Strangers in Paradise (30 page)

The only people who'd ever known where to find him were Brian, Moira and the disaster relief organization for which he'd been volunteering the past eight years.

“When your great-great-great-grandfather came out to Arizona, he lived with Indians for a while.” He gave Mariah the condensed version. The first Montford had been on the run when he'd settled in Arizona. On the run from a stratified society that had killed his dark-skinned wife and biracial son in cold blood.

Mariah didn't need to know about that.

“He met a very pretty woman who was visiting the Indians with her dad, who was a missionary,” he went on. “And she was your great-great-great-grandmother.”

Looking at Mariah's earnest little face, Sam had no idea if he was getting through to her. Her blue eyes, once so alight with mischief and precocious pursuits, were blank.

“They had several children,” Sam said, speaking his thoughts aloud. He looked back toward the likeness of his ancestor, and found himself experiencing a strange sense of pride—of belonging, almost. A
willingness
to belong.

Had that feeling always been there, waiting for him? Or had it been necessary for him to forge his own way, to witness life's extreme sorrows—in the midst of war, famine, earthquake and storm—to appreciate what he'd taken for granted all his life, growing up in Shelter Valley?

Would he ever have found the real Sam Montford if he'd stayed in this town?

“One of their children was my great-great-grandfather. And another one was your uncle Ben's great-great-grandmother.”

Sam still couldn't grasp the idea that he wasn't the only Montford heir. He'd been “the only” his entire life. Carol and James's only son. Cassie's only boyfriend. Her only lover. The only Shelter Valley High graduate to score off the charts on the SAT exams. Shelter Valley's only hope for leadership...

“Let's go, hon.” Putting Mariah down, he took one last glance at the statue of his namesake and headed farther into the park, holding her hand tightly. “Alex is waiting to meet you.”

He spotted Ben and Alex almost instantly, across the park. It seemed fitting that they'd arrived at opposite ends.

“Your uncle Ben's little girl is adopted, too,” he told her. He pondered his next remark, bit it back, then said it anyway. “She was hurt kind of bad, too,” he confided, hoping that if Mariah knew she wasn't the only child to suffer, the knowledge might somehow bring her comfort. Hoping that she didn't start to think all children lived happily until the age of seven, when suddenly life turned into hell on earth and you had to wonder why you lived at all. “Alex's mom was married to Ben when Alex was born. She told Ben that he was Alex's daddy, but she wasn't always a very nice lady.”

As he repeated the story his mother had related the other night, Sam felt a stirring of compassion for the man he could see across the park, throwing a Frisbee to the laughing little girl who was tripping over her feet as she tried to catch it. “But then later,” he continued, walking slowly toward the pair, who hadn't seen them yet, “the man who was really Alex's dad came back from prison—he wasn't a very good person, either—and they made Ben go away and took Alex to a new place. But the new man got mad and hit Alex,” he said, praying he wasn't making the biggest mistake of his life.

Sweating suddenly, he had a horrible feeling that he should have spoken to Mariah's counselor before telling her this particular truth. Yet instinct was telling him it
had
to help her to know she wasn't alone.

“Alex called Ben secretly on the phone, and he came and rescued her, and now she's his forever and ever,” he said quickly, getting to the good part. “Just like you and me.”

Ben abruptly stopped his game. He'd obviously noticed Sam and Mariah approaching. Holding the Frisbee in his hand, he drew Alex close to him. Sam's jaw tensed.

“Ready, honey?” he asked softly, crouching down beside his daughter.

Mariah buried her face against Sam's neck.

* * *

That Saturday morning Carol Montford paced from her living room across the foyer to the formal library on the other side and back again, peering out the huge windows in both rooms toward the curving drive beyond. Waiting.

She told herself to stop. Went out to the family room to see if her husband needed help with the crossword puzzle he was working on. He didn't. Nor did he want anything to drink—and would she
please
just relax and knit or something?

She might have tried to follow his advice. Except that she didn't knit.

And before she knew it, she'd resumed her path along the living room windows and through the library.

She so desperately wanted Sam to feel a part of things again, to know in his heart that Shelter Valley was his home. To stay.

She was afraid that Ben's being here now would just give Sam another excuse to leave.

She wanted the two boys, the cousins, to find something in each other.

“You have to trust that everything will work out for the best,” James said suddenly, coming up behind her at the living-room window, his hands on her shoulders.

Carol slowly covered his hands with her own. Even after all these years, all the heartaches, she still felt a thrill at the simple touch of her husband's hand.

That was all she'd ever wanted for her only offspring. The comfort of loving someone that deeply. That completely. That forever.

“We just got him home again,” she whispered, trusting James with her fear.

“But we can't make him stay, my love,” he returned softly, unusually solemn. “He has to
want
to do that.”

“If he thought we needed him—”

“Oh, no, my dear,” James said. She could feel him shaking his head behind her. “You don't want him here out of guilt. Or duty. He wouldn't be happy.”

“But what about that precious little girl, James? She needs us!”

“Yes, I believe she does. And I also believe Sam knows that. Your son is an intelligent man.”

Carol turned, kissing James on the side of the mouth. “He gets that from his father,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes as she worked up the courage to ask the one question no one had yet dared to raise.

“Do you think he and Cassie could ever—”

With one finger on her lips, James silenced her. “Don't, Carol,” he admonished. “You'll only torture yourself.”

She didn't speak, but after almost forty years of marriage, she didn't need words to communicate with her husband. Her eyes pleaded with him to give her a little hope.

“The boy didn't leave himself any room for reparation,” he said quietly. “The damage he did to Cassie was too great to be anything but permanent. There's nothing left for them to go back to.”

Carol would still have hoped for a miracle, were it not for the truth she recognized in James's words. Cassie was not the woman she'd once been.

And her Sam was at fault for that.

Because of him, Cassie had been denied any second chances. She would never have a baby, never be pregnant again—because of what he'd done, and what he'd caused to happen, Sam didn't deserve a second chance, either.

* * *

An hour later, just before lunch, they were back. “How'd it go?” Carol Montford asked, before Sam and Mariah were even fully inside the house.

“Fine.”

Sam wanted lunch. And some time with his drawing pad and pencil. Things were changing in Borough Bantam, confusing him. He needed a chance to think it all through, to work out these changes in a way that was beneficial to the village. And to the newcomer, as well.

He needed to find out the newcomer's purpose. His place in the Borough. His long-term intentions.

“How did the girls do?”

“Fine,” Sam said again, wanting Mariah to know that she hadn't disappointed him. She'd refused to look at either Ben or Alex the entire awkward time he and his cousin had stood in the park and tried to talk without ever really saying anything. He couldn't let Mariah believe that there was anything wrong with her response. He had to assume it was the only response she was capable of right now.

“Isn't Alex a cutie?” Carol asked, trying valiantly to keep the concern from showing on her aged and still-lovely face.

“That she is.”

“And you and Ben, you liked each other?”

“We just met, Mom. I hardly know him,” Sam said, wishing he could reassure her. About so many things. The trouble was, he couldn't even reassure himself. He had no idea what the future held.

“But he's—”

“He seemed like a decent man,” he allowed, when it became evident that she was going to push until she got some kind of commitment from him.

Carol ran gentle fingers down Mariah's back. “How'd our little one do?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Sam said, releasing Mariah's hand and turning her to face her grandmother. “Did you have a good time, Mariah?”

The child stared at him blankly.

“Let me get her some chocolate milk,” Carol said, moving away before the little girl saw the hint of tears in her eyes. “She likes chocolate milk.”

She
drinks
chocolate milk, Sam amended silently. That doesn't mean she
likes
it.

There's no way of knowing what she likes and what she doesn't.

But for now, the fact that she would drink a glass of chocolate milk was enough.

Chapter 6

A
rmed with the advice of psychology professor Dr. Phyllis Langford, and with the instincts that had been serving her well, Cassie let Sammie off her leash in the park Monday morning.

“Okay, girl,” she said, squatting down, rubbing the sheltie's ears, “you're on.”

There were no rules here, no right ways, no answers. There were only bits and pieces of advice from psychology professionals—not all of it consistent—suppositions and a very few precedents to guide her. And there was her absolute certainty that pet therapy could help where nothing else would. They were breaking new ground. So far, with great success.

Because this was a Monday morning, a school day, the park was deserted. Except for the man walking toward them with his daughter clinging to his hand and staring up at him. Mariah's long black hair was in a French braid. She looked adorable—and fragile—in her yellow jumper and sandals.

“Go say hello, Sammie,” Cassie said, her tone of voice changing as she gave the command.

Sammie's ears perked up, she barked once, and off she went, bounding across the park to the two figures drawing closer.

Concentrate on the job,
Cassie told herself.
Don't watch the man.
Don't recognize that confident stride. Those long legs that had always looked sinfully good in denim.
Don't even look.

He was an illusion. No matter how attractive he was, how kind he could be, how gentle and warm. Inside him lurked a man who could be carelessly cruel. A man who made promises he didn't keep.

He stopped in the shade of a palo verde tree—the only tree in this Arizona park—still holding Mariah's hand.

Sammie had reached them, and Cassie's full attention was riveted on the child. Though the sheltie was sniffing her hand, Mariah didn't seem to notice. She didn't look at the dog. Didn't look anywhere but at Sam. Cassie wondered if she was even aware of her surroundings.

The psychological reports had all agreed that Mariah was “in there” someplace. That the child's brain was fully functioning. Sam was certain of it, and Cassie was working under that assumption.

Mariah didn't seem to trust people at all. Apparently not even Sam—which was why she didn't dare take her eyes off him. So maybe she'd trust another creature, one who made no demands and required no explanations; maybe she'd trust Sammie. But not unless they could get her focus away from Sam.

Standing there in her forest-green dress slacks and white short-sleeved cotton shirt, Cassie continued to watch, waiting for Sam to do as she'd instructed him, when she'd called earlier that morning. He'd balked, arguing that they'd been operating on the premise that only by making Mariah feel totally secure were they ever going to bring her back. Mariah's counselors thought that maintaining her attachment to Sam was so important, they weren't even trying to send her to school yet; they felt she wasn't ready to be away from him. Cassie knew that. Knew, too, that although Sam left the child occasionally, Mariah would always sit completely frozen, in the position he'd left her, until he returned. And she wouldn't eat for hours afterward. Cassie had spoken about these things with Mariah's counselor in Phoenix. And at length with Phyllis.

Cassie's conversation with Sam had been all business. If he wanted her help, he was going to have to trust her. And to do what she told him.

He'd eventually said he would.

A minute passed, and then another. Sammie went on nudging Mariah's hand, sniffing at Sam's shoes. She pranced around, waiting for someone to notice her.

“Come on, Sam,” she said softly. “I know it's hard, but you can do this....”

Even standing several yards away, she could feel the effort it cost him to disengage Mariah's fingers from his. Could feel the doubt, the pain, even the fear, as though she were experiencing it all herself.

But then, this was Sam. She'd always...felt him.

Holding her breath, she stood completely still, watching as he slowly left the child standing in the park alone. Tears welled in her eyes, but she ignored them. She was working. This was a job. Nothing more.

Ignoring everything but Sam, Mariah reached out her hand to him.

He hesitated, looked over at Cassie, then shook his head, face tense. “I'm just going to run back to the truck to get the picnic basket I forgot,” he told Mariah.

Cassie barely heard the words, but she heard the very real compassion behind them.

“You stay here with Sammie,” he said to the child. “Her name's just like mine. So you know you can trust her to keep you safe until I get back. I'll just be gone for a few minutes.”

Mariah started toward him.

“No!” The sharpness of Sam's word cut into Cassie's heart. God, life was so hard! “I want you to stay here, Mariah,” he said firmly. “I'll be back, okay? And if you need anything, my friend Cassie is over there.”

Sam glanced at her, clenching the muscles in his jaw. Even across the distance of several yards, she could read the fierce look in his eyes.
She'd better be right about this.

Cassie's tears fell when Sam turned abruptly and walked away from his needy daughter.

He trusted Cassie. Trusted her to help this damaged child.

Overwhelmed with sudden despair, she almost called him back. She couldn't handle this. Couldn't go through with it. Couldn't have Sam placing his trust in her so completely. Not when she didn't trust him. She brushed her tears away.

And focused on the child, who stood like a statue, staring at her father's retreating back.

Part of the idea was for Mariah to see that although Sam left, he always returned.

He wasn't going far. But he was going out of her sight. And he'd stay there until Mariah moved. Until she looked somewhere other than where he'd gone.

It might take all morning and into the afternoon.

But unless they taught Mariah that she wasn't as alone as she thought, the child wasn't going to recover. That was the conclusion Phyllis had drawn. One that the Phoenix counselor had eventually concurred with, though she'd believed they hadn't given Mariah enough time to come out of this on her own. She'd reiterated the list of known traumas Mariah had experienced—thankfully, none of them physical—the length of time it could take to recover from them.

Cassie didn't doubt the validity of the professional opinion. She just knew that sometimes animals could help speed up the process. There was scientific proof behind the theories. Though most psychology professionals only seemed willing to try pet therapy as a last resort, they almost all acknowledged that pets were sometimes responsible for lengthening the lives of their owners, for lowering blood pressure. Cassie believed it was just a matter of time until they universally acknowledged that animals could also be used to reach human beings who'd been so injured, so emotionally impaired that they couldn't be reached through normal person-to-person therapy sessions.

“Come on, Sammie, do your stuff,” Cassie said, her stomach growing tenser with every passing minute. The child was one stubborn little cuss. Which would serve her well.

Cassie knew.

It had been her own stubborn refusal to die that had brought her out of her dark pit all those years ago. At first, when her own physical health had been so precarious, she'd had her baby to think about. And then, later, when she'd finally admitted to herself that life did go on, she'd found a wellspring of determination she hadn't known she possessed.

Sammie nudged the little girl, but Mariah still didn't respond. She was staring so intently after Sam that Cassie wasn't sure the child knew the dog was there. Wasn't sure she'd notice if the always-blue Arizona sky suddenly clouded over and broke into thunderstorms. Everyone else in town would probably be running outside to gaze up at the heavens. And Mariah would continue to stand there, oblivious, watching for Sam.

Cassie, slowly approaching the child, got close enough to identify any small change of expression on that fixed little face. Was that a hint of fear in Mariah's startling blue eyes? Or was it just a reflection of the bright sun shining down through the tree?

So intent was she on the child's face, watching for any sign of reaction, Cassie didn't notice at first that Mariah's little brown hand had settled on top of Sammie's head. The fingers were moving back and forth from one of Sammie's ears to the other. It wasn't much. Most people would no doubt consider it unremarkable.

But Cassie knew better. She fell to her knees in the carefully manicured grass, not bothering to brush away the tears that rolled down her face. Mariah was taking comfort from the dog at her side.

Thank God.

* * *

It had been a long week. And a long day.

Sitting in a lounge chair so comfortable it could have been in the living room, Sam quietly sipped his bottle of beer, Muffy curled at his feet. He was part of the Saturday-night crowd on the back patio at Montford Mansion. But he was having difficulty concentrating on the conversation at hand, and found his thoughts regularly drifting to the ongoing plot of his comic strip.

Yes, it had been a long week, having that first breakthrough with Mariah on Monday and nothing else since. They'd had another session on Thursday. Sam had left Mariah for a little longer, but there had been no new results.

Harder than he'd ever thought possible was being here in town, close to Cassie and not seeing her. Not talking to her. Not sharing her life.

His mother had insisted on this get-together. A little gathering, she'd called it. But it didn't feel little to Sam. Ben and his wife, Tory, and little Alex. Ben's friend and Cassie's partner, Zack Foster, and his new wife, Randi used-to-be-Parsons, whom Sam and Cassie had gone to school with, grades one through twelve. James and Carol. And Sam and Mariah.

He couldn't remember one single family gathering in his whole life without Cassie. She'd always been there.

They'd just finished dinner—steaks out on the grill. A swim in the Olympic-sized pool—though Sam had spent the entire time with Mariah clutching his neck, so he could hardly call it a swim. He and Ben were supposed to be getting to know each other.

The girls were both asleep now—Mariah in a lounge chair on the other side of the patio, Alex in his mother's special guest room, the one he hoped would someday be Mariah's.

Everyone else was sipping drinks, relaxing, talking.

“We should play some canasta,” James suggested.

Carol jumped up. “I'll get the cards.” She was so obvious in her eagerness to make this whole thing work that Sam felt sorry for her. His mother had always been such a peaceful woman. Content. Secure.

Not this too-attentive mass of nerves, desperate to know that her world was righting itself.

He was completely aware that he was responsible for this, too.

Muffy followed Carol into the house, no doubt hoping for leftovers in the privacy of the kitchen. Sam hoped his mother wouldn't give in to those pleading eyes.

“So how long are you in town, Sam?” Randi asked, interrupting his thoughts. Although the question
sounded
innocent, Sam had a feeling it hadn't been. He was pretty sure Zack and Randi hated him. Couldn't see him gone fast enough.

He tried not to let that get to him. They weren't just his cousin's closest friends—they were Cassie's friends, too. They had a right to hate him.

“I have no plans to leave again,” Sam said. He wasn't sure exactly what his plans were, but he knew that much.

Ben sat forward, hand entwined with his wife's. “That's good to hear, cousin,” Ben said. “I've been half afraid you were only here for a visit and that you'd be gone before we had a chance to spend any time together.”

“Sure you wouldn't rather have the Montford crown all to yourself?” Sam couldn't help asking, though he kept his tone light. “After all, I was the heir apparent all my life. It's your turn.”

Zack and Randi shared a glance. Sam suspected it conveyed nothing positive.

“I don't know about that,” Ben answered. “But I've come home and I'm glad to be here. I'm also glad to have as much family in my life as there's family to have.”

Carol returned, minus Muffy, bearing a deck of cards, and without a pause in the conversation, everyone, a reluctant Sam included, took seats around the big game table in the middle of the patio. Sam was a bit envious of the dog, who'd been allowed to stay inside.

“Sam seems to think there's some
distinction
attached to the Montford name,” James said to Ben, as the cards were shuffled.

“A good distinction, right?” Tory asked. Of all the people visiting that night, Sam liked Tory the best. He knew a little about her story—from Cassie the evening he'd gone there. Tory had secrets, things she wasn't proud of. He could sense them. And yet, there was no mistaking the purity of her love for his cousin or for Alex.

“Not necessarily,” Sam answered, before his father shared more of his past grievances than Sam was prepared to answer for. “Being a Montford comes with obvious advantages, but it also has its share of hardships.”

“Oh, yeah,” Zack said with a laugh. “I can see how it'd be a real hardship growing up in
this
house.”

“You were always the prince in our fairy tales, Sam,” Randi chimed in. “Your life was charmed.”

She was right. But it had been a charm he'd never asked for—and in the end, it had come at a cost.

“It wasn't always that easy,” Carol said, surprising Sam.

During the years he'd been fighting against a life he wasn't happy living, she'd been the last person to understand his discontent. To her, everything had always been so clear-cut and simple.

“People expected a lot of Sam. More than any of the other kids in town. He practically lived his life under a microscope.”