Did I tell you my big lead came from Jenny’s journal? She wrote that you were the only guy on the staff who wasn’t trying to get in her pants. Immediately, I knew that made you a target.”
He shook his head. “Why?”
“She was a mixed up girl. Ambitious, but lacking confidence. The perfect patsy for someone who knew how to play her. Definitely not you.” She chuckled softly. “No offense, Austen, but you’re not that deep. You take people at face value. You thought Jenny was a sweet, innocent girl. She wasn’t.”
“Does her father know?”
She nodded. “He was firmly in denial, which is probably why he was so focused on ruining you. Harassing you made it easier to deflect his suspicions that his daughter was into something dark and sinister and way over her head.”
They talked about the case for another hour… until Austen’s eyes felt gritty and his head pounded with every heartbeat. He showed her to the guest bedroom then started toward the master suite—the beautiful room he’d abandoned lately.
“Austen,” Sheri called. “I’m glad we had fun when we did. You’re a good guy and I hope you find what you’re looking for, but knowing you as well as I do, you wouldn’t last a year out here before you were bored to tears. I know, I know. It’s Big Sky Country. But what do you besides look at the clouds? Come on. You thrive on power, excitement, and pressure. You’ll come back here to decompress, but promise me you won’t make up your mind until you’ve given Helena another chance. Or even DC.”
Washington? He should have been surprised by the suggestion but wasn’t. Even bad PR could be excused if it brought you back to the top of the food chain.
“Will you think about it? You owe me that much, don’t you agree?”
He did. She’d
cleared his name and salvaged his reputation. What he planned to do with his second chance was anybody’s guess.
Chapter Eleven
Three weeks later
The press ate up the first week. They couldn’t get enough of him. Radio talk shows. TV interviews. Even a couple of national sound bites. “How does it feel to come back after being a social pariah, Austen?”
“It feels great.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to Disneyland,” he wanted to say, but never did. “I’m weighing my options,” was his usual answer.
The second week he spent at the law firm, going through the exhausting business of listening to excuses, extending generous, but fake forgiveness, and trying to figure out if there was still a place for him. A future. Half of the partners thought his name would carry a stigma. The other half believed publicity of any kind was good for business. Austin trudged home to his condo at the end of the day like a gladiator defending himself from Medusa.
The third week he had a visit from Mia. And he began to see a light at the end of the tunnel. They discussed his future over pancakes in his ultra-modern kitchen, which he hated.
“I like my kitchen at the ranch. I even like Serena’s dingy old farm kitchen better than this picture-perfect piece of shit.” He watched the edges of the cakes turn golden on the built-in griddle. “Why would living in a place I like be a bad thing?”
“Nobody said it was bad. Mom and Dad are afraid you’ll be bored.”
He shook his spatula at her. “Bored. That’s what Sheri said, too. Do you know what’s boring? Sitting in on a three-hour meeting with six partners, eight junior partners, and five clerks as they discuss how to disperse bonuses in a way that doesn’t red-flag an audit.”
“Money is not the enemy, brother dear. I remember those kinds of meetings. I took notes because I thought Ed and I were going to be ridiculously rich. Now, I’d settle for being able to pay my bills without worrying about whether or not I’ll be able to send my kids to college.”
He hated the defeated tone in her voice. “That’s why you need to get a new job. One that pays well and will boost your morale. If I were in Marietta, we could open a law office. I know there are a couple of attorneys in town, but you could handle the people cases and I’d do the filthy lucre stuff.”
She laughed. “What if I decide to run for DA?”
“I’ll manage your campaign. We have a year, right? It’s next November? We’d have a lot better chance I was living in Marietta.”
He served them each two pancakes to go with their bacon and juice. The view from his breakfast nook was glorious… if he overlooked the town, the street below, the honking cars. He took a sip of juice. The sweetness made him sad. He missed eating breakfast with Serena.
“Have you talked to Serena lately?”
She shook her head. “I think Bailey has. Chloe catches a ride home with Serena after school a couple of days a week to ride her horse. Bailey and Serena have become friends.” She cut two pieces, stabbed them both and put them in her mouth. He was glad to see her eating. She’d shrunk to a joyless waif. “How come you haven’t called her? Did things end badly?”
He shook his head. “No. She wished me good luck. We played a little phone tag for a few days and texting sucks. Last week, she said she was taking a few days off to go visit her family. I haven’t heard from her since.” He sighed. “That was probably an excuse since as far as I know she doesn’t have anyone to watch the ’pacas. But, I don’t blame her for not wanting to talk to me. It’s gotten to the point where we both need me to make a decision, you know? And… I haven’t.”
“That’s weird. You’re the most decisive man I’ve ever met. Heck, you’re Austen ‘Striker’ Zabrinski, commander of the Big Sky Mavericks. You’ve always known what you wanted and how you planned to get it. When did you turn in your fighter pilot wings and become such a wuss?”
He knew she was kidding—and trying to light a fire under him, but her mention of their childhood game made him sad. What happened to that kid who knew everything and had his entire future mapped out?
She chewed and stared at him until he groaned. “What? I know that look and it isn’t good.”
She pointed her thumb at her chest. “I’m the damaged goods here. Why are you acting like the walking wounded?” She made an ‘ah ha’ gesture. “Oh, wait. Your giant ego took a direct hit. Now, it makes sense. But, brother, I gotta say I’m a little disappointed in you.”
“Take a number. I hear that from Dad every day.”
“I played the people-pleasing good girl so you could be the cocky, self-confident giant killer. Now, you’re acting like an emasculated gnome.”
“A gnome? Really? That’s the best you can come up with?”
She grinned. “I’m picturing you in Serena’s garden with a cone-shaped red cap. And an evil look like the one you’re giving me right now. Fine. You’re not a gnome. Prove it. Make up your mind and, for God’s sake, stop apologizing for wanting to be happy. Happiness isn’t a given. When given the chance, you should grab it and hold on tight.”
If only it were that simple. “What if I’ve blown it with Serena?”
“Don’t make this about her. If you love each other, you can add to each other’s lives and create something beautiful, but it’s up to you to be happy—where you live, whatever you do for a living.”
He sat back in surprise. “Wow. That’s actually quite profound.”
She shrugged. “Being told you have cancer will do that to you. Suddenly, everyone becomes a philosopher. Doesn’t mean I’m not making a complete and utter mess of my life. Did I tell you I met someone?”
His jaw dropped. “A man?”
She kicked him under the table—just as she had when they were kids. “Yes. He’s homeless. Lives in a tent by the river on that empty lot Ed and I bought when you were buying the Flying Z. Claims he’s taking pictures for a magazine, but if you saw him you’d be suspicious, too.”
“Old and weather-beaten?”
“Young—younger than me, I think—and heartthrob handsome… even with a scruffy beard.”
“Are you seeing him?”
“I’m trying to get him to move off my land. Squatters are a liability. I don’t need for him to fall and get hurt or get attacked by a bear… or more likely roughed up by kids who think he’s queer or weak or prey. So far, he’s ignored my threats. But it’s only been a couple of days. When you move home, you can do your hubba-hubba scary face, and he’ll leave.”
When you move home. As if the decision had been made. “You think I should move home?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t play coy, Austen. You made up your mind three weeks ago. We all know this whatever-should-I-do Scarlett O’Hara impression is just for the cameras. Don’t worry. The folks are expecting you. I told them the truth. You’re a nicer person when you’re home. When Dad mumbled something about a waste of your degree, I told him, ‘He’s bringing his brain with him when he moves, Dad. He can use it here just as well as in Helena.’ They agreed. So did the kids. They voted. It was four to one in favor of you moving back.”
“Four to one? I only have two nieces and two nephews.”
“Bailey said the baby voted for you to come home. But Emilee voted no. She’s afraid you’ll monopolize Serena’s time. Serena’s teaching an afterschool fiber arts class and Em loves it.”
He laughed with a lightness he hadn’t felt in weeks. She was right, of course. His twin always could read him inside and out. He stood and walked to the landline for the phone book. “Time to call a realtor and put this place on the market.”
“Can you make me another pancake first? My appetite’s come back with a vengeance.”
He was happy about that, but he knew better than to coddle her. “Make it yourself. I have a ton of things to do before I move.”
* * *
“O… M… G…,” Bailey said, dragging out each letter dramatically. “Your birth mother cont
acted you? The same day as Austen’s big miracle? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Serena had studiously avoided everyone for the past ten days. She’d tried to keep too busy to think about Austen, about losing him, missing him. Only at night did the tears sneak past her defenses. Luckily, she had the distraction of her birth mother to keep her very occupied.
She’d called her parents the morning after reading the letter. Mom cried. “Tears of joy,” she said over and over. Dad took a more pragmatic approach. “You know yourself better than anyone, Serena. There’s no shame in being curious, and you know as well as I do the value of understanding your bloodline.”
The true irony of her ‘hobby’, she thought not for the first time. Breeding livestock of any kind demanded meticulous records and defendable research on each animal in her herd. How crazy was it that she knew nothing about her ancestry?
Peyton called a few days after her conversation with Macklin.
He’d been brisk and to the point. “My mother was a drug addict. The life expectancy of a using drug addict is very short. I’m lucky she lasted long enough for the ER doctors to get me out. Since the recidivism of cocaine users is so high, the chance of her ever being a meaningful part of my life was slim to nil. Therefore, I am fine with not having a living/breathing birth mother. Don’t use me as an excuse for your cowardice.” Then he hung up.
So Peyton.
“Talking to my family tipped the scales in favor of making contact,” Serena told Bailey. “My dad frets. This is not a good thing. Last time he worried so long and hard about retiring and selling the herd, he fretted himself into a stroke. This time, Mom said flat out, ‘Call her.’ So, I did.”
“You spoke to the birth mother you’ve never met? That is so cool.” Bailey squealed as if Serena told her she was meeting a rock star. “Dish. What does she sound like?”
“Normal, I guess. A little breathless. She has COPD, emphysema, and asthma. Her doctor says her lungs are shot. She’s signed a do not resuscitate order. She’s got her estate all settled. A small nest egg—her words—is coming to me, but the rest is going to charities she’s supported over the years. Meeting me was the last item on her bucket list.”
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