by Неизвестно
The perturbed look on his face was gone now, replaced by an odd glow of mirth. To my amazement, he reached up and grabbed me by the waist, lifting me from the stump as if I were a child. It was an unaccountably brazen act on his part, but I was too surprised by it to protest.
"Stop jumping around like that," he admonished, setting me gently on the ground. "You’re going to twist an ankle."
I stared at him, flustered. Then I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to regain some of the dignity I had lost by being manhandled. I was a teacher, blast it. I was supposed to be the one doing the manhandling.
I took a breath. "What I'm trying to explain is that whether or not you and your sister realize it, unspoiled land with mature forest like this is priceless. And if you won't protect it, I will. Do you hear me? I can easily tie up this whole inheritance mess in court for so long your grandchildren will have to wheel you in to pick up your deed—and by then your precious ski resort will have long since been located elsewhere!"
I finished with my best glare, proud of my chutzpah. I couldn’t afford jack in the way of attorney’s fees, but I was hoping he wouldn’t realize that. I was hoping—. Well, I wasn’t sure what I was hoping. But I certainly did not expect what I got.
His eyes were shining openly now, and his mouth, for one brief, beautiful moment, broke into a fetching, contagious grin. My anger faded as I recognized, finally, the mature version of the happy, carefree youth I had seen in the portrait. But the unguarded smile lasted only a second. He caught himself, and it was gone. "So," he questioned, his voice formal, "You’re a teacher, are you? What level?"
"Elementary."
"Then you should know," he lectured, pointing at the tree stump, "that that hickory couldn’t possibly have been a sapling when Washington was here. It was only a hundred and forty years old when lightning struck it, and it wasn’t in the best of health at the time. And as much as I wish this were a virgin forest, it hardly qualifies. The proper term for the preserved portions is secondary old growth."
I stared. Was the man never short of new personas?
"It’s not like I had time to count the rings," I protested. "And why should I take your word on it, anyway? What do you do for a living?"
He allowed himself to smile again, but only slightly. "I’m a forester," he responded. Yet the way he averted his eyes at the words, I got the strong impression that he was lying.
I couldn’t imagine why he would. "You left here and went to the West Coast to be a forester?" I asked, trying not to sound as skeptical as I felt. I didn’t know any foresters personally, but I doubted that many of them walked around wearing fancy suits and flashing huge checks for real estate—even if they did work in California.
All traces of his smile vanished. "That’s what I said," he returned gruffly.
I watched with frustration as his mood darkened again. It wasn’t fair—not now. Not when I had finally caught a glimpse of what he could be like when he was happy. There was a warmth within him, and I wanted to feel more of it.
I took a breath, then tried to catch and hold his eyes. "I told you before that I don’t want to be your enemy," I said softly. "I meant that. I just want to know one thing. I want to know that you would never sell this land to a developer. Would you?"
His gaze flashed across mine, and for an instant I thought I saw a glimmer of appreciation at my words, perhaps even a reluctant fondness. But in the next he deliberately snuffed those sentiments.
"My father’s estate is a matter for the courts to decide," he said flatly. "I'm not going to discuss it with you." He started to walk away, but after a few paces he stopped and looked back at me, his expression waffling—by the second—between determination and remorse. His voice softened. "Do you need help finding your way back to the inn?"
The gentleness of his tone tugged at me, evoking a pleasant sense of satisfaction. My original assessment had been correct. Fletcher Black, whether he wanted me to see it or not, was a good person. I wasn’t sure why he was acting so strangely, but I was sure it had something to do with the fact that he had been hurt. Now he was angry and mistrustful, and he was also afraid. Afraid of something beyond the threat I posed to his inheritance.
I could swear he was afraid of me.
Chapter 10
When it came to dealing with men with bizarre issues, I thought I had seen it all. Derrick, the tall, dark, and handsome, had had a thing about staying faithful in a long-distance relationship. Specifically, he claimed that no real man could do it. Kevin, the sweet, cuddly fellow to whom I had devoted a full five of my prime child-bearing years, had suffered from a severe case of PIS: Perpetual Immaturity Syndrome. My ex-fiancé Todd, whom I had met in the hospital as we nursed our ailing parents side by side, seemed to have a much better understanding of family. Unfortunately, he proved a little confused as to whether I should be his wife or his mother.
Yet never, in any of my various ill-fated relationships, had I ever encountered a man who was afraid of me. I was not the sort of woman to inspire fear in anything over five feet, much less a rock-solid he-man who looked like he could go several rounds with a grizzly.
Did I need help finding my way back to the inn? Of course not. But if he thought that a little rudeness on his part would be enough to make me turn tail and go home, hire a lawyer and let the paid staff fight it out, he had a good deal more to learn about me. First off, of course, was the fact that I couldn’t afford a lawyer. Second was the fact that no self-respecting daughter of Colleen and Patrick O’Rourke could ever countenance turning her back on a soul in need, even if the soul in question didn’t realize he needed anything.
Particularly then.
"Now there’s a vote of confidence," I said cheerfully. "Given my second-rate forestry lecture, I suppose I deserved it. For your information, however, I know perfectly well that there is no virgin timber here. I just didn’t think that you would. The term carries a lot more weight then ‘secondary old growth’—and what can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic."
He was looking anywhere but at me. I smiled at him anyway. "You don’t have to worry about my navigational skills. I was a Girl Scout, first class. I’ve directed summer camps for the last five years, and I was a nature counselor for eons before that. I know my way around a forest."
"Good," he barked, turning away again. "You shouldn’t have any trouble getting back alone, then."
I bit my lip. The man’s attitude was beyond vexing. I suspected that telling him I didn’t want the inheritance would relax him considerably, but I couldn’t do that now. If my giving up Sheila's inheritance meant that the forest would be destroyed, then I wasn't giving it up, whether Sheila had deserved it or not. Mother earth rated a higher calling. I had to be certain that he wouldn't sell—but how could I get to know him well enough to trust him, to figure out where all that pain was coming from, when he wouldn’t even look at me?
I stewed in silence a moment, then tried another tack.
"Fletcher," I appealed, calling after him. "I’ll leave if you want me to, but would you mind answering one question for me before I go? Please?"
He stopped walking. His sides heaved as he released a sigh. Then he turned around, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked off into the trees. "Fine," he said begrudgingly. "What is it?"
I stepped up closer to him, then took a breath. "I understand how you must feel about Sheila. That’s why I was wondering, why did you come to the funeral?"
I watched his reaction like a hawk, knowing that if I saw guilt, it would confirm he had come for the wrong reasons.
He didn’t answer for a long time. His eyes never wavered toward mine, but their gray-green depths showed his thoughts nonetheless. There was no guilt in him, only sadness.
"Because," he said finally, his voice low, "I know that my father would have wanted me to."
A wave of warmth rippled through me, and I smiled. He was telling the truth. He had gone to the funeral out of respect for his father, even though he th
ought that Sheila had been a gold digger. Perhaps he suspected, as I did, that no matter what her motives were, Mitchell would never have married the woman if he hadn’t truly loved her.
And Fletcher would never have shaved, put on a suit, and gone to his ex-stepmother’s awkwardly deserted burial site if he hadn’t loved his father.
"Thank you," I whispered, my heart melting even as my mind grew more confused. "That was very kind of you."
He made no response.
"I wish I’d had the chance to meet your father," I said wistfully. "My own died a few years ago, and I still miss him terribly. There’s something about having—"
In the middle of my musing, a thought sliced its way into my brain so sharply my body reeled. "Oh, my God," I mumbled weakly, nearly stumbling.
Fletcher stepped forward and caught my arm. "What’s wrong?"
"My birth father," I babbled, heart pounding. The thoughts were coming so fast I could barely process them, yet every other one seemed to be spilling from my lips. "Sheila told me he was dead. That he died as a teenager."
But Sheila hadn’t been a teenager herself when I was born, I recalled. She had been twenty-two. "Everything she told me about herself was a lie," I cried, moving from shocked to exuberant. "Of course she lied about him, too!"
I could remember Sheila’s sympathetic tone when I had posed the question in the coffee shop. Your birth father was killed in a motorcycle accident a year after you were born. He was a nice enough boy, but immature—and very reckless.
I had asked for details. What did he look like? What were his interests? But she had dodged most of my questions with the finesse of a political mouthpiece. He was average height, with brown hair. He liked motorcycles and girls. I hate to admit it, she had explained. But I’m afraid it’s been so long I really don’t remember him very well. I thought I loved him at the time, but I was too young to understand the meaning of the word.
What about his parents? I had asked, still hopeful. Birth grandparents would have delighted me; my adoptive grandparents had never lived nearby, and they had all passed on early in my life.
Sheila’s face had grown tight at the question. His parents were not good people, she had said stiffly. They were horrible to both of us. They pressured me to have an abortion.
My mind raced. Stephie had told me at the funeral that Sheila had always wanted to be an actress. What if she had actually been good at it? The entire story about my deceased birth father and his parents’ attitude could have been no more than a ruse—carefully constructed to dissuade me from searching for more information about them. It had worked, hadn’t it?
I realized that Fletcher was still holding my arm, and I grabbed onto his other one and pumped them both. "Don’t you see what this means?" I practically shouted at him. "My birth father could still be alive! He could even—" I paused another moment, overwhelmed by the thought. "He could even have had other children. I could have half siblings!"
With the enthusiasm of a new mother who hugs her obstetrician just because he’s there, I sprung up and threw my arms around Fletcher’s neck, squeezing him tight. Being affectionate by nature, such a gesture meant no more to me than a handshake, and as Fletcher’s arms wrapped reflexively around me, I was certain he understood that. But after only a fraction of a second, I could feel his muscles tense. Too preoccupied to contemplate why, I simply released him and set off around the cabin.
I heard his footsteps behind me. "Meara," he called uncertainly. "Where are you going? What are you going to do?"
"I’m going back to the inn, of course," I answered without stopping. "I’m going to get in my car and I’m going to go find out who my birth father is."
I heard no response from him, but I suppose I wasn’t listening. I was too intent on scrambling up the hill I had just come down, and as steep as it was, the going was much tougher this direction.
I had climbed for several minutes before nearing the hill’s summit, where I was surprised to encounter a familiar pair of boots dangling at eye level. Fletcher was sitting calmly on an outcropping of rock above, watching me.
My eyebrows rose. I didn’t know what his game was, but I didn’t have time for it. Not now.
"You don’t need to escort me," I insisted, scrambling up. "I told you, I can get back to the inn just fine."
"I’m not worried about that," he corrected, rotating to face me as I passed him. "What worries me is what you’ll do after you get there."
My brow furrowed in confusion, and I looked at him over my shoulder. "I do need to make a few long distance calls before I go, but I promise to reimburse you. I left a ten on the desk for the ones I already made. Didn’t you see it?"
He looked at me as if I had sprouted green tentacles. "I don’t care if you call Outer Mongolia," he responded, his tone still serious. "I’m just telling you you shouldn’t rush into this birth father thing."
I stared at him, trying to remember how much of what was going on in my head I had actually said out loud. Even if he did understand what I was doing, why would he care?
"Please, just take a minute to calm down," he urged. His voice was soothing now—and entirely unfamiliar. "You should think this thing through before you go getting your hopes up."
I looked into his earnest eyes and found myself flummoxed. When I was nice to the man, he frosted over like an icicle. Yet here I was tripping over myself to get away from him, and suddenly he was concerned and protective.
He was also giving me the impression that he knew what he was talking about. "Why do you say that?" I asked, turning to face him.
His eyes looked straight into mine. He took a breath. "Because of Tia," he explained. "My sister. She tracked down both her birth parents, and the reunions were a disaster."
I pictured the dark, exotically pretty girl of the portrait, the daughter who looked so little like the rest of the family. Both her parents had had light eyes, hadn’t they? I should have guessed that she was adopted.
I stood still a moment. I knew perfectly well that reunions did not always turn out happily; I had lived through one disaster of my own already. But I had no intention of giving up my dream of finding a loving biological relative just because I was afraid of being hurt. Wounds healed. Family was forever.
"I’m sorry things didn’t work out well for your sister," I offered. "But surely she gained something positive from the experience."
The look he threw me said clearly that in his opinion, she had not. "She found her birth mother first, and they met," he explained, his voice laden with remembered anger. "But they had virtually nothing in common, and neither came away with any interest in an ongoing relationship. Tia was disappointed, but she kept insisting she was glad just to have closure. So she went on and contacted her birth father too, even though her birth mother told her she shouldn’t—that he had been a one-night stand who wanted nothing to do with a child."
I cringed. Manner of conception was a sensitive issue for an adoptee. Whether you wished for it to or not, it mattered. Rape, incest, or prostitution were the worst possibilities, but meaningless recreation was bad enough. Every child had the right to a father—not a sperm donor in denial.
"But Tia’s not the type to take no for an answer," Fletcher continued. "Against my advice and everyone else’s, she confronted the man in the middle of his driveway one day as he was coming home from work. She told him who she was, and he proceeded to scream at her about how she wasn’t his—that her mother was nothing but a lying whore."
A heavy weight fell upon my stomach. "I’m sorry," I said again, throwing Resolution #2 to the wind. "That must have been awful for her."
"It was," he confirmed. "And I don’t—" He stopped the thought and rose, looking uncomfortable. "You can do what you want," he announced. "I’m just throwing in my two cents on Tia’s behalf."
I couldn’t help but smile. Compassion was in his blood, even though he seemed to wish it weren’t. His sister’s dreams had been shattered; he didn’t want to see even a
stranger making the same mistakes.
"So what are you going to do?" he questioned, attempting a disinterested tone. "Do you even know the man’s name?"
I straightened and turned away from him, carefully hiding my grin. If he felt the need to be protective of all female adoptees, I wasn’t going to stop him. The topic was the only thing so far that had succeeded in bringing his guard down.
"Sheila said his name was Michael Smith," I answered, allowing myself a rueful chuckle at the thought. I headed down the slope toward the clearing, figuring that if Fletcher wanted to continue his interrogation, he would keep up. "I doubt she could have picked a name harder for me to trace, since she’d already taken Johnson for herself."
There was no response. After a few moments I turned around to see if he was following and determined that he was not. Only after I looked ahead again did I notice him standing among the trees below me.
"How do you do that?" I remarked, miffed. "What are you, part Native American?"
"Possibly." His tone turned serious. "If you know for a fact that Sheila didn’t want you to find your birth father," he argued, "shouldn’t you wonder why?"
The question irritated me, and I stepped up my pace and passed him again. "Sheila didn’t want me to find her," I argued. "Maybe she figured he could lead me back to her."
"Or maybe," came a voice even with my side, "She was trying to protect you."
I was protecting you. Rosemary died. Stay—
Sheila’s last words flashed through my brain again. But this time, they evoked only anger. The woman had committed some crime so terrible she spent more than five years in prison. Virtually everything she had ever said to me was a lie. Why should I take her dying words any more seriously?
