"Until you began seeing Angela."
It was actually when he'd stopped seeing Angela that he'd also stopped seeing Dr. Gennaro. He'd gone in one last time and told her what had happened—how all their work had been for nothing, how he'd disappointed her and proven everyone right. She had tried to reason with him, but he hadn't been in a place where he could accept reason. All he'd known was that if he isolated himself, everyone else would be safe.
Jayne's delicate fingers rubbed in a soothing motion across his chest. "There's nothing wrong with seeing a psychologist. Your father abused you. He put you through some traumatic times. It would have been wrong if you hadn't seen someone."
In theory, he agreed with her. Getting them into counseling had been the smart thing to do, and it seemed to have worked with Aaron and Josh and to some extent with Rebecca. But it hadn't seemed smart at the time. Everyone in town had known, providing the kids who'd teased them mercilessly with one more piece of ammunition. That weekly hour, talking about the worst times in his life, had been torture. It had been proof that he was as flawed as his father, that the whispers and worries were on target; otherwise, why did the judge insist he go?
"It was something I had to do—I had no choice—but it's over," he said flatly. "I hated every moment of it, I'm not proud of it and I don't like thinking about it."
She cocked her head to one side. "You think you should have been strong enough to get through it without help?"
No, but with all the help the shrinks had provided, he should have been strong enough to get through it without hitting Angela. He shouldn't have been such a failure.
But the only response he gave her was a shrug.
"You were a child, Tyler, who experienced things that would have given any full-grown adult nightmares. Needing help to deal with it wasn't a sign of weakness. It just showed how normal you were. Look how well you've turned out, how you've succeeded in spite of what your father did."
Okay. This is the time. Take a breath and tell her you didn't succeed. Tell her you hit the woman you were practically living with.
And lose her.
He couldn't do it. God help him, he couldn't let her go just yet.
He was feeling pretty damn hopeless when Jayne spoke again, her voice drowsy. "What did she want—Dr. Gennaro? Did she come here to see you or was that just good luck for her?"
"She was just passing through and stopped to say hello to Rebecca."
"And she got to say hello to you, too."
"Yeah." She had asked how he'd been and whether he'd dealt with what had happened. She was a psychologist and even she didn't want to say the words. She had wanted to know about Jayne and how much she knew, and she'd encouraged him to tell her everything. Easy advice for the doc to give when she didn't have to live with the consequences.
Give her a chance to understand, Tyler, she'd said. If you love each other—
He'd stopped her there. He hadn't said anything about love. Whatever they felt didn't matter. All that mattered was that he would die before hurting either her or Lucy the way his father had hurt them.
Dr. Gennaro had been disappointed. She'd tried to reason with him, but he'd said goodbye and returned to the diner. Funny—five years had passed, and he still wasn't in a place where reason could overcome fear.
Jayne snuggled closer, her eyes drifting shut. "I'm sorry I was upset. Tell me what Angela looks like so it doesn't happen again."
He stroked through her hair, undoing what was left of the braid, sliding his fingers beneath the silky cool curtain. "I told you—I don't remember."
"Hair? Eyes?"
"Blond. Blue."
Her yawn crinkled her entire face. "Hair can be dyed. Even if I'd known, I probably would have gotten jealous anyway because—" another huge yawn "—I lo' … you." She was asleep before the last sounds of her voice faded.
She did not say I love you. Couldn't have. Shouldn't have. The last thing he wanted, the last thing he could bear… No. He'd misunderstood. She hadn't known what she was saying. She wouldn't remember when she woke up.
He wouldn't forget.
He settled her more comfortably against him, earning a soft sigh before her breathing resumed its slow, steady rhythm. He watched her a moment, then brushed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you, too," he whispered without sound.
It was the first time he'd ever said those words to a woman.
It would also be the last.
* * *
Visiting with Greg's parents had usually ranked somewhere between tedious and excruciating. Depending on their moods, Jayne had found herself trying to keep the conversation civil or refereeing verbal sparring matches. Regardless of their moods, she'd always gone away from the encounter with a headache.
Tyler's family was nothing like the Millers. Jayne had spent each of the past three Sundays with them, and they were starting to feel very much like her own family. They were nice people who worked hard, went to church, loved their families, their country and their God, though not necessarily in that order.
Though he'd been cheated of a decent father, Tyler couldn't ask for a better family.
A woman couldn't ask to marry into a better family.
Jayne rolled her eyes at that thought as she grabbed a lawn chair and carried it from the dessert table to the shade of an old oak. She'd just settled in when Tyler's mother approached carrying a tote bag and a chair of her own. "Mind if I join you?"
"Please do." Sipping her tea, Jayne glanced across the yard. The women were scattered in small groups, some watching babies and toddlers while they slept, others talking. Kids played everywhere—in the yard, around the barn, in the nearby woods—and all the younger men, including Tyler, had gone off to tinker with Dutch's ailing tractor while the older men talked about weather and crops. With a little change in clothing, the scene could have easily taken place in the fifties or even earlier. It was peaceful. Soothing.
Carrie removed a pair of half-glasses from the bag, along with a sandwich of fabric and batting, a needle and a thimble. The fabric was a quilt square in shades of peach, coral and green, the colors delicately hued, the pattern complex.
"That's beautiful," Jayne remarked.
Carrie's cheeks turned pink. "Thank you. I just started it. Do you quilt?"
Jayne shook her head. "I've written characters who do," she admitted with a grin, "so I've researched it, but I've never actually tried. It seems very complicated."
"Oh, no, not at all. Believe me, if I can do it, anyone can." Carrie took a few stitches before glancing at Jayne. "I could help you make your first one, if you'd like. If you'll be staying long enough."
There was a hint of a question in her last words. Would she be relieved to hear that Jayne wanted to never leave Sweetwater? There was only one way to find out. "I plan to stay forever if things work out."
"What things?" Carrie asked with another quick peek, as if she wasn't comfortable with straight-on looks.
"My career, mostly. I have to be able to make enough to support Lucy and me or find a job to supplement my income. Sweetwater doesn't seem to have a lot of job openings."
"No, but if you need something, you'll find it." Carrie did seem relieved. Was she worried about someone coming into her son's life, then leaving again?
Probably, because she didn't ask what, besides Jayne's career, had to work out. If Tyler broke her heart, she would have no choice but to move again. She couldn't live across the road from him, knowing that he didn't care enough to want her forever.
If that happened, maybe she would just move into town. As isolated as he kept himself, there would be little chance of running into him unless she wanted to.
But that wouldn't be fair to him. After all, her friends were his friends, his family.
Not that she had to be fair when a man broke her heart.
Which he hadn't even done yet. Things were good between them. The sex was great. They weren't arguing. They'd settled into a sweet, satisfying relationship. She was happy. H
e was happy.
And a little bit distant.
There. She'd said it—or at least thought it. Even though they'd made love the afternoon before, lazed in the hammock before Lucy came home and spent the night as if they'd shared a bed forever, even though they'd laughed over breakfast and come here to the farm just like a family, he'd been a little preoccupied. She'd caught a look in his eyes a time or two—withdrawn, regretful, sad. It had disappeared the instant he'd caught her looking, but it still troubled her.
Carrie quilted neat diamonds in a section of the block before laying it on her lap. "I'm guessing you know about my husband and me."
"Tyler told me."
Toying with the thimble, Carrie gazed off across the yard. "I knew raising kids in a home like that wasn't the best thing, but I thought it was okay. As long as he left them pretty much alone, it wouldn't hurt them. I didn't know until years later that he was hitting Tyler, too. He never told me. He lied to protect his daddy, just like I taught him, only I never imagined him lying to me."
Wishing for a quilt block to occupy her hands, Jayne gazed off, too, her focus on the cluster of men and boys around the tractor. Tyler was easy to pick out of the group. His blue jeans and T-shirt blended in with the others as surely as his dark hair gave him away.
"I didn't know how seeing things like they saw could affect kids," Carrie went on. "Josh—he doesn't have more than the faintest memory. He was only three when … Aaron was six, so he remembers more, but it doesn't bother him so much. Tyler, though … he kept the kids from the worst of it when he could. He looked out for them. He fed them, bathed them, dried their tears. He was more of a parent to them than either me or their daddy. He never got to be a kid himself, and that's my fault. I regret that more than anything else."
"I don't think he regrets it," Jayne remarked as Tyler slid his arm around Alex's shoulders. "It helped him to become what he is today—a strong, compassionate, kind man."
Carrie's smile was thin. "No matter how he denies it." After a moment, she picked up her quilting again. "You've been good for him."
"I like to think so," Jayne said, then laughed to take the smugness out of the words. "Lucy adores him."
"And you?"
I love you, she'd told him Saturday afternoon. Was that the reason for the distancing she'd seen in him? Or had she merely dreamed the words? The only way to know for sure was to ask him. Or to say them again. If he pulled away, she would know.
And regret.
Turning to Carrie, she quietly replied, "I adore him, too."
"Then it's unanimous." With a satisfied smile, Carrie returned to her quilting.
Jayne didn't ask what she meant by that. She knew Tyler cared for them. Hadn't he kissed her right in the middle of Sweetwater the day before? For a man as private as he was, that was an amazing gesture that meant the world to her.
But would he ever love her? Would he ever fully trust her?
Maybe. She was a hopeless romantic—one of the requirements for her job. She had to believe that maybe someday he would. She could wait. She wasn't going anywhere—not, at least, for seventeen months or so.
"Lucy's such a sweet girl," Carrie said as she snipped a thread, then rethreaded the needle. "I know how hard it is being a single mother. You should be proud."
Jayne's gaze sought out her daughter, walking carefully along the top of the board fence, one hand clutching Tyler's for balance. "I think Lucy could raise herself. She's easygoing, doesn't have a temper and doesn't pout very often. She's a good kid."
"Because she's got a good mother." Carrie held the tail of the thread against the needle, wrapped the thread around the needle a few times, then pulled it through the circle of thread, forming a perfect knot. "For so many years, being a mom was all I could think about—doing the best I could, making up for all I did wrong, for all their daddy did, trying to raise good, happy, healthy kids. I loved it, but it was a job. Now that the kids are all grown and I'm getting older, I find myself wanting to be a grandma. Being a mom is work. Being a grandma is fun. Being a grandma to a little doll like Lucy…" Carrie shook her head with an indulgent smile.
Before Jayne could do more than wonder if she'd just been given Carrie's seal of approval, pounding footsteps interrupted. Lucy was on the ground now, and she and Tyler were racing toward them. She skidded to a stop between the two chairs, her face flushed, her hair on end and her grin brighter than the sun.
"You won," Carrie said.
"Yup. But only 'cause he let me. He had to 'cause he's big and I'm little. What're you making?"
"A quilt."
"It's pretty. Charley has a quilt with horses on it."
"I know. I made it for her. Would you like me to make you one when I'm finished with this?"
Lucy's eyes widened. "Would you? In my favorite colors? With horses?"
"Sure. What are your favorite colors?"
A choked-back snort drew Jayne's attention to Tyler. He knew what Lucy was going to say as surely as she did. She rolled her gaze as her daughter boldly replied, "Orange and black."
To her credit, Carrie didn't so much as blink. "Okay. We'll add some shades of brown and white, and it'll be beautiful."
As Lucy beamed with pleasure, Jayne looked slowly around the group. Tyler really couldn't have asked for a better family.
Neither could Lucy.
And neither could she.
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^
By six o'clock almost everyone had left the farm. Tyler, Jayne and Lucy stayed to help clean up—carrying dishes and chairs into the house, gathering trash, folding tables and returning them to the small shed out back. It was easy work that Tyler didn't mind at all. He liked the farm when it was quiet, when the loudest sound was the chickens clucking as they scratched in the dirt around their coop.
He carried two wood chairs through the kitchen and slid them into place at the dining table, then lifted his mother's quilt bag off one. She was in the kitchen, dividing up leftovers to send some home with him. The portions were three times what she normally gave him. "Where do you want your quilt stuff?"
"Just leave it there on the counter."
He set the bag down, then leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Can you do an orange-and-black quilt for Lucy that won't look like Halloween?"
Carrie's smile was sweet and just a little bit sly. "I didn't say how much orange and black I would put in it. It'll be fine."
He nodded toward the bag. "Who is this one for?"
"Oh … I haven't really … where is that lid? I thought I put it right here, but…"
It wasn't like his mother to get flustered over nothing or to change the subject to avoid answering a question. As she made a show of searching for a lid to the bowl she'd just filled with fruit salad, Tyler suspiciously pulled the square from the bag and studied it. It was one twelve-inch square, a fraction of the whole, but he didn't need anything more to recognize the pattern—pieced circles that overlapped to form interlocking rings.
As in wedding rings.
His gut knotted. "Mom—"
She looked guilty for a moment or two, then shook it off. "A mother likes to be prepared."
"How many double wedding ring quilts have you already made trying to be prepared?"
"Two for Rebecca and one for you." Carrie shrugged as if it didn't matter that five times she'd thought one of her children was going to get married and five times she'd been disappointed. Did she even suspect that number six was coming up fast? "Someone is always getting married. They make wonderful gifts."
Then give it to someone else. Marriage wasn't in his future—not with Jayne, not with anyone—and he couldn't even tell Carrie why. She would be so disappointed and she would blame herself for staying with Del all those years. She'd carried too much blame for too long. He wouldn't add to it.
"Go ahead and make the quilt," he said quietly. "Just don't get your hopes up." Don't hope that it could be a wedding gift for him and Jayne. That it wo
uld become a Lewis family heirloom. That Jayne would become family.
Carrie packed the plastic containers and foil-wrapped packages in a grocery bag, then came to stand in front of him. "I know you never saw anything in my marriage to recommend it, but you need a family of your own, Tyler, and Jayne and Lucy need to be that family. You love them and they love you and that's all that really matters. Everything else is just details."
She said it as if the details weren't important. But the difference was in the details, Daniel had taught him. And according to Jayne, It's all in the details.
He slid his arm around her and hugged her close. "Make the quilt, Mom, and give it to her. Just don't hope…"
She squeezed him tightly for a moment, then tilted her head back to look at him. "I always hope, Tyler. Without it, what's the point of living?"
He held her a moment longer, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'd better get going."
They walked out front, where Jayne was talking with his grandparents. Lucy was braced on one hip, her eyes closed, her mouth open in a soft snore. Carrie smoothed a strand of damp hair back from Lucy's face. "She's like that bunny on the TV commercials. She just keeps going and going."
"And when she finally stops, she's dead to the world," Jayne replied.
"Want me to take her?" Tyler offered, and Jayne gratefully handed her over, taking the paper bag in trade.
"Thank you for having us again," Jayne said to his mother and grandparents. "It was wonderful."
"Thank you for coming." Carrie stepped forward and, to Tyler's surprise, drew Jayne into a hug. She was very demonstrative with the family but not at all outside it. You need a family of your own, she'd said, and she was treating Jayne and Lucy like that family.
That made one more person he'd be hurting before too long. But there were degrees of pain. Some hurts could be home a lot easier than others.
After saying goodbye, he carried Lucy out to his truck parked a few hundred yards down the road. Her arms wrapped around the paper bag, Jayne walked at his side, wearing a satisfied smile. He half expected one of those big, lazy, contented sighs from her any moment now.
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