Chasing the Sun (14 page)

Overdrinking was a poor excuse, but it was all he had. Once his family realized they’d wrung out of him all the information they could, they moved on to a heated discussion of how best to rectify “Jack’s unfortunate situation”—Jessica’s words. Brady’s were less kindly.

Everyone had an opinion on what he should do and how he should live his life, ranging from the escape to Africa, to marriage, to suicide. Although the suggestion that he eat a bullet might have come from within his own mind. But as the evening wore on and on, it began to sound like one of the better options.

The only people who didn’t offer advice were Hank, who wasn’t much of a talker anyway; Daisy, who had taken an early supper in her room then retired for the night; and Elena, who let her varying expressions of shock, dismay, and disappointment speak for her.

Jack could hardly look at her. Not just because of the hurt, bewildered looks she sent him, but because of his own rising anger and his intense desire to say, “This is partly your fault too. You drove me to it.”

Of course, that wasn’t true. None of this was her fault. Jack knew that. But when a man is faced with the dire results of his own baseness and stupidity, it always helped to mentally point a finger at someone else.

But mostly throughout his family’s discussions of his future, he remained silent, and after a while their chatter faded to a distant buzz in his head as he sat holding his untouched glass of whiskey and staring into the fire.

He was a father.

A difficult concept to get his mind around. It redefined him and created a whole new way of looking at things. It altered his entire future.

He was a father. A man with responsibilities. A man who was no longer answerable only to himself.

It scared the hell out of him.

At midnight a reprieve was granted when his family decided it was time to retire. With sad looks and murmured promises to resume discussions the next day—oh, joy—they filed solemnly past like mourners at a wake, leaving Jack still sprawled in his chair, still nursing his full glass of whiskey.

Only Hank stayed behind. Sending his wife on without him, he began digging at the dying fire with a metal poker.

Jack waited. Hank didn’t normally talk much. But when he did have something to say, it was usually worth listening to.

After he’d gotten the fire going again, Hank hung the poker back on its peg, rested his elbow on the mantle, and looked down at Jack. “Remember Melanie Kinderly from the fort?”

“I do.” And not fondly. Melanie and her mother had been on the stagecoach with Jessica when it had crashed over a bluff. She had stayed at the ranch while her mother recovered, and during that time she and Hank had developed a strong liking for each other. In fact, when Jack left three years ago, Hank had been planning to follow Melanie to the fort that her father commanded. Jack had wondered what had happened, but since Hank seemed so happy with Molly, he hadn’t asked.

“I went up there to court her,” Hank went on. “I figured it was time I settled down, and she was pretty and accommodating, so why not? She seemed taken with the idea at first, then all of a sudden she’s marrying a soldier there at the fort.”

“She always seemed a little stupid.”

“Not stupid. Just ignorant. And easily led. I saw that as an advantage, thinking it would make her a biddable wife.”

Jack preferred a little more fire himself. Someone capable enough to carry her own bullets, as it were.

“After I married Molly, I came across Melanie in Val Rosa. We talked for a minute, and I realized then how close I had come to making a costly mistake.”

Jack nodded in understanding. He preferred Molly too.

“Well.” With a sigh, Hank pushed away from the mantle. “Good night then.”

“What? Wait.”

Hank turned to look at him.

“That’s it?” Jack made a vague gesture, sloshing whiskey over the rim of his glass. “The end of the story? No sage advice on avoiding costly mistakes or marrying women who aren’t biddable?”

Hank shrugged.

“Then why the hell did you tell me all that? What’s the point?”

“There is no point. I just thought you might be curious about what happened between me and Melanie but didn’t want to ask in front of Molly.”

“Jesus, Hank. There has to be a point.”

“Oh.” Hank scratched at the dark stubble under his chin for a moment then said, “If you’ve got feelings for a woman, you ought to know why. How’s that?”

Now Jack was even more confused. Why couldn’t his brother ever talk in a straight line? “Are you talking about Daisy? Because I don’t have feelings for Daisy. I mean, I have feelings, but not the kind that—”

Hank sighed.

“Not Daisy?”

“You going to drink that?” He nodded toward the glass in Jack’s hand. “Hate to waste such good whiskey.”

“Elena then. You’re talking about Elena, right?”

Leaning over, Hank plucked the glass from Jack’s unresisting grip, tossed back the contents, and set the empty glass on the mantle. He belched then yawned. “I give Jessica credit. This Scotch whiskey is one change I really like. ’Night.”

After Hank left, Jack sat for a time staring into the fire and trying to figure out what his brother had been trying to tell him. Daisy was definitely not biddable. His swollen lip was proof of that. And he’d already made a costly mistake, which was why he was in the situation he was in now. But in not accepting Kate as his daughter, was he committing another?

Or maybe Hank was talking about Elena after all.

She was definitely biddable. And kind and generous. And she would never swing a fist at him, even if he did look at her chest. Which he almost never had. Which, now that he thought about it, seemed a little odd.

So why did he have such strong feelings for her? Why couldn’t he let her go like she wanted? And why couldn’t he remember a thing about her chest?

Hell if he knew.

With a sigh, he rose and headed up the stairs.

Outside the door to his bedroom he paused, thinking he might have heard a noise coming from the kid’s room across from his, some unknown and unidentifiable sound that he should probably investigate.

Moving quietly, he stepped across the hall and eased open the door.

The room was dark except for the faint moonlight coming through the thin curtain. The kid was snoring again. Jack went over to make sure she wasn’t suffocating, and found her sprawled on her back, arms thrown wide, palms up. She had the tiniest hands, yet every finger seemed perfect. Her skin looked like pale marble, and he wanted to touch her cheek but was afraid it would wake her. Instead, he tucked her toy cat against her side in case she woke up and looked for it.

She. The kid. His daughter. Kate.

An odd feeling, like a small whirlwind, moved through his chest. For a moment he experienced that same jolt of exhilaration and heart-pounding panic he’d felt last year just before he’d dived off the bow of the clipper into the cool, crystal waters off Tasmania. He was spiraling again toward unknown waters. But this was his most terrifying plunge yet.

What in God’s name was he going to do with a daughter?

Eight

KATE’S CRIES AWOKE HER.

Even though Daisy was still groggy with sleep, the part of her mind that never rested—the mother part—came instantly alert, taking only a fraction of a heartbeat to register that the cry was not one of distress, but impatience.

I want up. I’m hungry. Come get me. Now.

Staring dully at the patterns of light and shadow across the beamed ceiling, Daisy waited for her body to wake up. She felt horrid, aching in all kinds of places from that wretched buggy ride and her first jaunt on horseback in several years. Her head throbbed, her bruised cheek hurt, her throat burned from all the tears she had shed into her pillow, and the last thing she wanted to do was go out and face the Wilkins family.

The dream that had brought her here now seemed like a cruel hoax, another harsh reminder—
it’s not going to happen, Daisy. Give it up. Go back.

But back where? San Francisco? To another saloon? A brothel? Not with the death of Bill Johnson hanging over her head. She couldn’t return to Quebec either. The farm had been sold long ago. There was nothing left there for her.

No, she couldn’t go back
.
She’d come too far to give up now. But she hadn’t thought it would be so hard.

Kate’s wails grew louder.

Probably couldn’t find Kitty. With a sigh, Daisy threw back the covers and sat up. She sat for a moment, scanning the luxuries surrounding her. Stone fireplace, upholstered chairs, thick rugs, a balcony, and an indoor water closet with a hot water bath. She had never been in a room so grand. These people were rich. Surely they would help her if Jack wouldn’t.

Jack
.

Even now, despite the anger that still smoldered within her, the pull was so strong that just knowing he was near made her thoughts scatter. He was part of her now, in her bones and marrow, forever in her memory as the first man she had ever loved.

And he didn’t even remember her. How sad was that?

Abruptly Kate’s crying stopped.

Daisy tensed, listening.

Silence.

Concerned but not yet alarmed, she rose. The room was cold, making her shiver beneath the thin cotton of her gown. Since she had no robe, she pulled on her worn gabardine coat and padded across to the door that led into Kate’s adjoining room. Quietly she eased it open, hoping to find that her daughter had fallen back to sleep and she had a few more moments to herself.

Instead, she saw Jack, wearing nothing but trousers and a bemused look, hunkered on his heels beside the crib, engaged in a silent staring match with Kate through the slats.

Surprised and wondering what he was up to, Daisy paused in the doorway, watching him slowly walk two fingers up the side of the mattress and through the slats to poke Kate’s toe.

Kate looked at her toe, then at him.

He withdrew his fingers just as slowly, walking them back down the side of the mattress and out of sight.

For a moment, nothing. Then Kate inched her foot forward in silent invitation, her gaze pinned to the spot where his hand had disappeared.

The fingers came up again to poke her toe.

Kate jerked her foot back.

The fingers went away.

Hesitantly, Kate slid her foot forward again. This time when the fingers came up to poke her toe, she giggled.

Daisy was utterly amazed. Not only that Jack would engage in such fanciful play, but that Kate would allow it.

But then, Jack instinctively knew how to charm.

Bracing herself, she stepped into the room.

Kate saw her and grinned. “Ma-ma-ma-ma.”

Rising in one fluid motion, Jack turned to face her. There was such a mix of expressions on his face Daisy couldn’t tell what he was thinking, which was rare with Jack.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked more harshly than she’d intended.

“I heard her crying and came in to see if she was okay.” A smile started, spreading from one corner of his mouth to the other until his entire face was involved, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his dark brows slanting upward over the bridge of his nose and his fine teeth showing white against the dark stubble on his sun-darkened face. “I believe it now,” he said in a wondering voice. “I wasn’t sure but when I came in and she looked at me, I knew. It was like looking into my own eyes, Daisy. She truly is my daughter.”

She let out a breath, not aware that she’d been holding it until her lungs demanded air. “I told you she was.” Shutting her mind to the lure of that smile, Daisy pushed past him to lift her daughter from the crib. “Thank you for your concern, but she’s fine. You needn’t stay.”

When he didn’t move, she had to step around him to carry Kate over to the trunk of clothes. As she passed by, the scent of him wafted over her—that tangy, musky, morning scent she remembered from those crisp fall dawns when the fog pressed against the windowpanes, narrowing the world to just the two of them waking up in each other’s arms.

The memory of it brought an almost physical pain.

She felt him watching as she knelt beside the trunk to sift through the baby items Jessica had generously left for Kate’s use. At first Daisy had wanted to refuse, but the enticement of seeing her daughter clothed in dresses as lovely as she deserved proved too much.

Pulling a peach dimity with a satin sash from the pile, she held it up to Kate. It looked beautiful with her rosy cheeks and blond curls and appeared to be the right size. Setting Kate on the floor, she began stripping off the baby’s nightclothes.

“You can’t leave,” Jack said.

She tilted her head to look at him, prepared to argue the point. But he wasn’t even looking at her. He was totally focused on Kate, and his expression stilled her words. She’d seen anger, grief, desire, laughter, even drunken befuddlement on his face. But never this raw, open vulnerability.

Jack was incapable of dissembling. He might not always be wise or deliberate in his thinking, or was sometimes too ready to take chances or follow his whims, but he was always honest in his emotions. The face he presented to the world was a true reflection of what he felt. And what he was showing now as he looked at his daughter almost made Daisy weep.