Rogue's Reform

by Marilyn Pappano

  He looked annoyed but dropped the subject. Leaning against the counter, he let his gaze slide across the room. “How’s business?”

  “Steady. Up a bit over this time last year.”

  “Because Jed’s not here,” he replied derisively, then belatedly glanced at her. “Sorry.”

  “No need to be.” She’d been afraid of her father for as long as she could remember. Sometimes she’d felt sorry for him. Always she’d wanted to please him. But she couldn’t remember ever feeling what a daughter should feel for her father. She wasn’t sorry he’d left, or for the names he’d called her or the curses he’d heaped on her before going. She wasn’t the least bit sorry that she would probably never see him again, and she was downright grateful that her baby would never know him.

  Reese drained the last of his coffee, then threw the foam cup in the trash. “I guess I’d better head to the office. Don’t walk home if it snows.”

  “I won’t,” she replied, and they both knew she wouldn’t get the chance. If it was snowing, come six o’clock, he’d be parked out in the side lot. The knowledge brought her a sweet, warm feeling, along with a pang that his concern wasn’t likely to ever be anything but brotherly. She wondered idly as the door closed behind him if any man would ever feel anything but brotherly toward her.

  There’d been nothing brotherly about Ethan James’s feelings.

  Usually she kept the memories of that night locked away where they belonged. For weeks after her own personal Independence Day last July, she’d fantasized about her hours with him during the day and fallen asleep at night to the memory of his arms around her, his mouth on hers, his body inside hers. They’d been the sweetest dreams and had kept her going at times when she’d thought living with her father might drive her mad.

  Then she’d discovered she was pregnant, a development definitely not in her plans. She hadn’t been able to take precautions herself, but she’d ensured that Ethan had each time. She’d thought she was safe, in every way, until the home pregnancy test her friend Ginger had sneaked to her had confirmed what her body had already told her.

  Then Ginger had thought to mention the fact that no birth control was a hundred percent foolproof. Then, when the information couldn’t help Grace one bit.

  To Ginger the pregnancy had been no big deal. Get an abortion or give the baby up for adoption—or, hey, novel idea, have it, keep it and raise it. End of crisis. Of course, Ginger hadn’t lived twenty-five years under Jed’s iron rule. She hadn’t been treated to a lifetime of warnings on the dangers and consequences of becoming a tramp like her mother. She hadn’t watched her very life drain away under his oppression until there was nothing left but a sad little mouse, afraid of everyone and everything. A pathetic creature pitied by some, unnoticed by most.

  Unnoticed by Ethan James for the sixteen years they’d lived in the same town, the ten years they’d gone to the same school. With the school’s mixed grade policy, she’d sat a few seats behind him in biology, across from him in Spanish and had waited on him a time or two in the store. Once, when she’d dropped her books between classes, he’d helped her pick them up, had handed them to her with a careless “There you go,” but he had never even looked at her. He’d had eyes for practically every girl in the school, but he’d never known she existed.

  One stifling hot Saturday night last summer, he’d learned…sort of. For the first and only time in her life, her father had gone out of town, leaving her on her own for a full twenty-four hours. It had taken about two heart-stopping seconds to decide what to do with her unexpected gift of freedom.

  Go out. Have a drink. Meet a man. Maybe get a kiss, maybe a whole lot more.

  Pretend for one night that she was a perfectly normal twenty-five-year-old woman. Experience enough of life in those few hours to sustain her in her prison for the next fifty years.

  For help, she’d turned to the friend she’d made behind her father’s back at the grocery store. Thanks to Ginger’s cosmetic expertise, when she’d left the house that night, she’d looked nothing like the real Grace. She’d had rinse-out red highlights in her mousy brown hair, and long heavy curls that had corkscrewed in every direction. Tucking her glasses into her bag, she’d sacrificed seeing for looking good, but Ginger had assured her that the makeup job was flawless, making the most of her lamentably plain features. As for the clothes…she’d never worn a skirt so short or a top so tight in her life, and probably never would again.

  But once had been enough. It had gotten Ethan James’s attention, and he’d finally known she existed.

  As a rather mysterious redhead from someplace else named Melissa.

  She’d crept out of his bed the next morning while he slept, hurried home and showered to scrub away the makeup, the curls, the fake color. The scents of sex, of a man. She’d half feared her father would look at her and know, would sniff the air when she walked by and recognize the cologne she was forbidden to wear, the aftershave she would never wear. He hadn’t.

  And she hadn’t seen Ethan since. She hadn’t tried to locate him—hadn’t asked his half brother, Guthrie Harris, where he was, hadn’t told his pregnant sister-in-law Olivia that their babies would be cousins. Frankly, she wasn’t sure they would believe her. For a time the father’s identity had been a popular topic of conversation. Everyone had had theories, ranging from the truth—someone she met in a bar—to the obscene observation that her father was the only man with whom she’d spent time. No one had ever guessed Ethan. No one ever would.

  It was her own little secret. And since Ethan wasn’t likely to return to Heartbreak for another several years, and would neither recognize nor remember her when he did, no one else would ever know the truth.

  Which was exactly the way she wanted it.

  The sky was a dull, relentless gray when Ethan passed the sign marking Heartbreak’s town limits. It was hard to believe that, night before last, he’d been in sunny, warm Florida and now he was right back where he’d started from. Back where all his troubles had begun. Where they certainly weren’t going to end.

  He hadn’t needed a map to find his way back to Oklahoma. In all the endless miles he’d traveled, all the big cities and dusty towns where he’d stayed until he wore out his welcome or an impending arrest sent him on his way, he’d always known how to get back home.

  At the same time, he’d never known.

  He’d started running away from Heartbreak when he was barely fifteen. He was just like his father, his mother had always said with exasperated affection. Gordon James had done more than his share of rambling. In fact, he had rambled so often and so far that one time, when Ethan was ten, he’d never come back.

  He was just like his father, Guthrie had always agreed, and with no affection at all. It was common knowledge that Guthrie thought his stepfather was no good, lazy and worthless. It was one of Ethan’s greatest regrets that his brother thought the same of him, and one of his greatest shames that he’d done his best to live down to Guthrie’s opinion. In fact, he’d done his father one better. He’d added crook to his litany of sins. Liar, thief, gambler, con man.

  And, coming soon, father-to-be.

  His fingers clenched the steering wheel spasmodically as anxiety tightened his chest. He’d always sworn he’d never bring a child into the world. He was indisputable proof that some men had no right passing on their genes to innocent babies. His father had been a loser, and he was a loser, so the odds were good that any child of his would also be a loser. Even if that wasn’t the case, any kid deserved better than him for a dad. He knew nothing about fatherhood, about responsibility or maturity or setting a good example.

  He wasn’t sure he could learn. Not if he had to do it in Heartbreak, where Guthrie would be watching and judging his every move.

  But he had to do something. He’d learned from his own experience that even a father who made nothing but mistakes had to be better than a father who didn’t care enough to even come around. At least he would be trying. Surely that w
ould count for something with his kid. With Guthrie. With pretty Melissa.

  Flipping the visor down, he pulled the snapshot free of the rubber band that secured it. If he knew where to look for her, he would go straight there, but the photo gave no clues. After studying it a while, he’d recognized the parking lot as belonging to the grocery store. Since it was the only one for twenty miles, that told him nothing about who she was, where she lived, where he might find her.

  In their long, sweet night together, she’d told him nothing, either. It had been the perfect one-night stand.

  Except for the baby.

  He’d used protection—had never had sex even once in his life without a condom. His dependability on the issue was the one thing about him that Guthrie had approved of. Well, that, plus the fact that every time he’d come back to Heartbreak, he’d always left again.

  Not a bad run of luck. Too bad it hadn’t held.

  As he slid the photo back under the strap, the road curved and the few blocks that made up Heartbreak proper came into view ahead. He turned onto the first side street and followed a meandering back route to the dirt road that led to the Harris ranch, where they wouldn’t be happy to hear he’d come home again. Where Guthrie would be seriously dismayed that this time he intended to stay.

  Provided Melissa would let him.

  He’d seen the ranch just seven months ago, but it looked different as he turned in the gate and drove across the cattle guard. The house had a fresh coat of paint, and a wreath of flowers and vines hung on the front door. The flower beds had been cleaned out and mulched for winter, and the yellowed yard looked as neat and trim as it ever had when his mother was alive.

  They were Olivia’s changes, Ethan knew. Guthrie had neither the time nor the energy for purely cosmetic work. He had his hands full taking care of three hundred acres of land and a couple hundred head of cattle. There’d been a time, after their mother’s death, when he’d wanted Ethan to share the responsibility with him, and Ethan had tried, he truly had, but he’d only lasted a few months. He wasn’t cut out for ranching, for working from sunrise till sunset, for pinching a penny until it squealed, for dealing with cattle and horses, droughts and floods, fluctuating market prices, luck and bad luck.

  He’d sneaked away in the middle of the night to avoid seeing that look on Guthrie’s face—that long-suffering, no-surprise, Ethan-never-could-do-anything-right look. He’d wanted to avoid hearing Guthrie say, “You are just like your father,” and know it was the worst insult his brother could give.

  So instead he’d faced the look and heard the insult in his dreams every night for months.

  He parked beside Guthrie’s pickup and simply sat there for a time. In spite of the cold, his palms were damp and sweat beaded his forehead. He was twenty-eight years old, he thought with disgust, and scared spitless by the idea of seeing his brother. Worse, he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been scared of Guthrie, scared of disappointing him. Of letting him down yet again.

  He drew a frigid breath, then opened the door. He wasn’t a lonely little boy anymore. Guthrie’s approval was no longer the most important thing in his life. Belonging someplace—to someone—didn’t matter, except with his baby.

  He crossed the frozen ground to the porch, then rapped on the door. He could wait until the count of ten, or maybe five, then assume that no one was home, and he could leave while telling himself that at least he’d tried—

  The lock clicked, then the door swung open and his heavily pregnant sister-in-law was greeting him with a surprised smile. “Ethan! Oh, my gosh, you came! I was hoping you would, but…it’s so good to see you! Come on in. Let me get you some coffee to warm up.”

  It was a warm welcome from a woman whose husband he had once ripped off. Come to think of it, in that one scam, he’d cheated both her husbands—the one who’d died and left her penniless, and the one who’d taken her in last summer and given her a place to live before falling in love with her. She had good reason to hate him. He wasn’t sure he trusted the fact that apparently she didn’t.

  The welcome got warmer as soon as he closed the door behind him, when she caught him in an unexpected embrace. He held himself stiffly, well aware of what Guthrie would think if he saw his precious Olivia in his brother’s arms. When she stepped back, with relief he put some distance between them, then nervously glanced down the hall and up the stairs. “Is…he around?”

  “Guthrie? No, he’s out checking the herd. We’re supposed to have snow tonight. He’s getting ready for it.” She started toward the kitchen, then turned back when she realized he wasn’t following. “I have coffee left over from breakfast, or the fixings for hot cocoa, or there’s iced tea and cold pop. Take your coat off and come on back. We’ll talk.”

  He didn’t want to obey her, didn’t want to walk through the house he remembered so well but rarely with fondness. He’d lived in it for the better part of eighteen years, but it had never truly been home.

  From the time he was a little kid, he’d understood without being told that the house belonged to the Harrises, not the Jameses, just as he’d understood that Vernon Harris had been twice the man Gordon James could ever hope to be. A better rancher, better neighbor, better husband, better father, and he’d turned out a son who would be all those things, too.

  Better. Leaving Ethan to be not good enough.

  When he finally forced himself down the hall and through the double doors into the kitchen, Olivia was bent inside the refrigerator. She came out with a carton of whipped cream and a pecan pie, then flashed him a smile. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Coffee’ll be fine.”

  “Sit down. Take your coat off.”

  He slid out of his denim jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, then cautiously sat down. He wouldn’t get very comfortable, wasn’t sure that was even possible when Guthrie could come through the door at any minute.

  She dished up two slices of pie, poured coffee and milk, then took the seat opposite him. “When did you get in?”

  “This morning. I came straight here.”

  She buried her pie in whipped cream, then took an extra spoonful for good measure, licking it clean with slow, savoring gestures. When she realized he was watching her, she smiled without embarrassment. “I’ve had terrible cravings lately for whipped cream. Since the rest of the family thinks my eating it on bread is yucky and gross—” she said the last words in a fair imitation of her six-year-old twins “—Mary’s been bringing over freshly baked pies every couple of days.”

  “When…” He thought of the photo in the truck, of Melissa, with her stomach almost as distended as Olivia’s, and swallowed hard. “When is the baby due?”

  “Next month. Elly says I’ll be as big as a heifer carrying twins before I drop this young’un.”

  Elly, he remembered from the few hours he’d spent here last summer, was the older of her daughters—the tomboy, sassy and too smart for her own good. The younger daughter was Emma, sweet, quiet, demure. As different as day and night. As Guthrie and Ethan.

  “What does Guthrie say?” he asked, his voice thick and hoarse.

  “He says I’ve never looked more beautiful.” Her smile was broad, a bit wicked and full of womanly satisfaction. “My husband’s no fool. He knows better than to get on the wrong side of a woman who hasn’t seen her own feet in months.”

  He wondered if there was anyone around to tell Melissa that she looked beautiful. He’d wondered a lot about her since getting the photograph—whether she wanted him to take responsibility for his part in creating their child. Whether she had simply wanted him to know that he was about to become a father. Whether she wanted money, or if she hoped to gain a real live, equal-partners, here-and-now father for her baby.

  He wondered if she had a father just waiting for the chance to make the scoundrel who’d taken advantage of his little girl pay. If her family was helping out or if they’d been disappointed enough to turn their backs. He wondered if she even
had a family, or if she was as alone in the world as he felt.

  Feeling Olivia’s gaze on him, he looked up to find her watching him. “Have you seen Grace?” she asked in a quiet, just-between-us sort of tone.

  “Grace?”

  “Grace Prescott.” Seeing the blankness in his expression, she impatiently added, “You remember—short, slim, brown hair, thick glasses. The mother of your child. The reason you’re here.”

  Melissa. So she’d lied about her name. And why shouldn’t she? New hair color, new style, new clothes and new behavior all deserved a new name, something prettier, less old-ladyish than Grace. Melissa was a hot redhead offering to fulfill wild fantasies in a bar. Grace was an old maid, waiting in vain for that first second look from a man on the prowl.

  Olivia’s expression bordered on scandalized. “You didn’t even know her name?”

  He didn’t offer a response. What could he say that wouldn’t reflect as badly on Melis—Grace as on him? “Grace Prescott…should I know that name, other than the obvious?”

  “She’s lived here forever. You must have gone to school with her. For years her father had owned the hardware store on Main.”

  The clues didn’t help him remember Grace, but Jed Prescott… Oh, hell, yeah, she had a father just waiting to make him pay, but there’d be no talk of a shotgun wedding or accepting responsibility. With a well-documented reputation of being the meanest bastard in the county, ol’ Jed would be more likely to take him out and shoot him than to allow him within a mile of his daughter again. Better to have an illegitimate grandchild than to have that worthless James boy for a son-in-law.

  But once the shock passed, Olivia’s words sank in. Jed had owned the hardware store, she’d said, as if he didn’t own it now. “So…” His voice was the slightest bit unsteady. “What does old Jed think of becoming a grandfather?”