by Diana Palmer
"Cy doesn't know, about my past. I've never told him the truth. II always seem to believe I've done the best thing for him, don't I, Meredith?" She leaned forward. "Part of Cy's problem is that he doesn't believe in fidelity. He thinks his father and I were deeply in love, but that his father was incapable of being faithful to me. I didn't care that Frank had affairs! My God, I couldn't bear for him to touch me, and he knew it. It was almost a relief when he died. He was unscrupulous, greedy and grasping, and a hopeless womanizer."
She grimaced as she continued her story. "I grew up in such terrible poverty. Even worse than yours, I'm afraid. My mother sold her body, when she was sober enough. My fatherhonestly, I don't even know who he was. I'm not sure she did," she confessed, her face gray from the strain of talking about it. "I deliberately got pregnant with Frank's baby so that he'd marry me. He was the best friend of the man I really loved, but my soldier was a full-blooded Crow, and he lived in poverty as bad as mine. He went off to war hating me for what I'd done, for betraying him with his friend. He didn't know, and I could never tell him, that I was terrified of being poor for the rest of my life. I married money and earned it. I never loved Frank Harden. Never!"
"You loved the man in the service, didn't you?" Meredith asked perceptively. "The one you said was killed in Vietnam."
Myrna nodded. "He was my world," she replied. "One of the reasons I fought Cy's involvement with you was because of your great-uncle." Her eyes closed. "I couldn't bear the memories. And there were people on the reservation who still remembered what I'd done to the man I loved, how I'd betrayed him for a rich lifestyle. I was afraid Cy might spend enough time on the reservation visiting you and your great-aunt and uncle and he mighthear of it."
Meredith felt cold chills rushing down her arms. She gaped at Myrna. "I see."
"If you'd married Cy, your great-uncle would have become part of our family. Heknew the man I loved, very well. I avoided you because I was afraid of you. I didn't want anyone vaguely connected with the Crow people around me. Not only because of the unbearable memories they brought back, but because I was terrified that someone might remember me, from the days when I used to haunt the reservation before I married Frank."
"I never dreamed !" Meredith burst out.
"You can't tell Cy," Myrna said urgently. "He mustn't know."
"Why?"
"Because it's just one more thing he'll hate me for," the older woman replied. "I've lived with the shame and guilt all my life. I've already damaged his life. I can't bear having him know about his grandmother!"
"Oh, Myrna," Meredith said. "Don't you know that love forgives anything?" She leaned forward. "You don't stop loving people because of their shortcomings. You love them in spite of them. Love isn't conditional. How can you have lived so long and not have learned that?"
Her troubled eyes met Meredith's. "Do you really think Cy will ever forgive me? I've made so many terrible mistakes."
"You might try telling him why you did it," Meredith suggested. "Cy might surprise you. It might make a tremendous difference to him, to know the truth about your childhood, the real reason for your marriage."
Myrna stared at her for a long moment. "Ihadn't thought about that."
"Shouldn't you?" Impulsively Meredith stood up and bent to kiss the older woman's cheek. "You wicked woman, you," she murmured. "Why don't you finish those eggs while I get the biscuits out?"
Myrna actually blushed. She glanced at Meredith and smiled shyly. "I don't feel very wicked now. You have a way with words."
"My board of directors would agree with you. I hope Blake isn't bouncing on Cy's bed."
"Cy won't let him." She smoothed back her hair with a long sigh and went to dish up the eggs. "Confession is good for the soul, they say." She smiled at Meredith. "It must be, because I feel better than I have for years."
"We all have skeletons, you know," Meredith said. "It only proves that we're human. Your son isn't judgmental. In some ways he's a very nice man."
"And in others he isn't. Yes, I know."
"I only hope he'll work on those exercises," Meredith said solemnly. "He has to, if he wants to get back on his feet."
Myrna nodded. "He's so impatient."
While the women discussed Cy, he was watching his son meticulously arranging his silverware on a napkin by the bedside. He smiled gently at the scowl so like his own on that small face.
"There!" Blake said, satisfied at last. "My mommy is fixing biscuits. Do you like biscuits?"
"Very much," Cy replied softly.
Blake went close to the bed, looking up at the man with open curiosity. "You look like me," he said.
"Yes." Cy didn't enlarge on that. "Do you like horses?"
"Oh, yes, but we can't have a horse," he said. "We live in a city."
"Do you have pets?"
"Only Tiny." He sighed. "I wanted a dog, but my mommy said we'd have to wait until I'm older." He traced the pattern on the brown plaid sheets. "Your mommy says I can play with your toy soldiers. Is it all right with you?"
Cy had to struggle to keep a straight face. "Sure."
"I guess you don't want to play, too?"
"I might."
Blake's eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Really."
"I'll go and get them!"
"Wait a minute, sport." Cy chuckled. "Let's have breakfast first. I'm starving."
"All right," the boy muttered. "You sound just like my mommy."
"Want to have your breakfast in here with me?" Cy offered.
"Could I?!"
Cy's heart soared. His son enjoyed his company. Well, that was a milestone of a kind. "If you like," he said. "You'd better tell your mother."
"She likes you," Blake said. "She cried when they said you were in the hospital, and Mr. Smith fussed because she wouldn't even come home to sleep. Does my mommy love you?"
Cy felt something stir deep inside himself at the question, because he knew the answer as if it were embedded in his very soul. "Yes," he said softly. "Very, very much. Do you mind?"
"WellI guess not," Blake replied. He looked at the tall man quietly. "Do you like me?"
Cy smiled. "Oh, yes."
"That's all right, then. I'll go and tell Mommy I can eat in here."
"Don't tell her what we talked about," Cy cautioned.
"Okay."
He lay back against the pillows, tingling with new sensations. Meredith loved him. He wasn't certain how he knew it, but the knowledge sang through him like music. He closed his eyes. No matter what happened, he had that.
Blake was back minutes later with Meredith on his heels. She was carrying a tray with two plates, milk and coffee on it, and she looked faintly amused.
"Blake says you don't mind if he has breakfast with you," she said.
"That's right." Cy levered himself off the bed and onto his chair, wincing a little as he began to realize that the damned exercises actually were helping.
"Does your back hurt, mister?" Blake asked.
"Yes, son," Cy said without thinking. "But it's not so bad."
"I'm sorry. Mommy, he says I can have breakfast with him."
"You've already told me that," Meredith said, putting the tray carefully on the bedside table. She was worried about Cy and unable to bide it. Was he telling the truth, that it was getting better?
He caught her worried gaze and sighed. "I'm all right," he muttered. "It's spasms more than real pain. It's healing."
So were his legs. She knew that without being told, although Mr. Smith had to help him into and out of the bathroom, which was another source of unrest in the household. Cy didn't like Mr. Smith, and the feeling was blatantly mutual.
Blake was busy talking to Cy about the toy soldiers. His dark eyes met Cy's. "We can play soldiers later," he reminded Cy.
"I promised, didn't I?" he mused, reaching out to ruffle the boy's dark hair. "I always keep my promises."
"So does my mommy," Blake told him. "She says you must always do what you say you
will, so people will trust you."
Cy glanced at Meredith, nodding. "Trust is very important. Once you lose it, you have to work very hard to regain it."
Meredith didn't react. "Can I get you anything else?"
"Nope. I'm fine." He studied her with one dark eye narrowed. "I'll get out of this damned bed, one way or the other. Then look to your laurels, Mrs. Tennison. I'm going after those proxies the minute I can walk without keeling over."
She laughed with pure delight. "That doesn't mean you're going to get them," she said, challenging him.
"Wait and see."
She arranged their plates on the table. "Dr. Bryner said that you have to come in once a week so that his physical therapist can make sure you and Mr. Smith are doing the exercises properly."
He grimaced. "I hate therapy!"
"You'll do it, though." She leaned closer. "Mr. Smith will make you suffer," she said with gentle malice.
"He already does," Cy said curtly. "Or has it escaped your notice that he works me like a damned horse every day?"
It hadn't, because they could hear him curse all over the house, not to mention the language Mr. Smith used when he finished the mutually irritating workout.
Meredith laughed out loud. "Well, at least you're used to each other, aren't you?"
Cy glared at her. She hurried out of the room before he had the chance to say what he was thinking. It was all too plain on his dark face anyway.
After he and Blake finished their breakfasts Blake fetched the toy soldiers. Cy sat there, brooding. He wanted to get out and drive his car, or go for a ride on his horse, and he couldn't. He knew he was moving around better than ever before, but he still felt impotent. He hated being helped around like a kid.
Blake's return to the bedroom, dozens of heavy, hand-painted metal soldiers in hand, took Cy's mind off his troubles. He explained the Napoleonic uniforms to Blake. It was like going back in time, to his own childhood. He remembered so many rainy days when he'd played alone in his room, with only the little metal men for companionship.
He looked at the boy and wondered how he would react to the knowledge that Henry Tennison wasn't his real father. There was only one way to find out, Cy thought, but he didn't have the heart to do it without Meredith's knowledge. She had the right to be in on any such decision.
He wondered if she really had planned to go back to Chicago without telling Blake. Obviously she couldn't run her business from Billings. Meredith had to be where the company was headquartered. She had obligations and duties that made her involvement with Tennison a full-time job.
It disturbed him to think that she might go. She'd left him once before. Of course, she hadn't been given a choice at the time. Now she had that option. Would she take it? Did she care enough to stay, if he asked her?
He didn't want to think about that. He couldn't ask her to give up her inheritance and her job. He scowled, letting the anguish of it wash over him. He'd have to let her go. And then what? The big, empty house would become a cold battleground as he tried to cope with his anger and hostility toward his mother. If it hadn't been for Myrna Harden, none of this would ever have happened. He and Meredith would have been married, and Blake would be his son in name as well as fact.
But he hadn't wanted marriage before. Amazing how he welcomed those ties now, how much he wanted Meredith and Blake with him always. But it was probably too late for them. He had so little to offer her, in comparison with what she already had.
Plus, there was Mr. Smith. The man lived in such intimacy with Meredith and Blake. Had Meredith slept with the other man? Did she love him? Blake certainly did. Every other word from his mouth was "Mr. Smith."
Cy had to admit that Smith took excellent care of the little boy and was obviously devoted to him. He brought to mind a fussy nanny, the way he made sure the child was properly; dressed, the care with which he watched him. He was even teaching Blake martial arts. Amazing how much a part of Meredith's and Blake's lives he'd become.
That brought to mind the fact that Henry Tennison had employed him originally. His only real loyalty was to Henry and, because of him, to Meredith and her child. That could present a real problem if Cy ever managed to take a chance on asking Meredith to marry him. What would they do about Mr. Smith?
It didn't bear thinking about. He might not ever be in a position to propose to her. And right now he had other worries, foremost among them how to keep Meredith from walking right off with his company. Not that he thought she could do it, of course. That possibility he refused to accept.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
» ^ «
The days Meredith spent at the Hardens' passed so quickly that she had been at Cy's house for over two weeks before she realized it. For the first time since Henry's death, she'd had time to play with Blake, to take long walks outdoors, to slow down and look at her life.
Because of the amount of time she was spending in Billings, she'd enrolled Blake in the local Presbyterian kindergarten, where Mr. Smith took him each day. He seemed to make the change with very little adjustment, and he always came home laughing. That pleased Meredith, who was beginning to think of Billings as home all over again, without considering the implications or the consequences. Business, for the moment, seemed very far away.
She hadn't realized how much time she'd spent making money, closing contracts, making decisions, working. Blake was growing up, and as they spent time together, she began to see that her son's tastes and interests had changed subtly without her even knowing it. It was a sobering experience.
But if Meredith was becoming more relaxed through her introspection, having time on his hands was making Cy worse. He began to snap at everybody, especially Mr. Smith. The older man had been giving him physiotherapy mainly because the female physiotherapist Dr. Bryner had sent out had been reduced to tears after the first thirty minutes and ran for her car. Mr. Smith was adept and had the training to qualify him as a physiotherapist. Not that his qualifications impressed Cy, who raged every time the bodyguard came near him.
Meredith wasn't sure how to handle the situation. Dr. Bryner had told her that Cy's condition would improve rapidly if he followed instructions, but Cy wouldn't follow instructions. He was pushing himself too hard, impatient for results. It disturbed Meredith as much as it bothered his mother, but neither of them could find a way to slow him down.
Blake seemed to have the best shot at it. He spent most of the afternoon after school with his father, playing toy soldiers, coloring in his coloring books, or reading to Cy. It amused Meredith that Cy seemed to enjoy that most of all.
"He's bright, isn't he?" he asked her one night after Blake finished reading his nightly bedtime story to Cy and had gone with Mr. Smith to get ready for bed.
"Very bright," Meredith agreed. "He spells well, and he's got a feel for putting emotion into what he reads, as you've seen."
He studied her. "He likes school."
"Yes, I know. He's fitting in very well."
"Are you going to let him stay there, or uproot him again?" he asked with faint sarcasm. "Aren't you missing your job?"
She refused to let him bait her. "I like keeping busy. On the other hand, I'd grown away from Blake, and I don't like that. He's been changing under my very eyes, but I've been too preoccupied with business to notice. I'm ashamed of that."
"Business can blind you to life," he said quietly. "I know. It's sure as hell blinded me to most of the important things." He stared at his legs. He was sitting up, fully dressed. "I hate being confined like this," he said. "I ask when I can drive, when I can go back to work, and they keep telling me 'soon'. My God, it's been three weeks!"
"Dr. Bryner knows that. You've made remarkable progress. But you can't push too hard, Cy."
"If I don't, I may never get out of the house again," he said curtly. "I hate inactivity."
"You were badly bruised, and the surgery took a lot out of you. Everyone told you it was going to take time, but you want it all yesterday."
She stood up, exasperated. "Cy"
"Why don't you go home?" he asked, his eyes full of frustration and fury. "I don't need you."
"If I go, Blake goes with me," she said after a minute. "Who'll read you stories if he leaves?"
He didn't like thinking about that. His chest rose and fell heavily and he looked away. "I've gotten used to the boy."
"He's your biggest fan," she added with a faint smile. "It used to be 'Mr. Smith' every other word. Now it's you."
He shifted a little on the chair, his broad chest only partially covered by a dark blue silk shirt. "So I hear."
"You might try slowing down just a little," she suggested. "And not pushing yourself so hard. You're making progress. You can walk quite well now, except for those twinges, can't you?"
"Yes," he admitted. "But Smith smirks."
"That isn't a smirk," she returned. "Mr. Smith was badly wounded in one of the last guerrilla actions he participated in. They had to do a lot of plastic surgery. His cheek never healed properly."
He scowled. "Guerrilla action?"
"He was a professional mercenary, somewhere around the time he worked for the CIA," she reminded him.
"I see." He shifted against the chair's backrest. "I guess he's been on the receiving end of physiotherapy at one time or another."
"Any number of times," she agreed.
His broad shoulders rose and fell. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to slow down. Just a little."
She didn't dare smile, for danger of being accused of smirking herself. "It wouldn't hurt," she agreed.
The next morning, when Mr. Smith showed up for his regular session, Cy didn't glare or make acid remarks. He cooperated fully. For the first time.
Myrna Harden was almost exhausted with relief. "I never thought he'd agree to it," she said. "I thought he was going to try to get on a bicycle or take up skateboarding next!"
"We're not out of the woods yet," Meredith reminded her. "He's still muttering, and if he doesn't see some results pretty soon, he's going to get discouraged and step up the pace again."