She accepted his gesture in her own way—by kissing him. She leaned forward in the rocker and slid her arms around his neck, then touched her lips to his, slowly, deliberately. This was the chance she'd been waiting for since Friday, the chance to see if that first kiss had been a fluke or evidence of the attraction between them.
It was no fluke. She tasted the warmth, the hunger, the urgency, immediately. How long had this need been inside her? Two weeks? Two years? A lifetime? There were no answers to her questions, only more questions. And demands. And pleas.
Daniel raised his hands to her arms. She was so small, like a child. But this was no child's body. This was no child's kiss. This was Sarah, the mother of his child. The woman of his long-ago-but-not-forgotten dreams. Sarah.
He pulled her closer until she was on her knees in front of him, the chair rocking with her sudden movement. His hands were gentle when they lifted her against him, when they slid over the straight line of her spine to her neck and higher, into the soft thick strands of her hair. He touched her, held her, kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and tasting the sweet flavor that was her. She fed his hunger, fed the wild, primitive need that was burning through him, making his muscles quiver in protest of his rigid control.
Sarah felt his desire in the intensity of his kiss and, lower, in the powerful masculine swelling of his loins. Oh, yes, he wanted her. He might still despise her, might—in spite of his recent behavior—still hate her, but he wanted her. For a woman who'd had nothing for so long, wanting could be enough. If that was all he could offer her, it was all she would ask for.
This time it was Daniel who ended the kiss. He had to force his mouth from hers, had to command his hands to release her. His body protested the loss of her warmth, and one hand, defying his order, came back to gently cup her cheek.
Sarah waited for him to speak, but she saw that he didn't know what to say. Neither did she. She felt an absurd desire to pretend that nothing had happened, and an equally absurd desire to talk about it, to take it apart and analyze it. In the end she did nothing.
His hand slipped from her face and rested nervelessly at his side. If he were a different kind of man he might hide the intensity of his response behind a crass, empty joke. Or he might carry her to his bed and ruthlessly, carelessly, take what she'd offered. But he could be only what he was—a little embarrassed, a little disturbed, a little confused and a whole lot aroused.
She sat back on her heels, bumping the chair. "I, uh … I forgot what we were talking about."
He nodded once, but he hadn't forgotten. They had been talking about marriage. About Sarah's marriage. About whether her husband had satisfied her. If he'd made her happy. Somehow, after that kiss, the answers were more important than ever, but he couldn't ask again. Not now.
A flush of uneasiness crept into her face as she moved clumsily into the rocker. "Would you like me to go away until Katie wakes up?"
Saying yes would be the easy way out. But did he want this to be easy? "No. It's all right." He returned to his chair and settled in as comfortably as he could under the circumstances. He was starting to sort the order requests by date when Sarah suddenly spoke again.
"I like being kissed by you, Daniel."
His face flushed, his hands grew still, and for a moment, so did his heart. Then he slowly continued his work. He liked it, too. He liked it a lot.
As Daniel had predicted, it was warm enough by one o'clock for them to have their lunch outside. He carried their food and a quilt and led the way, and Sarah and Katie brought up the rear. When they'd reached the site he'd selected, Katie wandered off to look at a lone scarlet wild-flower while her parents spread the quilt on the yellowing grass.
"This is pretty," Sarah remarked, sitting down. The backyard sloped steeply, and a stone retaining wall had been built to slow the inevitable erosion. The area where they were was small and clear and surrounded by brightly colored trees. "It must look kind of bare around here once all the leaves are gone."
Daniel lay on the opposite side of the spread, leaning on one strong arm, and watched Katie. "The pines are still here, so we don't lose all the color."
Sarah followed his gaze. Wearing pale pink corduroy overalls and a white sweater, Katie looked adorable as she crouched beside the flower. She touched its petals gently, but made no move to pick it. Daniel had taught her well, Sarah thought with a surge of warmth for the man who had raised her daughter.
She looked at him again, her eyes measuring. He was dressed as usual in jeans and boots, and a red shirt stretched across his massive chest. Once the shirt must have been the color of Katie's flower, but now it was faded to a soft rosy hue and fit with the easy comfort of well-worn fabric. The jeans were faded, too, and snugly followed his flat belly and the long, powerful lines of his thighs.
He was the biggest man she'd ever seen, and she knew some people, especially those who didn't know him, found that intimidating. She'd seen some of the curious looks he'd drawn in Nashville. It was a shame he wasn't what the world called handsome. In a society that placed more value on looks than on character, being handsome would have made his life easier. Still, she found an undeniably attractive quality in the hard, rough angles of his face.
Uncomfortable with her staring at him, Daniel looked sharply at her. Sarah smiled and turned back to Katie. "That's a flower," she said as the girl sank to her knees to study it more comfortably.
Grinning, Katie repeated the word, somehow fitting all the sounds into one syllable. When she lost interest in it, she went on to a leaf, then a rock.
"Do you ever see your mother, Daniel?" Sarah lay down on her side, facing him, letting the sun's warmth seep into her.
He took a moment to lazily wonder about her interest before he replied. "Not very often. Once every few years she and her husband come by for a few hours when he's got business in this area. The last time was … three, four years ago."
"They live in Florida." Sarah knew that was correct, but waited for confirmation. Daniel gave it with a nod. "And they have children."
"Two sons and a daughter."
"You have half brothers and a half sister." She was pleased with the idea. She had always thought she would have liked having brothers and sisters, if her father hadn't taken off for distant horizons when she was so young, or if her mother had ever trusted another man after that.
He gave a shake of his head. "I haven't seen the kids in five or six years." He'd never thought of them as family. In fact, since his mother had left so many years ago, he hadn't really thought of her as family, either. She was the woman who had given birth to him, the woman who had raised him after his father's death, the woman who had left him here alone at the age of sixteen to fend for himself. But she wasn't his family. Katie was. Only Katie.
"So you're not close to any of them."
He looked at Katie and understood the disappointment that colored Sarah's voice. His mother was Katie's only grandparent, her children Katie's aunt and uncles. "No."
"Does she even know about Katie?"
"I told her." He looked away, his eyes dark and hard, his mouth a narrow line. Her only response had been a card, asking for a photograph, and the promise that they would visit "sometime." Nearly a year later, "sometime" had not yet arrived.
The ache around Sarah's heart was for Katie, whose grandmother hadn't bothered to come and see her, but also for Daniel, whose mother hadn't shown enough interest in his only child to visit her. "My mother would have loved her," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "She would have liked you, too." She smiled faintly when he glanced at her. "My mother was old-fashioned. She valued things like honesty, respect and trust. Dependability, fidelity, honor."
Daniel flinched at the list. Had he exhibited any of those qualities in his dealings with Sarah? He certainly hadn't been honest with her; he was betraying her trust and destroying his own honor, and he would lose her respect. If dependability and fidelity entered into the picture, he would probably let her d
own there, too.
Lost in the memories of her mother, Sarah didn't notice his response. "She thought a woman's first responsibility was to her family—and a man's, too. If she had lived to see Brent…" It would have broken her heart. She had always regretted her own poor choice of husband. If she'd known that her daughter's choice had been equally poor, she would have been immeasurably sad.
"Is Brent your husband?" Daniel was surprised by the flare of jealousy, sharp and ugly. He had never been jealous, hadn't even believed he was capable of it. But then, he had never had anyone to be jealous of—and he still didn't, he warned himself. A couple of kisses didn't give him that right.
"Ex-husband, please."
"Is Lawson his name?"
"Yes." She'd had the option of using her maiden name again, but for Tony's sake, she hadn't wanted to. Maybe it had been silly, but she had wanted to have the same last name as her son.
"Do you still love him?"
The question hung between them, connecting them, locking their gazes. Sarah's eyes were clear and thoughtful. Daniel's were harder to read—solemn, cautious, remote. He was disturbed that he'd asked such a question. He was even more disturbed by how badly he needed to hear the answer.
"No."
It was the answer he'd wanted to hear—plain, simple, no room for doubt. But he wasn't sure he could accept it. "How long were you married?"
"Four years."
"And you didn't want the divorce."
"Why do you say that?"
"You said that he divorced you. Not that the two of you had decided to get a divorce, or that you'd left him. He left you. You didn't want it, did you?"
As a mother, she had been appalled at Brent's reaction to their baby—his lack of love, his lack of concern. She hadn't wanted anything to do with a man who could turn his back on his own son. As a wife… No, she hadn't wanted the divorce. She had still loved him, had still hoped that things would change and be all right again. It had taken her a long time to accept that Brent would never change and that things might never be all right again. "No." She said it with a sigh. "I didn't want the divorce."
"So how can you be sure you don't still love him?"
Her smile was weary and sad. "I'm sure, Daniel. Believe me, I'm sure." She sighed again. "No more hard questions today, okay?"
He nodded his agreement. They had eighteen more days for questions. That was time enough to learn about her. Today … today they would enjoy their daughter.
Sarah stood on the porch, her face turned westward, judging the descent of the sun. She would get home with minutes to spare, she decided, before the sun set and turned the woods dark and mysterious.
"I can give you a ride home." Daniel made the offer routinely, although he knew there was little to fear in the woods. Unless she fell and hurt herself, she would make it hom all right. Still, she was a woman… She was Sarah.
But, as she'd done on the previous four days, she gave a shake of her head. "No, thanks. This has been a very nice day, Daniel. Thank you for sharing it with me."
Quickly she walked down the steps, looking, in his jacket, like a child playing dress-up. Daniel waited until she was halfway across the clearing, then called, "Are you coming tomorrow?"
She spun around but didn't stop walking. "Am I welcome?" she called back.
Welcome? His smile was bittersweet. Oh, she was definitely welcome, and growing more so every day. "Of course," he said quietly, but she heard him.
"Then I'll be here." With a wave, she turned around again and disappeared into the woods. In a moment even the noise of her passage had faded away.
Daniel listened to the evening sounds, watched the sun set, then saw the light down the hill that meant Sarah was safely home. As he turned to go inside, he heard her question echo again. Am I welcome? Less than a week ago he had grudgingly invited her into his home, his life and his family. Now she had become a part of it, a part of them. For eighteen more days. Already he knew he would miss her when she was gone. How much worse, he wondered grimly, would it be when it actually happened?
October 15
Sarah arrived at the Ryan farm early Monday morning in a cheerful, lively mood after her walk. There had been little chance for exercise when Tony had been alive, and she'd forgotten what a difference it could make. She enjoyed the brief journey between their houses, savored the sights and sounds and smells of the woods, and she felt better because of it. She knew, of course, that as winter drew closer and the early-morning temperatures continued to drop, Daniel would probably insist that she drive—it would be so typical of him—but for now this was one of her pleasures.
As early as she was, Daniel was already busy in his workshop, sending a piece of wood that would soon be the seat in the final chair of his current project. Katie lay in the playpen, once again captivated by her own bare feet, but she sprang up, full of cheery smiles and babbles when she saw Sarah.
Daniel watched them exchange kisses and hugs before he turned away. Less than two weeks ago it had disturbed him to see Katie simply holding Sarah's hand. Their exuberant greeting bothered him now only in that he wished he shared his daughter's easy, emotional manner with others. With Sarah.
He gave a disgusted shake of his head. Yesterday he'd found himself envying Sarah's ex-husband. Today he was jealous of his own daughter! What was happening to him?
The answer was as simple, or as complex, as he wanted to make it. As simple as friendship, as the novelty of having someone else around, another adult, on a practically full-time basis—a pleasant change of pace from his usual solitary life. Or as complex as beginning again, as renewing his relationship with Sarah. As complex as getting involved. As falling in love.
He considered the options and chose simplicity. Friendship was easier to build, easier to discard. The end of a friendship would mean nothing compared to a badly chosen love. And Sarah would be a bad choice to love. The warm conversations, pleasant days and kisses aside, there were too many things about her he didn't know. Too many strikes against her. So she was beautiful, sweet and fragile, so she obviously cared a great deal for Katie, so she had just as obviously gone through some tough times that even now turned her eyes sad at unexpected moments. She had still given away their daughter. When Katie was tiny and had needed her mother's love more than anything in the world, Sarah had turned her back on her. Nothing could excuse that. Nothing could make him forgive that.
Sarah gathered Katie's socks and shoes in one hand and carefully lifted her from the playpen. She set the girl on the worktable, sat on the stool across from Daniel and began the task of putting the socks back on. Daniel hadn't spoken to her yet, she'd noticed, and he was working with a fierce concentration that she hated to disturb. She wouldn't have, if she hadn't felt that the ferocity was somehow aimed toward her. "Is the work that demanding, or are you trying to ignore me?"
He didn't look up, but his hands slowed. "Do you expect me to greet you the way Katie does?" he asked, trading the coarse sandpaper for a finer grade. "You forget, Katie knows nothing about you. I do."
The harshness in his voice hurt. She had thought they were past this anger and hostility, but apparently she had been wrong. She slid Katie's foot into one sneaker and tied the lace in a double knot, did the same with the other, then looked up at him. "You don't know anything about me, Daniel." Her voice sounded flat, weary. "You believe whatever suits your current mood."
Very carefully he laid down the wood, then the sandpaper, leaned his big hands on the table and leveled a cold, unforgiving look on her. "I know that you didn't want our daughter. I know that you sent her away to live with a stranger until it was more convenient for you."
"That's not true." She reached for Katie, squeezing her a little too tightly. When the child wailed, Sarah immediately loosened her grasp.
"Then what is the truth, Sarah? Why did you give her away?"
His stance was challenging, his voice ugly. Sarah knew that whatever she said, he was prepared to doubt her, to accuse and condem
n her. If she told him that she'd had a son who was dying, he wouldn't feel it was enough to justify rejecting her daughter. The only "truth" he wanted to hear was his truth: that she'd been too selfish to keep Katie.
She slid off the stool to her feet, holding her shoulders erect, and said coolly, "It's none of your business." With that she carried Katie to the corner where they played, sat on the floor with her and turned her back on Daniel.
None of his business. Daniel's hands were trembling with rage. None of his business that she'd gotten pregnant with his baby and hadn't told him. None of his business that she'd given birth to his daughter without letting him know. None of his business that she'd sent Katie to him like an unwanted burden, a nuisance that was in her way. None of his business.
The desire to tell her that everything about Katie was his business was strong. That he had already taken action to ensure that Katie was always his business and would never again be hers. But he forced the taunt back. Telling her now would give her and her fancy lawyer seventeen days to prepare their own case. It would be better to surprise her when November first came. When he didn't return Katie to her.
He stole a glance at her, and that look did more to take the edge off his anger than anything else could have done. Her back was still to him, but it was no longer erect. Her shoulders were rounded, her head bowed, in the classic posture of defeat. If he listened closely, he would probably hear traces of tears in her voice. She fought it, he knew, but she cried easily—because her emotions were so close to the surface? Because whatever had caused her to give up Katie had left its mark on her, a wound that hadn't yet finished healing?
He didn't want to feel sympathy for her, but he couldn't help it. She had come in smiling and happy, and in a matter of minutes he had reduced her to this, all because he didn't like the way he was starting to feel about her.
He was no better at apologies than he was at affectionate displays. He didn't know how to say that he was sorry for judging her, but that he couldn't quit judging her until he knew the truth. He didn't know what reassurance to give her so that she would trust him with that truth. He didn't know how to make her understand his frustration that she wouldn't tell him anything, when he couldn't forgive her without something.
SOMEBODY'S BABY Page 10