by Candis Terry
Humiliation humbled a person even if that person already considered themselves modest. It wasn’t just the divorce that shamed her. It was that she hadn’t trusted her instincts. Hadn’t listened deeply enough to her heart. The day Jackson left for Afghanistan, she’d run like a rabbit. She regretted ever taking that job in the Houston Stallions’ administrative offices. She regretted allowing herself to get tangled up with someone who’d obviously sensed her weakness or desperation and played her for a fool. Someone who’d kept his emotions—if he had any—locked up tight. She’d left Sweet to find love. To make a familial connection. To start a family of her own.
She’d walked away from the experience shaken, lost, childless, and lonelier than she’d ever been before she left Sweet.
While the sound system played a Muzak version of Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is,” she scanned the shelves for her favorite brand of flavored water before she remembered the T&G didn’t offer a wide variety. She should have known that having worked in the local grocery-store office for the two years prior to moving to Houston.
Mark had forbidden her to shop anywhere but Whole Foods. He’d completely banned her from Walmart—which was a sin to anyone who’d been raised to watch their pennies. Money had never been an issue for him. Not even when he’d been a kid. He’d never had to get out and figure how the other ninety percent of the nation lived. Never had to perfect the Fryolater at McDonald’s. Never had to bag feminine products at the CVS. His opulent tastes ran from Persian rugs to Salvador Dali originals. Kobe beef to Italian white truffles. He’d even been particular about his brand of toilet paper, for God’s sake.
Toilet paper.
No matter how much she tried to excuse that, there was just something freakish about the war between single sheet and two-ply.
She’d always had simple tastes—a real beer-and-hot-dog kind of girl. The first time he’d handed her a cracker piled high with caviar, she’d about died. She’d barely managed to get the slimy stuff down her throat. She didn’t even want to think about the whole-raw-oyster incident.
Over time, she’d learned to swallow the delicacies without dashing to the bathroom in full gag mode. But no matter how many times she’d been told it was an acquired taste she’d learn to love, she’d never moved beyond the yuck phase.
Should have been her first clue she didn’t fit.
Had she been paying attention.
She grabbed several bottles of lemonade-flavored water, then pushed her wobbly cart farther down the aisle. In front of a P.M.S. survival kit display of Cocoa Krispies, Cool Ranch Doritos, and Cheez Whiz, she crashed head-on into another cart. Apology danced on her tongue as her gaze jerked upward.
“Abby?” The woman tilted her big blond Texas-sized hairdo, dipped her head to peer below the brim of Abby’s ball cap, and smiled. “Sugarplum, what are y’all doing back here in Sweet?”
Great.
If Jackson Wilder had been number one on her “Be sure to avoid” list, his mother Jana was number two.
Not that Abby hadn’t always adored the woman. She had. Still did. She’d always wished she could have been lucky enough to have been born into the Wilder family and had a mother like Jana. At one time, she’d wanted to be a part of that family more than she’d wanted anything. But those hopes and dreams had turned into a self-imposed nightmare.
Being Jackson Wilder’s best friend had been one thing.
Falling in love with him had been no-no numero uno.
A chill from the nearby dairy cooler settled in her spine while her brain scrambled in a zillion directions for a response. One that wouldn’t be too curt. One that wouldn’t be too leading. One that would be just right. Like maybe a hint of the truth without all the “I’m searching for who I am” part.
“My parents have decided to sell their home,” she said, “and they asked me to come put it up for sale. My sister Annie just found out she’s going to have a baby, and—”
“Oh, that’s wonderful news.” Jana edged her cart a little closer. “Last I heard she and her husband had moved to Washington.”
“They’re not married, but yes, they live in Seattle.” And as far as Abby could tell, her little sister should run far away from her loser musician boyfriend.
“I hear Seattle is beautiful. I’ve never been but a friend of mine recently moved here from there.” Jackson’s mother gave her a disarming smile. One that said her thoughts were not connected to her lips, and whatever she was saying was a pure diversion from what she really had going on in her mind. “I’m sorry for interrupting. You were saying?”
“Just that someone needed to clean up my parents’ house and put it on the market.”
“So you’ll be staying here in Sweet?”
“Temporarily. Then I’ll go . . .” Where exactly? She didn’t have a home to go back to. Before Mark had issued her walking papers, he’d gone out and purchased a high-rise condo for her—his former star quarterback Dean Silverthorne’s condo to be exact. When the Pro Bowler injured his shoulder, he decided to hang up his wristband, get married, and start a family. Perfect timing for Mark to get a good deal on a posh piece of property.
As part of their divorce settlement, he’d put the condo in her name only—a going-away present so to speak. Abby called it what it was. A bribe. She’d since sold it to the CEO of a Houston-based Internet company at a tasty profit from what Mark had paid for it.
“Wherever the wind takes me,” she said in an unbelievably chipper voice for someone whose heart was about to hammer out of her chest.
“Well, doesn’t that sound interesting.” Jana’s smile quivered at the corners as she glanced down into Abby’s cart. “Looks like you’re stocking up on water, carrots, and . . . celery. All you need now is a nice chunk of roast. How about you drop by on your way home, and I’ll pull one from the freezer for you. You know you can’t get meat here at the store equal to what we raise on the ranch.”
Abby had been restrained from eating comfort food for so long, she’d forgotten what real down-home cooking tasted like. Her stomach grumbled. “I wouldn’t want to bother you.”
“Nonsense.” Jana waved her hand. “Actually . . . now that I think of it, there’s a better selection of cuts over at Reno’s place. He has a big chest freezer out in the barn. How about you drop by there on your way home and grab a few packs?”
“Does he still live out on Rebel Creek Road?”
“He does. Built a space above the barn a couple years back. Just take the stairs up and go on in. Make yourself at home and take as much beef as you want. Lord knows we’ve got plenty. And you know I’ve always thought of you as family.”
The comment struck a sour note in the center of Abby’s chest. Jana had never been one to lay on the guilt. Abby didn’t believe she meant to do so now. But being thought of as a member of the family and being a member of the family were two different things. And as much as she’d run out on Jackson, she’d done the same with the rest of his family. So, at the moment, it was easier to think about rib roast, brisket, or a thick juicy tenderloin than how many people she might have hurt with her selfishness.
“That sounds wonderful. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“Don’t mind at all.”
“I’ll make sure to stop in and thank Reno. Are he and Jared still roommates?” Abby asked, regarding the two oldest Wilder sons.
“Oh. No, sugarplum.” The light in Jana’s bright blue eyes dimmed. “Jared was killed fighting in Afghanistan.”
“What?” The air was sucked from Abby’s lungs.
“And Joe . . . well, he died the following year.”
Abby’s heart missed several beats. Her stomach rolled. Her ears buzzed. And her entire body trembled. She backed up and almost nailed the stack of cereal boxes on the end cap display.
Why hadn’t anyone told her?
And exactly who would that have been? she chided herself. She’d cut all ties with anyone in Sweet.
“I’m so . . .”
Abby bit her lip. Tried to catch her breath. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry just sounds pathetically lame.”
“It’s not.” Jana reached out, took her hand, and gave it a reassuring pat. “And I appreciate it. I know how much you always loved Joe. And Jared was just like a brother to you.”
Abby nodded, feeling foolish that the woman who’d lost so much was giving her comfort. It should be the other way around. “If I’d known, I would have been there. I swear I would have.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment.” With another reassuring pat, Jana took control of her grocery cart. Wrapped her fingers around the steel handle. “You make sure you stop by for that beef. Then you come by and see me first chance you get. We can have ourselves a little chat. I’ll make us some cobbler.”
“I’d . . . really like that.”
While Abby tried to recover from the devastating news, Jana wheeled away and turned down the canned-vegetable aisle. It took Abby several deep breaths to quiet her pounding heart and clear the moisture from her eyes.
Joe Wilder had been a handsome, bigger-than-life individual who spent most of his time teaching his five sons how to ranch and be good men. The rest of the time he focused on his devoted wife or helping out the community. Everyone knew Joe Wilder, and Joe Wilder knew everyone. And when Abby had needed fatherly advice, she often sought him out instead of the man under whose roof she lived.
Jared had been blessed with his daddy’s good looks, kind eyes, and thoughtful smile. He’d been the troop leader of the band of rowdy brothers. He’d been the calm in the storm. The voice of reason.
She couldn’t believe both he and Joe were gone.
Or that Jackson hadn’t mentioned it.
On a shaky exhale, she pushed her cart with the wonky wheel toward the wine aisle. She might only find a bottle of Boone’s Farm on the shelf, but damn if she couldn’t use a drink.
An hour, six bags of groceries, and a reasonable diversion of gossip at the checkout counter later, Abby aimed her Mercedes toward Wilder Ranch. After squeezing tomatoes and poking at cantaloupes for freshness, she’d debated whether to take Jana up on her offer. The knowledge that two people whom she’d considered an important part of her younger life had died weighed heavy in her heart. She battled with the truth—that she’d walked away from them. They’d never pushed her away. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Jackson had extended that long arm, but the decision to walk away from everyone had been all her own.
With the horrible news still barely registering, she turned her Mercedes down Rebel Creek Road and cruised beneath the tunnel of live oaks that led to Reno’s place. A long look over this portion of the family ranch brought back so many happy memories of the times she’d spent with the wild Wilder boys and the hours they’d all spent playing make-believe about what they wanted to be when they grew up.
Jared, the oldest and customary peacemaker, had always wanted to be a sheriff or a Secret Service guy. Reno and Jesse had wanted to be cowboys. Jackson had always wanted to be a fireman. And Jake, the baby, had wanted to be Batman. Yet Abby hadn’t been surprised when after 9-11, they’d all joined the Marines.
Patriotic blood ran through their veins. But as Jackson had told her the day he went off to boot camp, he hadn’t joined solely based on an honor-bound duty. He’d felt a need to do something for all the people lost that day because they were someone’s mother, father, sister, brother, or child. And because someone out there needed to care enough to make a difference.
The Wilder boys and many more young men from Sweet had enlisted. They were all heroes. Some gave all. All gave some. And that just made her heart ache all the more. Because besides chairing a few Junior League committees, what had she done with her life in the past few years?
Certainly nothing so honorable.
Alongside the big wooden barn at Reno’s place she parked the car and stepped out into the hot afternoon sun. Though she was only going into an empty barn to grab some packages of beef, as a habit she smoothed her hands down her shirt and checked her hair in the window’s reflection. Appearances had been everything to her ex.
Everything and the only thing.
As she climbed the stairs to the loft, she realized the absurdity of her high heels. Everyone in Sweet wore boots, tennis shoes, or flip-flops if they were down at the lake. So who was she trying to impress with her Tory Burch sandals? The busy spider in the corner? The pigeon cooing in the rafters? The mouse diving into the bale of hay?
She reached down and yanked them off. In an affront to the rules she’d once lived under, she tossed them over the handrail. They hit the ground with a thunk and a puff of dirt.
The pine boards beneath her feet were rough and cool. She flexed her toes, smiled, and climbed the remaining steps to the HOWDY doormat. At the top, she reached for the handle and the door swung open . . . into a roomy apartment.
Not a storage room.
Not a vacant loft.
Granite countertops highlighted the open kitchen and island bar. Exposed ceiling beams gave the place a country atmosphere without benefit of horseshoe lamps or a black velvet John Wayne painting.
In the center of the hardwood floor, amid tasteful leather furniture and décor, sat Jackson . . . with pink barrettes in his short hair, gobs of bright blue eye shadow on his eyes, and peppermint pink blush on his cheeks. Never mind the cherry red shine on his lips, which were open in surprise.
“Daddy pweety.” The little girl at his side had golden curls and . . . Jackson’s deep blue eyes. The big grin on her little cherub face said she was obviously proud of her handiwork.
Abby laughed before reality crashed the party.
Jackson had a child.
A breath-stealing ache burrowed deep into her heart.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in a deep masculine voice that was in direct conflict to the clownish makeup on his face. He did not jump up and try to wipe off the mess; he merely sat there while the cherub went about rearranging the sparkly Disney princess barrettes in his hair.
“I . . . uh . . .” All thought flew from Abby’s head as she watched those tiny fingers groom. “What?”
“What are you doing here?” he repeated in a tone that leaned more toward a demand.
“The . . . um . . . freezer.” Abby’s heart tumbled as the cherub’s chubby hands cupped Jackson’s face, and she kissed his cheek. “Your mother. A roast.”
Jackson looked at her as if she’d bet all her marbles in a game and lost. Then, as if he could read the questions scrambled up inside something that might resemble her brain, he said, “This is my daughter, Isabella. We call her Izzy.” He lifted one baby hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her tiny fingers. “Say hello to Abby, sweetheart.”
Adorable blue eyes lifted and a smile parted Kewpie-doll lips. “Hi.”
Like she’d been hit with a blowtorch, Abby’s heart melted into a pile of goo. “Hi.”
Izzy held out her little hand. Opened and closed it in a come here gesture. “Come pway.”
“Oh.” Surprised by the request, Abby was dumbstruck. “I don’t think . . . I’m not . . .”
“Abby can’t stay and play, baby girl.” Jackson looked into his daughter’s face. “She has better things to do.”
When he looked up, Abby couldn’t tell if she saw challenge in his eyes or accusation. The moment Izzy’s mouth pulled into a sad little pout, Abby forgot all about the groceries in the backseat of her car, melting in the hot sun.
“Are you kidding?” She closed the door behind her and walked into the room. “I’ve always got time to play.”
When Abby sat down on the floor across from him and crossed her legs, Jackson noticed she was barefoot. That was more like the Abby he knew. Not the Barbie doll who’d opened her parents’ door just a few hours ago.
At the moment, she looked a little frazzled. Her stick-straight hair had developed a little bend to it as though those amazing curls had grown weary of being forced into submission. Her m
akeup looked a little the worse for the wear. And her red eyes revealed a hint of recently shed tears that anyone who didn’t know her well might have missed.
He didn’t.
So what—or who—had made her cry?
Not that it was any of his business.
Izzy got up and toddled over to the toy box and the little makeup kit he’d made the mistake of buying her. At the time, he hadn’t noticed the recommended age on the plastic box had said 5+ years. Which meant his baby girl had little to no control over exactly how much blue stuff she shoveled onto his eyes. Yeah, he probably looked like a total ass sitting there with glops of goo all over his face and his hair sticking up all over his head with colored plastic poking out at all angles. He didn’t care.
Since Izzy had come into his life, he’d learned that little girls played completely different than little boys. He’d learned to lift the tone of his voice when they played dolls, and to sing quietly while My Little Pony was trying to nap. He’d learned to sit patiently when Izzy wanted to use him as a guinea pig for Play-Doh cupcakes, or, as she had today, her beauty makeover victim. In the world of a three-year-old, playtime often equaled disaster.
But the rewards of being a daddy to a three-year-old girl?
Priceless.
He’d learned that cuddling took on an entirely different meaning when it came to naps and a little girl who fought sleep until he’d gently stroke her forehead, and she’d finally drift off. And when she’d wrap her little arms around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder? Yeah. Heaven.
When he and Fiona had divorced, he’d lost the right to tuck his own child into bed every night. To give her tickles and hugs, then watch her float away to dreamland. And that had killed him. Pounded home the reminder of the mistakes he’d made. The regret he’d live with forever. Though he and Fiona shared custody he didn’t get to spend nearly as much time with his daughter as he wanted.
Thus she ruled his world.
