One-Eyed Jack (The Deuces Wild Series Book 3)

by Irish Winters

  That made Kitty smile. “Ah-huh,” she said as she lifted her head and peered up at Roxy. “But I need a shower and a hairbrush first. I want to look my best. Do you think Agent Zaroyin likes me?”

  Now it was Roxy’s turn to grin. “Absolutely.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “What’s he look like?” Isaiah asked casually, needing Kitty to confirm what he already knew about Darrin’s father.

  For now, Tate sat at the table watching, his arms folded over his chest while Isaiah transferred French toast stuffed with cream cheese and drizzled with chocolate syrup, a favorite from his childhood days, to Kitty’s plate. Still in the flannel pajamas Roxy had hurriedly packed for her the night before, Kitty had taken a stool at the breakfast bar. Thrilled that Tate brought her duffel, Roxy’d already stashed it in her room. Darrin and Nugget hadn’t made an appearance yet, and that was just as well. The boy needed his rest.

  Kitty’s eyes lit up when Roxy topped the toast off with a puff of whipped cream and said, “There. Now it’s perfect. Eat up.”

  Roxy took a seat at the table with Tate and a second cup of coffee, obviously pleased with herself for this break in the case. Isaiah hadn’t the heart to tell her that he, Tate, and Tucker had already figured out who Darrin’s real father was. There’d been so much happening that he hadn’t had time to bring her up to speed, and he wouldn’t now. With Family Services in the kid’s immediate future, Roxy needed this reprieve as much as he did.

  Kitty folded a large piece of the gooey toast into her mouth and moaned, “This is so, so good.” After another succulent mouthful, her head bobbed. “Oh yeah. Sorry, I almost forgot. Darrin’s dad’s skinny. Tall. Kind of boring looking.”

  “My dad?” a bewildered, sleepy voice asked at the doorway. “You found him?”

  Ah, shit. Isaiah closed his eyes at the hope in those five words. Shell shocked. Stunned. Darrin seemed frozen where he stood, so Isaiah went to him. “Come sit down with Kitty. I’ve got breakfast for you, and yes, there are some things you need to know.”

  Blinking like a deer caught in the headlights of the eighteen-wheeler of truth barreling down on him, the boy let himself be led to the bar stool beside his sister. Isaiah stood beside him and took hold of the little guy’s hand. “I’m sorry you heard that, but it’s time you know the truth. Bob Bratton isn’t your real dad. That’s why he never stayed in touch with you. He didn’t leave because he didn’t love you. He left because he was very mad at your mom for lying to him.”

  “But Mom…” Darrin gulped. He licked his lips. “Mom said Dad took one look at me when I was born and left because I was... because I...”

  “Your mother lied to you, too, kid,” Tate inserted gently. “You’re not any uglier than the rest of us.”

  “’S right,” Kitty whispered, her tone soft and low. “I seen him one day, Dare. Your dad came to the house, but Mom wouldn’t let him inside. She made him stand on the porch and she told him to go and never come back, that she’d do worse things than keeping him from seeing you. She said a lot of other mean things, but all he kept saying was he had a right to see the kid he loved.”

  “He… he loves me?” Darrin asked.

  Kitty’s head bobbed. “That’s what he said. I was there. I heard him.”

  “Where was I?” The poor kid was breaking Isaiah’s heart.

  Kitty shrugged. “Playing over at Jimmy’s. Where else?”

  Isaiah blew a breath through his pursed lips, striving for patience at the brutal lies Candace had fed her children. They might have different fathers, but they were her flesh and blood. Why hurt them like this?

  Tipping into Darrin, Kitty put her arm around her brother’s shoulder and tugged him into her side. “We both got different dads,” she told him quietly, her breakfast forgotten. “I’m sorry I never told you, but Mom made me promise not to.”

  “Does he look like me? Maybe just a little?” Darrin asked his sister, his eyes bigger. Brighter. Too damned hopeful for a little guy who’d known more bitter disappointment than any kid should.

  Kitty’s snarky side seemed to have vanished along with her mother. Canting her head to the left, she looked her little brother over and nodded. “Now that I think about it, yeah. You do look like him.” She cocked her head to the left as if she’d never seen him before “You’ve got the same freckles and the same color hair as him, only his eyes are—”

  “Green,” Isaiah whispered.

  Her head bobbed. “Yeah. I think. I didn’t really get a good look at him cuz Mom never let him come in, and she didn’t know I was watching, but yeah. I remember thinking they reminded me of emeralds.”

  Darrin turned to Isaiah. “But I got gray eyes, so maybe he’s not—”

  “He is your father,” Isaiah interrupted as he took hold of the boy’s cold fingers. “Trust me, Darrin. That man is your father.” And he’s dying to meet you.

  “What’s his name?” Tate asked Kitty.

  Isaiah sent an appreciative nod to his buddy for that revealing question. Darrin needed Kitty to confirm what Isaiah already knew.

  Her delicate brows narrowed. Her tongue slid over her bottom lip in earnest concentration before she finally said, “Jack something or other.”

  “Jack Fillion?” Tate asked, his voice uncommonly gentle considering the storm clouds in his eyes.

  “Yeah. You know him?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” Tate answered.

  “But I’ve met him,” Isaiah whispered to Darrin “At the hospital the night your sister had her first asthma attack. He was there in the chapel sitting in the pew behind your mother.” And her hair was undone as if she’d tried to seduce him.

  How Fillion knew Candace would be there at that specific time made no sense. Not unless he’d been stalking her, or he was in on it—whatever it was—with her. Not unless she’d contacted him somehow and told him to meet her there. Not unless she’d used her daughter’s asthma attack to meet up with her ex-lover.

  But that didn’t gel with the emotions Isaiah had picked up from Fillion that night. He’d exuded all the fear and desperation of a man losing his child, not deceit nor subterfuge. At that time and in that specific place, Isaiah had honestly assumed that Fillion’s child was dying, which in a way, he was—if Fillion had no way to reach out to Darrin. But using Darrin to get back at Jack proved Candace’s treachery. To borrow from Tucker’s rich stockpile of expletives… What a flaming bitch.

  “B-but Mom says calling someone Jack’s the same as calling them an, umm, an…” The poor kid swallowed as if he didn’t want to say the next word. His lovely cinnamon lashes fell like curled butterfly wings to his cheeks. Finally, he whispered, “An ass.”

  “Is that why you were upset when I called you Jack?” Roxy asked, her dark eyes wide. “Oh, baby. Darrin. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings.” She shot a quick glance to Isaiah. “I just told him to hit the road, Jack. It’s a saying. That’s all.”

  She took a step toward Darrin’s stool, but Isaiah intercepted her and knelt at the boy’s knee. That forced Darrin to look down at him, but it also gave this abused child the position of power for possibly the first time in his life.

  And time stopped. Isaiah glanced up at Roxy. Over these past days, she’d transformed into the kind of mother these kids needed, one wiling to fight for them. Right now, it was all she could do to not take Darrin in her arms and rock him like the lost little boy he was. Isaiah sensed the ferocity rolling off the mother bear at his six, precisely what he wanted back in his life. His mother used to stand her ground. She’d thrown her heart and soul into everything she’d done, too. That was why she’d been in his bedroom that night. She hadn’t run to him for protection. No. She’d run there to save him.

  Only he hadn’t been there.

  But he was here now with Roxy and two kids who needed saving as much as he did. For a moment, he felt his mom smiling down at him. Isaiah took a deep breath, aware how great the
gift of a mother’s love was to a child. To a man. Humbling. So. Damned. Humbling.

  Isaiah could barely speak. “Darrin,” he breathed. I know just how you feel, you poor damned kid.

  Tears had spiked Darrin’s glistening lashes into points. He licked his lips and swallowed hard, and Isaiah would’ve done anything to erase the humiliation dimming this little warrior’s countenance. Instead of sharing Tucker’s one-eyed jack theory, Isaiah opted for the blue collar approach. “Jack is a proud name, Darrin. It’s a good name. Have you ever heard someone called the jack-of-all-trades?”

  Darrin shrugged, shaking his head like he didn’t care. The boy’s gaze dropped. He was ashamed, and that just wasn’t acceptable, was it?

  Isaiah tried again. “A jack-of-all-trades is a man who’s good with his hands, Darrin. He’s a man who fixes what’s broken because he’s not afraid to work hard for what he wants, like knocking on your door and facing your mom even when she lies to him.”

  Darrin sniffed, still not meeting Isaiah’s eyes, but definitely breaking Isaiah’s heart.

  “Jack Fillion’s looking for you,” Isaiah promised. “Your real dad cares about you and he wants you in his life. He loves you. Trust me. I know that much about him.”

  “Then why’d he leave me?” Darrin finally whined. One tear tracked down his ashen cheek. “All my life I been waiting for my dad to come back home, and… and…” Before Isaiah knew what happened, Darrin lurched off the stool and into his arms, burrowing his face into Isaiah’s shirt. “I want you to be my dad. Please.”

  Well, damn. That didn’t go as expected. Isaiah bowed his head, mashing his cheek to the side of Darrin’s sweaty head as he sank to the floor and gathered Darrin onto his lap. Like one lost boy to another. Like a father to his son. Mission accomplished, Zaroyin. Only you’re not the right dad.

  “Just you wait,” Isaiah whispered. “The second you meet Jack Fillion, you’ll know he loves you. You’ll see it in his eyes and you’ll hear it in his voice.”

  Darrin’s chest hollowed with a shuddering sigh. “But you’ll still be here, won’tcha?”

  Isaiah couldn’t lie, so he gave the boy what he could, a pitiful answer at best. “If I’m not, I’ll always be just a phone call away.”

  ‘I’m not going to Boston,’ Tate sent psychically to Isaiah.

  ‘I can’t believe Jack Fillion would ever hurt a child like Bratton’s hurting these kids. The man I saw in the chapel isn’t made that way. Fillion wouldn’t have hurt Nugget, either. That had to have been Randall. I looked into Jack’s eyes, Tate. He’s suffering as much as his kid is.’

  Ever so slowly, Darrin lifted his teary face and faced Isaiah. The desolation in his eyes had been replaced by years of practiced, thoughtful consideration. He swallowed hard. His forehead wrinkled as if he was considering the truth in Isaiah’s promise. At last he sighed, no doubt like he had hundreds of times before, when forced to deal with reality. The back of one hand swiped over his eyes, and he said, “Well, okay then.”

  So not what Isaiah wanted to hear, a ten-year-old settling for less than what he deserved. Yeah. Reality sucked.

  ‘Shit,’ Isaiah hissed to his partner. ‘This kid needs his dad in his life, damn it. Soon.’

  Tate nodded once, his gaze on Kitty. ‘You don’t have to convince me. But do you think she’s telling the truth? Do you think she really saw Fillion? What if this is all just a story she made up?’

  Isaiah hadn’t thought that for a moment. ‘Kitty’s nothing like Candace.’

  ‘But she is her mother’s daughter,’ Tate pointed out, ‘and kids are loyal to a fault when it comes to their moms and dads. Abused kids will lie to defend the parent who slaps them around. You know that. Like it or not, Candace has been Kitty’s role model all her life.’

  How well Isaiah knew. ‘Hold that thought.’

  Kitty never knew she’d been psychically probed; Isaiah was just that quick. ‘She’s totally honest,’ he reported back to Tate once he’d sifted through the young girl’s memories. ‘Fillion came by the house the one time; that’s when she saw him. He had words with her mom. They argued and he left angry. Darrin wasn’t home. He was at Jimmy’s like Kitty said, and she hasn’t seen Fillion since.’

  ‘Good to know,’ Tate replied evenly, his dark gaze riveted on Kitty. ‘Tell me. Doesn’t she look like Garrett Randall? Just a little?’

  Isaiah rocked Darrin there on the floor of his kitchen while he also compared Kitty’s facial feature against the felon’s. Both had dark hair. Randall’s was wiry and coarse, frizzy, while Kitty’s was shimmering silk dripping off her shoulders. Their noses were different, but Randall’s had been broken a few times in his past life on the street. Other than their dark eyes and dark hair, there was no significant resemblance to link the two genetically. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. Her father’s Bob Bratton. That’s who she looks like.’

  ‘Poor kid,’ Tate hissed. ‘Never understood men who desert their kids. Wolves don’t even do that.’

  BANG! Roxy’s empty coffee cup hit the counter.

  Isaiah looked up and grinned at the storm clouds in her eyes. Her brows were raised. She tossed an evil eye to Tate and then to Isaiah. She didn’t appreciate being left out of their private conversation. Touché.

  Isaiah cleared his throat and said—out loud, “Anyone up for a good game of—”

  “Baseball?” Darrin piped up, the gleam in his sad gray eyes irresistible. He ran a quick hand over his face, the misery in his life forgotten. Right then, Isaiah would’ve done anything to make Darrin smile again, but baseball? Why couldn’t the boy love chess?

  He looked to Tate, who for some reason was grinning like Alice in Wonderland’s Cheshire cat. ‘You know much about baseball?’

  ‘Every red-blooded kid in America knows all there is to know about baseball. Well, except for you,’ Tate sent back with a smirk, the mischief in his eyes unmistakable. ‘Do you even own a ball, pretty boy? A real ball?’

  Isaiah let the dig slide. It wasn’t often Tate turned cocky. ‘I think one came home in the car with me after the last team picnic at Tucker’s. It’s around here somewhere.’

  “Get ready to eat dust,” Roxy declared, punching her curled right hand into her left palm. “I play for the Dust Devils, and we are going to… Eat. Your. Lunch.”

  “The MPD Saturday night women’s league? For real?” Tate snickered. “That’s you on second base?”

  Shifting her backside, Roxy stuck her chin at him. “I see you’ve heard of me.”

  Tate pushed his chair back until he towered over her. Isaiah couldn’t have been prouder. This was no contest. Tate made five, maybe six, of Roxy, but what a sight.

  “All I know is you play ball like a girl,” Tate rumbled.

  Roxy jumped to her feet, glaring up at him as if he’d insulted her. “Oh, yeah?”

  Isaiah didn’t get it. Why should that make her angry? She was a girl, umm, a woman.

  Tate cocked both hands to his hips and peered down at her from beneath thick, dark brows. “You heard me, slugger. G. I. R. L.”

  Her pointy index finger stabbed his breastbone. “Take it back, Bucko.”

  “You guys can’t be serious. You’re squabbling over a ballgame?” Isaiah had to ask.

  Darrin giggled. “Course, we’re serious, Agent Zaroyin. It’s baseball. Come on. Let’s play!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The impromptu morning softball game, which ended up being more toss and catch since Isaiah owned no bats or gloves, turned out to be precisely what Roxy needed to clear her mind. She and the guys had left their weapons on a wooden picnic table near the house in case Isaiah or Tate picked up any bad vibes in the vicinity. Hanging around with a couple psychics had its perks.

  Cocking her right hand behind her shoulder, she pitched a fastball into Tate’s massive, glove-like hands. The big guy was a good sport, though he’d better not bad-mouth the Devil Dogs again.

 
He caught her pitch easily and sent it underhand to Darrin, hard enough the boy wouldn’t feel babied, but gentle enough that Darrin snagged it out of the air, beaming like any ten-year-old kid who’d done good. Whirling, he called to Isaiah, “Go long!” before he threw a high one.

  With his eyes glued on the ball, Isaiah backpedaled to the far edge of his lawn, where it turned from landscaped grass into a stretch of pines. Roxy stuck her knuckles to her hips and watched. The guy was fast, long and lean, built like a racehorse. But he went too long and too deep into the trees.

  When the arced throw came up short, Tate yelled, “Scramble or you’ll miss it, Zaroyin! You can do it! Run!”

  Reversing his momentum, Isaiah charged the ball and plucked it out of midair before it hit the ground.

  “You’re out!” Kitty called like a referee.

  “Are you blind? You can’t strike out a catcher,” Darrin told her with authority.

  “He’s not a catcher. ’Sides who cares?” she taunted, shaking her head with attitude in the way of a know-it-all older sister. “If this was a real ballgame, it would’ve been strike one, right, Agent Higgins?”

  Both Tate’s hands came forward. “Don’t drag me into this. I’m just here to play ball.”

  Darrin turned his back on his sister, shaking his head. “Girls,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me?” Roxy teased. “What do you have against girls?”

  “Not all girls,” Darrin corrected, his eyes bright at being overhead. He aimed a thumb over his shoulder at the one in question. “Just sisters.”

  Kitty stuck her tongue out behind his back, while Tate yelled at Isaiah. “Whatcha waiting for, princess? Someone to bronze your first fly ball? Toss that rocket. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Isaiah sent a quick pitch back to Darrin, but said to Tate, “It wasn’t my first catch, wise guy.” Like Darrin, he’d tossed it extra high. The ball slowed as it reached its arc, but in that moment, it seemed as if time had been suspended. The cool spring air smelled extra sweet. The birdsong of some particularly happy sparrow filled her heart. Even the sun shone brighter, more forgiving.