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He picked up the receiver, heard a click and a dial tone, and set his jaw.
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nbsp; Damn Harley Taggert. Damn Kane Moran. And goddamn the truth, whatever the hell it was.
Two
“It’s not fair! We shouldn’t have to move. We didn’t do anything wrong. We’re not the perverts!” Sean glowered at his mother, his eyes partially hidden by his shaggy hair, his jaw tight and strong. A spattering of freckles bridged his nose despite his summer tan. Rebellion radiated from him in indignant waves, and his hands opened and closed into fists of frustration. In the glimmer of a moment he looked so much like his father, Claire wanted to fold him into her arms and never let go.
“It’s just better this way.” She dumped the contents of the top drawer of her dresser onto the bed and stuffed her socks and underwear into an empty cardboard box, all the while wishing she believed her own words. The pain would eventually go away—it always did—but it would take time. Lots of time.
“Dad’s the one who should be leaving!” Sean slumped onto a packing crate and frowned through the open bedroom window to the gnarled apple tree, where a tire swing swayed slightly in the breeze. The old whitewall was suspended by a fraying, blackened rope, a sad reminder of her children’s youth and innocence; innocence that had recently been destroyed. The kids hadn’t used the swing in years, and thin yellow grass had finally grown back in the ridges where their sneakers had once scuffed the earth bare. But that seemed eons ago, in a time when Claire had convinced herself that she and her small family were content, that the sins of the past would never invade their lives, that she could find happy-ever-after in this sleepy little Colorado town.
How wrong she’d been. She slammed the empty drawer shut and started working on the next with a vengeance. The sooner she was out of this room, this house, the whole damned town, the better.
Standing, Sean fidgeted and shoved his hands into the ragged back pockets of cutoffs that looked as if they might at any moment slip off his slim hips. “I hate Oregon.”
“It’s a big state—a lot of country to hate.”
“I won’t stay.”
“Sure you will.” But she detested the sound of determination in his voice. “Grandpa’s there.”
He made a deprecating sound of disdain.
“I might have a job there.”
“As a substitute teacher. Big deal.”
“It is. We can’t stay here, Sean. You know that. You’ll adjust.” She glanced up to the dusty mirror, where she could see his reflection, tall and muscular, a few hairs beginning to sprout over his upper lip and chin. Defiance edged the corners of his mouth and his jaw, once soft with childhood, had begun to take the hard, forceful shape of a man’s.
“All my friends are here. And Samantha, what about her? She doesn’t even understand what’s going on.”
Neither do I, son. Neither do you. “I’ll explain it to her someday.”
He snorted in disbelief. “What’re you gonna tell her, Mom? That her freak of a dad was balling a girl only a few years older than her?” Sean’s voice was a harsh, disbelieving whisper. “That he was screwing my girlfriend?” He hooked his thumb to his chest. “My goddamned girlfriend!”
“Stop it!” She tossed her nightgowns into the box with her socks. “There’s no reason to swear.”
“Like hell! There’s plenty of reasons. Admit it. This is why you finally divorced Dad after all those years of separation, isn’t it? You knew!” His face had turned scarlet, his eyes filled with tears that he wouldn’t shed. “You knew and you didn’t tell me!”
Fury and humiliation burned through Claire, and she stepped over to the door and shut it so that the latch clicked softly. “Samantha’s only twelve; she doesn’t need to know that her father—”
“Why not?” Sean demanded, angling up his chin. “Don’t you think she’s heard things—all our dirty little secrets, from her friends?” Then he smiled without a trace of humor and shook his head. “Oh, that’s right, she doesn’t have any, does she? Lucky for her. Then she doesn’t have to listen to ’em tell her that her old man’s a perverted rapist—”
“Enough!” Claire cried, her voice strangled as she shoved hard on the second drawer of her bureau and it shut with a bang. “Don’t you think this bothers me? He was my husband, Sean. I know you’re hurting, you’re embarrassed and mortified, but so am I.”
“So you’re running away. Like a chicken-shit dog with her tail tucked between her legs.”
So cynical for one so young. She grabbed him by both of his shoulders, her fingers digging into his muscles, her head tilted back so she could look squarely into his angry young face. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again! Your father made mistakes, lots of them and . . .” She saw the wounded look in his eyes and something inside of her broke—a fragile dam she’d tried so hard to erect. “Oh, Sean.” Folding his stiff unforgiving body into her arms, she wanted to break down and cry. But falling apart wouldn’t do any good.
She whispered, “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. So sorry.” Sean remained immobile in her embrace, a statue who didn’t dare hug her back. Slowly she released him.
“It’s not your fault, is it? You . . . you didn’t drive him to—” He looked away, bright color climbing up his neck.
The insinuation ricocheted through her brain. She’d asked herself the same question a thousand times over. Was she not woman enough to keep her man? Her man. What a joke! Deep inside she knew that what had happened wasn’t her fault. She only wished she’d seen it coming so that the ugly accusations, the whispered rumors, the dark soul-scraping pain hadn’t blind-sided her children. All her adult life she’d only wanted to protect them. “Of course not,” she answered shakily. “I know this is hard for you. Believe me, it’s hard for me, too, but I think it’s best for all of us—you, me, and Samantha—if we start over somewhere.”
“We can’t hide.” His gaze was hard and had seen far too much for his tender age. “It’ll catch up to us. Even in some little backwater town in friggin’ Oregon.”
