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But now, when he wanted to claim his paternity, he couldn't. He couldn't be granted the privilege of acknowledging the child he had created with the woman he loved, had always loved.
God played dirty pool.
Tell her, tell her now, a voice deep inside him whispered.
He wanted to. Lord, how he wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her that she had no reason to cry. He wanted to proclaim that he loved her and his child—yes, his child—and promise her that for as long as he lived he would take care of both of them. Selfishly that was what he wanted to do.
But he couldn't. Learning she was pregnant had been devastating enough for her. He couldn't bring her more misery by telling her that the father of the child wasn't who she thought he was.
For now, he had to be satisfied with being her friend.
"Crying won't help, Jenny." He passed her a handkerchief. She blotted her eyes and glanced around self-consciously. They had the small coffee shop to themselves. Hazel was engrossed in a movie star magazine.
"Everyone will think I'm trash. And Hal…" She bowed her head at the thought of what people would think of the young minister now.
"No one will think Jenny Fletcher is trash." Cage twirled the straw in his Coke, already feeling guilty for the way he was about to manipulate her. He cleared his throat. "I didn't know you and Hal had that kind of relationship."
"We didn't." She spoke so softly he had to lean across the table in order to hear her. "Not until the night before he left."
She raised her head to find him studying her intently. His unwavering attention made her even more uncomfortable about the subject they were discussing, and when she began speaking again, her voice faltered. "Remember you told me I should try to stop him from going? Well, I tried," she said with a shaky little laugh. "But it didn't work."
"What happened?" Cage was finding it hard to speak past the lump in his throat. But he wanted to know what she felt about that night. It wasn't fair to goad her into talking about it like this, but he had to know.
"He went upstairs with me. I…" She lowered her gaze and drew in a tremulous little breath. "I pleaded with him not to go. He wouldn't be swayed. Then I tried to lure him into bed. But he left me."
"Then I don't understand—"
"He came back awhile later and we … we made love."
Several moments ticked by while neither of them spoke, each lost in his own thoughts. Jenny was remembering that burst of joy she had felt when the door opened and she had seen Hal's silhouette against the narrow strip of light. Cage was recalling the same thing, only, from his perspective. Jenny sitting up in bed, her face awash with tears.
"That was the first time you ever…"
"The first and only. I never believed that a woman could become pregnant from one time." She plucked at the paper napkin growing soggy beneath her sweating glass. "I was wrong."
"Was it good for you, Jenny?" Her eyes flew up to meet his. "I mean, if you were a virgin," he improvised quickly, "didn't it hurt?"
"A little, at first." She smiled in a secretive, Mona Lisa way that made Cage's heart constrict. Then she looked him square in the eye. "It was wonderful, Cage. The best thing that's ever happened to me. I've never felt that kind of closeness to another human being. And no matter what happens, I'll never regret what I did that night."
Now it was his turn to drop his gaze. He felt dangerously close to tears. Emotion churned in his throat. His loins were thick with it. He wanted to hold her against him, to feel her body soft and warm against his. He longed to confess that he understood exactly how she felt because it had been the same for him.
"You must be about—"
"Almost four months," she supplied.
"And you haven't had any unpleasant symptoms?"
"Now that I know I'm pregnant, I recognize them. I wasn't looking for them before. I've been tired and listless. Right after we came back from Monterico I lost some weight, but I've gained it back. My breasts—" She stopped midsentence, glancing up at him modestly.
"Go on, Jenny," he coached softly. "Your breasts what?"
"They, uh, they've been tender and tingling sort of, you know?"
He grinned lopsidedly. "No. I don't know."
She laughed. "How could you know?" It felt good to laugh, but she covered her mouth. "I can't believe I'm laughing about something this serious."
"What else can you do? Besides, I think it's cause for celebration, not tears. It's not every day a man brings in an oil well and learns he's going to be a … an uncle."
