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A gust of wind blew a clump of hair over Claire’s eyes, and she tossed her head in order to see him more clearly. “So this is good-bye?” An ache deep in her soul began to throb.
“Yep.”
Forcing a smile she didn’t feel, she said, “Good luck.”
“I don’t depend on luck.”
Her heart kicked, and though she knew she was making a stupid mistake that she’d regret later, she crossed the short distance separating them, leaned over, and brushed her lips across his cheek. “Take a little with you anyway.”
She straightened and he swallowed hard. Behind the reflective lenses of his sunglasses, his eyes bored into hers. The world, for one short second, seemed to stop, and the sounds of the ocean pounding the shore, car engines thrumming, seagulls screaming, and the wind rushing, muted for the span of one life-altering heartbeat. She tried to smile, fai
led, and felt a tear slide from the corner of her eye.
“I’ll miss you,” he said, and for a second she was certain he’d wrap his long fingers around her nape and draw her head down to his so that his lips would melt against hers.
“I—I’ll miss you, too.”
A muscle worked overtime in the corner of his jaw as he stared at her. “Take care of yourself, and if Taggert ever so much as lifts one finger . . . oh, hell.” He twisted his wrist, the bike revved, and he popped the clutch, roaring down the promenade before jumping the curb and spinning around a corner.
“Oh, God,” she whispered and sank onto the rock wall. What was she doing? Did she really love Harley Taggert? Then why, oh, why, did her pulse leap every time she heard Kane Moran’s name? Why did he, dressed in black leather and riding a huge motorcycle, invade her dreams and touch her as intimately as any lover? Why, when she’d professed to love Harley with all her heart and soul until her dying day, did a pain rip through her at the thought that she’d never see Kane again.
Pounding her fist against her thigh, she saw the diamond on her ring finger, a diamond that was supposed to mean forever, and she felt sick inside. The horrible truth of the matter was that she couldn’t marry Harley, not when she was so confused, not when she had any doubts. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood and slowly, knowing she was about to make the single most important decision of her life, she removed her engagement ring. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a movement near the dunes, the flutter of stringy brown hair, but when she looked the image had disappeared, and she decided her mind was playing tricks on her, that she’d seen a sandpiper, or seagull, nothing more.
Fighting tears, and silently cursing herself for her wayward thoughts, she tucked the ring into the pocket of her jeans and told herself that she would meet Harley to break the engagement.
Though she hated the thought of facing him, she had no choice. Tonight, she thought, as storm clouds gathered over the Pacific. She’d tell him tonight.
Twenty
The letter was waiting for her when Miranda walked into the house. In the stack of junk mail, magazines, and bills strewn on the table in the foyer, there was a plain white envelope, the address typed as if on an old standard typewriter, the postmark Vancouver, British Columbia. “Hunter,” she said softly, feeling a mix of fear and elation as she tore open the envelope and extracted the single white page. It, too, had been typed with only Hunter’s signature at the bottom to indicate that it was personal.
With trembling fingers and a thumping heart she leaned against the wall for support. He was in British Columbia working for Taggert Logging. Weston had given him a job out of the country when things got a little tense. He felt like a heel for walking out on her and the baby, but honestly believed she would be better off with someone who was from her station in life, someone who could give her and her child everything they wanted; everything they deserved. He loved her and she would always hold a special place in his heart, but he couldn’t face the responsibilities of being a husband and father.
She crumpled the note in her hands and clenched her lips together so that she wouldn’t cry out loud. How could this have happened? Didn’t he love her? He’d said they’d get married, that they would work things out.
You know that I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you . . . I’d always hoped that there was a chance for us . . . Miranda Holland, will you be my wife?”
He’d wanted to marry her, hadn’t he? Or had he felt cornered—trapped? He’d never said he loved her and had only proposed when she’d told him about her pregnancy.
This—the baby—wasn’t part of my plan.
She squeezed her eyes shut but still the tears drizzled down her face. Was it possible that she’d been so blind, so caught up in her own dreams that she’d ignored his? She swiped at her face, sniffling loudly and thinking of the rumors racing through town like a wildfire, that he’d gotten some girl—some fourteen-year-old girl pregnant. Could that have been true as well? Wrapping her arms around her belly, she rocked, as if to comfort her unborn child as well as herself. “It’ll be all right,” she said, not believing a word of the lie. Even Hunter’s own stepfather didn’t trust him, not really . . . but, oh, how she loved him, and this painful ache in her heart felt as if it would tear her apart.
Stretched across her bed, Paige touched the charred scrap of paper with gentle fingers. As near as she could tell the legal document was the remains of a birth certificate, but the curled, blackened edges made it hard to piece together. Weston, in a fit of fury, had tried to burn it, as if it were threatening or vile. But why? Who were the people listed and what did they have to do with her older brother?
A boy had been born in August twenty years earlier to Margaret Potter. Who was she? Everything else, other than the name of the hospital where the birth took place, had burned away.
Paige had spent hours trying to puzzle it out, but couldn’t figure why Weston cared. It had to be important, so Paige tucked the little scrap of paper back where it belonged in the slit of her panda bear, near her other prized and secret possessions.
The phone rang and Paige picked up just as someone else in the house took the call. She listened to find out who it was and she heard Weston’s curt, “Hello.”
“Hi.” A woman’s voice—soft, as if she’d been crying. For a second Paige thought it might be Kendall, but that was crazy. Why would Kendall be calling Weston?
“What do you want?”
“To see you.”
A pause.
