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At that thought, he started. He wasn’t falling in love! Hell, at best what he felt for Katie Kinkaid was lust. And what did it matter if he let Sorenson know the truth? The man had a right to meet his grandkid, didn’t he? Of course he did. Luke kicked out his chair, grabbed his hat from a peg near the door and walked outside to the landing where the sultry evening air was so thick it seemed to weigh against his skin.
Somewhere over the mountains, thunder rumbled, and he thought about his livestock at the ranch. He’d better check on the horses and cattle, then return to town.
To Katie.
His gut clenched when he thought of leaving her that morning in her bathrobe. He’d wanted to stay, to carry her back to the bedroom and finish what he’d started on the night of Bliss Cawthorne’s marriage. It had been five or six days since then, and the image of her lying on the bed, the shimmering blue gown peeled down to her waist, her gorgeous breasts exposed and crowned with rosy nipples, had haunted him. Day and night. He’d cruised by her house since then, telling himself that he was checking to see that no one was lingering in the shadows of her cottage, that no intruder was hell-bent on breaking in, that he was only checking on her.
And he’d called. Asked her about Josh’s ankle and if she’d had any more hang-ups, or if she’d changed the locks. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t really any of his business, but he knew that it wasn’t his concern that bothered her; it was the unspoken current that existed between them, the passion that they both tried to ignore, that caused her tongue to lash out.
He could break down and knock on her door. Use the same excuse he’d used the other night, about the potential prowler. And they’d end up in bed; they wouldn’t be able to stop themselves. But he knew it was a sham, a pretense to see her again.
Trying to convince himself that he’d been overreacting—that no one had been observing them at the hotel the night of the Lafferty wedding, that nothing in her house had been out of place and no one had broken in, that the phone calls she’d received were just a rash of wrong numbers—he climbed down the outside staircase.
The main house was nearly empty; a moving van had carted off most of Tiffany Santini’s belongings the day before. Boxes, crates and sacks were piled on the back porch, and the windows were dark. Soon, Katie and Josh would be moving in. It calmed him somehow, to think that she’d be near. Sure, there’d be hell to pay because he knew himself well enough to realize that he’d use any reason to get close to her, any excuse to get her into bed with him.
“Damn it all to hell.” What was it about that woman that made him want to protect her one minute and make love to her the next?
As he crossed the dry, yellowed lawn he noticed that the sky was dark, thick with swollen-bellied clouds that blocked the sun. He made his way to the truck just as the first fat raindrops began to fall. Inside the cab it was hot, breathless. He opened the windows, shoved the rig into reverse and squinted as rivulets of rain slithered through the film of dust that covered his windshield. He wouldn’t think of Katie right now; but sooner or later, he’d have to deal with her.
* * *
“I don’t believe you.” Josh, half lying on the rumpled sheets of his bed, stared at his mother with wide-eyed disgust.
Katie cringed. “It’s true. Why would I lie?”
“But you did. You lied.”
“And now I’m telling you the truth,” she said, dying a little inside. “Dave Sorenson is…your father.” She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the yearbook from her days in high school. “I’d always thought there would be more time. That when you were older… Oh, Josh, I made a horrible mistake.” Her voice was thick, her throat nearly closed. “Your dad and I…” How could she explain a short-term love affair to a boy who wasn’t yet eleven? “We were just kids, and he moved away. By the time I knew I was pregnant with you, he was already gone and, I think, dating some other girl in his new town.” She pointed to Dave’s senior-class picture. He looked so young, so boyish, and yet he’d been her first love. “I’m sure he would have loved you a lot, but he never knew about you.”
“Because you lied.”
“Yes.” She bit her lip and fought the urge to break down and sob like a baby. “Yes.”
“You should have told me.”
She
felt as if she’d been stabbed through the heart. Of course she should have. “I know.”
He swallowed hard and folded his arms over his chest. Thrusting out his chin, he demanded, “Are you gonna send me to him or is he comin’ here, or what?”
“No,” she said, summoning every bit of courage she could muster. “He can’t. Not anymore. He died…a few months ago, I guess…and I didn’t know it. He was in the military. There was a helicopter accident while they were on maneuvers and…and he didn’t survive.”
Josh gasped, and his face, tanned from the summer sun, turned a sickly chalky shade. Tears filled his eyes.
“I don’t believe you,” he said again.
“It’s true.”
“How do you know?”
“A friend…he told me.” For the first time she considered the fact that Luke could have been mistaken or lied, and she mentally kicked herself for not checking it out herself. She was a reporter, for God’s sake. She knew better than to take someone’s word. She spent days double-checking sources, and yet this time, she’d taken Luke’s story about Dave as if it were Gospel from the Bible.
But he wouldn’t have lied.
“You shoulda told me. Told him about me,” Josh said.
“As I said, I’m sorry, Josh.” She sniffed, as tears drizzled down her cheeks. “So sorry.”
