by Susan Wiggs
He was starving after that nap. “I guess.”
“Stay there. I’ll bring your dinner on a tray.”
“Okay.”
“How’s your head?”
“Hurts when I move it.”
She banged around in the kitchenette for a few minutes, then walked into the den with a tray of soup in a mug, a sandwich, and a glass of milk.
“Thanks.” For some reason, it annoyed him that there was a sprig of parsley floating on top of the soup and that she’d cut the sandwich into triangular halves. His mom was always doing stuff like that, trying to make a nice thing nicer.
Maybe it was because she was an artist. Once, when they’d moved to the new town house next door to Brad, Cody had taken a look at some of her old paintings and drawings. Incredible, wild stuff, tons of it, nothing like the ad layouts she did for work. He couldn’t believe his own mother used to paint stuff like that. It was almost scary.
While he ate, his mom had the news on, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention. In fact, she seemed jumpy. Scared about the transplant thing, he figured. It was too gross to think about, but from the second she’d heard about her dad’s sickness, she’d insisted on going through with it.
“I have to do this. I want to,” she’d told him and Brad. “The transplant works best from a living, related donor—a blood relative.”
Deep inside Cody lay the knowledge that his mom wasn’t Gavin Slade’s only blood relative. But when he thought about surgeons cutting him open, taking out a whole organ, for chrissakes, he couldn’t even speak, much less volunteer as a donor. So he kept his mouth shut and let his mom be the martyr.
“You want seconds?” she asked.
“Nope, I’m full.”
“Dessert? There’s ice cream in the freezer, and a bag of cookies—”
“No thanks.” His voice had a rude inflection, and she flinched, but he didn’t care. After telling him to save her some of his pain pills, Claudia hadn’t found much to talk about, and their long, awkward silence echoed in Cody’s ears now.
His mom took the tray away and returned to the living room. Cody reached for the remote to turn the channel to MTV, but she intercepted him, grabbing the device and killing the power.
He glared at her, surprised and affronted. “What gives, Mom?”
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah?” He was starting to feel bored already. Maybe she was feeling nervous about the surgery, and she wanted to say how much she loved him and all that shit in case something went wrong during the transplant. It was the last thing Cody wanted to discuss.
“Yes.” She tucked one foot up under her in the chair and picked up a throw pillow, her right index finger fiddling with the tassels. “This is serious, Cody. I need you to pay attention.”
He lifted both hands in an exaggerated shrug, even though it hurt his head. “Do I look like I’m going anywhere?”
“I, um, I need to talk to you about the man who fathered you.”
Holy crap. Cody felt himself come to full alert. He forced himself to stay still on the sofa, his face expressionless and his voice bland when he said, “Yeah? You said he was just some cowboy, and you’d never seen him again.”
“That’s true. I mean, I thought it was true. But he’s living here, Cody. In Crystal City. I had no idea where he was until I saw him Saturday night.”
Oh, man. He didn’t know what to do with himself, with his hands, with his eyes, with his mind. So his mouth said a lazy, “No kidding.”
But his brain went into overdrive. He tried to picture the crowd at the rodeo arena. All he remembered from Saturday night was the girl named Molly Lightning. And a mass of people who looked like hicks and hillbillies.
“I wouldn’t kid about this, Cody.”
“So who’s the guy?”
Her finger kept twirling the tassel, faster now. “It’s… Sam. Sam McPhee.”
“Whoa.” The exclamation escaped him before he could stop it. His heartbeat sped up. A father. He had a father. Sam McPhee was his goddamned father.
It was too weird, knowing now, after all the years of imagining, who he was. Stranger still knowing Sam and his mom had been bonking each other as teenagers.
“Thanks a lot for never telling me, Mom.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you. It was a shock, seeing him so unexpectedly.” She hugged the pillow up against her chest. “And really, we’ve been so busy, this is the first chance I’ve had.”
Suddenly, in the place in his life where there had been a blank picture frame, a face showed up. A cowboy’s face, tan and lean, some guy dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and Levi’s. A guy with big hands and a screw-you attitude. A guy who made his voice go all serious while he was sewing Cody up with the same big hands he’d used to heft a wheelbarrow full of manure.
Christ. Sam McPhee. His father. There was an earthquake heaving up inside Cody. The world was rearranging itself, and he had no idea what it would look like when things settled.
“Cody?” His mother’s voice was light, quavery. He hoped like hell she wouldn’t start bawling or trying to get him to talk about his feelings. “Is there anything… you want to say?” Her voice kept wobbling.
He wanted to say everything, and nothing. He wanted to yell at her for keeping this huge secret from him. He wanted to ask what was so goddamned wrong with him that he didn’t deserve to know his father. He wanted to hide behind a wall and wait for the world to return to normal.
But most of all, he wanted to know the answer to one big burning question.
“So does he know… who I am?”
“Yes.”
“Shit, you told him before you told me? Thanks a l—”
“I didn’t tell him. He figured it out based on your age. Or, I guess it was your age. Might have been something else.”
“What else?”
“You’re alike in… subtle ways. The way you hold yourself sometimes, I suppose. Certain movements. It’s hard to say.” She started picking at the tassel. It was driving him crazy, the way she kept fidgeting. “But I imagine it was your age. He realized you were born just a few months after we… after I—”
“After he fucked you,” Cody exploded.
He heard his mom draw in a breath, but he didn’t look at her. Gripping the arm of the couch, he pushed himself up. Battling a wave of dizziness, he stalked down the hall to his room and slammed the door as hard as he could.
Damn it. Goddamn it to hell. Now what was he going to do?
Chapter 18
Oh, that went well, thought Michelle. With a savage tug, she jerked the stupid tassel off the stupid pillow. Then she tossed both pillow and tassel aside.
Her cheeks were on fire. Her insides—stomach, heart, throat—were all on fire.
After he fucked you.
Cody’s words hung in the room. She couldn’t hide from them. She couldn’t make them not be true. She couldn’t make them not hurt. Sure, he had much worse problems than using foul language, but the moment seemed to crystallize all their issues into a single, sharp hammer blow of a syllable.
She wanted to go to him, sit at the side of his bed, tell him she knew, she understood what a shock this must be, yet it didn’t change anything between them—
But it did. It already had. She couldn’t put things back the way they were.
Pulling her knees up to her chest, she stared at the blank screen of the TV, then at the wall shelves filled with old novels and knickknacks. She wondered if the knickknacks had any meaning, or if Martha Stewart had been a guest here, putting dried flowers in rusty horseshoes and making an umbrella stand out of an old cowboy boot.
Cody’s furious reaction had thrown the universe out of whack for her. He’d been rebellious lately, but in a strange way it had seemed like a manageable anger, not some out-of-control dark substance that hardened, like coal into diamond, into indestructible hate.
Dry-eyed, she forced herself to assess the situation. Minimize t
he problem. He was in shock over finding out about Sam, but the shock would fade, and he’d be back to his old self again. She and Cody would be here only a short time. After that, there would be no need to come back.
I just stopped by to drop off a kidney and save my dad’s life. Then I’m out of here.
Sam claimed he wanted to know his son, to get involved, but his involvement ended the day he skipped town seventeen years ago. The only reason she had told Cody was that it felt deceptive not to. She didn’t owe Sam a thing. He didn’t owe her a thing.
And really, she had no business thinking about him.
She picked up the phone and dialed Brad’s number. He needed to hear this, too. Would he worry? Feel threatened?
Early on in their relationship, he had asked about Cody’s father, and she’d told him exactly what she always told Cody—a youthful mistake, they’d never been in contact, she had no idea where he was.
That had all changed now.
Sam McPhee was real and rock solid. He had a career and a ranch and a business partner and the respect of a town that had once kicked him in the teeth.
He had large gentle hands and a way of watching her that brought warmth to forbidden places inside her.
She hung up the phone when Brad’s answering service picked up. He’d always hated answering machines, so he paid strangers to take his messages for him. She couldn’t imagine telling a stranger what had just happened. What would she say? “Tell Brad to call me, because I just told my son who his real father is, and now he hates me.”
The phone rang, startling her. She grabbed it, praying it would be Brad. He’d never been the sort of guy who popped up just when she needed him, but she kept thinking he would be one day.
“Hello?”
“Michelle, it’s Sam.”
God. Oh, God. “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“The worst.” Her heart pounded. Her throat ached with the things she wanted to tell him.
“Cody’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Of course he’s not all right—” She broke off. Sam meant the injury. “His head’s fine. He had a nap, and a pretty good dinner, and he’s in his room right now.”
“Then why did you say he’s not all right?”
She swallowed hard, and it hurt, as if something enormous was stuck halfway down. “I told him about us. I told him you’re his biological father.”
Silence. In the background on his end, a dog barked. The Border collie. The morning she’d gone out there, she had noticed that Sam had an unconscious, affectionate way with the dog, idly stroking her head and ears without even seeming to know he was petting her. He was probably doing that right now.
“How’d he take it?” Sam finally asked, his voice low.
“He’s not a happy camper. After he said the word ‘fuck’ to his mother, he walked out and closed himself in his room.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No, Sam, you can’t—”
His end of the line went dead. She couldn’t stop him now. She felt helpless. Should she tell Cody that Sam was coming over? No; then he might barricade the door, or worse, run off somewhere.
She settled for straightening up the bungalow, doing the most mundane of chores. A fresh hand towel in the bathroom. A light on over the front door. Minutes dragged by, and she ran out of things to do. Restless, she took out her sketchbook and favorite pencil—a Primacarb Number One. Accustomed to bringing her work with her from the office, she never went anywhere without a sketchbook. Even though she had given up painting, she still thought in pictures, and she never knew when an idea for an ad design or concept would hit her.
Her pencil swirled and danced over the page, and she felt a tug of sensation, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Nerves, she told herself. That’s what it was. And when she saw what had emerged onto the paper, she knew it was nothing more. The image she had outlined was icy cold, a vineyard everyone had seen before on a dozen wine labels. It came from her mind’s eye but not from her heart. Perfect for one of their big winery accounts.
She shut the book and put it back on the table. A few minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. She went to Cody’s room and said, “Sam’s here.”
No response. He probably had his Discman on, fitting the headphones over the dressing on his head.
Sam took his boots off at the door. He didn’t smile when he greeted her. He just sort of stared, those eyes probing, seeing her in a way she didn’t think anyone else ever had. Finally, he said, “You look awful.”
“Thanks. I’m having a swell evening.” She gestured at the fridge. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Not right now, thanks. Where’s Cody?”
“In his room.” She indicated the door.
Sam didn’t hesitate; that was the first thing she noticed. She had always hesitated when it came to dealing with Cody. She tended to stop, weigh the options, rehearse the scenario in her head, and proceed with caution. Sam plunged right in. Of course, he had a lot less to lose than Michelle did. Sam couldn’t lose what he’d never had.
He knocked on the door and said, “Cody, it’s Sam. Your mother and I want to talk to you.”
Your mother and I.
Michelle had never thought she’d hear those words, not in the context of her own life. There had never been a unit known as “your mother and I.” The phrase conjured up images and yearnings Michelle didn’t want—a partnership, a union… a dream she once had.
Cody’s reply put the sentimental thought into perspective: “I got nothing to say to either of you.”
At this point, she generally let him be, let him chill out. But Sam didn’t know Cody’s implacable moods. He put his hand on the knob. “I don’t recall giving you that option. Now, you can either come out here or I’ll come in there. Either way, it happens in the next five seconds.”
“Or what? You’ll spank me?”
Sam twisted the doorknob, and Michelle was surprised it didn’t come off in his hand. He looked perfectly calm as he strode into Cody’s room. The bedroom was done in muted plaids and stripes, like an upscale resort hotel. Cody lay on the bed, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes full of hate as he watched Sam.
Michelle stood in the doorway and held her breath.
“I’d never hit you.” Sam kept his voice soft and low, the way he always did when he was angry. That was one of the things Michelle remembered about him. The madder he got, the quieter he got. “I’d never hit anyone. But I also don’t take no for an answer. So why not get up off your butt and get into the living room?”
“Maybe I don’t feel like it.”
A small, evil part of Michelle took pernicious delight in this exchange. In the past she had been the one on the receiving end of Cody’s defiance. Finally, someone else had to hear it. Sam stood like a shield between Cody and Michelle, absorbing the boy’s contempt as if it were nothing.
“So you want us to camp out in here?” He moved Cody’s suitcase off the luggage bench and had a seat. “Fine with me.”
Cody didn’t say a word, but levered himself up from the bed, marched out of the room, and plunked himself down in an armchair in the living room. He didn’t look at either Sam or Michelle. She was amazed that Sam got him to come out.
“I guess I’ll start, then.” Sam lowered himself to the sofa, and she did the same, folding her arms, unconsciously protecting herself.
“First of all, you’ve got to know this, Cody. Finding out about you is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
This was a man who had been a six-time national rodeo champion. A man who had saved lives, delivered babies, told people a loved one had died. And yet he could still say this was a bigger deal.
Cody stared straight ahead, stone-faced. And Lord, even now, startlingly good-looking, a fallen angel with a mended head.
“Second thing,” Sam continued, “is that if you ever talk to your mother like that again,
you’ll be sorry you ever found me.”
Cody turned to her, contempt written in hard lines around his mouth. “Great, Mom. Already running to him and telling him private stuff.”
“I don’t blame you for wanting to keep it private. I’d be ashamed, too, if I said stuff like that to the woman who raised me.” Though Sam’s voice was mild, there was an edge to his words, an edge that was sharp with warning.
Watching Cody, she could see that he sensed the sharpness, too. He was out of his league here. Sam had grown up fighting his way through the rodeo, through school, through seventeen years of battles she could only imagine. Cody’s attitude might have the power to hurt her, but to a man like Sam it was nothing.
“So what are you doing here, anyway?” Cody asked.
“Same thing as you are. Trying to figure out what to do next.” Sam crossed one foot over his knee. He wore flecked gray thermal socks. Bits of snow still clung to the cuffs of his jeans. “I have figured out what not to do. And that’s mouth off to your mother. I won’t tolerate it, Cody. Do you understand?”
Their gazes locked. From the very start, there was no question who was going to win. Within a few seconds, Cody shrugged and looked away. “Whatever.”
“Your last outburst was just that,” Sam said. “Your last. Believe me, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m just some old guy. I have no authority over you.”
“You don’t,” Cody pointed out.
“You know what?” Sam leaned back congenially. “You’re absolutely right. I won’t take you over my knee. But I can tell you this. Don’t be such a little shit to the person who’s put in sixteen years and nine months raising you.”
Cody did his best to look bored, but she could tell he was fascinated by all this. “Why not?”
Still maintaining a relaxed pose, Sam nailed him with a stare that would wither grass, and he spoke softly, with deadly control. “Don’t ask me that again.”
Michelle unfolded her arms and studied them both, and in a flash, she saw an uncanny resemblance. They looked so much alike she was surprised the whole town hadn’t figured it out by now.
