The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (164 page)

“I know you mean well, but I don’t see getting through. I wanted to believe him. He’s my husband, and I wanted to believe him when he told me he didn’t do any of it.”

With nothing to say, Ella kept silent while Irene looked around the room.

“Now he’s left me like this, left me alone, and taking money I need out of the ATM on the way gone. What do I believe now?”

“Sit down here at the table. Tea’s a small thing, but it’s something.”

Irene sat, looked out the window at the yard she’d once loved to putter in. The yard her husband had used to escape, to run from her.

“I know what people are saying, even though it doesn’t come out of their mouths in my hearing. Leo killed Reverend Latterly, and if he killed him, he must’ve killed Dolly. His own flesh and blood.”

“People say and think a lot of hard things, Irene.”

The bones in Irene’s face stood out too harshly under skin aged a decade in two short months. “I’m one of them now. I may not be ready to say it, but I think it. I think how he and Dolly used to fight, shouting at each other, saying awful things. Still . . . he loved her. I know that.”

She stared down at the tea Ella put in front of her. “Maybe loved her too much. Maybe more than I did. So it cut more, the things she’d do and say. It cut him more than me. Love can turn, can’t it? It can turn into something dark in a minute’s time.”

“I don’t know the answers there. But I do know that you can’t find them in despair. I think the best thing for you now is to concentrate on the baby and yourself, to do what you have to do to make the best life you can make for the two of you, until you have those answers.”

“That’s what I’m doing. I called Mrs. Brayner this morning before I went into work. Shiloh’s other grandmother. She and her husband are going to drive out from Nebraska, and they’ll take Shiloh back with them.”

“Oh, Irene.”

“It’s what’s best for her.” She swiped a tear away. “That precious baby deserves better than I can give her now. She’s the innocent in all this, the only one of us who truly is. She deserves better than me leaving her with friends and neighbors most of the day, better than me barely able to take care of her when I’m here. Not being sure how long I can keep a roof over her head, much less buy her clothes or pay the baby doctor.”

Her voice cracked, and she lifted the tea, sipped a little. “I’ve prayed on this, and I talked with Reverend Meece about it. He is kind, Ella, like you told me.”

“He and his church could help you,” Ella began, but Irene shook her head.

“I know in my heart I can’t give Shiloh a good life the way things are, and I can’t keep her knowing she has family who can. I can’t keep her wondering if her grandpa’s the reason she doesn’t have her mother.”

Ella reached over, linked her hands with Irene’s. “I know this isn’t a decision you’ve come to lightly. I know how much you love that child. Is there anything I can do? Anything?”

“You didn’t say it was the wrong decision, or selfish, or weak. That helps.” She took a breath, drank a little more tea. “I think they’re good people. And she said—Kate, her name’s Kate. Kate said they’d stay in Missoula a couple days or so, to give Shiloh time to get used to them. And how we’d all work together so Shiloh could have all of us in her life. I . . . I said how they could have all the baby stuff, her crib and all, and Kate, she said no, didn’t I want to keep that? Didn’t I want it so when we fixed it so Shiloh could come see me, it would all be ready for her?”

Ella squeezed Irene’s hands tighter as tears plopped into the tea. “They do sound like good people, don’t they?”

“I believe they are. I’m content they are. Still, I feel like another part of me’s dying. I don’t know how much is left.”

HER CONVERSATION WITH MARG
had Rowan’s wheels turning. The time had come, she decided, for a serious sit-down with her father. Since she wanted to have that sit-down off base, she walked over to L.B.’s office.

She saw Matt step out. “Hi. Is he in there?”

“Yeah, I just asked him for a couple days at the end of the week.” His face exploded into a grin she’d rarely seen on his face since Jim’s accident. “My parents are driving in.”

“That’s great. They get to see you, and Jim’s baby.”

“Even more. They’re taking Shiloh home with them.”

“They got custody? That’s so fast. I didn’t think it worked so fast.”

“They didn’t get a lawyer. They were talking about maybe, but they didn’t get one yet. Mrs. Brakeman called my ma this morning and said she needed—wanted—them to have Shiloh.”

“Oh.” Not enough long enough, Rowan thought, and felt a pang of sympathy. “That’s great for your family, Matt. Really. It’s got to be awfully rough on Mrs. Brakeman.”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry for her. She’s a good woman. I guess she proved it by doing this, thinking of Shiloh first. They’re going to spend a couple days, you know, give everybody a chance to adjust and all that. I figured I could help out. Shiloh knows me, so that should make it easier. It’s like I’m standing in for Jim.”

“I guess it is. It’s a lot, for everybody.”

“The way Brakeman ran?” The light in his face died into something dark. “He’s a coward. He doesn’t deserve to even see that baby again, if you ask me. Mrs. Brakeman’s probably going to lose her house because of him.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” Rowan agreed, “for one person to lose so much.”

“She could move to Nebraska if she wanted, and be closer to Shiloh. She ought to, and I hope she does. I don’t see how there’s anything here for her now anyway. She oughta go on and move to Nebraska so the baby has both her grans. Anyway, I’ve got to go call my folks, let them know I got the time off.”

One family’s tragedy, another family’s celebration, Rowan supposed as Matt rushed off. The world could be a harsh place. She gave L.B.’s door a tap, poked her head in.

“Got another minute for somebody looking for time off?”

“Jesus, maybe we should just blow and piss on the next fire.”

“An interesting new strategy, but I’m only looking for a few hours.”

“When?”

“Pretty much now. I wanted to hook up with my father.”

“Suddenly everybody wants family reunions.” Then he shrugged. “A night off’s okay. We’ve got smoke over in Payette, and up in Alaska. The Denali area’s getting hammered with dry lightning. Yellowstone’s on first attack on another. You should count on jumping tomorrow.”

“I’ll be ready.” She started to back out before he changed his mind, then hesitated. “I guess Matt told you why he wanted the time.”

“Yeah.” L.B. rubbed his eyes. “It’s hard to know what to think. I guess it’s the best thing when it comes down to it, but it sure feels like kicking a woman in the teeth when she’s already taken a couple hard shots in the gut.”

“Still no word on Leo?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. Fucker. It makes me sick he could do all this. I went hunting with the bastard, even went on a big trip up to Canada with him and some other guys once.”

“Did you tell the cops all the places you knew he liked to go?”

“Every one, and I didn’t feel a single pang of guilt. Fucker,” he repeated, with relish. “Irene’s a decent woman. She doesn’t deserve this. You’d better go while the going’s good. If we get a call from Alaska, we’ll be rolling tonight.”

“I’m already gone.” As she left, Rowan pulled out her phone and opted to text, hoping that would make her plans a fait accompli.

Now she had to hope he had something in the house she could actually cook. She stopped by the barracks, grabbed her keys, then stepped into the open doorway of Gull’s quarters.

“I cleared a few hours so I can go over and see my father.”

Gull shifted his laptop aside. “Okay.”

“There are some things I want to air out with him. One-on-one.” She jingled her car keys. “We’ve got potential situations out in Yellowstone, down in Wyoming, up in Alaska. We could be up before morning. I won’t be gone very long.”

“Are you waiting to see if I’m going to complain because you’re going off base without me?”

“Maybe I was wondering if you would.”

“I’m not built that way. Just FYI, I wouldn’t mind maybe having dinner with you and your father sometime, maybe when things slow down.”

“So noted. See you when I get back.” She jingled her keys again. “Hey, I just remembered, my car’s low on gas. Maybe I can borrow yours?”

“You know where the base pumps are.”

“Had to try.”

She’d talk him into letting her drive it before the end of the season, she promised herself as she headed out to her much less sexy Dodge. She just had to outline the right attack plan.

The minute she drove off the base, something shifted inside her. As much as she loved what she did, she felt just a bit lighter driving down the open road. Alone, away from the pressure, the intensity, the dramas, even the interaction.

Maybe, for the moment, she realized, especially the interaction. A little time to reconnect with Rowan, she thought, then in turn for Rowan to reconnect with her father.

She could admit to the contrary aspect of the feeling. If L.B. had insisted she take time off, had pulled her off the jump list, she’d have fought him tooth and nail. Asking for the little crack in the window was more a little gift to herself, and one where she chose the wrapping and the contents.

Maybe, too, it hit just close enough to the camping trips her father had always carved out during the season—this one evening together, her making dinner in the house they shared half the year. Just the two of them, sitting at the table with some decent grub and some good conversation.

Too much had happened, too many things that kept running around inside her head. So much of the summer boomeranged on her, making her think of her mother, and all those hard feelings. She’d shaken off most of them, but there remained a thin and sticky layer she’d never been able to peel away.

She liked to think that layer helped make her tougher, stronger—and she believed it—but she’d started to wonder if it had hardened into a shield as well.

Did she use it as an excuse, an escape? If she did, was that smart, or just stupid?

Something to think about in this short time alone, and again in the company of the single person in the world who knew her through and through, and loved her anyway.

When she pulled up in front of the house, the simple white two-story with the wide covered porch—the porch she’d helped her father build when she was fourteen—she just sat and stared.

The slope of lawn showed the brittleness of the dry summer, even in the patches of shade from the big, old maple on the east corner.

But skirting that porch, on either side of the short steps, an area of flowers sprang out of a deep brown blanket of mulch. Baskets hung from decorative brackets off the flanking posts and spilled out a tangle of red and white flowers and green trailing vines.

“I’m looking at it,” she said aloud as she got out of the car, “but I still can’t quite believe it.”

She remembered summers during her youth when her grandmother had done pots and planters, and even dug in a little vegetable garden in the back. How she’d cursed the deer and rabbits for mowing them down, every single season.

She remembered, too, her father’s rep for killing even the hardiest of houseplants. Now he’d planted—she didn’t know what half of them were, but the beds hit hot, rich notes with a lot of deep reds and purples, with some white accents.

And she had to admit they added a nice touch, just as she had to admit the creativity of the layout hadn’t come from the nongardening brain of Iron Man Tripp.

She mulled it over as she let herself into the house.

Here, too, the difference struck.

Flowers? Since when did her father have flowers sitting around the house? And candles—fat white columns that smelled, when she sniffed them, faintly of vanilla. Plus, he’d gotten a new rug in the living room, a pattern of bold-colored blocks that spread over a floor that had certainly been polished. And looked pretty good, she had to admit, but still . . .

Hands on hips, she did a turn around the living room until her jaw nearly landed on her toes. Glossy magazines fanned on the old coffee table. Home and garden magazines, and since when had her father . . . ?

Stupid question, she admitted. Since Ella.

A little leery of what she’d find next, she started toward the kitchen, poked into her father’s home office. Bamboo shades in spicy tones replaced the beige curtains.

Ugly curtains, she remembered.

But the powder room was a revelation. No generic liquid soap sat on the sink, no tan towels on the rack. Instead, a shiny and sleek chrome dispenser shot a spurt of lemon-scented liquid into her hand. Dazed, she washed, then dried her hands on one of the fluffy navy hand towels layered on the rack with washcloths in cranberry.