by Arlene James
He took one look at the bed, closed the door and leaned against it. “Stop it.”
Steeling herself, she lunged forward and tried to push him out of the way. “I have to get my son!”
“Stop it!” he commanded again, refusing to budge. “I only want to help.” Seizing her by the upper arms, he shook her hard enough to snap her head back. “Don’t you get it? I want to help.”
She tried to push his hands away, teetering on the very edge of control. “You can’t help! No one can. I have to do it myself. That’s my only chance!”
“For what?” he demanded.
“To protect my son!”
She clapped a hand over her mouth, lest the whole ugly story fall out.
“From who? From what?” he pleaded, olive-green gaze darkened with concern and something else she’d rather not identify.
“I can’t tell you.” Too late she realized that his anger could be borne easier than his pain and disappointment, much easier than his caring. She shook her head, forced back the tears, and shut her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the emotion in his.
“Answer me one question,” he begged, dropping his hands from her. “Are you hiding from Ace’s father?”
“No! No. My husband is dead.”
Until she saw Holt’s relief, she didn’t even realize that she’d looked at him. She slammed her eyes shut again when he reached for her. As his long, strong arms folded her against him, she cried out, afraid she might shatter. For a long moment, she tried to resist his comfort and the hope it offered, but both lures proved too great. She gave up and leaned into him, weak with need.
His large, capable hand invaded her hair, pressing her head against his chest. Listening to the beat of his heart, letting the heat of his body warm her chilled, raw nerve endings, she absorbed him, from his unique, earthy scent to the strength that defined him. In that moment nothing had ever seemed more dear, more sweet, more safe.
Knowledge coalesced. She understood in a blinding flash that she had misjudged him. Holt was not like any other man she’d known, not her absent, ghostlike father, not her scheming, selfish brother, not her arrogant, egotistical father-in-law, not her shallow, self-absorbed husband. Especially not her late husband.
Addison had never argued with her about anything; neither had he consulted her, even about her own likes and dislikes, which he had ignored as blithely as he’d discounted her concerns and hurts. She’d often wondered if she mattered to him as much as his stylish wardrobe and luxury car. He’d seemed to consider her nothing more than a convenience, an adjunct to his home, which hadn’t really even been his but simply a way for his parents to keep their only son dancing to their tune.
No, Holt wasn’t anything like Addison. Not only did Holt make his own way in the world, he did it without cutting corners and worked to assure everyone in his orbit the same privilege. Including her.
What was it then that disturbed her so greatly about Holt? Something more than just the fear that he would feel morally bound to inform her in-laws of her whereabouts colored her reactions to this man.
She had her answer a moment later when he tugged her head back and kissed her.
Until that very instant, she hadn’t realized how long she’d been waiting for him to do that. When she found herself looping her arms about his neck, she understood how ardently she wanted this, how keenly she had hoped for it. Only then, as sweetness poured into her and her foolish heart sang, did she admit to herself that the problem wasn’t Holt at all.
The problem was how she felt about him.
Chapter Thirteen
I n the end she stayed simply because Holt asked it of her.
“We need you around here, Cara, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I want to stay,” she admitted shakily, not quite able to look at him after that kiss. “Just don’t ask me questions that I can’t answer, Holt, please.” She didn’t know how he’d found out that she’d faked her identity, but it hardly mattered. The only surprise, really, was that it had taken him so long.
She sat on the edge of the bed amid the strewn clothing and gazed determinedly at her hands. Holt stood beside the door, poised to exit, as if the need to touch might seize them both again unawares. She appreciated the distance and lamented it at the same time.
“Will you tell me your real name, at least?”
“No.” Then, because she somehow needed him to know, she relented as far as she was able. “Cara Kay. Cara Kay Sharp. I won’t give you my married name. Don’t ask.”
“Not Cara Jane then,” he commented in a rueful voice.
“Cara Jane was my great-aunt,” she told him, figuring he already knew. “I think I hoped by taking her full name to keep the best part of my old life and maybe even to be something like her.”
“A good woman, then.”
“The best I’ve ever known.”
“Mrs. Poersel certainly seemed fond of her.”
“They were very close.”
“She raised you,” he ventured cautiously. “Your aunt raised you?”
“Yes.” Cara winced, finding it very difficult to lie to him. “And no. She was a great influence on my life, but I only spent summers with her. From as far back as I can remember until she died.”
“Ah. That explains a lot.” He rubbed a hand over his face, seeming weary and frazzled.
“You have to understand,” she pleaded, gazing up at Holt. “Those were the best times of my childhood. They’re all that got me through the rest of it. Aunt Jane sent the bus tickets, knowing my mother was always glad to get rid of us. Mom had to keep us during the school year. Otherwise she couldn’t get the food stamps and other assistance, but in the summer we were Aunt Jane’s. I always thought of it as going home to my real life.”
His gaze seemed to turn inward. “You clung to the place and times when it all felt good, didn’t you? That’s why you came back to Oklahoma.”
She nodded, slumping forward with relief. She had wondered if he could understand, given the caliber of his own family. Yes, he’d suffered loss and tragedy, but he’d had Hap and Ryan and Charlotte and even this whole town.
Eden, indeed. She wondered if he knew how clean and whole and safe and entirely beautiful this place seemed to her, with its ever-present pump jacks sucking the black oil from the earth, its streets named for trees and flowers and the park with its grand, whimsical bridge spanning a narrow, muddy stream. The three blocks of downtown, with its circa 1930s storefronts, felt like an oasis to her, an immutable place in a world of constant change. Why, the most modern building in town seemed to be the little city hall at the north end of Garden Avenue, but she hadn’t seen the schools or any points east of Booker’s old-fashioned grocery. Old buildings were not what gave the town its sense of community, however. That came from its friendly people. What she wouldn’t give to be a real part of a town like this.
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” she told Holt in a small, wavering voice. “I don’t want to keep secrets. I’m so sorry.”
He opened the door a crack and stood staring through it for some moments before he faced her again. “Give me the driver’s license and Social Security card so I can destroy them.”
She would be trapped then. Oh, she could still run if she had to, but how would she find work? How would she support Ace?
“Give them to me, Cara,” he repeated softly. “It has to end here.”
Without further thought, she went to the bedside table and drew out her wallet, including every dollar of her savings, from the drawer. She handed over the whole thing and waited while he thumbed through it, extracted the cards and slipped them into his hip pocket before passing the wallet back to her. She snapped it closed and folded her arms.
He opened the door a little wider. “All right,” he said, just that and nothing more. Then he left her.
Cara fell onto the bed, weak with emotion. She did not know what would happen next. She had placed herself and her son in Holt Jefford’s large, capable
hands. Now she could only pray that it had been the wisest course. But really, with her heart telling her to stay and nowhere else to go, what else could she have done? When she finally dragged herself back to work, Holt had gone, and he did not return to help her that afternoon or any that followed for the rest of the week. Accepting Holt’s absence as far less than she deserved, Cara left Ace to Hap’s tender care in the afternoons and went about her business as best she could.
All else remained as it had been, with Holt and often Ryan dragging in to plant their feet beneath the dinner table, except that Holt would take himself off again as soon as he finished his meal, and Cara would pretend that her heart did not go with him.
Obviously he had said nothing to Hap or anyone else about what he’d learned, and for that she felt profound, if silent, gratitude. Just one question plagued her.
How long, she wondered, could it go on? How long before one of them broke beneath the strain?
“Hel-lo-o!”
That single word called out from the kitchen galvanized the entire dinner table. Three forks dropped and three chairs scooted back at the same time.
“My stars!” exclaimed Hap, as everyone got their feet. “It’s Charlotte!”
A slight redhead appeared in the doorway just as Ryan, whose chair stood closest to the kitchen, reached it.
“Sis!”
Grabbing her up in a bear hug, he spun with her in his arms. Charlotte Jefford Aldrich laughed, then launched herself at Holt, who caught her as easily as he might have done Ace. With much laughter, he sat her on her feet. She turned with outstretched arms to Hap.
“Granddad.”
The old man’s chin wobbled, which was all it took to make Cara’s eyes water. She’d been living on the edge of tears ever since Holt had learned of her duplicity.
After a long hug, Hap backed away, rasping, “You look fine. Marriage agrees with you.”
Beaming, Charlotte took hold of the sides of her fine, brown tweed jacket, holding them out as she might a skirt, and turned in a circle, showing off expensive jeans and a rust-colored cashmere turtleneck that perfectly matched the lining of the jacket. Cara wouldn’t have been surprised to see her decked out in satin and furs, given what she’d heard about the Aldrich fortune.
“Where’s Ty?” Ryan asked, looking past Charlotte expectantly.
“Putting our luggage in our room. Assuming it’s empty and our key still works.”
Hap snorted at that. He usually kept the room vacant just for them. He turned to Cara, waving a hand. “Charlotte, honey, this here is Cara Jane and her boy, Ace. We told you about her.”
Cringing inwardly at Hap’s use of her aunt’s full name, Cara rose as Charlotte reached a hand across the table, a smile warming her pleasant face. “Hello, Cara Ja—”
“Just Cara, please,” she interrupted. Cara Jane seemed so false now, a constant reminder of her dishonesty.
“It’s nice to meet you, Cara. I’ve heard so much about you and your son. All good.”
That made Cara want to cry again, but she just smiled weakly and returned the compliment. “Oh, it couldn’t be as good as what your brothers and grandfather have to say about you and your husband.”
Charlotte laughed and squeezed her hand. “My family’s prejudiced in that regard.” She swept her gaze over the table, lifting her eyebrows at the chicken enchilada casserole and salad that Cara had made for Friday dinner. “This looks good. Is there enough for two more?”
“There is if Holt don’t make his usual hog of himself,” Hap declared, sitting down.
Holt rolled his eyes, going for extra chairs, while Ryan dipped into the kitchen for more plates and cutlery. “Why does everybody pick on my eating habits?”
“Maybe because we all envy you,” said a newcomer, striding into the room. This had to be Tyler Aldrich, Charlotte’s husband. Handsome in a bland, well-groomed way with dark hair and pale blue eyes, he beamed at the assembled group.
Hap came to his feet again. Tyler engulfed the old man in an affectionate hug and kissed him on the cheek. Holt hurried over to drop the chairs and pump Tyler’s hand, while Ryan all but threw the plates onto the table in order to be next while Hap introduced Cara and Ace. Everyone sat down, rearranging to make room for the couple. Somehow Holt wound up sitting next to Cara, his arm balanced on the upper back edge of her chair.
Charlotte dished out meals for Ty and herself amid a babble of conversation concerning their unexpected arrival and Ty’s mother’s health.
“We thought we’d surprise you, that’s all,” Charlotte said.
“Mom’s fine,” Tyler supplied. “Scared us a bit until we figured out the problem.”
“Ty’s sister is looking out for her while we’re gone,” Charlotte added.
Ty looked at Holt meaningfully. “You wouldn’t believe how those three women gang up on me. I cannot wait to get our house built here, even if my brother is threatening to move in with us to escape Mom and sis. Speaking of which, I have the blueprints in my car.”
That launched the men into the subject of building. Charlotte, meanwhile, confided to Cara, “He doesn’t mean a word of it. He adores his family.”
Tyler pressed a kiss to her temple. “Especially you.” He went back to his discussion, forking up bites of chicken enchilada between comments. Ty sat back, apparently replete, and turned his attention to Cara. “That was very good. Thank you.”
Charlotte nodded, smiling. “I think I’ll be needing this recipe.”
“We’ll trade then,” Cara told her. “These guys are always asking for things I’ve never heard of before. What, by the way, is chicken and dumplings?”
“Chicken stewed with onions and a kind of batter that makes a rich sauce and thick lumps called dumplings,” Charlotte explained. “I put peas in mine.”
“Black-eyed peas again,” Cara muttered. Hap and Holt erupted in laughter.
“It’s green peas,” Charlotte clarified, “but what is this about black-eyed peas?”
Hap waved a hand. “Cara just happened to join us on New Year’s Eve.”
Charlotte dropped her fork. “And no doubt you made the poor girl cook that very night!”
“Believe me, it was better than the alternative,” Cara said. She flushed red the next instant. Thankfully both Holt and Hap laughed again, agreeing heartily, but that did little to ameliorate her embarrassment. “I’ll, um, just clear the table and start the dishes,” she muttered, reaching for soiled plates.
“I’ll help,” Holt announced, rising.
“That’s my job,” Ryan protested lightly from his chair.
Cara rose, shaking her head. “No, no. You two enjoy your visit with your sister. If you’ll just watch Ace for a few minutes, I can make quick work of these.”
“I’ll help you,” Holt said firmly, taking the stacked plates from her hands.
Charlotte and Ty traded looks. Then a smile spread across Ty’s face. “Lots to be said for doing dishes,” he told Holt meaningfully.
“You would know,” Holt retorted, carrying the plates into the kitchen.
Cara slid a puzzled glance around the table, took in the speculative expressions, put her head down and snatched up as many dirty dishes as she could carry before hurrying out after Holt. She found him leaning back against the counter, his big hands cupping its rolled edge. Only after she’d put in the stopper and started the water running did Holt speak.
“Ty used to wash dishes just so he could be close to Charlotte,” he informed her.
Cara’s heart thunked. “Oh.” No one had to tell her that Holt’s motives differed in regard to herself.
In confirmation of that fact, Holt softly said, “I just thought I ought to tell you not to bother servicing Number Eight while Charlotte and Ty are here. Like most newlyweds, they value their privacy.”
Cara nodded and willed away her envy. “I understand.”
As she squirted soap into the stream of running water, Holt reached beneath the sink for the scrap can, crowd
ing close. She skittered out of his way, gasping, “What are you doing?”
He turned a frown up at her. “Helping clean up.”
Cara looked at the pile of dirty dishes on the counter and shook her head. It hurt to know that he’d used this just as an excuse to caution her about maintaining the privacy of the newlyweds. No one had to tell her that he regretted that kiss. His absences had spoken volumes on that score.
“I—I’d rather you tended to Ace. He’s missed you.” She felt lower than an inchworm, using her son to get rid of Holt, even if what she’d said happened to be true.
Holt stared at her before plunking down the can on the counter and leaving the room. A moment later, she heard him exclaim, “Hey, little buddy, come along with me.”
She knew that he took Ace from his makeshift high chair and carried him into the outer room. The others soon followed, though Charlotte first popped in to offer assistance.
“Oh, no. This is what I’m paid to do,” Cara protested. “Besides, your family’s anxious to spend time with you.” After a pause, Charlotte smiled, nodded and left her.
Alone in the kitchen, it felt to Cara as if she’d lost her own place in the family, which was absurd. She’d never had a place in the Jefford family. No matter how kind the Jeffords had been, she was hired help, just as she’d told Charlotte, and that position was precarious at best.
With that in mind, as soon as Cara finished cleaning, she went to fetch her son, declaring, “Bath time.”
Ace stood on Holt’s feet, giggling happily, his tiny hands lost in Holt’s much larger ones, while Holt moved his knees up and down, pretending to march from a sitting position on the couch. Cara picked up her son, grasping him just beneath his arms. To her chagrin, as she lifted him, the boy made a grab for Holt, one hand closing in the fabric of Holt’s shirt.
