by Pamela Clare
“She’s a sweet little girl.”
Megan couldn’t help but smile, a sense of pride swelling inside her. Emily was the only part of her life unmarred by her past. “I think so, but then I’m pretty biased.”
“Emily is lucky to have you for her mother.”
Some part of Megan wanted to tell him the truth—that she’d been in prison during the first year of Emily’s life, leaving her daughter in the care of a Mennonite foster family, that she’d had to fight like hell to straighten herself out so she could win custody of her daughter back again, that some part of her still wondered whether she was even fit to be a mother.
But she liked seeing herself the way Nate saw her.
And so she said nothing—and immediately felt a stab of guilt.
After all he’d done for her, didn’t Nate deserve the truth?
Nate grinned. “She looks so much like you—your eyes, your nose, your smile. Were you blond as a little girl?”
Megan nodded. “Strawberry blond.”
Nate’s eyes narrowed. “So why aren’t you married? I would think that a woman as pretty as you…”
The question took Megan by surprise, though it shouldn’t have. Hadn’t she asked him the same thing not ten minutes ago? He’d even parroted her words. “I … I’m not really into the whole dating thing.”
She was giving Nate half truths again. It wasn’t that she was uninterested in dating; she was terrified of it. Dating went together with sex, and she didn’t like sex. She’d never enjoyed it, never liked having a man’s hands on her. Maybe if her life had been different…
Except that tonight Nate had kissed her, and she had liked it.
“Maybe you just need to meet the right man.” Something about the way Nate said it, something in his deep voice, made Megan’s pulse spike again.
And she found herself wishing she could forget what had been done to her, what she had done, and just pretend that she was whole and unbroken.
The conversation drifted after that, Nate telling her about their herd and what they would have to do to keep the cattle fed and safe in deep snow—plowing the road so their trucks could get through, carrying hay out every day, watching for sick animals.
“That’s a lot of work for two people.”
He chuckled. “That’s why we have a crew—a foreman and five hands. They stay in the bunkhouse and handle a lot of the heavy work now that my father is getting older. He manages the financial and logistical sides of the operation.”
“What do you do?”
“Sometimes I help with the herd, but mostly I work with the horses—training them, overseeing the breeding program, helping the mares foal if they have trouble.”
It was such a different life than the one Megan knew. “You’re a real cowboy.”
Nate grinned and tipped an imaginary cowboy hat. “Why, yes, ma’am, I reckon I am.”
Megan laughed at his exaggerated western twang.
“Tell me about your job.”
There wasn’t much to tell—except that Megan was very lucky to have a job. Very few employers were willing to take a risk on someone with a prison record. “I’m a graphic artist with the city’s recreation department.”
“Is that what you’ve always wanted to do?”
She shook her head. “It’s a job.”
She didn’t tell him she’d gotten her start working in the print shop in prison. She’d gotten an associate degree while she was on parole. Her salary wasn’t great, but she’d paid off her house and car with part of her court settlement.
“Is there anything you really wanted to do?”
“I always dreamed of going to law school.” For a time, it had been her life’s dream to help young women like herself, to make sure that someone always listened to them so that what had happened to her wouldn’t happen to anyone else. But with past felonies, she would almost certainly be denied admittance to the bar, even if she passed the bar exam with flying colors.
On the mantel, a clock chimed, drawing Megan’s gaze.
Ten.
The money drop.
Worries she’d tried to set aside through the evening rushed back at her.
Please stay safe, Marc! Keep everyone safe.
Nate took her hand, gave it a squeeze. “Your brother knows what he’s doing. He’ll be all right. I just hope they get the bastards.”
“So do I.”
“How long has this Donny asshole been stalking you? Why did he choose you? Who is he anyway?”
“He’s been stalking me for almost three years now.” Megan would have given almost anything in that moment not to answer the second part of Nate’s question, but she couldn’t ignore him or lie. “He’s… He’s Emily’s father.”
CHAPTER 7
Donny Lee Thomas was Emily’s father.
Working in the pre-dawn dark, Nate lowered the snowplow on the front of his Ford F-150, put the truck into gear and drove forward, punching through more than three feet of snow, the forcefulness of it only partly satisfying his need for aggression.
What kind of man terrorized and attacked the mother of his child, tried to rob her, threatened to harm his own daughter?
No, not a man. A monster.
A man would have done all he could to make certain both mother and child were safe. A man would have provided his share of financial support. A man would have been a father to his child, even if he and the child’s mother weren’t together and hated each other’s guts.
Nate could not wrap his mind around the fact that a bastard as revolting and fucked up as Donny could be Emily’s father. Nate had gotten a good look at him—rotten teeth, sallow, unhealthy skin, dark, greasy brown hair. There was no trace of him on that sweet little girl’s face.
Haven’t you always said it’s more the dam than the sire that makes the foal?
And that was the other thing.
Nate couldn’t stand the thought that this son of a bitch had gotten his hands on Megan. It wasn’t jealousy he was feeling. Hell, he knew Megan wasn’t a virgin—and it wasn’t just the fact that she had a child that gave that away. Like everyone who’d read those articles in the Denver Independent, Nate knew how she’d lost her virginity. Nothing he’d ever read in a newspaper had sickened him more.
Oh, Megan!
He’d seen the shame on her face when she’d told him the truth about Donny. She hadn’t been able to look him in the eye. But he didn’t believe for one minute that she’d met Donny, gotten to know him, and decided he was something she wanted a piece of. Given Megan’s past, it was far more likely that he’d taken advantage of her in some way or forced himself on her.
The thought had gnawed at Nate last night until he’d gotten up at almost two in the morning, gone down to his dad’s office, found the file on Marc Hunter and read through the articles about Megan again. None of the stories had mentioned Donny, but Nate was pretty certain he’d pieced it together.
If Donny came any where near Megan again, Nate would rip him apart—balls, blood, and bones.
Of course, it wasn’t just learning the truth about Donny that had kept Nate awake half the night. It was also the junk that hung about eight inches below his navel. How he could be so angry and so horny at the same time, he didn’t know. He’d had to beat one out before he’d finally been able to sleep.
Kissing Megan had been such a bad idea. He hadn’t planned it. He’d just done it. And now he was paying for it.
He probably owed the old man a thank you for barging in like that. Nate had been so caught up in the sweet taste of her that it was only after the kiss had ended that he’d realized he ought to have asked Megan how she felt about being kissed before locking lips with her. He’d given her a moment, trying to gauge her response but…
Had that been desire he’d seen in her eyes—or had it been fear?
He needed to know, because if it had been desire, he wanted to pick up where they’d left off. And if it had been fear?
It was time for someone to pro
ve to Megan that not all men were thugs.
Are you sure you’re the man for that job, West?
He remembered his dad’s warning. Yeah, a single mother with a traumatic past was a lot to take on, but Nate understood a thing or two about scars. Megan was the first woman he’d met since he’d been burned who made him feel like a man. More than that, he cared about her. He’d been drawn to her from the first moment he’d seen her chopping vegetables in the community kitchen. He couldn’t say why exactly, but why no longer mattered. It was just a fact. And he wasn’t about to turn his back on the feeling inside him—or on her or her little girl.
By the time Nate reached the front gate, the sun was just beginning to rise in the east, its light hidden behind an overcast sky, heavy clouds to the northwest promising more snow. The entrance was blocked by a snow drift at least six feet deep and twenty feet wide, the gate’s bars catching blowing snow, causing it to pile up.
Shit.
So much for making it to breakfast on time.
# # #
Megan cut up Emily’s buttermilk pancakes, real maple syrup trickling down over the edges, the mingled scents coming from Jack’s griddle making her mouth water—bacon, scrambled eggs, rising pancake batter. “Eat your scrambled eggs, first, okay, sweet pea? Then you can have your pancakes.”
“Pancakes?” Jack turned to look at them, a grumpy frown on his face, spatula in hand, red checked apron covering his gray turtle neck and jeans. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know these are flapjacks.” He shifted his gaze to Emily. “Can you say flapjacks?”
“Fwap-jacks!” Emily smiled, pointing at Jack. “Fwap-jacks, because you’re Jack.”
Megan laughed at Emily’s perfectly logical conclusion.
“That’s right, sugar.” Jack turned back to his griddle. “The girl’s all of four years old, and she’s already a damned genius.”
Megan glanced at the clock—it was almost seven thirty. She’d called the office first thing this morning to tell them she’d be late only to get a recorded message telling her that all city offices were closed for the day because of the storm. That meant a three-day weekend—and no need to worry about being late or missing another day of work. It wasn’t that she needed the money. She had more than a million dollars of settlement money in the bank that she hoped to pass on to Emily. She just didn’t want to get fired, not when finding another job would be next to impossible.
She glanced at Nate’s empty place at the table. Jack had told her Nate had gone out to plow the road leading to the highway and that he’d be back in time for breakfast. That had been an hour ago. She hoped Nate was okay—and that he wasn’t skipping breakfast as a way of avoiding her.
The look on his face when she’d told him Donny was Emily’s father had been one of shock and revulsion. She’d known what he was thinking: What had been wrong with her that she’d slept with a man like Donny Lee Thomas? She’d been grateful that he hadn’t asked her questions, that he hadn’t asked her to explain. The fact that Donny was Emily’s father was something she tried hard every day to forget.
One thing was certain—Nate wouldn’t kiss her again.
She sat at the place Jack had set for her and put her napkin on her lap, debating calling Marc to find out how things had gone last night, but afraid she’d wake him. He was probably still asleep after having been up most of the night. Deciding to wait, she gave in to her hunger and the delicious smells around her—and took her first bite.
She moaned. The pancakes melted in her mouth, all buttery and maple sweet. The last time she’d had real buttermilk pancakes made from scratch had been when she was living with Pastor John and Connie. Connie had cooked everything from scratch, Sunday morning breakfast a feast of pancakes or French toast, hash browns, eggs, and bacon topped off with hot cocoa.
John and Connie were the closest thing she’d ever had to real parents. They’d given her a safe haven when she’d fled the police with Emily in her arms. Connie had died two years ago, John not that long after, as if he couldn’t stand to be parted from his wife.
Megan missed them each and every day.
She licked syrup off her fork. “Jack, you are an amazing cook.”
He glanced over at her for a moment before flipping the next batch of flapjacks. “They’re mostly my wife’s recipes. I didn’t start cooking until after she passed on. I figured I needed to eat, and learning to cook the way she’d cooked would be a way of learning more about her and keeping a part of her here with us.”
A hard lump formed in Megan’s throat, making it hard for her swallow.
To be loved like that…
A door opened, and Megan heard footsteps coming from the garage. A few moments later, Nate appeared, his face red from the cold.
“Mornin’.” He gave Megan a smile, ruffled Emily’s hair. “Mornin’, cutie. That looks really tasty.”
At the warmth in his eyes, Megan felt an enormous knot of tension melt away inside her. “Good morning.”
Emily tilted her head back and looked straight up at him, clutching her fork in one sticky hand. “Jack made fwapjacks.”
“That’s good, because I’m hungry.” He looked over at his dad. “We’ve got at least thirty-six inches out there.”
Megan groaned inwardly, certain the drive home would be a nightmare.
Jack nodded. “Chuck got the trucks loaded?”
“Yeah. He was heading out as I was coming in.” Nate walked toward the counter. “Got any coffee? These womenfolk might do alright with hot cocoa in the morning, but a man’s got to have himself a cup of strong coffee.”
Nate glanced over at Megan, gave her a wink, a look in his eyes that told her he might just kiss her again after all.
Her pulse skipped.
It took her a moment to realize her cell phone was buzzing. She pulled it out of her pocket, looked at the caller ID.
Marc.
# # #
Nate poured himself a mug of coffee, watching as Megan rose from her chair and walked out of the kitchen, cell phone to her ear. He exchanged a glance with his dad and knew he and his old man were hoping the same thing—that Donny Lee Thomas and his crew had woken up inside a jail cell this morning. Hell, Nate wouldn’t mind if Donny hadn’t woken up at all. That would be fine, too.
Nate sat, put his napkin in his lap, plunged his fork through a stack of three flapjacks, and dragged them onto his plate. “Have you ever had flapjacks as yummy as these ones?”
Emily looked up at him and shook her head, her big blue eyes filled with a child’s honesty, her mouth full, both her lips and her fingers sticky.
“I’m glad you like them.” Nate poured syrup on his pancakes, added bacon and eggs to his plate and dug in, his thoughts with Megan in the next room.
“Forecast is calling for another foot tonight.”
Nate washed down a bite of eggs with a gulp of coffee, the conversation feeling like small talk, a way of filling the silence as he waited for Megan’s news. “I believe it. There’s a heavy bank of storm clouds moving in from the northwest.”
“Last time we got this much snow in November, we were buried through spring.” Nate’s dad sat across from him, mug of coffee in one hand, breakfast plate in other. “It looks like we’re in for a long winter.”
Megan walked into the kitchen, cell phone still in hand, an unreadable expression on her face. She sat, spread her napkin on her lap, gave them a tight smile. “That was Marc. He’s safe. No one was hurt—thank goodness! They got three men—the guys who were in the car that night. They were still driving the Lincoln Continental.”
“Well that’s good news.” His tax dollars at work. “What about Donny?”
Megan shook her head, her gaze downcast, the tension inside her palpable.
“Let’s hope the other goons rat him out.” Nate’s dad poured syrup over his flapjacks.
“Marc says that’s what they’re hoping, too.” Her voice was tightly controlled. “I had hoped he’d be in custody before I got back to
Denver today.”
Nate jabbed his fork into another bite of flapjacks. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not going back to Denver today.”
She lifted her gaze to his. “I’m … I’m not?”
“There’s three feet of snow out there with more on the way. In some places the wind has piled the snow up in six-foot drifts. Besides, both I-25 and I-70 are closed.”
Nate’s dad backed him up. “You’d best stay here until the snow stops and they get the roads cleared. There’s no sense in taking chances.”
Megan looked back and forth between Nate and his dad. “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not imposing, Megan. I invited you up here, remember?” Nate covered her hand with his, gave it a squeeze.
She returned the squeeze. “Thanks.”
“I got plans to put the both of you to work.” Nate’s dad fixed a sharp gaze on Emily, who was now nibbling on her bacon. “You think you can help Nate with the horses today, Miss Emily?”
Emily nodded, her eyes going wide. “Can I see Buckwheat?”
Nate shared a smile with Megan. “You bet.”
# # #
Megan watched while Nate rode around the barn on Buckwheat with Emily in the saddle in front of him, a helmet on her head, a big smile on her face. Wearing that black cowboy hat, his fleece barn jacket, and leather work gloves, he looked like he’d ridden out of a Western movie—all man and leather and horse.
“Make him trot now.”
Emily made a clucking sound with her tongue, squeezing the horse with her little legs. The gelding responded immediately by going faster, Emily’s laughter filling the small arena.
“Tell him he’s a good boy when he does what you want him to do.”
“Good boy, Buckwheat!” Emily patted the horse’s neck. “You’re a good horsie.”
Around and around the barn they rode. Nate managed the reins with one hand, his right arm wrapped around Emily, his confidence and care with her putting Megan at ease. This was Emily’s reward for “helping” Nate lead the horses out to pasture where they were given fresh hay and warmed, ice-free water. And Emily was in paradise.