Gentry held up his left hand, gnarled with dark stitches, scars, and fading bruises. “I was in a motorcycle accident last week. I lost a finger.”
“Ah. Nothing gets a man thinking about eternity like seeing his life flash before his eyes. You’re lucky to have escaped with only a finger lost.”
“Yes, sir. I know it.”
“But why our church?” the Father asked. “I don’t recall seeing you at mass.”
Gentry had attended Catholic mass a few times throughout his life, mostly for weddings, and not in many years. “I’m new to town, sir. Father. I haven’t always lived an upstanding life that I could be proud of, and, honestly, I never thought of myself as a man capable of such a life. Of settling down and starting a family and living a quiet, normal life. But I’m having a baby with a woman here in town who’s Catholic. Her faith is important to her family, which means it’s important to me. I want us to be a family in every sense of the word, including how we practice our faith.” He felt the power of his conviction in every cell of his being.
“That’s wise of you.”
“Yes, sir, Father. I’m trying my best. She and I, we’re both divorced, but we’re trying our best to change our lives.” The priest’s eyes went a little distant, as though he was calculating the total of their combined sins. Divorced, pregnant out of wedlock. What a pair they made.
The Father templed his hands and tapped his fingers together, considering. “I’m going to go out on a limb right now and guess that you’ve gotten Skye Martinez in a family way. I’m surprised you’re alive to sit in my office today. Mrs. Martinez must be feeling merciful.”
He’d sure put two and two together mighty quick. “How did you…”
Father Ellwood tapped his forehead.
Of course, he knew. Word about the motorcycle accident was probably all over town. “Her mom doesn’t know yet about the baby. And, please, I’m begging you not to—”
“Relax, son. Keeping secrets is part of my job description. Besides, I like you. I don’t want to see you get killed.” He wagged a finger. “And Skye, neither. If the two of you are waiting for the perfect time to tell her family, then your child will be grown and married while you wait.”
In other words, there would never be the right time. Gentry agreed, but he wasn’t very well going to tell Father Ellwood that first he had to wait for Skye to admit as much to Gentry. “Point taken, sir. Now, about converting. I remember hearing something about a class I have to take.”
“Yes. Back to business. The class, the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults—or RCIA, as we call it—is only a part of the process that includes attending mass regularly and reading the Bible, among many other things. That way, you can experience each of our celebrations and holy days. By then, you’ll have a much better understanding of what you’re committing yourself to.”
Sounded complicated. “How long does that take? Because we’re in a bit of a time crunch with the baby on its way.”
Father Ellwood’s smile was benevolent. “A year. You’ll be Catholic by next Easter. The perfect time to join our church.”
Too long. That was way too long for what he needed to offer Skye so she would trust him with her heart. More than anything, as the man responsible for getting her pregnant, he wanted to be able to offer her marriage, if she wanted it—so she could give birth as a married woman, so she could reclaim the dignity in her community that he’d done his part to yank away from her.
“There isn’t a fast track? I was hoping Skye and I could get married before the baby’s born,” Gentry asked.
The question evoked a chuckle from Father Ellwood. “Oh, there’s a fast track to God, all right, and it seems that you avoided it by surviving that crash. My best advice to you is that you worry about your own salvation and the rest will fall into place.”
Wise words. But the way Gentry saw it, he’d already spent far too much of his life only worrying about himself. That was partly to blame for how he’d gotten into this trouble. “Yes, sir. I hear what you’re saying.”
“That’s good. One more question, and I’m not sure how to put this delicately,” Father said. “But has Skye actually agreed to marry you? Or were you hoping that becoming a Catholic would persuade her? Because, let me tell you, as I’ve told many young men who’ve sat in that very chair, becoming Catholic to woo a woman is a faulty plan.”
That old familiar insecurity came knocking at the door. That unshakeable awareness that he was nothing but an imposter, not worthy of Skye, not worthy of being a Catholic. Not worthy of being a father. He just couldn’t stop screwing up, and there was no cure for it. He looked down at his left hand, where his middle finger used to be. He’d lost everything in that crash—his career, his identity, Skye’s trust.
And then, out of nowhere, a wave of relief crashed through him.
His career was over, which meant he didn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t anymore. He never had to be that hip-swiveling, beer-drinking showman again. He didn’t have to posture. He didn’t have to bow to the almighty Neil Blevins’ wishes. He didn’t have to please the voracious fans who were never satisfied and didn’t care about the real him. Gentry Wells, the Bad Boy of Country, was gone.
Hallelujah.
The best part was, he knew exactly who he wanted to be now that the pressure was off. He still had music running through his veins, but that didn’t mean he had to take his songs on the road or wrap his music and himself up in a tidy package to sell to the masses. He had enough money and time to do whatever he wanted. And what he wanted was Skye. To be a family with her and their baby and to be the very best father he could.
The same ambition that had propelled him into church this morning consumed him once again. Dulcet, Texas, was going to be his new home. Our Lady of Guadalupe was his new church. And no matter what happened romantically between him and Skye, the vibrant, fierce-loving Martinez clan was going to be his new family because they would be his child’s family.
Instead of pushing Skye to tell him about the baby before she was ready, he vowed to earn her trust until she felt brave and safe enough to tell him herself.
He would figure out how to play left-handed and he’d write whatever damn songs he wanted, without care if they’d get a lot of air time on the radio. He’d had a good run in the spotlight, and now it was done. But this wasn’t rock bottom. Not even close. He still had his life and his health. He hadn’t seriously injured Skye, and their baby was all right. He’d invested soundly and had a lot of money at his disposal, especially once he sold his ranch.
He would be at Skye’s doctor appointments. He would see that little baby’s heartbeat on the ultrasound monitor. It was time for the rise of Gentry Wells, the settling-down kind, the marrying-his-sweetheart-and-raising-a-family kind. He was going to be a father, and he was going to be a damn good one, at that. And, with any luck, he’d turn himself into a damn fine husband too.
Gentry stood and set his hat on his head, then tipped the brim. “Thank you, Father, for helping see it all laid out so clearly and getting to the heart of the matter. I’ll see you on Sunday at mass.”
“Good man. I’ll see you this Sunday. Until then, good luck and God bless you.”
He was going to need all the blessings and luck he could get, because his entire plan hinged over convincing Skye of all of that.
He swallowed hard.
No problem.
Chapter Seventeen
For the first week after getting discharged from the hospital, Skye didn’t have the stamina to work. Her legs were on fire, her wrist ached, and first trimester nausea was starting to set in, making her long to get back to Briscoe Ranch and all the many distractions it provided. But as it was, she had way too much time on her hands to stew about her reckless choices and the damn curse she’d allowed her mother to cast, the curse that somehow hadn’t been nullified by her pregnancy.
It didn’t help that her mom was watching her like a protective mother hawk who didn’t
trust her daughter one whit. All her life, Skye had watched her mom focus her nervous, caretaker energy on Skye’s dad. She’d always felt sorry for him, being relentlessly fussed over and treated like he was helpless. But now that it was happening to Skye, she had a whole new appreciation for her dad’s patience and kindness. There was an edge to her mother’s caring, an unspoken “I told you so” vibe swirled in with her fierce love. But now her mother was the only manager at Polished Pros, doing double duty to cover for Skye, so it was pretty unfair for Skye to get annoyed with her.
The only way Skye had been able to contribute was getting Gloria’s kids ready for school and onto the bus, since Gloria reported in at the army base before dawn each day.
The trouble was, Skye’s injuries had put a real damper on her ability to do anything with speed, and by the time she’d fixed Teresa and Chris eggs and pancakes, then helped them get dressed, pack their lunches, and tie their shoes, they’d been late for the bus every single day that week. Today, they burst out of the house with only a couple minutes until the school bus was due down on the corner. She walked with stiff, pained steps behind them, wincing but managing. Her dad was already outside, waving to them from his driveway. Very little in life was worth the pain her dad experienced while walking any kind of distance, even to the end of the block, but he insisted on walking the kids to the bus stop each morning.
The kids skipped across the street and swarmed around him, giving excited hugs and squealing, “Grandpa!”
Skye shuffled across the street to join them. “Hey, Dad. How’s the back today?”
“I have no complaints. Come on, kids. We don’t want to make the bus wait. Again.”
As quick as they’d bounded to her dad, the kids were off again along the sidewalk, skipping and trotting like a couple effervescent bundles of energy.
Skye’s dad fell into step next to her and they trailed the kids at an increasing distance. They might have qualified as contenders in the sport of synchronized limping except that their stiff gaits weren’t quite in unison. Unlike the grimaces on their faces, which Skye imagined were remarkably similar.
“What a pair we are,” he joked on a wheezy chuckle.
That they were, but even still, they got those kids on the bus in time, with full bellies and finished homework, then shuffled back to their respective houses. Skye gave her dad a hug before crossing the street. “Thanks for your help.”
“Wish I could do more. You know that. I hate to see you hurt.”
Skye tried not to think about the baby growing inside her. She should tell her dad. Hell, she should tell her mom. Every time she tried, an overwhelming fear gripped her, though she wasn’t sure why. The argument that she was going to hurt them with the revelation that their screw-up daughter had gotten pregnant out of wedlock and had nearly lost the baby by jumping recklessly onto the back of the motorcycle of some fly-by-night playboy was only a convenient excuse, seeing as how this wasn’t a secret she could take to her grave. But she just couldn’t shake the impending sense of doom that rendered her paralyzed. It was getting damned frustrating.
After getting the kids on the bus, she returned to her house and looked at the empty space, groaning at the idea of another day on the sofa watching daytime television shows while her body healed. Screw that. It was time to go back to work, even if all she did was show up, sit at her desk, and answer emails for a few hours.
By the time she pulled into the employee lot, she was feeling optimistic about the choice to work. Her body was warmed up now and feeling slightly better, and her mind was relieved to have something to do.
Emily Ford-Briscoe pulled in right after her and parked a few cars down. Emily was a long-time chef at the resort who’d recently married into the Briscoe family. She and Skye didn’t travel in the same circles often, but Skye considered her a friend. She’d watched Emily’s ambition and skill soar over the years and, along with the rest of the senior staff, had celebrated the opening of Subterranean, her signature restaurant at the resort, earlier that year.
Emily beat Skye out of her car and jogged around to Skye’s open door. “Hey, heard about the accident. How are you?”
Skye gingerly unfolded one leg out of the car and then the other. She was bound to be asked that question a lot that day, and so she decided to channel her dad. “I have no complaints.” Because if a man who was in as much chronic pain as he was didn’t feel the need to complain, then neither did she.
“Glad to hear it. I’m headed to the main building. Can I give you a lift in a golf cart?”
Skye grabbed her purse and locked her car up. “That would be great.”
The Briscoes staged golf carts at various points around the sprawling resort grounds for employee use, which was a true blessing today of all days. Skye squelched a wince as she hoisted her legs into the cart on the passenger side.
“You know, I’m sure you could have taken a few more days off,” Emily said. “Rumor has it, your boss has a soft spot for you.”
Obviously, Skye hadn’t done a very convincing job of hiding her body’s discomfort. “I’m not so sure I’d describe my mom as having a soft spot, but you’re right. I could have taken more time if I’d wanted. I was going nuts sitting at home.”
The wind in her hair felt great, even though it made her long skirt whip around her legs. Her scraped-up skin smarted every time the fabric snapped against her, but the flowing skirt had been her only clothing option that week. The thought of wedging her beat-up legs into a pair of pants made her shudder.
“I know exactly what you mean,” Emily said. “There were a few weeks while Subterranean was in the early planning stages that I didn’t have anything to do, and I went totally stir crazy. My poor husband finally had to break it to me that the multi-course meals I was fixing him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner were starting to interfere with his productivity at work.”
“Not to mention his waistline, I imagine.”
They’d passed the stables and were winding their way around the golf course when the air sounded with a horn honking La Cucaracha. Granny June’s riding scooter rolled to a stop in the path, blocking Emily and Skye’s golf cart. Skye let out an exasperated breath, but Emily smiled and waved.
“Are you and Granny June having issues?” Emily asked as she slowed the golf cart.
“No, I love her, don’t get me wrong. But she’s a matchmaking fool.”
“More like genius,” Emily said. “She knew Knox and I were perfect for each other before we even did. I give her a lot of credit for the two of us getting together.”
“Maybe she’s lost her touch.”
Emily’s smile turned smug. “Or maybe you’re in denial that she’s right, like I was for a while?”
Skye shot her an oh please look, then turned her attention to Granny June, who was waving her cane at them. “Hey, Granny June. Good to see you.” Not.
“I had to see for myself that you were all right after the accident,” Granny June said, walking around to the passenger side of the cart. “And look at you, already back to work. It’s a miracle.”
Maybe Skye’s judgment had been too hasty. “Thanks. I’m feeling all right. No complaints.”
Granny June patted her arm. “That’s good. That’s good. Means we can get back to talking about you and Eddie Rivera.”
Or not. It was all Skye could do not to groan. “It’s over between us, Granny. He’s a great guy, but my heart wasn’t in it.”
“He’s a doctor, you know. He works at the very hospital you recuperated in. Tell me, did he come to visit you?”
“Yes, but—”
Granny June threw her arms up. “Then you’ve got to give the man a chance.”
Enough was enough. “I blew off my date with Eddie to spend the weekend with another man, and Eddie found out precisely because he works at that hospital.”
“Dang. Harsh,” Emily muttered.
Skye nodded at her. “Exactly. It was harsh and embarrassing. And, anyway, it wouldn’t have
mattered if he’d found out or not because I’ve given up men for Lent.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Granny June said, crossing her arms over her chest with a scowl.
Skye tried on her most pious smile. “It’s true.” Sort of. Maybe this year she’d actually keep a Lenten promise for once. “Look, I’ve got to get to work, but thanks for checking in with me, Granny June.”
Back on their drive to the main building, Skye spotted a large white special event tent near the chapel.
“Hey, Emily, I hate to do this to you, but could you let me off here? I’m going to pop in and see Remedy before I head to the office.” Skye hadn’t felt much like company in the hospital and then afterward, at home, she had not wanted to keep the truth about the baby from Remedy, but she did not know how to tell her—or anybody, really. Today, it felt right to check in with her friend and apologize for being such a hermit.
“No problem,” Emily said, turning down the path that led to the tent.
They found Remedy in front of the tent, talking to a group of scantily clad Tahitian fire dancers. Their ripped, bare chests were oiled and ornamented with leis, the real deal with white and pink plumeria, not the bargain-store plastic flower variety.
When Remedy spotted her, she threw her arms open wide. “You’re back at work!”
Skye thanked Emily for the ride, then walked with careful steps to Remedy’s waiting arms, where she melted into a hug. “Sort of. Thanks for understanding about me not being up for visitors in the hospital.”
“I get it, and I knew you had lots of people there taking care of you.”
“Almost too many.”
Remedy stepped back and gave Skye a studying once-over. “You’re okay? Your leg, your wrist? I’ve been worried sick.”
More than anything, Skye was determined to be okay—more than okay—even if her life seemed to be spiraling out of control. It was that determination that brought an easy smile to her lips. “Yes. I’m banged up, but I know how lucky I am that I wasn’t hurt worse. I can’t complain.”
One Wild Night Page 21