Not likely.
Not possible.
Not in a million years.
She stood in the doorway of her bedroom, leaning her back against the doorjamb, making it obvious that she was waiting for him to leave. “You said it yourself. I was young.” She forced a shrug she was eons from feeling. “Fortunately, time is taking care of that.”
She knew he was angry. Knew it in the stillness of his shoulders. In the set of his jaw. And the way his voice, when he spoke, was soft. Evenly paced. “Make no mistake, Doc, whether you’re twenty-three or eighty-three, I’m gonna want you. And you’re lying to yourself if you think I’m gonna believe you don’t feel the same way about me.”
His words pierced her like well-aimed arrows. And still she didn’t move from her position at the doorway. But holding his gaze took more strength than she possessed and she dropped her own to the muscle ticking in his tight jaw.
He exhaled a short, harsh breath. Stepped through the doorway, and stopped right next to her. “I never would’ve taken you for a liar, Rebecca. I guess it’s just one more thing I’ve been wrong about in my life.”
He moved past her, down the hall. Her knees weakened and she leaned her shoulders back against the wall. After a moment, she heard the kitchen door open and close. Then all was silent again.
Her knees gave, and she slid down the wall to sit on the floor. She would have cried, if she’d had any tears left.
But the pain went too deep for tears.
And as far as Rebecca could see, there was no end to it in sight.
Chapter Thirteen
Filled with too much energy, too much frustration, Sawyer paced the square confines of his motel room. His head felt as if it was in a vise. His chest ached. His eyes were dry from lack of sleep.
He’d been in worse shape and in considerably worse, deadlier, situations.
Only none of them had ever hurt him down in his soul. He flipped the microcassette Rebecca had shoved at him between his fingers. He was kidding himself if he thought she’d ever forgive him for the past.
Why should she? In her place, he doubted he’d feel any differently than she. He’d met her, bedded her and left her. Oh, yeah, he’d taken a few months while he was about it. Four months that had never really left him, except in the aftermath of his recent accident.
He set the cassette on the table situated beneath the window. It was light outside. Another day.
He wished he knew what the hell to do with it. He pulled aside the drape, looking toward the other end of the building. Toward the entrance of Rebecca’s office.
All was still. Quiet.
It was Sunday morning in Weaver. Not exactly one of the world’s hot spots. The interesting thing was, just then, he figured that was okay. That a quiet, still, snowy morning in Weaver was not an altogether bad place to be.
God, he was talking himself in circles, he thought with disgust, and turned away from the window. He stripped and took a shower, dressed in the last clean outfit he possessed and drove in Emily’s truck out to the big house.
Surprisingly enough, everything was silent there, too. Of course, everybody had been over at Jefferson’s for a good portion of the wee hours. And it was too early yet for them to drive into town if they planned to go to church.
Moving quietly, he grabbed a quart of milk from the fridge and carried it with him down the hall beyond the stairs to Matthew’s office. He passed by Squire’s open bedroom door, automatically noting that it was unoccupied. But he hadn’t driven all the way out there to talk to his father.
He sat down in the chair behind Matt’s wide, somewhat-messy desk, and flipped on the computer. This is what he’d come for. Answers. Of the type he could deal with.
There were things in his memory that still evaded him. He’d be damned if he’d keep waiting for them to reappear in their own sweet time. He’d be damned if he’d ask again for answers his family wouldn’t provide. Or couldn’t.
It took a few minutes for the computer to boot, then another few to log on to the Internet. He thumbed open the milk carton and absently drank, while he logged his security code and accessed the files he’d been working before the accident.
The information he found there was pretty much what he expected. He’d been integral to the court-martial of Admiral Jonathan Ingstrom. It was Sawyer’s investigation—more than two years of grinding hard work—that had finally put the nails in the coffin of Ingstrom’s career. The reason Sawyer had scheduled a meeting with his old contact, Coleman Black, was to thank him for his discreet assistance in gaining a key piece of evidence. Considering he and Cole rarely met publicly, it was no wonder that his some-time associate had been suspicious when he’d missed the meeting.
Then, Sawyer came across the obituary notice of Ingstrom’s wife, and he felt a familiar stab of remorse. He couldn’t regret taking Ingstrom down. The man had been dirty to the core, and Sawyer hated that his navy had turned a blind eye to Ingstrom’s activities. But he did wish there’ d been some way to spare Mitzi the trauma she’d endured over her husband’s public humiliation. The night after her husband had been stripped of his commission she’d swallowed too many of her prescription tranquillizers and hadn’t awakened in the morning.
Sawyer sighed and entered another file. His own. And there it was. Photos of the wreckage that had once been a car. His head pulsed painfully, and Sawyer still couldn’t recall the accident, even though he was looking at graphic evidence of it. Black ice. A blown tire. A tree and an embankment. Nobody else had been hurt. Nobody had been at fault.
Just an accident. That changed his life when it could easily have taken it.
“I thought I heard someone back here.”
He dragged his attention from the computer screen. Realized that more than two hours had passed. “Matt.”
His brother glanced at the computer screen when he rounded the desk and did a double take. “Is that...?”
Sawyer closed the file. “I could answer,” he said blandly. “But then I’d have to kill you.”
Matthew snorted. He continued reaching past Sawyer for the stack of breeding records that he’d come in for. “You need to muck out some stalls. Get rid of that load of bull you carry around with you at the same time.”
He ignored that. Arms propped on the desk, he watched his brother for a moment. “You ever think about Mom?” he asked abruptly.
If Matthew was surprised, his expression didn’t show it. “What about her?”
“Think she was happy with Squire?”
That did surprise Matt. “Yeah. I do.” His eyes sharpened. “I thought you said you’d remembered.”
“I did.”
“Then you oughta know better’n me what she was like around Squire. He loved her. He buried most of his heart with her. Why?”
Sawyer shrugged dismissively. “No reason.”
“You haven’t made inconsequential comments in decades.” Matthew watched him for a moment. “Talking to the old man isn’t as impossible as it once was, you know. He’s mellowed since his heart attack. Even he and Jefferson have made some peace between them.”
“Thanks to Emily.”
“Mostly. But not entirely. He wants us all home, on the Double-C. Including you.”
Sawyer knew that. But the fact was, he wasn’t like his brothers. But for reasons they knew nothing about. For reasons he’d discovered when he’d been an angry teenager, determined to find his own way in the world, whether it followed the path Squire set out or not. He logged off the computer system and stood, walking past his brother down the hallway. “I couldn’t do what you do, Matt. Or Daniel or Jefferson, for that matter.”
“And I couldn’t do what you’ve done. Never wanted to. But who cares? We’re all still bound to this place, ’cause it’s our roots, no matter how far we walk. How far we drift.” Matthew tapped the stack of records against his leg. “I just drifted differently than some of you.” He looked up suddenly, uncannily sensing Jaimie standing above him on the landing
before she even called down to him.
Sawyer continued on alone into the kitchen, decided he didn’t want to sit at the big oval table that seemed to hold such a wealth of memories that just a few days ago he’d been aching to have, and shrugged on his coat, heading outside instead.
His breath clouded around his head as he walked along the snowplowed road that separated the big house from the corrals and barns. But no matter how far he walked, how badly he wanted to outrun the memories that he’d been so desperate to regain, they stayed with him.
His mother’s death on Christmas Eve so many years ago. The contents of that old trunk in the attic. Walking away from Becky Lee.
There was no more road. He stopped walking and stared out at the snowy fields—and at the mountains in the distance. He’d been away from the Double-C for more years than he’d lived there—visiting only sporadically as his schedule had allowed. His real life had been elsewhere.
He blew out a long breath, wincing at the pull in his ribs, the biting-cold burn in his lungs when he inhaled the frigid morning air. He slowly turned, squinting against the morning glare, as he looked back. At the big house—stone and wood and built to withstand generations. Barns and corrals and stables.
Matthew was right. It didn’t matter how far he went. Or for how long. His roots were tamped deep, immovably, in this snow-covered land. He’d be hanged, though, if he knew when that had become a satisfying thing. Something to find comforting. When had it become something he’d needed to accept, and not something he’d needed to escape? Did it have to do with Rebecca? With his increasing cynicism over his naval career? Did it have to do with the sheriffs frequent suggestions that the town could use a man like Sawyer?
“You’re getting old, man,” he muttered to himself, striding back the way he’d come. When he entered the kitchen this time, the rest of the household had risen. He stood in the doorway., taking in at a glance the homey scene. Matthew, with Sarah on one knee while he forked country-fried potatoes in his mouth and paged through the paper. Jaimie at the sink, humming some song in a slightly off-key tone.
She turned to the side, setting a plate in the drainer, and the sunlight shining through the window over the sink cradled her pregnant body in a golden glow. She’d married his brother four years ago come April.
He remembered the wedding perfectly.
Sarah asked something, Matthew answered and Jaimie turned back to the table, sliding her hand over her husband’s shoulder in a curiously intimate movement. Then Sawyer realized Matthew’s hand had slipped around his wife’s narrow back and rested on the swollen bulge of their child.
His vision pinpointed, focused on Matt’s hand and that pregnant swell.
Awareness blasted through him. Holy hell.
Jaimie laughed over something and the moment passed, though it remained frozen in Sawyer’s mind. She noticed him standing in the doorway and waved him in for some breakfast. But he shook his head and told them he was heading back into Weaver.
He was nearly to the borrowed truck when Matthew caught up with him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I suppose you’re getting ready to blow town. Now that you’ve got your memory back, you can get your medical release and get back to work.”
Oddly enough, Sawyer hadn’t been thinking about that. Which, in itself, was totally out of character. He climbed behind the wheel, starting the engine with a controlled touch. “I’ve got things to clear up first,” was all he said. “See you later.”
Matthew hesitated, as if he wanted to say more. But he didn’t Just backed up from the truck and watched while Sawyer wheeled around and headed back toward town.
The closer he got, the tighter Sawyer’s nerves coiled. He’d been so stupid. Wrapped up in his own feelings, his own memories.
He pulled into Rebecca’s parking lot and sat watching the entry of her office. Even though cold air seeped into the cab, he felt himself sweating. Felt the hair on his neck prickle. And knew he was finally on the right track. He knew why Rebecca had looked as if she’d seen a ghost when he’d walked into her office last week. Why she’d looked as if she’d wanted to pass out when he’d told her he’d remembered everything after Emily’s baby was born.
He knew the truth now, with every atom of his being. With every black fiber of his soul.
He got out of the truck and walked around the building.
Rebecca opened the kitchen door before he reached it. She didn’t look surprised to see him. She looked tired and worn and so beautiful it made him hurt deep down inside where he didn’t like to look.
The breeze blew. He watched her shake her head slightly, clearing the gleaming strands of brown silk from her eyes. Eyes that held the truth of what he’d finally figured out.
She leaned against the open doorway. Her arms, covered in butter-colored cashmere, were crossed, giving the appearance of casual interest. But he knew better. He knew that if she weren’t leaning against the immovable support of that doorjamb, she’d collapse.
“He’s my son,” he said.
Her lashes lowered for a moment. But only for a moment. Then her gaze, golden brown and glazed with pain—pain he’d caused—met his. “Yes.”
The affirmation, even though expected, was a small pebble—dropped in the center of his soul. Rippling out, wider and wider, deeper and stronger, and shaking the foundation of his being. He gripped hard for his voice. “Where is he?”
“He doesn’t know.”
Sawyer remained standing where he was. Because if he went one step closer, he was going to throttle her. Or take her. Either one was unacceptable. “Where is he? Still at his friend’s? The Fieldings’?”
Her steady gaze wavered.
He spun on his heel. He heard her boots on the walk as she hurried after him. Braced himself for her to reach out and stop him, but she didn’t. She jogged in front of him and stood in his path. “Don’t do this, Sawyer. He’s just a boy.”
“My boy.”
She caught his sleeve. “He’ll be hurt if you just blurt it out because you’re angry with me.”
“I won’t lie to my son,” he gritted.
“Let me talk to him first.”
“You’ve had nine years to talk to him. He has a father, and a right to know it.”
She winced as if he’d physically struck her. “He had Tom,” she said unsteadily, pulling back her hands. “And he still grieves for him.”
“I think you’re the one doing most of the grieving.” Sawyer shoved his hands into his coat pockets. His jaw ached. “Did Tom know, or was my son another lie of yours—one you passed on to him because you didn’t have the guts to tell me the truth?”
She paled. Drew herself up. “Tom gave us his name. His love. And you can blame me for not telling you the truth when I learned I was pregnant, but you know good and well that you have your own share of responsibility in that. Twenty-three calls, Captain. Do you think I tracked you around the world with phone calls just because I liked humiliating myself? I knew I came a poor second to your career. I knew that somewhere around the tenth futile call. And I still kept trying to reach you. To tell you about the baby. Then you finally left that message on my answering machine, and I knew there was no point.”
“No point? You carried my son, and there was no point?”
“You didn’t want a family. A wife. You told me so yourself the very first time we went out. Remember that night, Sawyer? Do you remember that secluded little place on the beach? You built a fire in the fire pit, and we ate cold lobster with our fingers and shared a bottle of wine? And you stared at the ocean and told me she was your first love. You wanted me to understand that your work was dangerous, and you wanted me in your bed. Do you remember?”
He did. And each memory cut like a knife.
“So you passed my son off as another man’s.”
Her throat worked. “Bastard.”
She’d never know the truth in her harsh branding. He didn’t know who he was angri
er with—himself or her. Or the absent Tom who’d been a father to his son when Sawyer had not. Who was remembered as a father by his son. “You should have told me.”
“When?”
“How should I know?” He turned away from her, realized he was heading toward her kitchen door, and turned again. “When I came back here. When we made love last night.”
“We didn’t—”
He silenced her with a look. “Cut the technicalities, Doc. We made love last night just as much as we made love that night on the beach with the surf pounding at our feet and the stars shining over our heads.”
She shivered and he cursed himself, anew. She didn’t even have on a coat. Just that soft yellow sweater that draped her full breasts and black jeans that emphasized the lean length of her endless legs, but neither of which offered much protection against the cold morning. “Go inside,” he said wearily. “Before you catch pneumonia and I’ve got that on my conscience, too. »
Stubborn woman. She didn’t move. Just hugged her arms tighter around herself. “Don’t tell Ryan, Sawyer. Not like this. Please.”
“Go inside, Rebecca.”
“You’ll break his heart when you leave.”
“I won’t leave.”
Her expression tightened. “That’s exactly what you will do, Captain. You don’t want small-town life. You chafe against the ranching heritage of your family. You want the world at your fingertips. Your team and your intelligence networks are your family. I understand that. But my son won’t.”
He hated the chunks of truth in her words. But they were old truths. Based on old facts. Things were dif ferent now. “He has a right to know. You can’t hide this, Rebecca. How could you move here, to Weaver, and think you could totally escape me? Ryan will learn the truth—whether from me or someone else—and he will never forgive you for keeping it from him.”
A Child for Christmas Page 17
