"It's not the same person."
"I knew you'd say that. I told myself the same thing. But Katherine has Margaret's hope chest. She has the quilt. She has letters Margaret wrote.”
"Maybe she got them from somewhere else.”
"You wouldn't have any doubts if you'd seen Katherine." Claire's voice broke and her eyes filled with moisture. She didn't want to cry, not until she'd gotten it all out, not until she'd made him tell her the truth.
"Maybe you just want to see Margaret in this woman. Maybe it's in your imagination."
Claire shook her head in bewilderment. "Why are you still lying to me? Katherine identified the woman in my photograph as being her mother, and her mother died in California, Harry. Her mother is buried in a cemetery near Los Angeles. So tell me, if Katherine Whitfield's mother is our daughter, Margaret, tell me how Margaret could be buried in the Paradise Valley Cemetery five years before her death?"
"I had to do something," he said grimly. "You wouldn't let go of her, and she wasn't ever coming back."
"So you paid Walter Simmons to write up a phony report and fly an empty coffin back from Oregon. My God! I can't believe you could be so devious. We had a funeral, Harry. The whole town came. We all grieved, every one of us. And you pretended to grieve with us. How could you do that? How could you look at yourself in the mirror?"
"Margaret wasn't coming back, Claire. The only way you were ever going to stop suffering was by acknowledging that she was gone. Since we couldn't find her, I figured she might as well be dead."
Claire couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Might as well be dead? Do you know how much worse it was to think that my baby was dead?" Her voice rose to a shrill piercing tone. "Do you know how I grieved for her, how I wished she could have had a few more minutes on this earth? It was fifty times worse imagining her dead than imagining her somewhere else. You not only killed her, you almost killed me."
Harry's eyes filled with pain. He reached out a hand for her but let it drop to his side when she refused to take it.
"I did keep looking off and on even after..." Harry's voice drifted away. "As recently as the last two months I've had Walter looking for Margaret, just to see if there was any slim hope."
"And what were you going to tell me if you found her?"
"I figured seeing her again would make up for what I did. I'm sorry if I made your pain worse. I thought it was the right thing to do."
"It's not enough to say that you're sorry. It's not enough. Damn you!" She paced around the room, restless and reckless and wanting to break something. She saw their wedding photo sitting on the dresser, and couldn't stop herself from picking it up and throwing it against the wall. The glass shattered as it fell to the ground. But it wasn't enough to break just her picture. So she reached for the vase filled with water and flowers and sent it hurtling across the room. She moved on to the other dresser and the bedside tables, sweeping off the lamps and the knickknacks and all the things that filled her life. And when she was done, she collapsed on the bed. "I hate you, Harry. Why did you do this? Why?"
"I wanted to stop the pain."
"Who is Katherine's father?" Claire asked abruptly.
"I don't know."
"More lies? Tell me now or risk losing what little we have left."
Chapter Seventeen
Mary Jo knew it was both cowardly and undignified to search through J.T's things when he wasn't home. But she didn't have any other choice. She had to know for sure if J.T. was Katherine Whitfield's father. If he was, he had to have fathered Katherine in the weeks before their wedding, which meant he was sleeping with someone else at the same time he was vowing to love her forever.
Over the years she'd gotten used to the idea that he might be cheating on her, especially since he hadn't made love to her in a long time. It wasn't difficult to jump to the conclusion that his needs were being met elsewhere. But the thought of those needs being met in the midst of their courtship was more difficult to swallow, and the thought of J.T. having a child, when he obviously couldn't father one with her, made her feel only that much worse about her infertility.
The doctors had never specifically pointed her out as the culprit. Somehow it was the two of them together that just didn't work. But if J.T. had a daughter, then it was obviously her own failure as a woman that had prevented them from conceiving a child.
As she paused in the doorway to J.T.'s private sanctum, his study -- once her father's study -- she considered her options one last time. She'd always respected J.T.'s privacy. Perhaps she was stupid, but she'd never opened his mail and she'd been content to let him handle the checkbook and the bank accounts on his own. Her mother had always left the business to her father. It was the way Mary Jo had been raised, and she'd never thought to change.
But she knew that their business was failing. She had J.T.'s behavior as proof, not to mention the rumors swirling around the horse circles that their farm was on the decline. It broke her heart to think of the ranch leaving the family, but if J.T. was running it into the ground, then she might have to step in and do something with her 51 percent share of the business.
When she'd made her threat to J.T. about selling out to Zach Tyler, it had been just an impulsive threat. Now she wondered if she might actually have to do it. If Katherine Whitfield turned out to be J.T.'s daughter, that would place her in line to eventually inherit the farm, and Mary Jo couldn't stand by and let that happen. She'd rather Zach Tyler had it than some bastard child of her husband.
It was ironic that her father had wanted her to marry J.T. because he didn't believe a woman could run the ranch. She wondered what her father would think if he could see the results of his matchmaking.
If she sold her half to Zach, J.T. would be forced out. And Zach could save the ranch the way he'd saved Stanton Farms when Harry had had his heart attack. She'd stood by and let things roll for far too long. There was no one else who could save the farm but her and maybe Zach.
Mary Jo walked into the study and picked up the photograph of her father that still sat proudly on the corner of the desk. J.T. had once told her he'd never admired a man more than he'd admired her father.
But J.T. was letting her father down. His drinking, his womanizing, his gambling, had gotten out of control. She had to put a stop to things. She just needed some proof, something to hold up to J.T. to refute his lies.
Her husband was a pack rat. He'd always saved everything, every scrap of paper, every receipt, every birthday card. She just hoped his tendencies would help her discover whether or not he'd had an affair -- a love child. She glanced away from the large glass-covered mahogany desk to the closet door that led into a small room filled with filing cabinets. If he were hiding a secret, it would probably be in there. She walked into the closet and grimly opened the drawer of the first filing cabinet. Most of the business records were in the farm office, so these were J.T.'s personal files.
Everything seemed in order, surprisingly in order. Until she hit the credit card files. Sitting down on the floor, she spread the bills from the last year in front of her. Flowers, lingerie, hotel rooms -- there were charges from places she'd never been, shops she didn't know existed, many of them near racetracks across the country. Each charge made her blood boil and her resolve grow stronger.
Ruthlessly she pushed the bills back into the folder and moved down to the next drawer. She wasn't interested in the past year. She needed to go further back.
An hour later she was left with the shoeboxes lining the top shelf. She pulled down two, sneezing at the flurry of dust along the lids. J.T. must not have looked at these boxes in a while. She took them down to the floor and opened the first one. Her eyes widened in surprise at the love letters she'd written to J.T. years ago. She couldn't believe he'd saved them.
She stopped to read a few lines here and there, not realizing she was crying until her tears smeared the ink on the page. She'd been so young, so foolish, and so desperate to have a man in her life. She'd thrown her
self at J.T. as if he were the last man on earth. As the letters became too painful to read, she set them aside. She didn't want to be reminded that she had once loved her husband.
Shoving the lid back on the first box, she reached for the second one. As she opened it, a lavender scent drifted into the room. The scent reminded her of Margaret. She hadn't thought about her in years, but now it almost felt as if they were in the same room. She took out an envelope. Inside was a single photograph, a gloriously beautiful color shot of Margaret Stanton lying on a couch completely naked.
Mary Jo's jaw dropped open as she saw Margaret in all her beauty, a sexy, inviting smile on her lips, a beckoning tilt to her head. She tried to breathe, but found it difficult to catch her breath. J.T. and Margaret? She'd thought they were just friends...
"Mary Jo?"
She heard her name being called, but she couldn't respond. She couldn't look anywhere but at the picture in her hands.
"What are you doing?" he thundered a moment later.
Mary Jo looked up at J.T. He stood in the doorway, rage on his blustery red face, fear in his eyes.
"You were in love with Margaret," she said in confusion.
"Those are my private things. You have no business looking at them."
"Why didn't you tell me?" She searched his face for some clue, but J.T., the man she'd lived with for twenty-seven years, now seemed like a complete stranger.
"There was nothing to tell."
"Obviously there was." She held up the photograph in her hand.
"I meant to give it back to Margaret after we got married, but she disappeared. I'd forgotten I even had it.”
"Really? How convenient."
He seemed taken aback by the harsh tone of her voice. "What do you want me to say? I married you, didn't I? Doesn't that prove something?"
"It proves you wanted my daddy's ranch. Did you take this photo of Margaret? Were you sleeping with her at the same time you were sleeping with me?" Her voice rose with her anger. "Were you whispering in her ear while I was planning our wedding?"
"You're getting hysterical."
She could hear the hysteria in her voice, but she didn't care. "How many other women have there been? Or do you even know? I found all receipts for the flowers, the hotel rooms. You've spent more money on your sex life than--”
"Than we spent on your infertility?" he interrupted.
"My infertility?" she echoed, stunned by his comment. She could barely think, she was so angry. "What does that mean?"
"Look, forget it--”
"Oh, no, we're not forgetting anything. When you say my infertility, does that mean you have proof that you can father a child?" She rose to her feet. "Tell me that Katherine Whitfield is not your daughter. Tell me again that you never cheated on me before we were married. Let me finally hear the truth. You owe me that at the very least."
J.T. turned and walked out of the closet.
"Damn you, answer me," she screamed, running after him. She caught up to him in the hallway. He staggered, clutching his heart, as he gave her a panicked look. A terrible fear raced through her body. "Oh, my God! What's happening?"
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Then his eyes went wide and stark as he collapsed on to a nearby chair. "Need help," he gasped. "Heart attack. Call."
She grabbed the phone off the desk and punched in 9-1-1. The dispatcher assured her help was on the way. "They're coming," she said, moving to his side.
His eyes began to close.
"No," she shrieked. "You have to stay awake. You have to hang on. J.T., please."
But J.T. couldn't hear her or couldn't respond. He was no longer conscious. She could only pray to God that he wasn't dead.
* * *
As Katherine drove toward Stanton Farms late Thursday afternoon, she looked at the passing scenery with a new eye. How many times had her mother driven down this road? Had Margaret -- she could barely think of her mother by that name -- had Margaret skipped along the white fences? Had she stopped to climb, to sit on the top plank of the fence and watch the horses playing in the sunshine as they were doing now? Had Margaret ridden into the wind, her hair streaming behind her? Had she been happy in Paradise or only biding time until she could leave?
The questions turned over and over in Katherine's mind. She couldn't correlate the woman who'd raised her with this Margaret Stanton, this woman who'd sewn a memory quilt and ridden horses and lived on a farm and finally run away when she'd become pregnant. It all seemed so reckless, so impulsive, so foolish -- all the emotions Katherine had tried to bury within herself. Because recklessness, impulsiveness, foolishness, had not been encouraged in the Whitfield home. But when it had just been her and her mother... she could barely remember those days, but what she did remember was the laughter. Her mother had smiled all the time. And she'd been impulsive, changing jobs every other year. Now she wondered if those job changes had been her mother's way of trying to stay out of sight. But why make such an effort to lead a secret life? It wasn't as if Margaret was running from the law.
Who was Margaret Stanton? Who was Evelyn Whitfield?
And most important -- who was she? Knowing that her mother had lived under an assumed name had shaken the foundation of her own life. She'd been restless for a while, but now she was questioning her choices even more. Was she meant to work as an investment banker, to live in a condo, to grow flowers on her roof, to follow the rules and make lists and never run the yellow light, never cross in the middle of the street, and never pull the damn tag off the pillowcase? Or was it time to really be herself, to stop living up to anyone else's expectations -- exactly as her mother had done when she'd taken her pregnant self and hightailed it out of Paradise?
As the sign for Stanton Farms came into view, her heart sped up, but she didn't take the turn into the barns. She knew where she had to go -- the garden. Parking along the side of the road, she climbed the hill and walked through the iron gates, stopping for a second to inhale the sweet scent of lavender. Then she sat down on the cement bench and tried to imagine her mother as a young girl laughing and playing in her secret garden. But she couldn't grasp the memory, for it wasn't hers to take. She'd known her mother only as a mother. The young Margaret Stanton belonged to Claire. The woman who'd left Paradise and made a home for herself and her baby in a small apartment in California wasn't Margaret Stanton; she was Evelyn Jones.
She got up from the bench and squatted down by the lavender plant she'd uncovered a few days earlier. It was already beginning to bloom, the first survivor of the chaos that surrounded it. Her fingers automatically dug into the dark earth. She tugged at the weeds, one after the other, until the sun went down, the air grew cool, and her back ached with exertion. Finally, when she could do no more, she walked out of the garden and down the hill. She got into the car she'd borrowed from the Inn again and headed down the road, pulling into the parking lot by the barns.
After rinsing her hands under a nearby hose, she asked for Zach. One of the men pointed to a small house in the distance. It was late and if she had any sense, she would have left him alone, but her feet seemed to have a mind of their own, and within minutes she was knocking on his door.
Zach opened the door and stared at her in surprise. He was barefoot, wearing blue jeans and an unbuttoned shirt that hung loosely around his chest. His hair was wet, his skin glistening from a recent shower. He looked good, so good she felt a need arise from deep down in her soul. This man, this dark, moody, unpredictable man, could make her crazy with one look.
"Katherine?"
She gazed into his dark eyes and saw the wariness, the uncertainty... the desire. There was an intimacy to his glance, a shared memory, a connection that couldn't be denied.
"You shouldn't be here," he said half-heartedly.
"I know. Can I come in anyway?"
Zach hesitated, then stepped back so she could enter the house.
The living room was small, only the bare essentials, a couch, a couple of chairs,
a television set. There wasn't one homey touch, no flowers, no knickknacks, no pictures on the wall. It looked like a room that belonged to a person who didn't want to get too settled in.
"What's wrong?" Zach asked. "Has my father been bothering you again?"
She shook her head. She didn't know how to tell him, where to begin.
"You found your father, didn't you?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No, strangely enough I found my mother instead.”
He raised an eyebrow. "I don't get it."
"My mother's name was not Evelyn Jones. And her past is nothing like what she told me. She lied to me, Zach, every day of her life."
Zach sighed. "I knew this wasn't going to end well."
"Yes, you were right, and I was wrong... really wrong."
"So what now?"
"I don't know." She shook her head. "I don't even really know why I came here."
"You know, Katherine." His gaze traveled across her face from her eyes to her lips to her breasts, and she felt an answering jolt of desire. "You want to forget what you learned today." He took a step closer to her. "You want to lose yourself in someone's arms."
She swallowed hard, her nerves sharpening at the predatory gleam in his eyes.
"You want to release some of the tension," Zach continued. "You want to let your hair down." He reached for the clip in her hair and pulled it out, letting her hair tumble down around her shoulders.
"Give that back," she ordered.
He tossed it over one shoulder, daring her to go for it.
"You want to act like someone else, not the woman you're supposed to be, but the woman you want to be. In fact, I think..." His voice trailed away, leaving her hanging, edgy, wanting more.
"You think what?" she couldn't help asking.
"I think you want to scream." He smiled, his mouth sexy and full, his lips showing a trace of wetness where he'd run his tongue over them. Katherine wanted to put her tongue right there, to follow the wet line, to slide between his lips. "I could make you scream," he said softly. "It's up to you."
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