She pushed her fingers against the pain between her eyebrows and walked out of the kitchen. “I’m tired,” she mumbled as she passed him.
But in the living room, she stood in the middle of the room, neither settling on the comfortable sectional couch she’d purchased when she and Ryan had moved to Weaver, nor on the oversize recliner that Tom had praised but had never seemed to find the time to relax in.
Hands descended on her shoulders from behind and she pressed her fist to her mouth, stifling sound. Sawyer’s long fingers kneaded her shoulders, his strong thumbs finding several little knots. “Relax, Bec,” he murmured.
She was. Relaxing. She stepped forward, out from beneath his touch. “You shouldn’t be here.” She moved blindly, settling in Tom’s chair.
“Where should I be?”
“Home.”
He didn’t respond. Just slowly moved around her living room, stopping to look at the collection of family photos hanging on the wall above one side of the sectional sofa. Then he moved to the bookcases and her jumbled mess of novels and magazines. He picked out one novel—a historical romance she’d finished reading a few weeks ago—and paged through it. She watched him, no more inclined to speak than he was. He replaced the book and pulled out another, a medical thriller. The shelves with her medical journals were as neat as a pin and he didn’t spend one second looking through those.
He finally stopped when he came to the baby-grand piano she’d positioned in an alcove that ordinarily would have held a dining-room table, had she and Ryan had need of one. But the table in the kitchen suited them just fine.
“Do you play?”
“Badly.” She rubbed her palms over the soft upholstery fabric covering the arms of the recliner. “It was Tom’s.”
“As in your husband. The Lincoln-driving neuro-surgeon.”
Rebecca contained her irritation. She leaned her head back, watching Sawyer from beneath her lowered eyelashes. “He played beautifully.”
“Good for him,” Sawyer grunted. “A real saint.”
“A good man,” Rebecca corrected evenly. There wasn’t one thing Sawyer could say against Tom More-house. He’d been good and kind, and had been taken from them far too early.
Sawyer had nudged out the padded bench and sat down, lifting the keyboard lid. He drew his fingers along the upper keys, creating a soft, tinkling ripple of sound.
Suddenly, Ryan blew into the room, his shoulder-length hair tousled. He darted across to the piano, slamming the lid closed with a sharp crack. Sawyer barely had time to draw his hands back.
Rebecca pushed out of the chair. “Ryan!”
“Nobody plays that but my dad,” he said, his voice high and agitated. “Nobody.” He turned around and glared at Rebecca, as if she’d committed some sin. But his dark blue eyes were glazed with tears, and Rebecca’s heart ached. She reached out for him, but he darted away, dashing down the hallway and slamming into his bedroom.
Rebecca looked at Sawyer, seeing his concern, then followed Ryan.
She knocked on Ryan’s door before opening it. He lay on his twin bed, looking every bit the little boy he still was. It had been slightly over two years since Tom’s death, but Ryan was still a long way from accepting it, even though he seemed to have gotten over the angry mood swings that had immediately followed his father’s death.
Crossing to the bed, she gently touched his shoulder, swallowing the pain of having him shrug away from her touch and sat beside him. “Did I ever tell you that Tom bought that piano for our second wedding anniversary?” She didn’t expect a response from Ryan, and didn’t get one. “He hired a private teacher to come to our home and give me lessons every Sunday afternoon. You’d crawl between the legs of the piano and all during my lesson, you’d sit there under the piano. Then, when the piano teacher decided teaching me was a hopeless endeavor, and Tom started playing it more, you’d sit under it then, too. Oh, you loved that piano.”
“I hate it.” The muffled statement was adamant. And thick with tears.
Rebecca touched her son’s narrow shoulder, ran her palm soothingly down his back.
“He shouldn’t have touched it.” Ryan rolled over, accusation sharp in his young eyes. “You shouldn’t have let him.”
“I’m sorry, Ryan. I should have asked your mother before I opened the piano lid. It’s not her fault.”
Ryan’s face colored and he swiped at the tears on his cheeks when Sawyer stepped into the room, stopping just inside the doorway.
Rebecca could see the dilemma pulling at Ryan. The sanctified memory of Tom versus his fascination with the former Navy SEAL who was very much alive and very much present. Ryan’s lips tightened. “It’s okay,” he mumbled.
Sawyer took a step farther into the room at the same moment Rebecca’s phone rang with a distinctive double ring. She brushed her hand through Ryan’s tumbled hair and rose. “I need to get that,” she said.
Sawyer stepped out of her way when she walked past him.
“That’s the office ring,” Ryan told him after a moment. “The weird ring is so she can tell if it’s a regular call or a medical thing.”
From the living room, Sawyer could make out the low, melodic tone of her voice as she answered the call. “Mind if I sit down?” He lifted his chin toward the straight-back chair sitting at a student desk, complete with an open laptop computer.
Ryan shrugged.
Taking that as an assent, Sawyer went over and sat down. He glanced at the computer. “You play a lot of games on this?”
“Some.” Ryan sat up, crossing his legs Indian-style. “I e-mail some of my old friends from New York, too. But mostly I do homework on it.”
“What grade are you in?”
“Fifth.” Ryan shrugged again, picking at the torn knee of his blue jeans. “I skipped the third grade.”
“No kidding? You must be pretty smart.”
Again that shrug. “In math, maybe. I take some classes at the high school, and a thing on-line from a university in Texas.”
“I’m impressed.”
Judging from Ryan’s grimace, Sawyer figured he hadn’t said quite the right thing. He propped an elbow on the desk and looked at the boy across from him. “You miss your dad a lot.”
Ryan swung his legs off the opposite side of the bed, presenting Sawyer with his back and stiff shoulders. He fiddled with a Notre Dame ball cap that was on the bed, then jammed it on his head. “No big deal.”
“I imagine it’s like a part of you is missing. Your body is all there, but there’s still a hole somewhere that used to be full-up and now isn’t,” Sawyer mused softly. “That’s kind of how I feel.”
“Your dad ain’t...isn’t...”
“No, Squire is still with us.” He raked his fingers through his hair, thinking absently that he wasn’t used to it being long enough to wave. “But I don’t remember him.”
Ryan looked over his shoulder at him. At least the tears were drying. “Huh?”
“Your mom didn’t tell you?”
“She doesn’t tell me nothing about her patients. ’Cept that you were in a car accident.”
“Yeah. And now I have a little problem with my memory.” There was an understatement.
The boy’s body swiveled around to face him as well. “And you can’t remember your dad? Jeez.”
He couldn’t recall so much more than Squire, but Sawyer didn’t see the point in elaborating.
“Oh, jeez,” Ryan said again. He sat forward on the bed, his young body leaning toward the desk. “I bet you don’t remember Weaver or the rest of your family, huh?” He scrunched up his face, as if he were staring at a particularly repulsive—yet fascinating—bug. “Bummer. At least I remember my dad.”
Sawyer squelched his unexpected chuckle. “What was he like?” He was afraid Ryan would retreat again into that ball of angry misery again. But Ryan surprised him when the boy shrugged and flopped back on his bed, crossing one gangly leg over the other.
“He was real smart.”
“Guess you get your smarts from both your parents.”
Ryan didn’t respond. He just jiggled his foot for a long, silent moment. And when he did speak, Sawyer realized the boy had discussed his father as much as he wanted to. “You think my mom is pretty, dontcha,” Ryan stated.
“Yeah.”
“She won’t go out with you. She doesn’t go out with anybody.”
“So I’ve heard,” Sawyer murmured, wondering where the boy was going.
“My math teacher at the high school asked her out. She said no. Some rancher dude asked her out, too. And that lawyer guy, Bennett Ludlow, is always bugging her.”
“You trying to tell me my chances with your mom are pretty slim?”
Ryan’s foot stopped jiggling. “I think she misses my dad a lot,” he said. “She’s always talking about him and junk.”
Sawyer saw Rebecca appear in the doorway, her face pale but composed. She’d obviously overheard her son’s observation.
Ryan noticed her then. “You gotta make a house call?”
“Not this time.” She walked over to the bed and bent over, kissing Ryan’s forehead. His cheeks turned red before he darted a pained look Sawyer’s way.
Stifling another chuckle, Sawyer stood. “It’s getting late. I’ll catch you later, Ryan.” He crossed to the doorway.
Rebecca spoke softly to her son and followed him into the hallway where she closed Ryan’s bedroom door.
Sawyer headed into the living room, picking up his jacket that he’d left on the coat-tree near the door when Ryan had let him in earlier. He shouldn’t have come here. Rebecca and her son didn’t need his problems on top of their own.
He felt like a selfish bastard for pushing into their home. All he’d thought about was his own need to fill the spaces in his murky mind. He hadn’t thought at all of what effect his actions would have on Rebecca. Or Ryan.
He reached for the doorknob. “I’m sorry, Doc. I didn’t mean to upset your boy.” He wanted to say more, but couldn’t fathom what. “Good night.”
Rebecca’s arms tightened around her waist as Sawyer opened the door and headed out into the cold, dark night. She looked down the hall at her son’s closed bedroom door.
The man striding toward his truck who couldn’t remember her was the only person who’d gotten her son to say one word about Tom since his death more than two years ago. The bittersweet irony made her eyes burn.
She dashed to the door and threw it open, grabbing a coat on the way. She pulled it around her shoulders and hurried after Sawyer toward the truck that he’d parked beyond the garage. He’d already reached it, was climbing up into the cab.
Feeling her heart squeeze, she jogged up to the truck. “Sawyer.” She put her hand on his forearm where he’d reached out to pull the truck door closed. “Wait.”
Even through the barrier of his leather coat she felt his muscles tighten. Clouds obscured the moonlight, but there was enough light from the truck interior to see the wary set of his head.
“I... You don’t have to leave,” she said.
“It’s best.”
Best for her peace of mind, no doubt But best for her son? She’d moved more than halfway across the country to provide her son with the best possible home she could. To try to help him through his grief. She moistened her lips. “Sawyer, tonight was the most Ryan has spoken of Tom in two years.”
He lifted his arm away from the door, dislodging her hand. “Like I said. I never meant to upset Ryan.”
Rebecca huddled inside the coat. “I know that.” She did know it. Despite everything, she didn’t believe that Sawyer—memory impaired or not—would deliberately upset a child. “But don’t you see? You got through to him when I couldn’t. I’ve done everything I can think of to help Ryan, but he still refuses to talk about Tom.” She swallowed the hurt over that fact. It was a minor thing compared to the milestone Sawyer had achieved. “Yet he talked with you about him. He was upset about the piano, of course, but then he actually talked to you.”
He looked at her, shaking his head. “You’re gonna freeze like that. You’ve only got on socks.”
“They’re warm enough.”
He just shook his head again and reached for the keys hanging in the ignition. The engine spat once, then purred to life. “Go inside, Doc.”
She folded her hands together, not quite believing what she was doing. “Will you come back?”
He tilted his head, looking steadily at her. She couldn’t read his expression, though, to save her soul.
“Why?”
“I...Ryan—”
Sawyer shifted the big truck into gear. Detesting the panic that spiraled through her, Rebecca reached for his arm again. “Please, Sawyer. I, uh, I need to know. Will you come back? Will you talk again with...with Ryan?”
His hand covered hers suddenly, warm against hers despite the cold weather. “I don’t know how to talk kids through the stages of grief.”
“It doesn’t matter. Sawyer, don’t you see? Ryan—he’s—oh, I don’t know—bonding with you or somethings”
“And you hate it.”
Yes, she did. Maybe she did. Oh, hell, maybe she didn’t. “Ryan is the important one, here. Just be yourself with him.” My God, what was she saying? She closed her eyes for a moment, nearly swaying.
“I don’t remember myself,” Sawyer pointed out, his voice rough. “For all I know, I could be the bastard your eyes accuse me of being. And spending any time with your son could cause more harm than good.”
She realized he was still holding her hands. “I’m willing to take that chance,” she whispered.
“At least you’ve stopped pretending there’s nothing between us.”
She bit back her automatic denial.
His thumb moved across the back of her knuckles. “I’ll come back,” he said after a moment.
The relief that rolled through her fought with a black wave of blind panic. And as she watched him drive away she wasn’t at all sure which side was winning.
Chapter Six
She’d asked him to come back.
Unfortunately, her reasons were specifically related to her son. Sawyer had no illusions about that. Rebecca Morehouse didn’t want him around because she wanted him. She wanted him around in the hopes that Ryan would talk to him about her late husband. She’d been so emphatic about her request that she’d even dropped the Captain, for once.
Prowling around the downstairs guest suite at the big house later that night, Sawyer had relived every moment from the time Ryan had let him into the More-house home, until he’d driven away, leaving Rebecca standing there in her stocking feet. He was probably dwelling on it because his efforts at probing into the dark abyss of missing memories only made his head ache.
Sawyer muttered an oath and dropped thoughtlessly to the floor, executing his third set of push-ups. His rib cage felt on fire from the exertion, but he’d hoped that physical exhaustion would bring on the sleep that eluded him.
So far, the idea was failing miserably.
However, as a self-inflicted punishment for being jealous of a dead man, it had some merit.
Sweat dripped down his temples, and every muscle in his body strained. Teeth bared, he plowed through the last ten, then rolled onto his back and lay there on the floor, his heart thundering. God, there had been a time he could have done twice this many before—
He held his breath, probing tentatively like a tongue against a toothache for the memory hovering just out of reach.
Almost...
Almost...
He muttered an oath. It was gone.
Lying there on the thick carpet, Sawyer waited until his breathing was back to normal before sitting up. The sharp ache cutting through his chest had him swearing all over again.
He groaned and rolled over, pushing himself up to his knees, then to his feet, automatically tightening the string of his baggy gray sweatpants. Okay, so maybe he’d overdone it a bit. Maybe his bruised body wasn’t ready
yet for some things.
A vision of Rebecca Morehouse slid slyly into his thoughts. Pretty brown hair that gleamed brighter than moonlight over the ocean. Skin as soft and velvety as fresh dairy cream.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. His body was all too ready for some things. Heading into the small kitchen, he yanked open the refrigerator door. Bottles rattled, but when he opened the lone milk carton, it was empty.
He dropped it in the trash and wearily trudged up the stairs to the main kitchen. It was dark, except for the dim light over the stove. Finding the milk in the fridge, he lifted it halfway to his mouth, then stopped when he heard a sound behind him. He turned to see Squire standing there. “Thought you were off visiting. Gloria, right?”
Squire, his father—God, what was wrong with him that he couldn’t feel what everyone told him was so—ambled across the room and sat down at one end of the table. “I was,” he grumbled.
Sawyer waited.
“Confounded woman,” Squire added after a moment. He softly thumped his fist on the table, his manner distracted. “She wants to get married,” he added abruptly.
“You don’t.”
Squire focused his attention more closely on Sawyer. “Hell, boy, that ain’t it. Well, mebbe.”
“So?”
Squire made a face. “So? So, we’ve been seeing each other for more than four years now. Ain’t nothing wrong with the arrangement. But like a woman, she wants to fix what ain’t broke.”
Leaning back in his chair, Sawyer stretched out his legs, absently rubbing one hand over his rib cage. “You don’t love her?”
“That ain’t the point, boy.” Squire’s silvered head shook. “Gloria knows how I feel.”
“Yeah. She knows you don’t want to marry her.”
Squire made an impatient sound. “I’ve been married. To your mama.”
Sawyer thought about the portrait of Sarah Clay that hung in the living room. He’d ferreted enough information out of Jaimie to learn that Sarah had died when he’d been little older than Ryan Morehouse. “She’s been gone a long time.”
“Mmm.”
“Jaimie told me that Gloria’s got two daughters,” Sawyer offered. “In college somewhere.”
A Child for Christmas Page 8
