by Lisa Jackson
When Turner released the reins and kneed Sampson into a slow lope, Heather panicked, sure that Adam would fall. She started to cry out, but held her tongue when she saw the strong grip of Turner’s arm around his son’s chest. If she was sure of nothing else in this world, she was certain Turner wouldn’t let Adam fall. The thought was comforting and unsettling alike. Things were going to change. Her life with Adam would never be the same.
She urged her mare into an easy lope and the wind tugged at her hair and brought tears to her eyes. She felt eighteen again and couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. “Come on, girl, you can keep up with them,” she told her little mount, and the game little mare didn’t lose much ground.
Turner pulled up at the crest of a small hill. A crop of trees shaded the grass, and a creek, dry now, wound jaggedly along the rise. From the hilltop, they could see most of the ranch. As he tethered the horses, Turner glanced at her over his shoulder. His eyes were thoughtful and guarded as he looked at Heather. “My mom and dad rented this place for years,” he said, frowning slightly as he revealed more of himself than he ever had. “From Thomas Fitzpatrick. Dad bought it from him with the proceeds of the life insurance he had on Mom. Now Fitzpatrick wants it back.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know?”
Heather lifted a shoulder. “How would I?”
“The man who’s going to be your brother-in-law is Fitzpatrick’s son.”
“A trick of fate,” Heather replied, surprised at the train of Turner’s thoughts. He seemed to be asking deeper questions, questions she didn’t understand. “Jackson and Thomas Fitzpatrick are related by blood only. There’s no love lost between those two.”
Turner opened the saddlebags and pulled out brown sacks filled with sandwiches, fruit and sodas. Adam wandered through the tall, dry grass, trying to catch grasshoppers before they flew away from his eager fingers.
Stretching out in the shade of an oak tree, Turner patted the ground beside him, and Heather, feeling the need for a truce between them, sat next to him, her back propped by the rough bark of the tree.
“Fitzpatrick says he’s interested in the mining rights to the place, thinks there might be oil. My guess is he already knows as much, though how he goofed and sold the place back to my old man beats me. Either John Brooks was sharper than we all thought, or Fitzpatrick made a mistake that’s been eating at him for years. Old Tom never likes to lose, especially when money’s involved. He made a bad decision years ago—concentrating on timber. Now he realizes with all the environmental concerns and restrictions, he’d better find new means to keep that Fitzpatrick wealth.” He plucked a piece of grass from the ground and twirled the bleached blade between his thumb and forefinger. “What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t even hazard a guess.” She drew her knees up and stared after Adam, though she was all too aware of Turner and that he was watching her reaction, as if he expected her to start telling him everything she knew about Thomas Fitzpatrick. Which she had. What she knew of the man was common knowledge to the citizens of Gold Creek. “Ever think about selling?”
“Nope.” He leaned back against the tree, his arm brushing hers as he squinted into the lowering sun. Smiling slightly, watching Adam squeal and run, he seemed more content and relaxed than she’d ever known him.
“What about joining the circuit again? Ever consider it?”
He shook his head. “Busted my knee too many times already. And my shoulder’s not in the best of shape.”
“So you’re going to live out the rest of your days here?” It all seemed too pastoral, too quiet for the Turner she knew.
“That’s the plan.”
It didn’t seem so horrible, she thought, staring at the rolling hills and fields. The sounds of birds in the trees and the relaxing view of horses and cattle grazing brought a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in years. Deep down, she knew she could lose a little bit of the frenetic pace of the city and enjoy the leisure that she’d somehow lost.
But to live in Gold Creek? Seeing Turner day in and day out and knowing that their relationship would go nowhere?
“This place is special to you.”
“It’s all I’ve got,” he said simply, then frowned. “Or it was. Now there’s Adam.”
Heather’s heart twisted. “Yes, now there’s Adam.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “I’ve thought a lot about this, Heather. Ever since you showed up here. I told myself it would be best to leave it all alone. To see the boy occasionally. To pretend to be like a…well, a favorite uncle or something. But that won’t work. And I told myself to stay away. Let you and Adam live your lives without me interfering.” He glanced to the distant hills, and the breeze teased at the golden-brown strands of his hair, lifting them from his forehead. “But it won’t work. It can’t. I can’t let it. It’s not the way I’m made. Even if I’d convinced myself that staying away from him would be best, I couldn’t do it once I’d laid eyes on him. It’s…well, it’s like nothing else in the world. I never planned on having kids—hell, I didn’t think I’d be much of a father—but now that he’s here and he’s mine, I’m going to be the best damn dad this side of Texas.”
Heather’s throat closed in on itself. “That’s what I’ve said about being a mother.”
Turner’s eyes narrowed on the horizon, as if he were wrestling with an inner decision. “I grew up without a mom, leastwise for the last half of my growing-up years. I wouldn’t do that to a kid. And my old man…” He shook his head, his eyes troubled. “That son of a bitch was a piece of work. But he was my dad, and like it or not that’s the way it was.” He leaned back again, resting on an elbow and staring up at her, his gray eyes frank and serious. “You may as well know it right now. Nadine was just a start. From this point on, I’m claiming my boy to everyone I meet. And you can rant and rave and raise holy Cain, but I’m not backing down on this one.” He stared at her for a long minute. “In fact, I think we’d better straighten out this whole mess with the person it means the most to.”
“Turner, don’t—”
But he didn’t listen. “Hey, Adam, come on over and have some supper. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“Turner, I’m warning you,” she said, her motherly defenses springing into position.
“Warn to your heart’s content, darlin’. This little man is gonna find out he’s got a real pa!” Waving, he flagged his boy over, and Adam raced back to him, face red, legs flying wildly. The look of pure joy on the boy’s face almost broke Heather’s heart. She wanted to think that this visit to the ranch was just a lark, a diversion no more interesting than their trips to Candlestick Park or Fisherman’s Wharf, but she had the deep, unsettling fear that what Adam was feeling was more—a deeper bond to the land that ran through his veins as naturally as his father’s blood.
And in her heart, she knew that some of Turner’s arguments were valid. She did spoil Adam. She did overprotect him. Because of Dennis’s ambivalence toward the boy and then the horrid fear brought on by his disease, she had overreacted and coddled her sick son, praying that a mother’s love could conquer all.
But maybe her love had overshadowed the fact that what he needed was freedom to explore, a chance to see the world away from the high rises of the city. Maybe what he needed was his father.
Adam, dust smearing his face and the brown “tobacco juice” of grasshoppers staining his fingers, landed under the tree with a loud thump. Automatically, Heather wiped his hands, but the brown dye didn’t come off easily.
“Won’t hurt him,” Turner said. He’d unwrapped a sandwich and handed half to Adam, who promptly turned his nose up at it. “Don’t like lettuce,” he said.
“Adam…” Heather tried to step in, but Turner waved off her arguments, stripped the lettuce from the sandwich and tossed the green leaf over his shoulder.
“That’s littering.”
“Not out here,” he said, stretching out in the shade of the tree. “So
me rabbit or cow or crow or field mouse will find it.” He handed Adam a can of soda and the boy grinned widely. “Now look, there’s something your mom and I want to tell you.”
While her guts wrenched, Heather shot Turner a look that spoke volumes.
Adam sat cross-legged and held his sandwich in two hands. “What?”
“From now on you can call me Dad.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m your father.”
Adam’s brow beetled, and he sent Heather a glance that said he thought Turner had lost his marbles. “Already got a dad.”
“And you don’t want another one.”
“Can only have one,” he said, in simple five-year-old terms. Having set the older man straight, he took a big bite from his sandwich.
“Well, that’s not necessarily true. Lots of people get married and divorced these days.”
“My mom and dad are divorced.”
“Right. But they may remarry, and when they do, you’ll have a stepfather and a stepmother.”
Adam chewed his ham sandwich thoughtfully. “So you’re gonna marry Mom. Right?”
Turner’s jaw slid to the side and Heather hardly dared breathe. “I don’t think she’d have me,” he said, and cast Heather a look that melted her insides.
“So how can you be my dad?”
“Your mom and I knew each other a long time ago,” Turner said carefully, his voice oddly distant. “And…well, we fell in love, I guess, and she ended up pregnant with you, but I was far away. So she married the man you call your father.”
“He is my father,” Adam insisted, and Turner’s muscles tightened a bit.
We fell in love? Heather wished she could believe the fairy tale he was spinning. Talk about lies! Turner was staring at his son, and Adam, arms crossed importantly over his chest, wasn’t listening to any more of this craziness. He knew who his father was.
“I’m your pa, too,” Turner told his boy.
Adam snorted. “Can’t have more than one.”
Don’t argue with him, Heather silently pleaded, and for once Turner used his head.
“Sometimes things aren’t so cut-and-dried. I know it’ll take a little getting used to and you might still want to call me Turner, and that’s okay.” Turner’s voice had thickened, and he looked down at the boy with an expression of concern and tenderness. “But I want you to know that I really am your pa.”
Adam just shook his head and swallowed a drink of grape soda. When he set down the can, his lips were a pale shade of purple. He eyed Turner and Heather with unhidden suspicion. Obviously, he thought the grown-ups around him had lost any lick of common sense they’d been born with.
Heather ruffled her son’s hair, letting the silky strands tickle her fingers. She forced words past her lips she hadn’t planned on uttering for years. “He’s telling you the truth, Adam. Turner is your dad.” Looking at Turner, Heather smiled. Somehow this felt right.
“And what about Daddy?” Adam asked belligerently. His entire world had been turned upside down.
“He’s your daddy, too. Your stepdaddy.”
“I don’t get it,” he complained.
Heather offered him a tender smile. “Don’t worry about it. Turner just wanted you to understand when he tells people you’re his son why he’s saying it.”
“Sounds crazy to me,” Adam said, but didn’t seem much concerned one way or the other. There was just too much to do here, too much to explore to worry about grown-up things. He left his sandwich half-eaten and ignored three quarters of his soda.
Turner, radiating pride, stared at the boy who was his son, and Heather felt the urge to kiss him, not with passion, but just to let him know that she appreciated the fact that he cared, actually cared, for his son. After so many years of Dennis’s apathy, Turner’s concern, though irritating sometimes, was a breath of fresh air. At least now, if anything happened to her, Adam would be with a parent who loved him. What more could she ask?
They ate in companionable silence, eating and watching their boy play in the tall grass while the sun lowered and a breeze laden with clover and honeysuckle danced through the dry leaves of the oak tree. Sunlight dappled the ground, shifting as the leaves rustled in the wind. The silence grew between them, and Turner rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if wrestling with an inner dilemma.
Well, God knew, they had their share.
“Adam brought up an interesting point,” Turner said quietly.
“Which is?” she hardly dared ask.
“That, in a perfect world, you and I would be married.”
Her heart missed a beat and she looked up sharply to find flinty eyes regarding her without a trace of humor. He wasn’t teasing her, but she had the feeling he was testing her. “It’s not a perfect world,” she said, meeting his gaze boldly.
“Growing up with only one parent isn’t easy.”
“Lots of kids do it.”
His nostrils flared. “Not mine.”
“If you’re still trying to talk me into moving back to Gold Creek—”
“I think it’s gone further than that, Heather. We both know it. Neither of us will be satisfied playing part-time parents, now, will we?”
Her throat was as dry as the last leaves of autumn. “What’re you getting at?” she asked, her heart hammering wildly, her fingers nervously working the hem of her vest.
He eyed her long and hard, assessing her as he would a wild mustang he was about to break. “Well, Heather,” he said, his gaze traveling up from the cleft at her breasts to settle on her eyes, “I guess I’m asking you to marry me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
HEATHER ALMOST LAUGHED. Except for the dead-serious glint in his eyes, she would’ve thought he was joking. But marriage? She bit her lip. How long had she waited for a proposal from this lonesome cowboy? She would’ve done anything to hear him beg her to marry him six years ago. Now, however, she understood his reasons, the motives for making a commitment he would otherwise have avoided. “You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly, as she picked a flower from the dried grass and twirled it between her fingers. “I won’t keep Adam from you.”
His expression tensed. “You mean he can stay with me?” Unleashed anger sparked in his eyes.
“Part of the time, yes. When he’s not in school.” She swallowed back the impulsive urge to throw caution to the wind and tell him she’d gladly become his wife. However, she wouldn’t allow his nobility, if that’s what it was, or his love for his child, to interfere with his happiness.
“All summer long?”
“I—I can’t promise—”
“Every weekend?”
“Well, no, but—”
Turner’s expression turned as thunderous as a summer storm. “But nothing! The only way I’m going to see him as much as I want is for you to live with me.”
“Here?”
“Is it so bad, Heather?” His voice was deeper than usual, and she saw the pride in his eyes when he looked over the acres that he’d sweated and bled for.
Hot tears filled her eyes. “No, Turner, it’s good here. It’s good for you. Maybe even good for Adam. I can feel it. But I don’t know if I can fit in. I’d die if I had to spend my days making jam, or tending garden, or…or cleaning out stalls.” She stared up at the sky, watching as a hawk circled near the mountains. “It’s not a matter of not liking to make jam,” she added. “Or even tending the garden. I…I’d enjoy it, some of the time. Even mucking out the stables. But…I need more. I’d go crazy if I couldn’t paint, if I couldn’t ever sculpt again, if I didn’t have time to sit down with a sketch pad and draw.” If only he could understand. “It’s the same feeling you’d have if you knew you’d never climb on the back of a horse again.”
He tipped back his hat and studied the horizon, his eyes narrowed against the sun. “Can’t you do those things here?”
“I…yes.”
“But you don’t want to.”
Close to tears, she offered him a tender
smile. She’d never loved him more in her life, but she didn’t want him to throw away his own lifestyle. His own needs. “This is no time to sacrifice yourself, Turner. You never wanted to marry. You as much as told me so.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Then maybe you’ll change it again,” she said, her throat closing upon itself as she stared into the intensity of his gaze. “And I’d hate to be the woman you were married to when you realized you wanted out.”
“I won’t.”
“Oh, Turner—”
“Think about it,” he suggested, bristling. He dusted his hands on his jeans as he stood.
She doubted she’d think of little else.
* * *
THAT EVENING, TURNER DROVE them into town. Heather’s fingers tightened over the edge of the pickup seat as they passed familiar landmarks, the park with the gazebo built in memory of Roy Fitzpatrick’s death, the yellow-brick building that had once been the Gold Creek Hotel and now housed Fitzpatrick, Incorporated, the post office on Main Street and the old Rexall Drugstore still standing on the corner of Main and Pine.
“I thought Adam would like one of the best burgers this side of the Rocky Mountains!” Turner said as he eased his pickup close to the curb.
They walked into the drugstore and a bell tinkled. The ceilings were high, with lights and fans, never renovated in the seventy years that the building had stood in the center of town. Shelves were neatly stacked; row upon row of cosmetics, medications, jewelry, paper items and toys stood just as they had most of the decade. The items had changed, turned over for new and improved stock, following the trends of small-town tastes, but the shelves were the same metal inlays that Heather remembered from high school.
The soda fountain in the back hadn’t changed much, either, and Thelma Surrett, Carlie’s mother, her hair grayer, her waist a bit thicker, was still making milk shakes. She glanced over her shoulder and offered Heather a surprised grin. “Well, well, well…look who’s back in town,” she said, turning on the milk shake mixer and snapping up her notepad as the blender whirred as loudly as a dentist’s drill. “First Rachelle and now you. Don’t tell me this town has changed its name to Mecca.”