Blackbird Lake (34 page)

“
That’s
why you think Emma is yours?” she gasped, incredulous. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was only five months pregnant when I left Boston. Emma was conceived
months
after you and I broke up! That would have been a pretty fancy trick, if you were the father. One for the record books. And you hardly qualify for setting any records, not when it comes to sex, that’s for sure!”

He scrambled up then and, with an oath, tried to spring at her again—and again Jake decked him. As Giff Hurley swore and took a threatening step forward, Jake gave him a one-handed shove that sent the big man staggering backward, nearly tumbling to the ground.

“This discussion is over,” Jake said.

Carly could hardly believe she was
having
this discussion. But she wasn’t done. “I’d have had to be nearly full term when I came here if Emma was yours, Kevin! And there’s
no way
my doctor or
any
doctor would’ve let me fly that far along. That’s why I moved here when I did—so I could have time to set up my home here, find an OB-GYN, and get everything ready before my baby was born. So that she’d have a home and a mother who was settled and becoming part of this community long before she arrived. I carried big…it happens sometimes. You’re
so
not the father of my little girl.
This man
is her father. Not you.
Never you
.”

Blood oozed from his lip as he finally, a bit unsteadily,
gained his feet. “You think I believe you? A filthy lying slut who—”

“Maybe you’ll believe this.” This time when Jake’s fist shot out, it slammed into Boyd’s narrow nose. The architect went down like a tree sawed off at its base. Blood spurted from his nostrils.

“That’s enough!” the detective yelled. Swearing under his breath, he reached down a burly arm and started to haul his client up.

“No,” Jake ordered. “Leave him right there.”

Reluctantly, Hurley obeyed, releasing the other man’s arm. Boyd slumped back down, dazed and bleeding as he sprawled on the grass.

As Carly punched in the sheriff’s number and spoke quickly to Zeke Mueller, Jake stared down the detective.

“You’re the one who broke into her house yesterday. You’ve been following the babysitter. And my daughter.”

Giff Hurley looked panicked at his hard tone and the implacable anger in his face. “So what?” he said defensively. “I might have followed them a couple of times, but I never laid a hand on either of ’em, never even bothered ’em. I was just doing my job. And I didn’t break into anyone’s house. You won’t find a single print that says I did. My client claimed Ms. McKinnon stole his kid and he needed proof. I tracked her down, that’s all. Told him where she lived—that was it. Told him about the kid, yeah, anything I could. I was looking into things, trying to get the scoop without drawing any attention. I couldn’t even ask too many questions because I was afraid someone would tell the lady here and she’d make a run for it with the kid. But I never broke in. If I did that, I’d lose my license.”

Which is why you won’t admit to it,
Carly thought, stuffing her phone back in her purse after Zeke assured her they were on their way.

“I swear, it wasn’t me! I didn’t break a single law here. I can’t afford to lose my license!”

Carly almost believed him. It could well have been Kevin.

Kevin who broke in, who snooped through her bedroom.
Kevin who searched her home when the detective balked at breaking the law. She wouldn’t put it past him. But the detective had probably told him
how
to break in. A queasy chill ran through her, quickly followed by anger.

“Sheriff Hodge is on his way,” she told Jake. Then she turned to the detective. “If someone did break in, what would they have been looking for?” The man looked formidable and scuzzy, but he didn’t seem willing to get his hands dirty enough to go to jail. He shrugged at her question.

“Probably the kid’s birth certificate, to see her date of birth. Look, I’m not saying whoever did it was right, but no one should keep a man from his own kid—”

“Shut up,” Jake growled. “Emma’s not his—she’s ours. Mine and Carly’s. And you’re going to have to explain yourself to the sheriff and to a judge.”

The detective winced. He gazed back and forth between them. Maybe he was better at reading faces than at gathering information because he ran a hand across his eyes.

“Oh, crap. You’re telling the damned truth, aren’t you? You’re the dad.” He looked stunned, as if it had never occurred to him before.

From a distance, Carly heard a siren wailing. Thank God. Sheriff Hodge was on his way. Or Deputy Mueller. Or both. The siren grew louder.

“Don’t talk to her again. Not another word,” Jake warned, his cool gaze shifting from the detective to Boyd. The asshole still looked dazed. He was moaning, out of commission.

Tucking Carly’s hands in his, Jake drew her close and spoke softly.

“You okay? This will all be over soon.”

“I know.” She felt her pulse slowing as she looked into his calm, steady eyes.

“You don’t need to stay here,” he said quietly. “There’s some rope in my truck. Why don’t you get it and toss it down to me? I’ll truss up Boyd real easy before the sheriff arrives. You can wait in the cabin if you like. It might be easier on you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Jake, and it doesn’t look like you need any rope. I’m fine. I’ll wait with you here.”

Tossing a quick glance at Kevin, she saw that he still looked dazed and too weak to get to his feet. He sure didn’t look so elegant and full of himself now—or capable of causing any more problems. With both his nose and his lip bleeding, his eyes bleary, he didn’t even seem steady enough to lift himself into a sitting position. His leather jacket was ruined. There was blood on his Prada loafers.

“Why didn’t you come ask me yourself?” she asked suddenly, taking a step toward him. Her hands were clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. “Why did you need a private detective? I could have explained this to you.”

“Yeah? If…I’d called you…what would have stopped you from running before I could get here?” He spoke with resentment and with effort, through his rapidly swelling fat lip. “I was afraid you’d take the kid and disappear. With that damned tether attached to my ankle until my trial was over, I couldn’t leave the state…and then my fucking trainer at the gym…recommended his brother-in-law.” Kevin snorted and shot the detective a baleful glance.

But Carly was no longer listening. It suddenly came back to her—the article Syd had emailed. About Kevin taking his kids out of school without his ex-wife’s permission. Trying to drive them over the state line to his parents’ house. And when the police stopped him, he’d tested positive for drunk driving and taken a swing at the officer who pulled him over.

Of course.
He’d been charged with a crime. Forced to wear a tether to keep him from leaving the state of Massachusetts until his trial. That was why he’d hired the detective to do his snooping.

“He told me his sister’s husband was this hotshot private detective in Wyoming—that he was real good at his job and could come here and start building a case against you even before I got there. So, I thought Hurley would have…everything under control.” He scowled as he glanced, narrow eyed, at the detective. Fury and frustration shone in his
face, as blood continued to flow from his nose, down his chin, and onto the grass.

“I…flew out as soon as my lawyer got me off with community service…and they finally took that fucking tether off….”

He let loose a string of expletives.

“You just blew up your life again for nothing,” she said quietly. “There’s not a drop of your DNA in Emma, thank God.”

“I’m supposed to take your word for that? I want to see her birth certificate! I want a DNA test!” he yelled and attempted to push himself to his feet.

“Stay down!” Jake loomed over him in a flash. “You don’t get up until I say so.”

To her shock, Kevin swore another blue streak, but he stayed where he was, on the ground beside Hurley, bleeding and looking none too steady.

And as if he didn’t want to tangle with Jake Tanner’s fists again.

Jake slipped an arm around her shoulders as the sirens grew closer. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Thanks to you.” She leaned in close, rested her head for just a moment against his chest while Kevin glared at them and the detective’s eyes squinted in worry.

“Damn it all to hell,” Giff muttered in disgust, watching them together. Then his glance shifted to his still-half-out-of-it client.

“Stab me with a damned fork. I’m done. I went and put my money on the wrong horse.
Again
.”

Laureen watched from the side of the road as Big Billy changed her tire. He’d handed her his cell phone to call Hanson’s Garage for a tow, while insisting on putting the spare on for her himself, to save her a few bucks.

“But you were headed home from the bar. You must have been working all night. I don’t want to keep you,” she protested. “I’ll be fine waiting until George Hanson gets here.”

“No way I’m leaving you stranded on this road ’til then, Laureen.” He didn’t look at her, just kept cranking the jack.

“But it’s daylight. Perfectly safe. And this is Lonesome Way.”

“It’ll just be another minute or so, then I’ll drive you into town. You can wait there while George tows her in.” Pausing in his work, he sent her a long, quizzical look. “And didn’t you say you need to open Carly’s Quilts? Your boss is counting on you, right?”

“Ye-es.” Laureen bit her lip. “But…you were headed home. I hate to put you to the trouble of turning around and going right back.”

“Who said it’s trouble?” Big Billy asked gruffly.

He turned his attention back to removing the last of the lug nuts and Laureen lapsed into silence, watching him work. It was impossible not to stare at the huge muscles rippling across those thick arms, at his solid, bulging chest beneath the green and black T-shirt garishly emblazoned with a whiskey bottle, a gun, and a rearing horse.

It was still hard to believe that the short, puny kid so far behind the other boys in physical development by his freshman year of high school had turned into Lonesome Way’s fierce, macho giant—the rough bartender and sole owner of the Double Cross who’d served three tours in the army and who needed no other bouncer in the bar besides himself.

She’d noticed him later on in high school, sure, after he finally shot up and filled out and became a star running back on the football team. Most of her friends had dated him at some point, but Big Billy had dropped each of them, one by one.

Laureen had steered clear. She and Billy hadn’t spoken more than five words to each other since that autumn day freshman year when she’d told him she already had a date for the Homecoming dance.

Even though she didn’t.

She’d chosen to stay home alone rather than go to the dance with the runt of the high school.

And if Big Billy Watkins ever had a soft spot for her, it had hardened up real fast.

But over the years, the more she saw of him, the more interested—and regretful—she’d become. Big Billy might be ferocious and scary on the outside, but she’d noticed there was more to him than his tattoos and gruff voice would suggest.

He looked out for his customers. He didn’t allow anyone to leave his bar if they were going to drive home drunk, and she’d once overheard him tell a customer who was complaining after having an argument with his wife that he’d better get his sorry ass home, suck it up, and beg her forgiveness before he lost the best thing he ever had.

She chewed on her bottom lip like a schoolgirl as he
finished putting on the spare, wiped his greasy hands on a cloth, and surged to his feet. When he came around and opened up the door of his truck for her to get in, she shot him an uncertain smile.

“If you’re sure it’s no bother—”

“I look bothered to you?”

No. No, he didn’t, Laureen thought. He looked remarkably good-natured for a man who resembled the leader of a biker gang, and someone she’d actually seen take on five drunken bikers at once and leave blood and destruction in his path.

Not at all like the young fourteen-year-old boy, half a head smaller than the other boys his age, who’d shyly invited her to the dance and whom she’d dismissed with a quick, airy reply, telling him she already had a date.

She hadn’t. But Laureen had been hoping that Tim Larson would invite her. He was the coolest boy in school back then and she was on the fringes of the cool group of girls. She’d set her sights on Tim. So why on earth would she lower herself and go out with shy, skinny little Billy Watkins, who was four inches shorter than her, whose arms were as skinny as a couple of snakes, who still looked more like a measly sixth grader than a boy in high school?

“Come on, then, get in,” Billy said.

Laureen stepped up into the truck, but the heel of her shoe caught on the floor mat and she nearly toppled in headfirst. Big Billy grabbed her just in time and steadied her.

“Th-thanks,” she muttered, flushing.

“No problem.”

When he’d vaulted into the driver’s seat and they were headed to town, he dialed the volume on the radio up. Way up. Some crazy Kid Rock song nearly blasted Laureen out of her seat.