To Wear His Ring

by Diana Palmer

  Glorious male pride sparked a flash of protest in Chase’s eyes. Impulsively, she sprang to her knees and flung out her arms, catching him round the neck. “Yes. The answer is yes!” She grinned, basking in the surprise and the relief she saw in his answering smile.

  Chase clasped her upper arms and pressed her into the grass. “Tease,” he growled, letting the rebuke linger as he took the kiss she offered.

  He kissed her in a kind of lover’s Morse code: long-shortshort-very long, each kiss a comment. She could drive him mad with a look, and he loved it. His lips told her so.

  With her eyes closed she smiled like a cat full of cream, and Chase knew, he knew in that moment, that he wanted to tell her everything. Here, at last, was a woman he felt he could tell. Not just about Colin—his son—but about how damn humiliatingly terrified he had been when he’d opened that envelope.

  For almost three weeks he hadn’t known how he would feel or what he would do if the paternity tests proved he had a sevenyear-old son. He’d thought that, quite possibly, he might want to run. Not from the financial responsibility, certainly, but from the emotional commitment. What did he know about emotional commitment? He wasn’t sure he could define the term, except to say it was the opposite of everything he knew.

  Gently, with a touch he hadn’t realized he possessed, he traced an invisible I over Nettie’s face, across her forehead, down the bridge of her nose and along her lips. Her skin was milky and translucent, but between her brows he saw two small worry lines. She was gentle. She was strong. She was authentic. There didn’t seem to be a harsh or critical bone in her body. To her and only to her, could he imagine confessing the truth he hated admitting even to himself: He was thirty-four years old, and he didn’t think he’d ever loved anyone.

  At the farmhouse he had sat on the edge of his bed in Nick’s guest room, the door locked, and he’d stared hard at the sheet of paper stating definitively that there was a child in the world with Chase’s blood coursing through his veins. Amazingly, Chase hadn’t wanted to run—thank God—but he hadn’t felt anything a human being might term love, either. He’d felt clammy and cold and so inadequate it had made him nauseous. Then he’d thought of Nettie and without trying, his muscles had relaxed. Her smile had filled his mind and suddenly his body had warmed.

  He’d sat there alone, his thoughts disordered, and finally it had come to him that he was shaking not because he wanted to run away from something, but because he wanted to move toward it.

  He had a son. And, for the first time, a woman in his life he would rather spend his time talking to than trying to charm.

  Moving so that his shadow fell across Nettie’s face, he plucked a blade of tall grass and traced the path his fingers had taken. The feathery touch tickled, and she opened her eyes.

  “Keep them closed,” he whispered, moving the blade of grass tenderly over her skin. “I have something else to tell you. I should have told you before, but I was…” Sighing, he settled onto his elbow. “I’ve been pretty confused, Nettie Owens, and I don’t like being confused.”

  To Nettie, the last line sounded more like a growl than a spoken statement. She suspected this conversation ought to be pursued with eyes open, but decided this was one of those Men-Are-from-Mars moments and let him have his way.

  Keeping her eyes closed and her tone neutral, she asked, “What’s confusing you?”

  After a brief pause, through which she remained carefully still, he responded, “The difference between what I want and what I thought I wanted. Ever been there?”

  Nettie laughed. “Been there? I own property on that block.”

  Even with her eyes closed, she could feel his smile and the slow wag of his head. “I’m a new resident. Career hasn’t been my top priority, Nettie, it’s been my only priority. The whole idea of kids, the white picket fence route—that left me pretty cold.” The blade of grass had stopped its patterning. “I have a sister who’s been married three times, and she just turned thirty. She’s on a world cruise right now with Husband Number Three’s money. I never did meet the guy. I think his name is Chuck.”

  Resting his arm along his side, Chase let his gaze drift to the tree as he continued.

  “I haven’t done much better in terms of relationships. The only difference is I haven’t tried as hard. I figured I’d concentrate on what I was good at and told myself there was a certain honor in sparing the world another screwed-up family. But as it turns out…”

  Here, he thought, comes the hard part. Feelings he had no idea how to define poured into his voice when he said, “As it turns out, I’m going to get a crack at raising a family, after all.”

  Nerves suffused his voice, but once the words were out, relief flowed through him, clearing a path for new reactions. Suddenly he felt glad, incomprehensibly, shockingly glad. Blowing out a long-pent-up breath, he flopped onto his back. Maybe the sun and blue sky were harbingers: Everything was going to be all right.

  “I have a son,” he murmured, realizing Nettie would forever be the first person to whom he’d spoken the words. “I have a son. He’s seven. His name is Colin. And I’ve never met him.” Placing an arm over his eyes, he decided to let the sun burn away his guilt. From this point on he would begin to make things right. “I knew his mother years ago in London. We were together a few months and then went our separate ways. Apparently Julia died several months ago. She was in the States, living in Florida. After she died, Colin got shuffled off to some friend of hers, and…it’s a long, long story. I didn’t know anything about Colin until last month, and I didn’t know he was really mine until this morning.”

  “The envelope.”

  “Yeah. Proof positive. Although, I think I knew when I got the call. It’s weird, but I think I sensed the connection the moment I heard his name. That sounds crazy.”

  “No. No it doesn’t.”

  Amazed, Chase found himself laughing. “My God, Nettie, I have a son! And I want…” He choked, wondering if every “new parent” had to deal with this ocean of undulating emotions. “I want so damn much to make up for the time we’ve missed.”

  Dropping his arm, he arose, expectant and grateful to be with someone who would understand his burgeoning excitement, someone who had “family” stamped all over her. With pride out of the way, he wouldn’t mind a few pointers—about what holidays were supposed to look like, for example. Man, he had a lot to learn!

  Nettie was already sitting up, looking almost as stunned as he felt.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry I sprang this on you.” After another brief struggle with his ego, he admitted, “I thought I could ignore the whole thing until it went away. I don’t have much to be proud of in this situation. Not yet.”

  Raw energy coursed through his system. Feeling he had to move, Chase stood and walked to the tree. “You could put everything I know about being a father in a thimble and it wouldn’t be half full. But I’m going to do this.” He thumped the rough bark with the heel of his hand. “I’m going to be the best damn—” he actually had to take a breath before he could say the word in reference to himself “—dad that kid will ever need!”

  His vehemence was utterly male—masking self-doubt, filled with determination and trepidation in near-equal measures. Sitting on her knees, Nettie thought no man had ever looked so beautiful, so powerful or brave or scared. Except…

  Tears gathered without warning behind her eyes.

  Brian. Yes, except for Brian on the day she gave birth to their son. He’d held the tiny body and though doctors and nurses had bustled around them, Brian had seen only his child. Nettie had thought then it was like watching Columbus discover America. O, brave new world. Where nothing would ever be the same again.

  She closed her eyes. Another man. Another child. Another bright, uncertain future. Ah, Chase. Forgive me, forgive me for what I’m going to do. Through willpower alone, her eyes were dry when she opened them.

  Chase stood beneath the tree, knowing he’d gotten carried away, bu
t his adrenaline was pumping. He’d stacked his reputation on maintaining equilibrium in the midst of chaos. Now his legs were so wobbly, he wondered briefly if they could actually buckle.

  “You were the first person I wanted to tell, you know.” He released a shaky laugh that sounded as though it came from someone else’s mouth. “I think that means something. Don’t you?” He smiled, waiting for Nettie’s sweet smile in return.

  Waiting. And then hoping.

  She twined her fingers, gripping her hands in a tight ball on her lap. “I am glad for you, Chase. I am…so glad. Glad you told me, too. And I think you’ll be a wonderful father.”

  Sounding reserved, she offered him…platitudes.

  You caught her off-guard, he reminded himself. You’re misreading her. You’ve had time to get used to it. She’s probably wondering why you didn’t tell her right away. Women like to be told.

  Pushing away from the tree, he stepped forward. “I should have brought this up earlier. I wish—”

  “No.” Nettie shook her head—vehemently, or so it seemed to him. “No, it’s not that. I—I could be handling this better.”

  His muscles tensed. “Handling it?” He shook his head. “Just say it. Whatever it is.”

  Only by the tiniest flicker of eyelashes did she betray her nerves.

  “I’ve enjoyed every moment we’ve spent together,” she told him, and he sensed immediately that those words were going to be his consolation prize. “But this is all so sudden, and…Under the circumstances, I really can’t…I don’t think we should…” Annoyed with her hesitation, she paused, cranked her composure up a notch and unloaded the rest of the pistol straight from the hip. “The truth is, I don’t want to see you anymore.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sara sat at her desk in the Kalamoose jail, tapping a pen rapidly against a stained blotter while Nettie balanced herself on a cot in one of the cells, measuring for curtains.

  New curtains, for crying out dang loud! Just what they needed, more girly stuff to make a perfectly good jail look like a sorority house. As if the old ruffles weren’t torture enough.

  Tossing the pen, Sara pulled a couple sticks of Juicy Fruit from the desk drawer, blew to remove excess dust, then unwrapped and crammed them both into her mouth. In four days, Nettie had scraped the paint off the entire lower half of their house, slip-covered Sara’s favorite TV chair and arranged the contents of the snack cabinet in alphabetical order, which meant Sara had to dig for the Pop Tarts, but the dried apples were right up front. Nothing was safe.

  “Come on, let’s go,” she said, rising from the chair. “It’s almost seven, and my stomach’s going to cave in if I don’t put something in it soon.”

  Nettie turned from the window. The same cheerful smile she’d worn for days—as if her cheek muscles had frozen solid—wreathed her face. “I didn’t realize the time,” she chirped, hopping down from the bed. “I’ve got an Irish stew in the Crock Pot. I made chicken Oscar, too. We can pop that into the oven, if you’d rather. Or I can freeze it for another time. Oh, and there’s soda bread, but I could whip up a batch of biscuits if you—”

  “No!” Burying a choice swear word beneath her breath, Sara pleaded, “Don’t whip anything.” Heading for the door, she grabbed her hat, smashing it onto her head. All she wanted for dinner was a triple-decker peanut butter and jelly with a handful of the potato chips that were shelved somewhere between Oreos and Raisinettes. “Let’s just go.”

  Since Nettie had walked to the jail, after Sara locked up, they both got into the squad car, neither of them speaking on the short drive home. Staring out the window with her arms and legs crossed, Nettie knew she had morphed into Heloise and was driving Sara half mad, but she couldn’t stop herself. She didn’t want to stop herself. Each desperate act of domesticity enabled her to cease thinking and to feel in control, at least for a while.

  When they reached the house, she jumped out of the car and ran up the porch steps to busy herself with dinner preparations. With any luck she’d be tired enough to turn in before the last smear of grease was sponged off the last plate.

  As soon as she opened the door, she realized something was odd. Lights were on all over the house, yet she didn’t remember turning on any lamps before she left. There was also a definite aroma of flowers in the air.

  Nettie crossed the threshold, about to comment to Sara, when she noticed several things at once: a shawl tossed over the living-room lounger, chunky-heeled sandals kicked off carelessly at the base of the stairs near a leather carryall, and a huge candle with three wicks, lighted and sitting on the coffee table.

  Her gaze rose to the top of the stairs and her mouth opened in astonishment. “Lilah!”

  Wearing powder-pink leggings and a soft V-neck sweater that looked as if it had been woven from cotton candy, the secondborn of the three Owens girls was the picture of nonchalant glamour. Her golden hair curled halfway down her elegant back. Perfect makeup highlighted a gorgeous smile and brilliant blue eyes that sparkled with life.

  “Nettie-Belle!” Skipping down the stairs with the grace of a dancer, the enthusiasm of a puppy, Lilah wrapped her arms around her sister, squeezing until Nettie thought she might see stars from lack of oxygen. “Mmm, you feel good. Let me look at you.” Lilah pulled back and sighed. “Beautiful as ever. Come back to Los Angeles with me, baby, I’ll make you a star.”

  “Yeah, that’s what we need in this family, more dramatics.” Sara’s grumble provided a perfect and oh-so-typical foil for Lilah’s effusiveness.

  “Hello, Eeyore.” Turning her attention to her older sib, Lilah put her hands on her hips. “Look who’s complaining about dramatics. I haven’t seen you for a year and you’re still wearing the same costume.”

  “It’s a uniform.”

  “Mmm.” Lilah tilted her head. “Needs a scarf or something.” Before Sara could respond, Lilah grabbed her in a bear hug, rocking excessively and planting a smacking, lipstickstaining kiss on Sara’s cosmetics-free cheek.

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Wriggling free, Sara wiped her face.

  Over Lilah’s contagious laughter, Nettie realized Sara had shown no surprise at all. “Did you know about this?”

  “I’m your birthday present,” Lilah answered in her sister’s stead. “You know how Sara feels about shopping.”

  Nettie’s eyes widened. Her birthday was still several weeks away. And Lilah’s infrequent visits were often rushed. “You don’t have to head right back then?”

  The blonde shook her head. “I’m taking a long vacation.” She tossed an arm around Nettie’s shoulders and grabbed Sara in a near chokehold. “Come on. I brought food, Irish Cream and presents.”

  “Lilah! This is…scandalous!” Laughing delightedly, Nettie held up a scrap of royal purple material that was, she assumed, a thong. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Wear it, of course.”

  Sara grabbed a vanilla wafer and dragged it through a pot of peanut butter melted with the butterscotch morsels Lilah had pulled from her overnight bag. The unusual combination was a classic Owens sleepover snack, something the girls’ mother used to make.

  “You expect her to wear that thing out of the house?” Sara said with her mouth full.

  “Under the proper attire, yes.” Lilah swirled her Bailey’s Irish Cream over ice.

  “Well,” Sara picked up a huge strawberry, dunked it in the sweet fondue, tipped back her head and took a bite, “why wear the thing at all then? Looks uncomfortable.”

  “Sara, if you have to ask what for, you’ve been alone way too long.” Lilah grinned.

  They’d been eating, chatting and opening gifts for the past hour. Lilah had brought Sara an autographed copy of the screenplay for The Quick and the Dead and a box of designer chocolates from a ritzy store on Rodeo Drive. She’d given Nettie perfume, the thong and a matching bra.

  “I know better than to call a shoestring underwear,” Sara claimed, flipping through the front pages of the script.


  “Men love them.”

  “Huh,” Sara grunted. “They don’t have to wear ‘em. Try chasing a bank robber in one of those things. You’d hang yourself.”

  Lilah’s bright laughter filled the room. “And speaking of chasing men,” she said, mischief darkening her eyes, “How’s Nick?”

  Sara turned as red as the strawberry she’d just popped into her mouth. “How should I know?” she sputtered, leaping to her feet so quickly, she nearly overturned the coffee table. “I’m going to bed. I have to get up early for work tomorrow. And don’t leave that candle burning, when you go upstairs. It wouldn’t surprise me if you burned the house down with your candles and your…thongs, and…” Tossing her strawberry stem onto the fruit plate, Sara stalked off.

  Lilah took another sip of her drink and murmured, “Still carrying a torch, I see. And not doing a thing about it.”

  “How did you know?” Nettie asked when Sara was safely up the stairs and out of earshot. She slapped a hand to her forehead. She herself had just started suspecting, but she’d been too immersed on her own life to pursue the thought. “I can’t believe I was so blind. How long have you known?”

  “She’s been ga-ga over Nick since high school, but she makes a second career out of pretending she couldn’t care less.” Lilah shook her head. “She’s so tough about some things, but when it comes to any man who’s not on the FBI’s Ten-Most-Wanted list, she’s a big ‘fraidy cat.”

  “Sara?” Nettie shook her head. “I know she hasn’t dated much, but I never think of Sara as being afraid of anything.”

  Lilah sighed. “Sweetie, when it comes to the opposite sex, we’re all afraid of something. Or someone.” Curling her long legs beneath her, she settled more cozily into the plaid chair that had always been her personal favorite. “So how about you?” She arched an impeccably groomed brow. “How’s your fling coming along?”