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Wyatt didn’t have time to dwell on it, but he made a mental note to figure out who the mysterious benefactor was and repay him or her. The pool of people who knew what was happening today was small, so it shouldn’t be too hard.
He filed it away as something to dwell on later.
“Did you grab Travis’s jersey?” Wyatt had plans, with Travis’ blessing, for his signed Muskegon Lumberjacks jersey.
Hudson grimaced. “Shit. I forgot. I need to pick up Rebecca and Liam in…” He glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes.”
“It’s okay. You’ve done enough. I’ll head out to the lake now and grab it.”
“All right. I’ll see you back here.”
Wyatt headed to his truck and pulled out his cell phone. He tried Regan but got her voice mail. He left a message and told her he’d see her at the arena in a couple of hours and then headed out to the lake. It was warm out—unseasonably so for mid-February—and Wyatt cranked the tunes, enjoying the sunshine and the general state of happiness in his life. He didn’t want to think about racing or Rob Tracy or anything else that could bring him down.
Today was about his pal Patrick, and he couldn’t wait to see the look on the kid’s face when he got to the arena.
Wyatt didn’t bother to knock. Hell, he might not live here anymore, but it was still a home of sorts. The house was quiet, and he paused in the foyer. “Dad?” No one answered. He knew Darlene was still on her spa vacation, and with a frown, he headed upstairs. But his father’s room was empty. The bed was rumpled, and a pair of blue boxers were on the floor. Wyatt scooped them up and tossed them into the laundry bin.
It wasn’t like his father to leave things lying around, but he didn’t think much of it. He poked his head into the bedrooms, noting that not one had changed since they’d lived here. Hell, his red, blue, and white bedding was still the same.
The kitchen showed signs of food prep. There were crumbs on the counter, and the milk had been left out. Wyatt put it back in the fridge and checked the rest of the main level, but still no John.
Huh.
He took a peek outside on the patio, but there were no footprints in the snow and again, no John Blackwell.
Wyatt headed down to the basement and heard music. It was faint, but it was coming from what used to be their games room, located down the hall from the main area that had been the hangout for the boys when they were teens.
He had a look around. Jesus, the furniture was still the same. A chuckle escaped as he strode past the purple-and-beige plaid sofa. He remembered making out with Melanie George right there on that sofa, when he was fifteen. She’d been a senior, closer to eighteen, and she’d been the first girl he’d had sex with. The entire episode had lasted maybe five minutes. He’d no sooner gotten his pants off and she’d been on him. For a young, horny guy, it was the stuff fantasies were made of, and he’d told her that he would get better. Last longer.
She’d kissed him. Let him touch her breasts again. And told him he definitely would.
Wyatt practiced a lot with Melanie that s
ummer. Had her so many times he’d lost count. Right up until the night before she left for college and broke his tender heart.
Funny. He hadn’t thought about her in years.
Wyatt tucked away the memories and opened the door to the games room. It was dim in here and looked like one of the bulbs in the track lighting was out. The pool table was gone, but the bar was still there. And sitting at it, with his back to Wyatt, was his father.
His thin shoulders were hunched forward, their bony ends emphasized by the threadbare blue T-shirt. The man still had a thick head of hair, and it glistened under the light as he turned his head. He was reading something. Or studying something.
And Johnny Cash played on. Folsom Prison Blues.
Wyatt cleared his throat, and his father froze, slowly turning in his chair until their eyes met. John’s looked huge, in part because of the thick glasses perched on the edge of his nose.
For several long moments, neither one said a word. And then John patted the chair beside him. “Come see this.” His voice was rough, as if he hadn’t used his vocal cords in a while, and Wyatt found himself moving toward him.
Wyatt stopped just behind his father, his throat tightening when he spied what it was his father was looking at. The large black scrapbook was something he hadn’t seen in years. But he knew what was in there. Photos of him and his brothers. Of John and Angel.
It was a collection of images from a time that no longer existed.
“She was so beautiful.”
Wyatt took another step forward. The picture John gazed at was of his mother at the beach. Her long hair blew in the wind. Her eyes were wide and expressive, her smile so full, it took his breath away. She was obviously pregnant, with one young son digging in the dirt and a puppy nipping at his heels.
“That’s you.” John’s finger shook as he pointed to the photo. “You were born about three weeks after I took this photo.”
“That must be Hudson.”
