He couldn’t afford to screw up. People on the outside didn’t understand the restrictions imposed on parolees. Even out of the pen, there were more rules to follow from parole officers, caseworkers, and whoever else wanted to see Adam back behind bars.
He threw open the door. At the sight of Kyle’s silhouette in the backseat of the truck, the prickly ball in Adam’s stomach vanished. His boy’s small hand came up, waving. Adam hustled down the walkway. Fuck The Hawk. It’d been well over a week since he’d last seen Kyle.
When Adam reached the backseat, the window rolled down.
Kyle strained against his seat belt. “Dad! Dad!” His dark eyes lit, and a big smile plastered his shining face.
Adam threw open the door and reached inside the truck. He engulfed Kyle in a hug. His boy was a small cub cuddling up to his daddy. Damn, too long. Bridget had been smart to force Adam to accept a ride. His gray soul, now a shade of yellow, needed this moment for a small reunion. And by the way Kyle kept squealing, so did his boy.
“Mom said your friend went to Heaven, Dad. Are you going to miss him?” Kyle’s light breaths warmed Adam’s neck.
“Yep. Will miss him.” The dull gray shadowing Adam reappeared. He’d miss Logan a lot.
“It’s okay, Dad. I’m here. I’ll never go to Heaven. Not when you’re still here.”
The heartfelt words squeezed Adam’s heart. His boy would never leave him, and like a total dirtbag, he’d turned his back on his son. Never again. He’d spent the rest of his life loving Kyle, and loving Bridget. These two had done so much for him. He didn’t deserve their loyalty and love.
First step—accepting their loyalty and love. This time around, Adam would.
* * * *
Bridget pulled into the parking spot between a compact car and SUV. The ladies of the Catholic Women’s Association must already be in the basement, preparing the light dinner to follow Logan’s memorial. The scent and warmth coming from Adam sitting beside her wrapped Bridget in cotton. She switched off the truck.
“Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Adam rubbed his brow.
For half the drive, he’d chatted with Kyle, attentively listening to the activities and crafts his son had engaged in during their absence. As they’d come closer to the church, Adam had retreated into silence.
“Let’s go then.” Bridget got out.
Adam held open Kyle’s door. They held hands and joined Bridget.
“Mom.” Kyle held out his other hand, grinning.
Something fuzz-like seeped across Bridget’s skin. She laced her fingers with Kyle’s. He gazed up, a big smile on his face. While they walked, he chattered and skipped along the pavement.
The straight, hard line to Adam’s lips softened. His tender gaze kept traveling from Kyle to Bridget.
“Penny for your thoughts.” They strode up the walkway to the four steps that led into the church.
“What’s a penny?” Kyle squinted.
Bridget giggled. “They were a coin we used to use to pay for stuff. Like quarters, dimes, and nickels.”
“How come we don’t have them anymore, Mom?”
Adam held open the door to the church.
“The government decided we didn’t need them.”
“What’s the government?”
“Like Uncle Darryl. He sits at the table that makes the rules for the reserve. Remember? It’s what the government does. They make the rules for everyone, not only the reserve.”
Adam grinned. “I forgot how kids are full of questions.”
“They sure are.” Bridget’s heart never stopped throbbing. A true family. She couldn’t and wouldn’t let Mrs. Dale take this from her.
* * * *
Adam clutched Bridget’s hand. The urn sat on a small, round, fancy table with Logan’s picture beside it. A burning bubble appeared in Adam’s throat. At least the urge to run or drink wasn’t present. Probably because his son sat beside him, and Bridget a seat over.
In the past, Adam would’ve loathed being surrounded by anyone invading his space during an extremely personal moment, but this was Bridget and Kyle. They had every right to see Adam at his worst, and at his best.
Through the good and the bad, sickness and health—wasn’t that how the wedding vows worked?
He’d robbed these two of seeing him at his most vulnerable. He had a second chance, but Logan didn’t. Damn that kid now sitting in an urn.
Adam used his free hand to rub his brow. Bridget met his gaze. Compassion warmed her dark eyes, but pain also lingered. Always assisting others in need, no doubt his beloved kwe wished to rid him of the horrific misery tightening around his ribs.
Ken had managed to scrounge up a picture of Logan, who frowned in the photograph, his dead blue eyes and brooding mouth a reflection of his short, doomed life. Adam squirmed. He’d used to look the same way. No selfies for him. He’d loathed having his picture taken and had pretty much almost punched anyone into next week for trying to take one of him.
Bridget squeezed his hand again.
The deacon stood and ambled to the podium set up in front of the flowers.
As much as Adam appreciated the Matawapits generosity, he wasn’t much for religion. The twelve steps and practicing the Seven Grandfathers teachings was his speed. But the old-timers at the meeting always said keep an open mind.
What mattered was that Bridget’s family had come through and supported Kyle. Now they were supporting Adam.
Chapter Thirty-two: Victory or Die
Adam stood at the buffet table. He dished up helpings from the assortment of salads. There were also sweet and sour and barbecue meatballs available. Even chicken drummies and wings. He set a dinner roll on his plate. Bridget and Kyle stood on the other side of the line of three tables. She added whatever Kyle pointed at to his plate, while also dishing herself up some grub.
The ladies of the Catholic Women’s Association had done a great job of putting together a last-minute funeral supper. If they took this good care of the Matawapit family, this meant they’d also taken great care of Kyle.
Kyle grinned at the different ladies hovering over the banquet table, assisting those who needed help.
The ladies took the time to ask Kyle how he was enjoying grade two, if he was excited about receiving his First Communion, and other school stuff. Kyle, of course, lapped up the attention. Adam’s heart glowed with fatherhood pride at the acceptance of his son at the parish.
There were different desserts to choose from. Adam selected a plate of strawberry shortcake. He waited at the end of the table for Bridget and Kyle.
Besides the Matawapit family, about twenty parishioners, Adam assumed them to be, had also attended the memorial service. Earlier, these people had offered condolences to the Matawapits, but when the parishioners had gaped at him, they’d only nodded and scooted away. Not that he cared. People always avoided him.
“Ready?” Bridget wore a short-sleeved black dress that hugged her small waist.
“Sure. Where you wanna sit?” Only a few tables were set up.
“Over there.” Bridget led them to a spot next to a display case where numerous mementos and plaques for the Catholic Women’s Association were housed.
“Dad, right here.” Kyle patted the chair beside him.
Adam had planned on sitting across from them, but his son’s insistence of being bookended by his parents tickled Adam’s insides. Yes, parents. Bridget was the true mother of his child.
He sat beside Kyle.
The deacon and his wife, who’d already filled their plates, detached themselves from a few people who’d waylaid them. The deacon ambled over to Adam’s table, and his wife walked with her delicate shoulders back, gaze pinned on Bridget and Kyle.
So much for eating. Adam set down his fork and knife. The last time he’d formally joined Bridget’s parents for chow was after he’d asked their daughter to marry him. They’d taken the Matawapits out for dinner to tell them the good news, and for Adam t
o officially meet his future in-laws.
Almost four years later, here they were again.
“Grandpa. Grandma. Sit there.” Kyle pointed at the chairs across from them.
Emery, Darryl, Jude, and Jude’s children sat at another table. Something about Jude’s wife, Charlene, being busy was why she wasn’t here.
Adam shifted straighter in his chair. He nodded as the deacon and his wife took their seats.
“Err, thanks. Thanks for saying those prayers.”
“It was my pleasure. It was all of our pleasure to give your friend a proper goodbye.” The deacon spoke in his low, authoritative tone. “What will be done with Logan’s ashes?”
“Keep them for now. Was thinking of scattering them at that really nice spot near the church the next time I’m at the rez.”
“The trail?” The deacon forked a meatball.
“Yep. Nice there.” Adam scooped a helping of potato salad since Bridget’s parents were eating.
“Can I go this time?” Kyle’s voice was begging.
“We’ll see what I can do.” Adam wasn’t making any promises. He still had The Hawk to handle. As much as he enjoyed having his son here during such a tough day, the old crab had been adamant about keeping his interaction with Kyle to a minimum. If the bitchy woman heard Bridget and Kyle had given Adam a ride, she’d shut down his supervised visits. As for Bridget as a foster mother...
Adam muscles clenched. Raw heat seared his gut. If anyone at Children and Family Services dared to take Kyle from Bridget, they’d answer to him. If that meant going back to the iron house, so be it. All that mattered was keeping Kyle safe and happy, and keeping Bridget happy. Nobody would separate the two people Adam loved most. Nobody.
Upstairs in the dark church, Adam plunked two quarters into the tiny brass collection bin. Light from the candles bounced around in the small glass jars of yellow, blue, red, and green, all lined up in rows of five and about fifteen per row. Shadows played across the statue of a man gripping a club on a platform above the brass stand. The inscription read Saint Jude, Patron Saint of Hope and impossible causes.
What Adam faced was an impossible cause. Authority hated him. His PO hated him. The Hawk hated him. Society hated him for being a bad father.
He lit one of the candles in the blue jar.
A warm flicker of hope appeared inside him. There was one way he could guarantee Children and Family Services never took Kyle from Bridget—giving up legal care of his son.
His stomach drooped. He’d worked his ass off to be a part of Kyle’s life again. What if the boy got the wrong impression and accused Adam of giving up custody because he was an irresponsible asshole who didn’t want full care of his own son? Wrong. Damn wrong.
God, losing Kyle for the second time was a shank in Adam’s belly, slicing and twisting through his intestines. He clutched his gut and set his hand on the cushioned kneeler in front of him. Saint Jude stared straight ahead, unfazed by Adam’s pain, and all the bullshit his life had been. A lump burned at the back of his throat.
He sank on the cushioned kneeler and clasped his hands.
Footsteps on the stairs carried to where he knelt. Bridget’s summery scent surrounded Adam.
“Hey. What’re you doing?” She spoke softly, a silken caress on the back of his neck.
“Praying. Well, trying to pray.” Adam looked up to the motionless statue.
“For Logan?”
Adam shook his head.
“What about?” She rubbed his shoulder.
The kneading from Bridget’s palm worked the stiffness from Adam’s muscle. “You. Kyle.”
“We’ll figure something out. I already gave it some thought. I know if Mrs. Dale finds out we reconciled—”
“She’ll give some kind of conflict of interest bullshit and put Kyle in another home.” Adam’s breath froze for a moment at Kyle being ripped from Bridget’s arms.
Dread consumed Bridget’s tiny breath for air.
Adam had made the right decision. He’d hurt his ex-fiancée and son enough. “It’s why I’m gonna give you legal custody before The Hawk finds out about us.”
“What?” This time disbelief filled Bridget’s gasp. She sank to her haunches, eyes the size of the hubcaps Adam used to steal.
“You heard me.” He squeezed his fingers that were still clasped together.
“I... uh... Adam...” Bridget sputtered. “No.” Her voice firmed, and she drew back, staring at him. “No, I won’t let you do this.”
“It’s the only way.” He rose off the kneeler.
Bridget also stood.
He ran his thumb along her cheek. “The system’s been kicking my ass since I was a kid. I’m not gonna let it start kicking my son around.”
“What do you mean? You were never in foster care.”
“I’m talking about all systems—government, cops... you name it. If giving up custody will keep Kyle safe, then it’s what I’ll do.”
“You must have faith—”
“Kwe, this is also about you. You could lose him, too. Do you wanna?”
The color drained from Bridget’s face. Her lips formed into an O. She took Adam’s hand. “Of course not.”
“Then it’s what we gotta do.” He massaged her fingers with the pretty long nails. The heaviness in his chest lightened. “Lookit us. We’re making a decision like a real couple.
“Kwe...” He drew Bridget against his chest and stroked her long hair. “We gotta protect our son.”
“I know.” She laid her head on his chest. “I know. But for you to give me legal custody of Kyle...”
“It’ll do for now. In time, we can go back to court. You can legally adopt him. You have my consent. And we can fix it so we can both be his legal caregivers. You and me.”
“Parents shouldn’t have to be forced to take this route,” Bridget murmured.
* * * *
After dropping Adam off at the halfway house before his curfew, and then sending Kyle off to sleep, Bridget finally sank on her own bed. Ten o’clock. Church tomorrow. Then laundry.
How strange that she’d prayed hard not to lose Kyle when Adam had first arrived in Thunder Bay, and this evening the Lord had granted Bridget her biggest wish. But there was no victory in a father left with no choice but giving up his child. Again, the system had kicked around another Indian.
Bridget shivered at Dad’s recount of the old days, when passed-out natives were rolled into the water and drowned. Thank goodness nobody had harmed her father, who’d admitted to sleeping on the banks at night, and then stressed the dangers of going near the McIntyre and Kaministiquia rivers when Bridget and Jude had been in grades seven and eight. Naturally, she’d been so shaken up for once that she had listened.
Last year a native woman succumbed to a slow, agonizing death after being hit by a trailer hitch tossed by a man from a truck.
The Indigenous Women’s Alliance, along with the Catholic Women’s Association worked hard to support diversity in the city. But rallies, marches, and walks didn’t seem enough to stop the racism.
Together, she and Adam must take a stand against their caseworker. Being forced to give up legal care of his own son was wrong. Adam had more than proved he was a fit parent.
Bridget pulled up at the halfway house. She’d sweet-talked Emery into staying for a few more days. He was at the condo, watching Kyle for the evening so she could meet Adam for coffee. Curiosity had filled Emery’s green eyes, but in his typical style, he’d never asked questions when she’d mentioned where she was going.
Once she got home, she’d clue Emery in on her decision. He had his BSW and could prove helpful once Bridget set up an appointment to meet Mrs. Dale.
First, she needed Adam to agree.
He lumbered down the sidewalk, smoking the last of his cigarette. His tufts of waves curled beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. Bridget’s stomach fluttered at the simple white t-shirt and faded blue jeans molded to his hard muscles.
Adam flicked th
e butt. Before he got in the truck, he removed his hat. The scent of smoke filled the interior. He leaned over, his dark eyes alight. Bridget’s heart almost turned to mush, ready to melt all over the leather seat. His lips brushed hers, warm and softer than satin.
“How’d work go?”
“Good.” Adam traced his finger along her cheekbone. “What about you and Kyle. Have a good day?”
“We sure did. He loves attending Mass with his grandparents. And he was very excited to have his Uncle Emery there, too. I’d say those two are stuffing their faces full of pizza right now.”
“How long’s Emery staying for?”
Bridget shifted the gear stick and started down the street while glancing at the clock on the stereo. Perfect. This wasn’t the hour when Mrs. Dale lingered over her tea at Reggie’s Donuts. The old woman’s evening routine was as predictable as a January northwest wind. “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“I hope you don’t mind missing a meeting tonight.”
“No prob, kwe. Anything for you.”
“Losing Logan must really hurt, and I’m sure meetings help.”
“Going tomorrow night.” He placed his big hand on her arm.
The heat from his palm seared Bridget’s skin. She shivered.
“That’s s’posed to warm you up, not make you cold.” The low rumble of his chuckle caressed Bridget’s flesh.
She stopped at the light. “It’s good to hear you laugh. I forgot how much I enjoyed hearing you laugh.”
“Yeah?” He cocked his brow, grinning.
“That too.” She set her nail on his smiling lips.
“Important to you?”
“Yes. When we first met, you never smiled. Or laughed. The first time you laughed, I’ll never forget how it surprised me. Scary.” She giggled.
“I have a scary laugh?” Amusement flecked his eyes.
“Yes, very scary—if someone doesn’t know you. But the laugh is you. It wouldn’t be you if it wasn’t on the scary side.” She turned the truck into the parking lot.
Redeemed Page 28
