by Jane Porter
“That’s not an excuse. Your dad hasn’t taught you?”
Again, the child shook his head, looking even smaller and more miserable than before.
Dillon frowned, frustrated. “He doesn’t believe in fighting?”
The boy looked up at him then, his eyes pink, watery, and green, sea green. “He’s dead.”
Hell. Dillon exhaled slowly, hugely uncomfortable. Great. Nice one, Sheenan. He shifted the truck into drive, ignoring the sting in his gut, not wanting to feel for this pathetic little guy. “Where do you live?”
“237 Bramble Lane.”
“Well, let’s get you home then.”
The boy was silent as he drove and Dillon told himself he was glad. It was better to be stoic and quiet than crying and carrying on, but still...the kid was small. Really small. How old was he?
“What’s your name?” Dillon asked gruffly, breaking the quiet.
“Tyler.”
“You have a last name?”
“Joffe.”
Dillon shot him a swift glance, doing a double take. Paige’s boy?
He looked the child up and down, trying to see Paige in him. She was golden and beautiful and this boy was, well, small and bruised and definitely not golden at the moment. “What grade are you in?”
Tyler folded his hands in his lap but they were shaking. “Second.”
The knot in Dillon’s gut pushed up into his chest. He was pretty sure the boy sitting on top of Tyler wasn’t a second grader. “Those boys...were they in your class?”
“No, sir.”
Sir.
The knot in Dillon’s chest grew, hot and heavy. It made his throat close and eyes burn. “What grade were they in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not your class?”
“No, sir.”
“So you don’t know them?”
Tyler glanced at him and then away. “Not...really.”
Hmm. “And the kid who’d pinned you down? Don’t know him, either?”
The boy’s shoulder shifted.
Dillon lifted a brow. “Not going to tell me, or you don’t know?”
Another small shrug. “It’s not going to change anything,” he whispered.
Dillon frowned. “Has this happened before?”
Tyler hesitated. “Sort of.”
Dillon’s jaw tightened and he drummed fingers against the steering wheel, remembering his own ass-kickings. “Does your mom know this is happening?” he asked after another lengthy silence.
“No.” The boy’s lower lip quivered. “Sir,” he added huskily.
“I think, son, it’s time she knew.”
Paige was pacing the front living room when she spotted an old green pickup truck pulling up out front, the truck’s faded rusty patina almost jade in the late afternoon light. She knew that truck. It was the one that needed paint almost as much as her house.
Dillon Sheenan.
What was he doing here, now?
She sucked in a breath, pulse quickening, thoughts abruptly shifting as a boy in a puffy winter jacket slid out of the passenger side of the truck.
Her boy. Tyler.
Why? How? What was going on?
Paige flung open the front door, rushing out onto the covered front porch with its chipped and peeling decorative spindles, and practically ran down the sidewalk, meeting Tyler halfway.
“Where have you been?” she said, placing her hands onto his shoulders. “Tyler, I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been calling the school, calling friends....”
He hung his head, not speaking.
“That’s no answer, Tyler.” She took his chin and lifted his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. But what she saw in her eight-year-old son’s face horrified her—bloody nose, split lip, swollen jaw—and she released his chin quickly. “What happened?”
He shook his head and tried to look away, but not before she saw the tears welling fresh. “Fell down.”
“You didn’t fall down.”
He didn’t answer and a tear quivered on his lower lashes and she had to hold her breath, holding the air and anger and fear in. What had happened? Who did this? And why?
Looking up, she caught Dillon’s eyes. His lips compressed, his expression sober.
“He needs to talk to you,” Dillon said. “I think he’s going to need your help with this one.”
She didn’t know whether to hug Tyler or shake him. What was going on? “Tyler?” she asked wonderingly, fingers curling into fists. She’d kill whoever did this—she’d—
“It’s not the first time,” Dillon added quietly. “They’re older, too, by a couple years at least.”
Her head snapped, attention back on Tyler who still refused to look at her, staring off into the distance instead as tears streaked down his cheeks.
“You have to talk to me, honey,” she whispered, crouching in front of him, hands encircling his upper arms, his frame thin inside the puffy coat. “You have to tell me so I can help you.”
“I’m fine,” he said, lisping through the fat, split lip.
She looked up at Dillon whose expression revealed nothing and yet when his gaze met hers, heat rushed through her, the heat as shocking now as it had been Saturday night.
She didn’t want to think about that night. This wasn’t the time. And yet she couldn’t stop her skin from prickling, tingling, responding to him.
“Thank you for bringing him home,” she said unsteadily, straightening and putting a quick hand to her hair, pushing blonde strands back from her face. “That was nice of you.”
The corner of his mouth pulled, his eyes bright, hot, sparking with knowledge, reminding her he knew...he knew what had happened between them. “I’m a nice guy,” he drawled.
The heat in his eyes was anything but nice.
He was not nice.
He was unbelievably physical, and the chemistry with him had been mind blowing. Just kissing him had been the most raw, the most sensual encounter she’d ever had, and she would have given him everything within an hour of walking out of Grey’s with him.
It’d been so hot and electric that if he’d wanted to take her in the diner kitchen, she wouldn’t have stopped him. If she’d had her way, they would have just done it there...up against a wall, her jumpsuit down around her ankles, her hands fisted in his hair...
She’d loved Lewis but never, in all her life, had Lewis made her feel the way Dillon made her feel....hot, wild, wanton.
It was a good thing they never made it into her bedroom. God only knows what would have happened in there.
The heat washing through her receded, replaced by icy cold and a sickening weight in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t look at Dillon anymore. Didn’t want to continue this conversation. There was no point in extending her humiliation.
“Thank you again,” she said, her hand pressing slightly on Tyler’s shoulder, steering him towards the house.
It wasn’t until they’d taken several steps up the walk that she realized he was missing his backpack. But not just his backpack. His glasses, too. Expensive much-needed prescription glasses. “Where are your glasses, Tyler?”
His head sank lower. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe in his book bag?” Dillon suggested.
She glanced back at Dillon, who stood planted on her sidewalk, holding her son’s backpack by a shoulder strap and watching her with those intense gold eyes.
For a moment there was just silence, and a strange prickling energy zig-zagging between them.
She swallowed quickly, and went back towards Dillon to take the backpack, before returning to her son’s side. “Are your glasses in here, Tyler?”
Tyler shook his head.
“Where are they then?”
He reached up to dab at his bloody nose. “I don’t know.”
Paige didn’t understand any of this. Tyler didn’t fight, or get into fights. He was serious about school and science and what some kids would call “nerdy things”, but he’d never minded the label, or t
he teasing. He had a mind of his own and a strong sense of self. So what was going on? “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“The one boy. Sam. He took them.”
“What did Sam do with them?”
Tyler hung his head. “I don’t know.”
“What’s Sam’s last name?”
“Milk.”
Paige’s eyebrow shot up. “Milk?”
“Melk,” Dillon said shortly, his deep voice low.
Paige glanced back at him. “You know a family named Melk?”
“I went to school with a Sam Melk. Pretty sure this kid is his son. I’ll go get the glasses for you.”
“You don’t want to do that—”
“Sure, I do.”
And with that, Dillon was gone, walking away from them, heading for his truck.
Dillon was glad to get in his truck and go, driving away from Paige’s house with a sense of purpose.
He needed a purpose. A quest. Something to get the picture of Paige and Tyler out of his head.
She looked as if she had the entire world on her shoulders. She looked scared and stressed and he hated that.
He hated that her worry worried him.
He hated that he knew just enough about her to feel concern. To care.
Dillon preferred not to care because he didn’t know how to do anything halfway. He was either all in, or out, but he couldn’t just do a little bit...couldn’t care just a little bit. He was a man with strong convictions which is why he tried so hard to stay on the outside. Better to not get involved, and tangled up, because once he did commit, he didn’t give up, didn’t walk away.
So retrieving Tyler’s glasses was a great excuse to go, escape, do something positive that had nothing to do with being close to Paige. Because as beautiful as she was, as interesting and smart and sweet as he knew her to be, he wasn’t the one she needed. The one she needed would stay here in Marietta and be here for her, and the kids, and he wasn’t going to do that. He couldn’t give up Tutro for her. He wouldn’t give up Tutro for anyone.
He’d done that once, and good or bad, he wouldn’t do it again.
Paige spent the next half hour cleaning up Tyler, washing off blood and soothing scrapes and applying ice packs so she had no time to think of anything but her son, and how upset she was that a boy who was older, and bigger, would beat up Tyler.
It wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair. Not that life was always fair. But still. It was deeply upsetting to see Tyler lying spent on the family room sofa with his face all bruised and swollen.
But at least Tyler was quiet and calm, and Addison had finished her homework. Paige had time to think about dinner.
As well as time to think of Dillon.
She shouldn’t think about Dillon.
Paige pulled beef from the refrigerator, set it on the cutting board and went in to check on Tyler once more.
But he was fine. He’d found his laptop and was turning it on.
She returned to the kitchen and somehow she was thinking of Dillon.
She gave her head a swift shake. Thank goodness he was leaving town tomorrow. She’d feel better once he was gone. She wouldn’t have to deal with any more phone calls from her concerned best friends, wondering if she was okay, and if there was anything she wanted to talk about...
Yes, she’d told both McKenna and Taylor, and no. She was fantastic and there was nothing new or interesting to share.
Thank goodness both had dropped the topic but she couldn’t help rolling her eyes at their concern. Would they have been as worried if it hadn’t been a Sheenan?
Probably. But knowing it was a Sheenan couldn’t have helped.
Chapter 9
It wasn’t hard to find Sam Melk’s office on Main Street. Sam had gone to work for his father’s residential real estate company a couple years ago with a vision for the future: buy available and struggling Paradise Valley ranches, subdivide them into mini-ranches, and sell these ranchettes to affluent city folks who fantasized about owning a piece of rugged Montana.
Melk Realty wasn’t the first to chop up pastures and farms in Paradise Valley, and wouldn’t be the last, but it still rankled old ranching families that some of the best grazing land was going to folks who didn’t care about cattle, horses, or Montana’s history.
Dillon had made a point of avoiding the controversy surrounding the development of Paradise Valley. When he left Montana for college, he knew he was pretty much gone for good. He’d come back only to tide things over, but in working the ranch these past three years, he’d developed a bond with the ranch that he hadn’t felt before.
Fortunately, Trey was back and committed to Sheenan Ranch, so the family spread was protected. Hopefully, it was protected. He’d hate to see the ranch go the way so many others had gone.
Parking his truck on Main Street, he pocketed his keys, walking north a block, passing Java Café, where Lucy was clearing a window table and spotting him, smiled and waved.
He smiled back, and crossed the street before the light, knocking snow, salt and ice from his boots before pushing open the door to Melk Realty.
It might be thirty degrees outside with a good gusty wind, but the real estate office’s reception was toasty warm, glowing with rich woods, bronze art pieces, and sleek, subtle lighting. Dillon was all too aware that the expensive designer touch was not for the locals house hunting, but for tourists who’d wandered in, smitten with the idea of owning a bit of Marietta’s historic charm or one of the ranches lining Paradise Valley.
The front desk was empty when he opened the door but seconds later a beautiful blonde emerged from a back office, eyes lighting as she spotted Dillon.
“Hey, stranger,” Charity Wright said, grinning. “What brings you in? Not thinking of selling the ranch, are you?”
Charity was the middle Wright sister and a couple years younger than Dillon. He knew Jenny best—she was just a year older than he—she had married champion bullrider, Colton Thorpe, last year.
“No,” he answered emphatically, popping open the thick snaps on his heavy sheepskin coat. “How long have you been working here? I thought you worked for Stan Joplin?”
“I did. But he sold his business. He’s heading back to Missoula.”
“Really? Why?”
She gave him a pointed look.
And then Dillon got it.
Stanley had been engaged to McKenna Douglas and had a big Christmas wedding planned, but then Trey returned to town the day before the wedding, and showed up at St. James, interrupting the service, and more or less kidnapping McKenna and their five-year-old son, TJ, from the church, leaving Stanley to deal with the shocked guests, and his broken dreams, on his own.
If you didn’t know Trey, you’d say it wasn’t one of his finer moments. But if you did know him, you’d know he had no choice. McKenna was his soulmate. He had to fight for her. He’d had no choice.
“I feel bad for Stan,” he said.
Charity sighed and shuffled papers. “He knew she didn’t love him. He knew she still loved Trey. He told me that several times.
“But he went for it anyway. That takes guts.”
“Hmph. Maybe.” She folded her hands on the stack of papers. “So, what brings you in? Which of the Melks did you want to see?
“Sam.”
“Sam Jr. or Sam Sr.?”
“The one Jenny and I went to school with.”
“Jr.”
Dillon hesitated. “Does Sam Jr. happen to have a son?”
“Two. Sam III and Cole.”
“How old are they?”
“Sam’s 10...I think he’s in 5th grade, and Cole’s just a baby, preschool, I think.”
“Great. Thanks. And yes, I’d like to see Sam Jr.”
Paige was in the middle of making dinner when the doorbell rang. She turned down the heat beneath the bubbling stroganoff, and headed for the front door, glancing out the living room window on the way, spotting Dillon’s truck parked at the curb.
Her p
ulse did that funny little flutter whenever she saw him, and she groaned, exasperated by her reaction. And yet she honestly couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to feel this crazy rush of adrenalin every time he was around. It just happened.
Once in the entry hall, she could see his shadowy shape through the beveled glass panes of her front door, and she sucked in a quick, nervous breath. He was so tall out there on her porch, his black head tipped, hiding his square jaw. But even with his head down, he was rugged. Masculine. Appealing.
She hated that she still found him appealing. Hated that she’d been expecting his return for much of the evening, and it’d been a battle of nerves and anxiety. And that breathless race of excitement.
That breathless fluttery thing was the problem. It would be so much easier dealing with him if she simply didn’t care. She could shift him into the friend zone if her body didn’t come to life every time she was around him. Instead, Dillon Sheenan made her body hum and her skin tingle, sensitive.
Get a grip, Paige, she told herself sternly, reaching for the knob and opening the door.
The front porch on her Victorian wasn’t small but he made it feel tiny, dwarfing the space with his height—he was so very tall—and big frame. It wasn’t just his coat that made him look broad through the shoulders. He was built underneath the coat...and shirt...thick shoulders and chest, flat abs, dense muscle.
“Any success?” she asked, tucking her hands behind her back, hoping to hide the fact that she was trembling. Silly to be so jittery. She was eight years his senior, supposedly a mature woman. She needed to act mature, not like a kid.
He drew a pair of glasses from his coat pocket and held them up so she could see how the bridge had been neatly wrapped with a thin strip of duct tape. “They were broken. I’m sorry. But I did superglue it first. Hopefully it will get Tyler through until you can order new frames.”
“Where were they?”
“In the snow. Sam III led me straight to them.”
“And they were already broken?”
“Yeah.”
“Not good.”
“Has Tyler told you anything?”
“No.” Paige took the glasses from him and glanced down at the pair. Dillon had done a good job putting the frames together. “But these are definitely wearable. Thank you.”
