With Family In Mind (Saddle Falls Book 1) (6 page)

But he damn well wasn’t going to
trust
her.

“I
s it me you dislike, or reporters in general?” Rebecca asked, watching as Jake expertly wheeled her little Toyota around a corner.

Lunch had been a highly energized affair punctuated by spilled milk, an overturned bottle of ketchup and a small mishap with a baby frog Timmy had magically pulled out of his pocket and let loose to hop across the table. Seeing the animal, Ruth had raced around the table at breakneck speed, barking frantically. When the madcap meal with the twins was over, Jake had offered to drive Rebecca into town to get her things.

She was convinced he merely wanted to escape his nephews, who she’d decided were incorrigible, yet adorable.

Jake had all but hustled her from the table, then
escaped the mess and chaos in the kitchen with a gleeful wave, and hopped into her spiffy little Toyota, since there was no point in driving two cars into town to get her things.

Her question took him by surprise and he glanced at her before turning another corner, uncomfortable in the small, confined space of her compact car. Especially with her sitting so damn close. “I don’t know you, so how could I dislike you?”

“Exactly,” she said, smoothing a hand down her jean-clad thigh. “So it’s what I do for a living that bothers you?” He had an incredible profile, she decided. The kind some thoroughly moody artist with talented fingers would do wonders capturing on canvas. Strong, incredibly masculine, yet his eyes were compassionate. Not even the scowl he’d been wearing since she’d announced who she was could hide the deep caring inside this man. She saw it in the way he related to his grandfather, the twins, and even Ruth, who was the loudest and probably the clumsiest, most uncoordinated and confused animal Rebecca had ever met.

Jake’s unbelievable compassion for those he loved touched her on some deep, unconscious level she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

It was clear that beneath the blustering facade he tried to portray was a gentle, sensitive, caring man.

“I don’t like reporters,” Jake said firmly, glancing in his rearview mirror before changing lanes. Especially
female
reporters, he wanted to add, but didn’t. She was close enough now that her sweet, feminine scent was wreaking havoc with his senses. Did the
woman’s mere scent have to make his blood rush through his veins?

“Hmm, so I gathered,” Rebecca said with a hint of amusement. Apparently Jake’s compassion didn’t quite extend to her. She glanced at him, unable to stop staring at his incredible face. The dark stubble of beard he wore only added to his masculine attractiveness. She had an unbearable urge to run her fingers over his cheek to see how the stubble felt. The thought shocked her silly, and she primly laced her fingers together to prevent herself from touching him.

Making herself glance away from him, she decided she needed to keep her mind on their conversation.

“Do you know why I became a reporter?” she asked, pushing a few strands of windblown hair off her face. The windows were open, and the warm breezed rushed in, ruffling her hair.

“Is this a multiple choice question?” he asked with a frown, looking at her briefly. “Okay, it is,” he continued, without giving her a chance to respond. “Let’s see, it’s either because you’re nosy, you like prying into other people’s private lives or because you like making up lies, right?”

She laughed, surprising him. He thought for certain she’d get annoyed or offended, that a cool look would fill her eyes or that icy detachment would blanket her face.

“None of the above,” she said, glancing out the window and trying not to take offense at his words. Sheer pride had her holding her tongue.

On some level she could understand his venom. After what he’d been through, what his family had been
through, the publicity must have been unbearable, so his animosity was understandable. Perhaps she, better than anyone, could understand his feelings, for she, too, had shared similar feelings and experiences. “I’m actually a very private person myself.”

He snorted, making her frown.

“You find that funny?” she asked with a lift of her brow.

“Not funny—exactly,” he said with a grin. Her voice was chilly enough to drop the temperature ten degrees. The ice princess was back. Apparently whenever he ruffled her feathers or got too close, she turned into an ice queen. He couldn’t help but find it intriguing.

Clearly, this was a woman who protected herself in the clinches, and liked to keep people at bay. She did it so easily, so effortlessly, it had obviously been a long-time habit, and that made him wonder why. What was she hiding that she didn’t want anyone to see?

“So you’re a private person, huh?” There was no hint of amusement in his tone. Jake glanced at her for a long moment, grateful he was stopped at a red light. “You’re in a rather strange profession for someone who considers herself a private person, don’t you think? I mean, considering that what you do for a living is pry into other people’s lives and violate their privacy.” He stared at Rebecca long enough to make her look away, but not before he saw the female interest, the attraction, as well as the confusion, as if she didn’t know what the heck was happening between them.

Impossible. Every woman alive knew how to rec
ognize the mating game; hell, women had invented the moves, and usually led the dance. It pleased him on some level to know that she, too, seemed a bit off balance by the currents of electricity that seemed to be sparking between them. Unable to resist, he reached out and touched her arm. Through the silk of her blouse he could feel the warm, silky skin beneath. It almost made his breath hitch as his imagination immediately conjured up that smooth skin naked, that firm body aching and under him. “I’m sorry, I just find that hard to believe.”

“Well, believe it,” Rebecca said firmly, startled by his touch, and by the way her pulse seemed to skid and then scamper every time he touched her. “I happen to think privacy is a very important commodity. I expect people to respect and value my privacy just as I respect and value theirs.” She couldn’t look at him right now, not when her heart was still thudding because she feared he might touch her again, or worse, that he
wouldn’t.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you think privacy is an important commodity to be valued and respected.”

“But you don’t believe me?” she asked. The suspicious tone of his voice had her glancing away again, fearing she might not be able to hide her own tumultuous emotions, at least not about this.

After the police had picked up her mother for questioning about the disappearance of Jesse Ryan, unscrupulous reporters had inflamed the situation by digging into her mother’s life and past, and printing every detail, couching it in a way that it sounded as sordid as possible. So that as Margaret Brost’s
bastard
child—as she was referred to in the press—Rebecca, too, became the object of reporters’ prying questions and speculations.

The Social Services people had tried to protect her, but it was virtually impossible. The reporters
made
it impossible, following her, snapping her picture, pushing microphones in her face, virtually terrorizing her. At seven, Rebecca hadn’t understood what was happening, or why these strange people were doing this to her. All she knew was that her mother had been taken away from her, leaving her utterly alone and at the mercy of an angry, unforgiving world.

From the newspaper stories, she knew that although her mother had been picked up by the Saddle Falls police for questioning in Jesse Ryan’s disappearance, she’d never been charged with anything.

Rebecca could still remember the day her mother had been released from police custody. Her mom’s picture, taken coming out of the police station, had been splashed all over the newspapers. A big smile on her face, she’d been waving to the gathered crowd as if she was enjoying all the commotion and attention.

Even now, Rebecca clearly remembered how excited and happy she’d been, certain that her mother was coming to get her and their life would get back to normal again.

But her mother never came.

Social Services had taken Rebecca into custody and sent her to a “group home” in another town. Group home was a more politically correct term for an orphanage. Because her picture had been splashed all over the papers, everyone recognized her—the “bas
tard” child of a suspected kidnapper. Rebecca could still remember the taunts she’d endured from the other children at the home and at school. So she changed her name as soon as she left the orphanage.

It took years for her to accept that her mother wasn’t coming for her.

She had abandoned her.

For whatever reason, her mother no longer wanted her.

And it broke Rebecca’s battered heart just a little more.

That was when she began withdrawing, erecting a shield to protect herself from the pain that at seven years old she didn’t know how to handle. It was the only way she knew how to survive. She simply stopped feeling and caring. She’d vowed never again to care about anyone enough to let them hurt her.

And so she’d grown up in self-imposed solitude, learning to be self-sufficient and independent, learning never to need or want anything or anyone.

She’d thrown herself into her studies, soaking up knowledge like a sponge, excelling first in grade school, then in high school, and finally earning a full-tuition scholarship to college from a generous benefactor.

She also changed her last name, and in doing so, erased her past and the pain she’d carried like a heavy knapsack for most of her young life.

And through it all, she valued her privacy, kept to herself and refused to allow anyone entrance beyond the self-imposed walls she’d erected around her heart, her life and her emotions.

Until now.

She glanced at Jake. When she’d received the anonymous letter telling her of her mother’s death, she hadn’t realized how much emotion she still carried, how deeply she’d buried it. Perhaps that’s why she was having such a hard time handling her feelings now. They were alien, unexpected, and as much of a stranger to her as the mother she’d buried just a few days ago.

But Rebecca, better than anyone, knew from experience how important privacy was; knew, too, how important the truth was. That’s why she’d grown up so adamant about it, why she was so persistent in her quest for it, going to any lengths to find it.

No matter what the cost.

But she didn’t know if she could ever get Jake to understand that, not without telling him of her own painful past, something she could never do.

“So tell me, Rebecca, how the hell do you reconcile what you do for a living with your supposed ‘respect’ for other people’s privacy?”

“I believe in what I’m doing, Jake, because I firmly believe in the truth.” She hesitated, gathering her thoughts, trying to put some strength into her suddenly shaky voice. Turning to him, she rested her head against the back of the seat, lifting a hand to rub at her suddenly throbbing temple.

“The truth?” He snorted in disgust again. “Please, you’re a reporter. Truth is the furthest thing from your mind.”

“On the contrary, Jake. In spite of what you may think of me, I have never willingly or knowingly
printed anything untrue, nor have I ever done anything or printed anything that I knew would deliberately hurt someone. Not for a story, not for any reason.” Her chin lifted. “I consider that highly unethical.”

One dark brow rose skeptically. “An ethical reporter?” He laughed, but the sound was bitter. “That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it?”

“I do what I do because I firmly believe in the truth. But sometimes in order to get to the truth, you have to dig for information, information that perhaps some people would rather not have come to light.”

“And you don’t consider that an invasion of privacy?” They’d entered town now, and he maneuvered the car through the afternoon traffic.

Rebecca shook her head, dislodging several more strands of hair, which blew around her face. She scooped them back behind her ear. “No, not really. I use the information I obtain to try to help people.”

“Nice try, Rebecca. But in my experience, someone generally ends up getting hurt in a reporter’s quest to get to the truth—even if it’s intended to ‘help’ someone.”

It was another accusation, she realized, knowing he was thinking of his own situation, while she was thinking of hers. Perhaps they weren’t all that different.

“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “That’s true, sometimes people do get hurt, but that doesn’t mean we should stop searching for the truth.” Aware that he was listening intently, she shrugged. “I firmly believe that the truth is worth whatever price you have to pay. Sometimes in getting to the truth, someone
unintentionally gets hurt. It’s unfortunate, but there are times it simply can’t be helped. But it’s never deliberate, or done for sensationalism.”

“So you think that makes it acceptable? Regardless of the motive, the end justifies the means?” Disgusted, he shook his head. “Like it or not, Rebecca, people get hurt when you dig into private places you’ve got no business digging in. It’s a fact you can’t escape.”

“Jake, I can’t conceive of a situation when I’d deliberately hurt someone, but I guess that’s what I’m trying to explain. Sometimes the truth is not pretty, and sometimes people get hurt when the reality of a situation comes out. But if you’re asking me if I’ll dig for something or print something just to hurt someone, or to sensationalize a story, then the answer is no. I wouldn’t consider it.”

“And you expect me to believe you always print the truth?” he demanded, causing her to gape at him, genuinely appalled.

“Of course I do. I wouldn’t dream of fabricating facts, or exaggerating them—”

“Or simply make something up to sell newspapers and build a name for yourself?” His tone of voice indicated that he clearly thought she was capable of such a thing. It didn’t anger her, only saddened her.

She shook her head, sorely tempted to tell him that she no longer had to worry about making a name for herself. She was pretty well known and well respected in Reno, where she’d built a solid reputation and professional life based on the integrity of her work.