“I don’t want you to do that,” he said.
“My dad will be with Meatball.”
“No, it’s not that, but I have a different idea.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Is there any way you can put this trip off for a while? Let her get to know me as someone who’s not a monster or a murderer? Even though…” He swallowed visibly. “Is that possible?”
She considered the request, stepping into his shoes for a moment, the echo of her father’s words still in her head. There’s more to him than meets the eye. Didn’t he deserve a chance to show that to Pru, after missing thirteen years of her life?
“Maybe,” Molly said. “I could tell her I need to stay with Meatball, which wouldn’t be a lie. Let me think about it. I have to go into town now and work at my other office.”
“All right.” He glanced beyond her at the housing building. “I guess I’ll be in there.”
“Don’t you have to get…” Then she remembered Dad told her he didn’t have a car and had walked there that morning, which her father took as some kind of testament to the magnificence of his character. She chalked it up to a man who loved the hell out of his dog, which, to be fair, said a lot about his character, too.
“I’ll give you a ride back to your place,” she said quickly, half hating the words as they came out, but knowing it was the right thing to offer.
He eyed her for a moment, a hint of a smile tipping the corners of his mouth. “Still got that candy-apple-red Plymouth Voyager?”
She felt the warmth crawl up her cheeks. “It was maroon, and you’re kidding, right?”
“Yes. It’s called a joke. I seemed to remember you liked them.”
“I do, when something is funny.”
“Yeah, I guess nothing about this is funny.”
She started toward her car, then stopped. “I’m sorry. You’re trying to be normal and nice, and I’m terrified, Trace.”
All humor evaporated from his expression. “You shouldn’t get in a car with me, then. I don’t want you to be terrified.”
“I’m not scared of you,” she assured him. “I’m scared of something changing with Pru. Our relationship is so perfect and real and honest and good.”
“Now I show up and threaten to blow that apart.”
She shrugged. “It’s going to change in some way, and that scares me.”
“I’m still willing to get Meatball fixed up and leave. I was going to sell my mother’s house, not that it’s worth much, but the land is good and real estate has picked up around here. I could go, and we can forget…” His voice trailed off as he looked at her and no doubt read her expression.
“I’m not going to lie to my daughter about who her father is.”
He stared at her, then slowly shook his head. “No wonder that kid is so good. The whole damn family are like saints.”
“Hardly,” she said on a dry laugh. “But even if I were willing to lie to her, which I’m not, could you possibly live knowing you have a daughter and never get to see her? Miss her high school graduation? Her wedding? The birth of her first child?”
He closed his eyes and looked like he was about to reel. “I never dreamed I could do any of that, Molly. I can’t put her through having to tell the world what I…that her father…” He ran a hand over his bare arm, flinching a little as if touching his tattoos for the first time.
For a long time, Molly stood in the winter sunshine, the sounds of dogs barking fading into the background as she stared at this broken man.
There’s more to him than meets the eye.
And for some reason, some crazy, impulsive, maybe stupid reason, she wanted to know what that was.
“Get in the car, Trace, and while we drive, you can tell me about this ‘raw deal’ my dad said you got.”
He returned her gaze, his ebony eyes rich with gratitude and hope. After a second, he reached up and plucked one of her curls, making it bounce. “Thanks, Irish.”
She couldn’t help it. She smiled.
Chapter Eight
They drove out of Waterford Farm and onto the highway that led to town in silence. Not the stressful kind that made Trace’s arms ache and tightened his throat, but what someone might call a “companionable” silence. A patient, calm, still quiet that gave them a chance to get used to each other.
Even the undersized cobalt-blue hybrid she drove was spacious enough for him to feel like he fit—a sensation Trace didn’t have very often.
“I was wrong,” he mused, glancing to her.
“About what?”
“Everything.” He locked his hands behind his head and let it drop back a bit. “I was wrong about Waterford Farm. Not just what I’ve seen since I got out, but I bet I was wrong about it all those years ago.”
“Well, it was different all those years ago,” she said. “It was a family house with a lot of property and some foster dogs. Now it’s a thriving business.”
“Same family, though,” he said. “And from what I knew about Kilcannons…” He shrugged. “I was wrong.”
“Simple misjudgment. Happens to everyone.”
As a man who lived with misjudgment every day and night, he didn’t argue with that. “I didn’t expect to be, you know, welcomed.”
She shot him a sideways look. “I didn’t welcome you,” she said softly. “I didn’t even treat you with the decency I’d give any dog owner with a very sick animal. I’m sorry.”
He forgave with a simple nod. “I shocked you.”
“Even before I went to the door last night, I suspected it was you my dad was telling us about, but…”
“He said my name?” For some reason, that hurt. He’d asked Dr. Kilcannon not to use his name, but—
“No, he didn’t. He said he’d met someone from around here who seemed to be great with dogs and had been in prison. That’s all.”
“And you knew it was me just from that?” He let out a choke of a laugh. “I know I had a bad reputation in town when I was young, but to hear ‘prison’ and jump straight to ‘Bancroft’ is a pretty damning leap.” Although, to anyone who knew his family’s truth, it was a very sensible jump to make.
“That’s not how I leapt.” She shifted in the seat and pulled into the fast lane, accelerating to pass a slower vehicle. “I saw you in town last Saturday when I was shopping with Pru.”
“You did?”
“You went into the hardware store, and I convinced myself I was imagining things because I knew the weekend was coming up and I had to tell Pru and I’ve been pretty stressed about it.”
He turned and studied the bare trees in the woods as they cruised by. “You’ve never ever told anyone?”
“My mother,” she said. “I told her it was you the day I told her I was pregnant.”
“But not your dad?”
“She and I decided that you had the right to know first.”
He laughed softly, getting a questioning look from her. “Sorry, it’s just that your family is so…proper. Right. The moral compass points due north in the Kilcannon world.”
“I never really thought about that,” she said. “But I guess it’s true.”
She backed off the gas and slid into the right lane when anyone else would have kept flying at a higher speed.
“Must be where Pru gets her rule-following ’cause it sure as hell didn’t come from my side of the family,” he mused.
“Well, she has a strong moral compass.” Molly laughed softly. “That girl never met a rule she wouldn’t follow.”
Poor kid. Her moral compass would shatter when she found out what her dad was. And her grandfather. A wave of discomfort rolled over Trace, bringing that low-grade sense of internal agony reminding him of what he was and would always be.
Loser. Murderer. Ex-con.
He wiped his hands over his jeans, the comfort he’d felt moments ago disappearing as reality set in.
Molly glanced over, brushing back some of those deep auburn waves to get a better look at him. “You okay?” she
asked.
“Yeah, sure. Just, you know, worried about that little girl. New sensation for me.”
“My mom’s favorite saying was, ‘You’re only as happy as your least-happy child.’ And, until you have one, you can’t really understand that.”
“I get it,” he admitted. “Up until last night, Meatball was my least-happy child.”
“Meatball’s going to be fine,” she promised him. “Give him a couple of weeks and he’ll be the dog you knew and loved.”
“Pru, on the other hand?”
She sighed. “I can’t imagine Pru changing that much. But she’ll look at me differently.”
“I don’t want that, Molly. I really don’t want that.” He couldn’t mean it more. “I’ve gone all these years not knowing she was alive, and I can—”
“Never forget she is.” Molly turned onto the road that led to Bitter Bark. “Where’s your house?” she asked.
The last thing on heaven or earth he wanted her to see was where he lived. They had outhouses on Waterford Farm that were nicer. He’d have to tell her to—
Step into the shit and wade through.
He could hear Wally’s voice, still, doling out his unwanted but wise advice. A little discomfort is all, Wally would say. Not death.
“On the other side of Bushrod Square, follow River Run about a mile, then go south on Azalea.”
“Oh, back where Kaylie lived.” She threw a look at him. “Where we were the night of that party.”
“A little farther than that, near Sutton’s Mill.”
“Oh. That area used to be pretty rough—”
He snorted. “No kidding.” There were more trailers than houses out there when he was growing up, though most of them were gone now.
“But that land is on the radar of several developers,” she added. “You really might be sitting on more money than you realize.”
“I thought I might be,” he said. “But right now, it’s a hellhole. Brace yourself.”
“I’m braced, and ready for more than that,” she said as she meandered into town traffic. “I was hoping you’d tell me what happened, Trace. How you ended up in prison.” When he didn’t answer immediately, she turned, her expression warm. “Knowing the truth can only help me—and you—decide how and what to tell our daughter.”
Our daughter. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t really look away from her or think straight or comprehend what she’d just said. He tried to look at the red brick buildings and cute little stores and cafés that somehow seemed much more precious than when he lived in this small town. But all he could think about was Pru and how she’d react.
“Please tell me,” she said softly.
“Okay.” He took a deep, long breath and tried to think of where to start, studying the square named for town founder Thaddeus Ambrose Bushrod. For some reason, he was glad he remembered that. Happy to still have a connection to Bitter Bark, North Carolina, no matter how different and gentrified it looked now.
She drove down a side street of brick brownstones, and as he gathered his thoughts, he studied the polished residences that had never looked quite so upscale when he lived here.
“Swanky,” he muttered.
“My brother’s wife owns that one on the end,” she said, her voice gentle, as if she somehow knew he needed some time to prepare.
He threw her a grateful smile that she missed, but that was okay.
“I left town a few hours after we were, uh, together,” he started, diving in before taking his next breath.
She tapped on the brakes, slowing down at an intersection to look at him. “You didn’t go home or pack or anything?”
“I did, but not for long. Bart McQueen had already been to my house and scared the crap out of my mother. My car was at his shop, too. I had to run.” He threw her a look. “So, after you dropped me off not far from here, remember?”
She nodded. “I remember dropping you off.” She added a sigh and a somewhat shy glance. “I remember everything.”
So did he. Which was no surprise, considering what happened next essentially ended his life. “I went home, and my mom was freaking out. Of course, she totally believed Bart.”
“She did?”
He exhaled, remembering the words she’d said so often, and each time it was like a razor blade over his heart. You’re just like your father.
Well, he sure lived up to that high praise.
“I had a little money, so I decided to take a bus to Pittsburgh to stay with my cousin for a week or two. Problem was, I didn’t have enough cash to make it all the way there. The next night, I was stuck outside of Charleston, West Virginia.”
“So what did you do?”
“Made the biggest mistake of my life and walked up to a bar called Jimmy Square Foot’s near the bus station.” Why did he go there? Why? He’d asked himself that question a thousand times. “Anyway, there was a line to get in, and the bouncer was having some problems, so I gave him some backup with a troublemaker.” Another mistake. He should have found a phone, called his cousin, and waited at the bus station until someone wired him cash. But young Trace had been impulsive and didn’t know about bad luck and shitty timing and…parking stoppers.
“Is that when it happened?” she asked.
“No, no. The guy at the door appreciated the help, though, so he let me inside.” He closed his eyes for a moment, smelling stale beer and remembering the tinny-sounding speakers blaring Toby Keith. “I almost left.” Oh man, if he’d have only left.
“Why didn’t you?”
“That bouncer came and got me. He was short-handed and asked if I’d help out. Free drinks, no cover, and they’d let me have a burger at the end of the night. I took that gig…and it turned out to be the worst decision I ever made.”
She glanced at him, then back at the road, steering her little car easily onto the old bridge that crossed a narrow section of river next to an old mill, following the directions he’d given her earlier. It was pretty here, he thought, giving his head a break from his story as he took in the quaint North Carolina vista. Pretty anywhere that wasn’t Huttonsville.
Freedom washed over him like cold water on a summer afternoon. He had to remember he had that now, and he didn’t need to get greedy about a daughter he didn’t deserve. He glanced over at Molly right as she looked at him, the sweet softness in her eyes like a sucker punch to his gut.
He didn’t need to get greedy about anyone or anything around here. He had his freedom, and that should be enough.
“What happened, Trace?”
“About an hour later, I watched this guy kind of muscle a girl out to the back, giving her a hard time. They went out to a parking lot, and I followed because I smelled trouble.” So much trouble. “He was all over her, pissing her—and me—off.” He closed his eyes and remembered her face. He could always remember her face. Not the douchebag’s, but hers. Not Paul Michael Mosfort, age twenty-three, born in Summersville, West Virginia, second son of Janet and Gary Mosfort.
No, he barely remembered what that guy he killed looked like.
But the girl in trouble? Oh, he could still see the fear in her big blue eyes, the vulnerability when she realized she was drunk, but big Paul Michael was a hell of a lot drunker.
When that prick pushed her against a dumpster and tried to stick his tongue down her throat, Trace could still hear her cry, Stop!
Stop! Get him off me! Help me!
“Trace? Trace.” He felt the gentle pressure of a woman’s hand on his arm, the sensation so unfamiliar that he flinched in surprise. Then he blinked and focused on Molly Kilcannon, pretty, pure, and perfect.
The car was stopped, he realized, and he glanced around, seeing the thick pines in front of his house.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He took a slow breath and let it out. “Yeah, sorry. I was just…” He wet his lips and forced himself to wade in his shit, as Wally used to say.
“What happened?” she asked. “With
the girl and the guy trying to attack her?”
“I…didn’t know what to do,” he said, locking on the ever-changing green and golden color of her eyes, suddenly feeling…well, not comfortable, but able. Able to tell his story to someone who actually seemed to care.
“You helped her?” she suggested.
“I was a bouncer, or at least that’s what they told me. And even if I hadn’t been, I would have helped her, but maybe I wouldn’t have…” He paused. “No. I’d have done the same thing. But my defense was always stressing that I’d been ‘hired’ to be a bouncer. Except, that didn’t really fly with the jury.”
“What happened?” she asked again, leaning forward and closing her hand over his arm again. He glanced down at it, at those slender, feminine fingers that saved dogs and fluttered when she talked and probably soothed her sick kid.
His kid.
“I pulled him off her,” he said. “I yanked him away, and he was a big guy, bigger than me, and he drew back his hand and sent a fist at my face full force. I stumbled, and in the time it took me to see straight, he smashed her back into the side of the dumpster and ripped her shirt right in half.”
His stomach turned as he remembered the sound and her gasp and that bastard’s grubby paws slamming onto bare breasts.
“He told me to shut up and I could have some, too, when he was done.”
“Oh my God.”
He tried to swallow, but his throat was tight, remembering his disgust. “I…reacted. I launched forward and pushed him with all my strength and sent him flying backward.”
And that was the end of Paul Michael Mosfort, age twenty-three, of Summersville, West Virginia.
“His head hit a stone parking stopper.” He gave a mirthless, dry snort. “Bet you didn’t know those things had a name. Well, I know. I heard that six thousand times in court.”
“And he died?”
“Right there in the parking lot before an ambulance even got there. I was cuffed and arrested before that girl sobered up and realized what happened.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Turns out Paul was from a wealthy family, that his dad was a lawyer, and Paul himself had started law school that very semester. Lawyers everywhere.” He shook his head. “Except for Paul, who never got a chance to go anywhere but six feet under.”
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