Shared Secrets

by Pam Mantovani

  Shared Secrets

  Pam mantovani

  For Pat Van Wie

  who introduced herself to a stranger

  and became a cherished friend

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Other Titles By Pam Mantovani

  About Pam

  Chapter 1

  “I’ve come to take my son home.”

  “It’s not going to happen, Lucas. Not tonight.”

  Lucas Black stared at Sheriff Morgan, the knot in his stomach pulling tighter. He worried about Micah and how his eighteen-year-old son was handling the confinement. Hell, he wondered how any boy, or a grown man for that matter, would deal with being thrown in jail based on the claim of someone you believed was a good friend.

  Lucas took a step closer.

  “You know these charges—”

  “I know you’re close to the edge at the moment,” Ray Morgan interrupted. The sheriff hooked his thumbs on the belt holding his gun and stared at Lucas long and hard enough to have him retaking the step back. Contrary to the small-town sheriff stereotype, Morgan was as thin at forty as he’d been as a twenty-year-old rookie.

  “What I know and only what I know,” Ray Morgan said, “is the responding officer arrived at the Whitfield house, where Reverend Whitfield accused your son, Micah Black, of assaulting his daughter, Rebecca Whitfield. When questioned, the girl agreed Micah was the one responsible for her bruises, split lip, and torn clothes.” He shook his head to stop Lucas from interrupting, from protesting again. “She claims Micah raped her.”

  Lucas closed his hands into fists to fight off the nausea. Assault had been bad enough, but rape? God, even if Micah was found innocent, this was the kind of dark shadow that would follow him the rest of his life.

  “This is different from a few years ago, Lucas.”

  Lucas bit back his temper. It wouldn’t do Micah any good for him to lose his temper with the sheriff. He drew in a deep breath.

  “Micah would never do this to Rebecca. For God’s sake, Ray, he’s practically the only friend the girl has.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucas, but with it being Sunday, my hands are tied. Until he’s arraigned on Monday and posts bail, he has to stay here.”

  Lucas knew there were others watching, some openly and those who tried to give him the pretense of privacy. It brought back bitter memories of being a boy younger than Micah trying to get his old man out of jail. Ray Morgan had been just shy of completing his rookie year on the force the last time Lucas had to find a way to manage that thankless task. The difference was then Lucas bailed out his old man to try and hide his shame.

  Now, if there were any way possible, he would take Micah’s place.

  “Ray, you know how Micah is, how he hates being confined. In the past you let him go home with me rather than stay in a cell.”

  “Don’t ask for a favor I can’t give. I’ve done as much as I can by putting him in a cell by himself. Like I said, this is different from any of the other past trouble Micah got into. Factor in Reverend Whitfield being on the scene at the time and his influence—”

  “Not to mention the way he’s held a grudge against Micah since his son’s death,” Lucas cut in. “I was going to call Brock Ellis, but he’s a deacon at Whitfield’s church.” He hunched his shoulders, hating he was in the position of having to ask. “Is there any other attorney you’d recommend?”

  “You’re going to want someone who isn’t prejudiced by Micah’s juvenile record. Your best bet is to look outside the county.”

  Half an hour later his heart fisted in his chest when a guard led Micah into the room divided by a series of Plexiglas partitions. Father and son sat at their respective stations and stared at each other while reaching for the phones that would provide their only means of contact. Lucas would have sold his soul to be able to give his son a reassuring touch.

  Micah certainly looked as if he needed one. His face was ashen, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyes were glazed with a combination of disbelief and fear. The required orange jumpsuit strained against the muscles Micah had worked to develop. Lucas looked at his son, saw the hours and hours of sweat and dedication—and worried what the jury would think when they saw his bulk and obvious strength. Especially if tiny and timid Rebecca took the stand.

  “I didn’t do it, Dad. I swear,” Micah said immediately.

  “I know you didn’t, son.” Lucas swallowed, his gaze roaming to the big guard standing watch in a corner.

  “Becky? Have you seen her? How is she?” Micah’s fists closed tight, the welts on his arms riding high and red on his skin. “God, she was so upset. I know she wouldn’t have acted that way with me if she hadn’t been so upset. She’s the one who called me.”

  Lucas felt his heart swell with pride even as it ached with agony. That his son could be here because of Rebecca’s claim and yet be concerned about her well-being spoke volumes about Micah’s character.

  “I haven’t heard.” It shamed Lucas to admit he hadn’t thought of Becky’s welfare, hadn’t considered how so young and sheltered a girl would handle this kind of trauma. Instead, he’d focused all his anger on her accusation.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay.” Micah swiped a shaking hand over his forehead. “At least Sheriff Morgan put me in a cell by myself.”

  “It won’t be for long, Micah.”

  His heart labored in his chest as he watched the hope come, then die in his son’s eyes. And that sense of hopelessness more than anything else convinced Lucas he had no choice. He couldn’t sell his soul or take Micah’s place in this mess, but he could put aside his pride. He would beg if that was what it took to save his son.

  “I promise,” Lucas insisted. “As soon as I leave here, I’m driving to Little Rock to ask Taylor Adams to represent you.”

  “Taylor Adams?” Micah leaned his forehead against the Plexiglas and closed his eyes.

  Lucas had a quick image of his son as an infant always burrowing his forehead against his father’s chest whenever upset or sick. He reached up, wanting to provide any comfort he could, only to have his hand flinch when he touched cold plastic. The guard standing watch lifted a hand to the gun at his hip. Lucas dropped his hand back to the tabletop.

  “Taylor will get you out of here, Micah.”

  “Dad, you don’t have a chance of even getting into the front door of Taylor Adams’ office, let alone talking her into taking my case.”

  Through the crackling reception of the telephone, he heard a near-hopeless surrender in his son’s voice and words. Lucas thought about Micah’s protest, considered it on an intellectual rather than emotional level. Taylor Adams had put herself exactly where she’d always wanted to be—a high-powered attorney who had her pick of cases. The way they’d parted all those years ago was another strike against her agreeing to his request. Still, he had no choice but to try.

  “Taylor and I went to high school together. We dated,” Lucas added, although the words seemed so insignificant in comparison to all they’d once meant to one another. Or what he’d mistakenly believed they’d meant to one another. Her actions said otherwise.

  “You dated Taylor Adams?”

  At any other time he would have smiled at the shock in his son’s question. “Planned to marry her.”

  “But you had to marry my mom instead,” Micah said after a beat of silence.

  “That’s right.”

  Lucas never looked away from his son,
just as he’d never lied to Micah about the circumstances that had led to his birth. He wouldn’t start now.

  Not when the one person who could help his son was the woman who should have been Micah’s mother.

  Her daughter was missing.

  Taylor Adams DeLong worried while she imagined any number of horrible explanations for Stephanie’s absence. She paced the room, nervously chewing on a fingernail, trying to walk off the edginess as various scenarios raced through her mind. She sighed in disgust as she jerked the forefinger from between the edges of her teeth. It had been years since she’d fallen back into the habit of chewing at her fingernails when worried.

  Stephanie could be miles away by now, if she hadn’t been beaten or raped and left on the roadside by whoever took advantage of her hitchhiking thumb. She could be standing on a dark corner, falling prey to the kind of man Taylor often defended in court. Because she knew of at least a dozen more possibilities, she prayed, making promises as a desperate means of guaranteeing her daughter’s safe return.

  Hours ago, when she’d discovered Stephanie missing from her bedroom, Taylor had wanted to rush out the door and begin searching the streets herself. It had been Bryan, a family friend and co-worker, who convinced her she could make a bad situation worse if the press spotted her. Instead, Bryan went searching, and she’d been reduced to making call after call to her daughter’s friends, at least the ones she knew about. They all said they hadn’t seen Stephanie, a few commenting they hadn’t even spoken with her in weeks. Endless attempts to reach her through her cell phone went unanswered. Now, several long hours later, the odor of forgotten popcorn lingered in the air as if taunting her sense of failure.

  Not for the first time Taylor questioned if she’d made the right choice in becoming a mother. Being abandoned at age four with a broken, unset arm and no memory of her name, followed by living in multiple foster homes, hadn’t exactly prepared her for knowing how to nurture a child. How could she give what she’d never known? And yet, in her heart of hearts, she knew her life would be incomplete without her daughter.

  Since learning of her pregnancy, every decision she’d made had been with the best interests of her child in mind. Some of those decisions had been easier than others.

  If her husband, Stephen, were here now she wouldn’t have to face the turmoil of wondering where Stephanie was and what she’d gotten herself involved in. So much had changed since his death. Taylor shook her head in denial; the changes had started less than two years ago when he began the campaign to convince her they should tell Stephanie…

  The unexpected doorbell stopped her in the middle of memories best left to the past. Fear and a hundred new horrible scenes flashed through her exhausted brain. When she reached the front door, Taylor paused to look through the peep-hole.

  Shock bolted through her.

  In the space of one frozen heartbeat, she wondered if fatigue and worry caused her to hallucinate. She wondered if her involuntary near-trip into the past had conjured up what she prayed was the result of an over-anxious mind. Her hand nearly slipped off the doorknob before she managed to tighten her grip and open the door.

  It wasn’t a state trooper informing her of a car accident similar to the one that had killed her husband. It wasn’t a drunken or angry Stephanie. Instead, it was a heart-stopping vision from her past, one that had never been entirely erased from her mind.

  “Lucas.” The name came out in a whisper, but the emotions roaring through her were near deafening. “Is that really you?”

  He stepped forward, the porch light fully illuminating him. More often than she would admit Taylor had dreamt of seeing him again. Only in those dreams she had been calm and serene. Fully in control of the situation and her emotions. Now she felt light-headed, unsteady at the sight of him.

  Of course, her emotions would be turbulent upon seeing him, they had been from their first meeting. Wasn’t that sense of being out of control, knowing she’d give him anything and everything, one reason she’d run from him? Only one reason, a part of her now demanded she admit.

  Panic, first and foremost, had her wanting to slam the door. Longing, despite the separation of more than eighteen years, had her wanting to step into the sanctuary that had been his embrace. Then she felt the agony of remembered heartbreak at going to see him all those years ago—when her fears and worries had so desperately needed the shelter of his arms and love—only to learn of his recent marriage.

  Lucas shouldered past her without waiting for an invitation. Taylor frowned. The Lucas Black she remembered, the one she had fallen in love with, would never have been so impatient. Impatience had been her hallmark.

  She brought up a hand and brushed at her bangs before closing the door and turning to face him.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said, his chin tilting at an angle. An angle she knew so well.

  Taylor’s shoulders jerked in surprise, and her stomach rolled into an icy ball at his words. Quickly, she swept all the fear and panic behind a calm curtain. The way she’d been coached to behave. Lucas couldn’t know. Stephen had made sure no one would ever know.

  “I wouldn’t have come,” Lucas pressed when she remained silent. “If I’d had any other option. I know I’m probably the last person you want on your doorstep, but this is important, Taylor.”

  “Lucas.” She paused and her gaze darted to the door before it returned to him. “Now really isn’t a good time for me.”

  “It’s not the best time for me either, but I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”

  “You’re the one showing up on my doorstep in the middle of the night,” she said, gritting her teeth to regain some semblance of calm. “Don’t tell me what I have to do.”

  His shoulders slumped a fraction. “Taylor.” His voice gentled, oh so similar to how it had sounded when they’d shared an incredible night. One single night before she ran from him. “Please, I’m desperate. I don’t know where else to go.”

  They stared at one another a moment longer before Taylor took a small step backward. The kind of worry haunting his gaze had no connection with her greatest fear. She’d seen countless versions of this kind of worry in courtroom after courtroom.

  “Why don’t we go into the den?” she suggested, painfully aware of how formal she sounded. Still, she wanted to keep this meeting on as impersonal a level as possible. Where better than the study where Stephen had handled so much business? “I’m not in the habit of conducting serious conversations in the foyer.”

  And, on the off chance that Stephanie stormed into the house and headed straight for the disaster that was her bedroom, Taylor wanted to have Lucas out of sight. She would trade a postponed confrontation with her daughter in exchange for preventing a meeting with Lucas.

  As she led him across the tiled foyer in silence, Taylor knew she should say something, ask for the explanation as to why he’d suddenly appeared on her doorstep. On tonight of all nights. All she could seem to do was steal quick looks at him, taking in the similarities and differences from the memory she’d buried deep within her heart.

  His hair was still as dark as his name, although there were now a few, fine threads of gray. It almost looked as if a woman had dipped her fingertips in paint before lovingly running them through the thick darkness. She wondered just how many women had enjoyed the intimacy of doing just that—and then chastised herself. Thinking along those lines could lead to disaster.

  He still stood head and shoulders above her five-foot-six barefoot height. He still favored a white, oxford shirt with blue jeans and boots. His body looked harder, more solid beneath the casual clothes. His shoulders were broader than she remembered. A man’s body, she realized with a small blow to her heart, not that of the twenty-year-old boy of her memories.

  Was it memory or reality that had her breathing in the rich scent of wood Lucas had always carried on him?

  It was his eyes, however, that revealed the greatest change. The dusk-dark blue didn’t glow with the calm
certainty she associated with him. In the one lingering gaze they’d shared before starting for the den, his eyes flared with a need to rush, along with the willingness to do whatever was necessary in order to achieve a goal. How well she knew those feelings.

  How well she knew how that kind of wild longing could alter a life.

  Manners had been drilled into her and came easier than her breath. “Would you care for anything to eat or drink?” she asked as they crossed the threshold of the den. “Water?” She recalled he used to drink it by the gallon—as opposed to the pints and quarts of whiskey his father drank on a daily basis.

  “No.”

  She slipped behind the lacquered bar in order to keep distance between them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just—” He scraped a hand over his face. “Punchy. Desperate.” He looked at her. “I need your help, Taylor. With a legal problem.”

  The law, she confirmed her earlier suspicion with considerable relief. He just wanted to talk about a legal matter. Simple enough to get him out of the house before Stephanie returned. From the hallway she heard the antique grandfather clock chime three times.

  “Lucas, I’m not—”

  “It’s not for me.”

  Her gaze widened when he started pacing. In the time they’d dated, she had never—not once—felt this kind of nervous energy coming from him. Apparently there were more changes to Lucas Black than simple physical ones.

  He stormed to a standstill in front of her, and she felt a huge swell of relief at having the solid barrier of the bar between them. The knuckles of his hand went white as he gripped the brass edge.

  “It’s my son, Micah, who needs your help.”

  My son.

  Even eighteen years after the fact, hearing Lucas voice the family connection was far different from hearing the news secondhand. The words sliced through Taylor’s mind with the same sharp sting as a slap to the face.