by Lisa Jackson
“Turner Brooks?” she repeated, stepping into the shadows of the barn, closer now so that he could see her face, the same damned face that he’d tried so hard to forget.
Gargoyle shifted, his head swinging around. And Turner, thighs still clamped over the horse’s foreleg, sidestepped the nip. He spat the nails into his hand, all the while never letting his gaze wander from the doorway. “Well, well, well,” he heard himself saying. “If it isn’t Mrs. Leonetti?” She winced a little at that, and he wondered where was the satisfaction he should have felt in wounding her. Letting the roan’s leg drop, he vaulted easily over the railing of the stall. She was still a few feet away, but he noticed her eyes widen a bit, and the quick intake of her breath, as if she were frightened. “You know, I never thought I’d see you again.”
“I…um…I know.” She licked her lips—from nerves or in an effort to play coy, he couldn’t guess. His gut tightened, warning him that she was trouble. Always had been. Always would be. Her blond hair, the color of winter wheat, stirred in the breeze, and in the half light of the barn her eyes were as dark as the stone cold hue of an arctic sky. Fitting. “You haven’t returned my calls,” she accused, though her words weren’t harsh.
“Nothin’ to say.”
“And my letter?”
One edge of his lip lifted sardonically. God, she was beautiful—frigidly so. The layer of sophistication she’d so carefully wrapped around her made her seem ice-cold and untouchable—like a marble statue. She’d changed over the years, and not for the better. “You sent me something? Must’ve got lost,” he drawled, and they both knew it was a lie.
“You should’ve read it.”
“Why?” He folded his arms over his chest, waiting with measured patience.
Her mouth moved, but she didn’t speak.
“Look, lady,” Turner said irritably as he remembered using that very word as an endearment in the past. She froze for a second and he mentally kicked himself. “Is there something you want? If so, just spit it out and then leave me the hell alone.”
“I just…I… Oh, drat!” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and for the first time he noticed the lines of strain near her mouth. Maybe being married to Mr. Big Bucks wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. “I had to see you again.”
His body turned rigid. Every sweat-soaked muscle grew taut with suspicion. She was playing with him. A bored housewife looking for a quick thrill. “So now you’ve seen me,” he said, with as much malice as he could muster. May as well have a little fun with her. She deserved it. “Now what?”
“I, um, thought we could talk.”
He sauntered closer to her, aware that he smelled of sweat and horse and dirt. He hadn’t shaved in three days, and his faded jeans, threatening to bust through in the knees and butt, were streaked with grime. A pretty sight he made, he thought as he stopped only inches from her and stared down into her cobalt-blue eyes. In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a sleek, silver Mercedes—a rich woman’s car.
“Talk?” He lifted a dubious eyebrow and smiled inwardly when her pulse, visible in her throat, leapt. So she was either scared or nervous. Good. “I’m not in the mood to talk. There’s only one thing I’ve ever wanted to do with you,” he said cruelly, keeping his voice low while sliding one long finger along the V of her neckline. “And you know what that is. So, let’s either get down to it or you can get the hell out of my life.”
Shuddering, as if from revulsion, she drew in a long breath and focused her eyes directly on his. “Don’t try to scare me, Turner. It won’t work.”
So she did still have some gumption. She tossed her thick blond hair away from her face and didn’t flinch, not even when his finger slipped beneath the clear button and the blouse opened a slit. He told himself she could never arouse him again, but the pad of his fingertip pressing against the taut skin over her sternum caused a reaction elsewhere in his body, and when he noticed that her expensive white blouse was dirty where he’d touched the lapel, his groin tightened. He always had liked a challenge and she seemed intent on giving him one.
So what the hell? Even if she were here for a quick roll in the hay—why not? So she was married. He’d always drawn the line at married women before, but with Heather, when she was practically begging for it…
He grabbed the front of her blouse in his fist and drew her close, intent on kissing her.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned as he lowered his head.
“No?”
Her own fingers wound around his wrists. “I didn’t come here to seduce you, Turner and, in fact—” she managed to rake her gaze down his filthy body “—if I were in the mood, you’d be the last man I’d want.”
“I doubt that,” he replied, his eyes slitting as he stared down at this rich little bitch who had the nerve to stride onto his ranch, uninvited, and insult him.
“I’d heard that you were a broken-down cowboy, a man who was on the verge of pouring his life into a bottle, but I didn’t believe it. But now—” she skated that haughty gaze over the rough planes of his face “—I see that I was wrong.”
He wasn’t going to argue with her. So he’d inherited his old man’s reputation. Big deal. He knew that he’d never, never follow the same path as John Brooks. What other people thought—including Heather Leonetti—didn’t matter.
“Then why the hell are you here, lady?” he asked, spitting out the final word.
“Because I need your help!”
His fist uncoiled and he stepped away from her, noticing the fire in her eyes. “From a ‘broken-down cowboy’? From a man who’s on his way to ‘pouring his life into a bottle’? I don’t think so.” He glared at her as if she were dirt. His lip curled in disgust. He was tired of the game and furious that just the sight of her could arouse him. “Go home, Heather. Go back to your fat-cat husband. I don’t really give a damn what you want. I wouldn’t help you if you crawled back to me on your hands and knees.”
“Well, think about it, Turner, because that’s exactly what I’m doing,” she said, holding her wobbling chin a little higher. Tears filled her blue eyes and he felt his pride start to shatter. “I’m begging you because I need your help.”
“I don’t think so—”
“We have a son, Turner,” she said quickly, and all sound inside the barn seemed to cease. He stared at her as if she had gone stark, raving mad. “He’s five. His name is Adam. And regardless of what you think of me, he needs you very much.”
CHAPTER SIX
BENEATH HIS TAN, TURNER’S face drained of color. “A son,” he repeated, when he finally found his tongue. Disbelief clouded his eyes and his voice was deadly. “I have a son?”
“Yes and—”
“And you haven’t told me about him for six years and now, all of a sudden, out of the clear damned blue, I have a son.” He looked at her long and hard, his face harsh and flushed with fury. “Come on, Heather, you can do better than that. Just try.”
“I’m telling the truth!” She didn’t panic. Not yet. She’d known he wouldn’t believe her, not at first.
“Sure. Well, for your information we have three daughters, too. I just never got around to tellin’ you ’bout ’em.” He offered a cold smile, and it was all Heather could do not to grab him by his filthy collar and shake some sense into him.
“It isn’t impossible, you know.”
His cruel grin faded, and she knew he, too, was remembering all the times they’d made love that summer.
“Why would I lie?”
“You tell me.” Yanking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the sweat and grime from his face. His hands shook a little and she knew she was finally reaching him.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be, Turner. You know that.”
Time seemed to spin backward six long, lonely years. The air was thick with old, tangled emotions that seemed to creep into the barn and bring sweat to Heather’s brow. Turner’s expression turned from wary to a thundering
rage that knotted his features as the truth finally hit home. “Are you trying to tell me that I’ve had a kid for five years and you’ve kept it a secret?”
Heather’s heart ripped.
“That you married a rich banker so that my kid wouldn’t have to be raised by a poor cowboy? Is that it?”
She choked, her throat swollen, her heart shredding.
“Are you trying to convince me that you’re so callous—so friggin’ manipulative that you would pass off another man’s son as his?”
She couldn’t help herself. With a smack that resounded to the dusty rafters, she slapped him hard across his dirty face. He caught her wrist, and the ugly horse in the stall snorted and stamped impatiently. “It wouldn’t be wise to get physical with me, lady,” he warned, the tension in the barn snapping as with the current of an electric storm.
But Heather barely heard his warning. She yanked back her hand and glared at him. “You weren’t interested in commitments, Turner, remember? You didn’t want a family. No strings to tie you down. You were too busy chasing cows and riding bucking horses and being a loner to think about…about…”
“About the fact that I had a kid? How the hell would I know?”
“You didn’t stick around long enough to find out, did you?” she accused. Her fury suddenly grew to a living, breathing beast that roared within her. All her pent-up rage exploded. “You don’t think I wanted to tell you? I tried, Turner. But you were gone.”
“Seems to me you found yourself a patsy.”
“A patsy? All I wanted was a father for my child! A man who would care for him, a man who wanted him—”
“All you wanted was a rich man, Heather. That’s all you’ve ever wanted. I knew it then and I know it now. But I’m warning you, if you’re lyin’ to me—”
“I’m not. Adam’s your son,” she said flatly. “And believe me, if I could change that, I would.”
For the first time, he actually seemed to see past his anger. A vein ticked in his forehead and sweat drizzled down his neck. “And why, after six years, do you want to see me now?”
Her stomach knotted with the pain of the truth. “Adam’s sick, Turner,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
His spine went rigid and his eyes turned black as night. “Sick?”
“He has leukemia,” she said, deciding that it was now or never. She saw the fear flare in his eyes. “The disease…it’s in remission. He’s been through hell fighting it, but the drugs have seemed to work. Now the doctor is talking about a possible bone-marrow transplant. But Adam has no siblings and…well, I don’t match. Even though it’s a slim chance, I was hoping…I thought that you might…” She threw her hands up toward the rafters and tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Turner,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she thought about losing Adam. “I wouldn’t have come, but you’re Adam’s best hope.”
“If I’m his father,” he said coldly.
“You are, damn it! Do you honestly think I would’ve wasted my time driving up here, dredging up everything again?” Blinking rapidly, she fingered the clasp of her purse. “I’ve got a picture—”
“I’ll need more proof than that.”
“Anything,” she whispered, glad that at least they were making headway.
Turner’s gaze shifted around the barn quickly, as if he were sizing up his own operation. Nervously, he rubbed the top rail of the stall. “They have tests now—genetic tests that would prove without a doubt—”
“I know that, Turner. That’s why you should trust me. If I’m lying, I’ll be found out. But I’m not. Believe me, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
That stopped him. His fidgeting hands quit moving. “Does your husband know?”
“Of course my ex-husband knows. He knew I was pregnant when we got married. I told him about you.” She thought fleetingly of Dennis, of his reaction when she’d first told him she was pregnant with another man’s child. He’d been angry, even wounded, and he’d left her mother’s house with a screech of tires. But he had come back. Swearing that he loved her. Vowing to look after her and the baby. Promising to give the infant everything it could ever want. And she’d stupidly believed Dennis Leonetti, a man obsessed with her. It all seemed like such a long time ago. And now, staring at Turner, she wondered how she’d ever let the world think that Adam had been Dennis’s son.
Turner’s jaw tightened, and before he could say anything hateful, she said, “I didn’t really know that I was pregnant until you were gone. Then I tried to contact you…but it was impossible. I called the Lazy K. Zeke wouldn’t say where you were and for once Mazie kept her mouth shut. Even the other ranch hands played dumb.”
“So you married Leonetti,” he said, his voice cold as stone.
Why bother explaining? He’d set himself up as judge and jury, tried her and found her guilty. But she couldn’t expect much more, she supposed. She dug into her purse, found the picture of Adam and held it out to him. “This…this is our son,” she said.
Turner swept the snapshot out of her fingers, and in the half-light within the barn, he squinted at it. His eyebrows knotted in concentration.
Can’t you see it, Turner? Doesn’t the resemblance leap out at you? He has the same straight, light brown hair, the same gray eyes, the same little cleft in his chin? Oh, God, Turner, he’s yours!
A dozen emotions flickered in Turner’s eyes. Emotions that were dark and dangerous. His voice, when he spoke, was thick. “How do you know?” he asked, and though she’d been prepared for the question, it startled her.
“I was a virgin, remember? You were the first. The only.”
His mouth tightened. He remembered all right. Everything about her. Loving any other woman had never felt so right. Even now, in her expensive clothes and soft leather shoes, she was as attractive to him as she had been as a girl in cutoff jeans and halter tops. “There could have been others.”
Her steady blue eyes held his. “There weren’t.”
“How do I know—”
“You don’t. You have to trust me on this one, Turner. I never made love to anyone but you until I married Dennis—two weeks after the doctor confirmed my pregnancy. You can think what you want of me, but that’s the God’s honest truth. Adam’s yours.”
His heart was pounding so hard he could hear the blood pumping at his temples. She leaned closer to him, and he could see the golden crown of her head, could smell the provocative fragrance of her perfume. Just as before, he found her impossible to resist.
“I wouldn’t have come here unless you were my only hope, Turner. It’s just that I’m out of options and I would risk anything, even facing you again, to help my boy. I was hoping you’d feel the same way.”
Turner’s guts twisted. Leukemia! Wasn’t that fatal? His mouth turned to sand as he thought about a boy he’d never had the chance to know, a son that he could lose before he’d ever really found him. Damn Heather and her lies! She should have told him. She’d owed him that much. His fingers curled possessively over the slick snapshot. “What if he hadn’t gotten sick? Would you have ever told him about me—or let me know I had a kid?” he asked, rage beginning to swell inside him.
“Yes.”
“When?”
She hesitated just a second. “When he was eighteen.”
“Eighteen!” She had it all planned out. And she’d intended to rob him of ever seeing his boy as a kid. So that they’d never play catch, never ride trails and camp out on the river, never even meet. “Eight-friggin’-teen?” he said in a voice so low he saw the fear register in her eyes.
“He’d need to know someday.”
“And me? Did I need to know?”
She shook her head, and there was a trace of sadness in her cold blue eyes. “You gave up that right when you walked away from me and acted as if what we’d shared never existed,” she said as icily as if she meant every word.
He started to argue with her. To ask why she’d never returned his calls, why she’d never answered her mail, bu
t he already knew the reasons. By the time he’d returned and started looking for her, she’d already married the son of one of the richest men in the bay area.
Pregnant or not, she’d realized even then what she’d wanted and it had come with a price tag. A price tag he could never afford. He handed her back the picture of Adam and watched as the disappointment registered on her face. “I want to see him,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “Face-to-face. I want to meet my son.”
“You will.”
“You’ll bring him here?”
She was startled. Again, fear registered across her beautiful features. Nervously, she licked her lips, and Turner’s diaphragm slammed up to his ribs. “I thought in the city, in the hospital…”
“Does that have to happen immediately?”
“No, right now he’s better, but—”
“Then I want to meet him, but not in some sterile hospital room with a bunch of doctors and nurses stickin’ tubes and needles in him.”
To keep his hands busy, he grabbed a pitchfork and tossed hay into Gargoyle’s empty manger. He felt trapped, felt as if he had to move on, and yet he wouldn’t have it any other way. If the kid was his, and he was starting to believe Heather, then Turner planned to include the boy in his life.
He shoved the pitchfork in a split bale and leaned upon it. Heather was waiting, her elegant features tense. “Look, no matter what happened between us, I’ll do what you want,” he said, his heart twisting as the tension left her pretty face. “I’ll go to the city, have the tests done. No reason to hold this thing up. If the kid needs a donor and I’m a match, I’ll do whatever I have to. No problem.”
Relief brought a tremulous smile to her lips, and he anticipated the words of gratitude that were forming on her tongue. She misunderstood and he had to set her straight.
“But that’s not the end of it, Heather. As soon as he’s well enough and the tests have proven that he’s mine, then I want you to bring him back here…and not for an afternoon.”