Yes, yes, yes, and yes again.
But being told you were the father of a woman’s child when you could barely remember bedding her—well, that might ruffle the calmest of men.
Sam was beyond ruffled. He was moulting.
He stifled his first inclination, which was to tell Josie Nolan that she had rocks in her head, that there was no way he would be so irresponsible as to father a child on a woman he wasn’t married to! He knew his lack of memory of what precisely had happened that evening proved just how irresponsible he had been.
His second inclination was to run. To turn tail, head out the door and never come back.
But Sam Fletcher did not run. He’d never run in his life.
From the time he was a boy he’d been groomed to face his responsibilities, to take charge, to exert leadership, to do what was right.
He’d come to Dubuque today expecting to do what was right. He’d expected to have to cope with the mare’s nest that usually comprised Hattie’s affairs. He’d expected to have to find a buyer for the inn and even—because Hattie wished it—to find homes for three cats, a dog and a bird.
He’d envisioned showing up and, once the awkwardness of his apology was out of the way, laughing with Josie about Hattie’s having left him a woman.
It didn’t seem funny at all now.
He hadn’t expected a child.
The will had clearly been Hattie’s way of doing what Josie had not done—of bringing him back and making him aware of the facts.
He supposed he ought to thank her for that. He would, if he weren’t so rattled.
He was going to be a father?
That was rattling enough. What was worse was the idea that, without Hattie’s will, he might never have known.
It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
All the while Josie was putting flowers in the rooms, checking in the guests, delivering champagne to the newlyweds, making dinner reservations and answering questions about local attractions, she was looking over her shoulder, expecting Sam to appear.
He hadn’t been in the kitchen when she got back.
“Left,” Cletus had said.
“Poleaxed ’im, did you?” Benjamin had said.
Josie had denied it, but she’d seen the look on his face. She wondered if they had seen the last of him. But, no. His rental car still sat by the curb. So, wherever he’d gone, he’d walked. She remembered he’d used to walk down to the yacht basin or along the river whenever he’d come here to think before.
“He needs space,” Hattie had explained to her. “Perspective. He has to step back to understand his responsibilities.”
Was that what he was doing now?
Whatever he was doing, Josie wished it didn’t involve her.
She didn’t know whether she wanted him to come back so they could get it over with—or whether she wished he’d stay away so she could pretend he never would.
Probably the former, she decided, unless he agreed to do the latter for the rest of her life!
But the rest of the afternoon passed—the guests checked in, the flowers got delivered, the guests got settled, the questions got answered and the reservations made—and there was still no Sam.
Good, she thought. No. Not good.
Damn. She didn’t know what she wanted—except to tear her hair. She paced the front parlor. She peered out the windows. She even went out on the front porch and craned her neck to look down the road to see if she could see him, determined not to let him surprise her again.
But afternoon turned to evening and evening turned to dusk and eventually the cool of the mid-April evening made her retreat indoors. She paced some more in the parlor, then retreated to the kitchen, but the kitchen reminded her too much of their encounter this afternoon.
She headed down the steps to the basement laundry room. There were loads of towels and sheets to be folded. And if he came looking for her there, the stairs would creak and at least she’d hear him coming.
It was stupid to fret so much. Nothing was going to change even now that he knew. She would still be pregnant. Her love would still be unrequited.
She asked herself for the thousandth time why she couldn’t have been satisfied with Kurt? Certainly he was a little too righteous and unbending for her taste. Certainly he thought his mission was more important than a wife.
But was he wrong?
He hadn’t had to point out how foolish she’d been to taste forbidden fruit
She made her way down the basement steps carefully, hanging on to the handrail. She’d used to trip down them thoughtlessly, light and easy on her feet. But with her new bulk and unaccustomed center of gravity, she had to move more cautiously.
Pity she hadn’t moved more cautiously seven months ago.
She bent and fished a load of towels out of the bin, dumped them on the countertop and began to fold them. She made neat stacks and ran her hands over the soft terrycloth. It was mindless, mechanical work, soothing. She finished one stack, then bent to get another.
The baby kicked.
Josie smiled. Even when she was fretting most, this child could always make her smile. Perhaps it was silly to feel as if she had a confederate within, but she did. It was no longer Josie apart from the rest of the world. Now it was the two of them.
“Awake, are you?” she asked it softly. She set the towels down, rubbed a hand on her belly and was rewarded with another soft tap. She tapped back and smiled again. Sometimes she felt as if she was communicating in Morse code with this person who inhabited her body.
“Had a rough day?” she asked it. “I have. And it’s going to get worse,” she confided. She shook out a towel and gave it a snap before folding it.
The baby kicked again. Hard. So hard Josie winced.
“What’s wrong?”
She nearly jumped a foot. She knocked the pile of freshly folded towels onto the floor and spun around to stare with equal parts horror and consternation in the direction of the wine cellar at the far end of the basement. Sam stood in the shadows.
“Now look what you’ve done!”
“That appears to be the least of what I’ve done,” he said dryly as he stepped forward.
Instinctively Josie stepped back.
“What’s wrong?” he repeated. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head numbly. “No. It...it kicked, that’s all.”
“Kicked?” He looked blank.
“The baby.”
He looked at her belly. She couldn’t read his expression. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something. But then he just ran his tongue over his lips and shook his head. He bent to pick up the towels.
Josie watched him, dry-mouthed and silent, and wished she could push him aside and do it herself. She couldn’t. There was too much baby between her and the ground. “What were you doing skulking in the wine cellar?” she demanded, indignant.
“I wasn’t getting another bottle, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Sam straightened and set the towels on the counter.
“You might as well put them in the wash again,” Josie said crossly. “I can’t use them now.”
Obediently he dumped them in the washing machine. Then he answered her question. “I was thinking.”
“In the wine cellar?”
“It seemed appropriate.”
Josie pressed her lips together. She turned away and closed the lid of the washing machine, then reached past him to add soap, taking her time to measure it precisely. She set the dial to the right program. She had nothing to say.
Sam didn’t move away. She continued to fuss with the dial, then opened the lid again and checked the balance of the towels in the machine.
“I came because Hattie left me the inn,” he said at last.
“I know.” She didn’t look at him.
“I’d thought she was going to leave it to you.”
Josie shut the lid and gave the start button a push. “Why should she? I’m not family.”
“I loved her, too,” Josie said fiercely, and turned her head to meet his gaze. “She was the mother—the grandmother—the family I never had. But I didn’t ever expect her to leave me the inn! She did enough for me. She set up a trust fund. Mr. Zupper can tell you about it if you want. One for me and...and one for the baby.”
“You were supposed to have the inn, too,” Sam insisted. “When I was out here last fall—when Izzy... when I...”
“I know when,” Josie said sharply. Did he think she’d forgotten?
Sam sucked in a sharp breath. “Okay, you know when. Well, back then she told me I wouldn’t have to worry about the inn when she was gone. And I told her she wasn’t going anywhere.” He paused and Josie heard the ache in his voice. It matched her own ache, but she wasn’t going to comfort him.
“You didn’t know she was going to die,” she said. “None of us did.”
“Hattie did. She said, ‘This old heart of mine could go any day. So I want you to know this.’ And then she told me she meant no disrespect to the family, but she was going to leave it to you.” He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “So when she left it—and you—to me, she was making a point.”
Josie’s head snapped around. “She left me to you?”
“I thought it was a joke.”
A hell of a joke, Josie thought. But, “It is,” she said firmly.
Sam shook his head. “No. She was right.” He shifted from one foot to the other. His hands were jammed into his pockets. He looked at the floor for a long moment. The dryer swirled, the tap dripped. He lifted his gaze and met Josie’s. “We’ll get married.”
As a proposal it left a lot to be desired.
In fact Josie felt as if he’d stabbed her in the heart.
We’ll get married. Just like that. As if it were a foregone conclusion, a business negotiation with only one possible outcome.
She supposed where Sam Fletcher was concerned most business deals had only one possible outcome—the one he wanted.
But he didn’t want this!
She knew he didn’t want it. She could see it in his face, in his eyes. She heard it in the resignation in his voice.
And why would he? He didn’t love her. He didn’t want their child.
He was doing it because Hattie had forced his hand. He was doing it because he was used to doing the right thing, the necessary thing.
Just as Hattie had known he would.
Just as Josie had feared he would. It was why she wouldn’t tell him about the baby.
“A child has a right to know its father,” Hattie had said in a tone far more gentle than the bracing one she usually used.
“I know that,” Josie had replied. “I just...can’t tell him. Not now.”
“When?”
“Sometime,” Josie said vaguely.
“A father has a right to know his child, too,” Hattie had gone on implacably.
“I’ll tell him,” Josie had promised. But she hadn’t said when. And she’d changed the subject whenever Hattie brought it up.
“You can tell him at Christmas,” Hattie had said eventually.
But Sam hadn’t come. Josie had seen Hattie’s disappointment when he hadn’t come. She’d seen the older woman watching her with worry and concern in her eyes. But Josie had steeled herself against that concern because she knew why Sam hadn’t come.
After that Hattie hadn’t brought it up again.
Josie had dared to think Hattie had given up.
Obviously, once the will had been read, she knew she’d thought wrong. Hattie had made sure Sam would know.
Now Sam did know—and had done the very thing Hattie had hoped—and Josie had dreaded—he might.
It wasn’t the way he’d imagined proposing marriage, standing in a laundry room, willing his prospective, very pregnant bride to look at him, his hands in his pockets, fists clenched.
It certainly wasn’t the way he’d proposed to Izzy. That had happened at a cozy dinner at a candlelit table in a restaurant on the top of Knob Hill. They had been laughing together, touching, and his suggestion that what they had was too good to waste on casual moments had been enough to make Izzy catch her breath, then turn a thousand-watt smile in his direction.
This time he was standing stiffly, touching no one, his head bent beneath the stone basement’s low ceiling. His voice was stiff and awkward. And, far from bestowing any thousand-watt smile, Josie was looking at him as if he’d just electrocuted her.
Surely it wasn’t a surprise. She had to know what they had to do. It was the only responsible thing to do—though heaven knew if he could have thought of something else, he probably would have done it.
Besides, what did she expect? A profession of undying love? Hardly. Especially not after he’d already assured her just hours before that his actions that night had been a mistake.
It was enough that he was willing to do the right thing, he assured himself. He looked at her expectantly and waited for her to do the right thing, too.
She said, “No.”
Sam gaped. He wasn’t jet lagged this time, but he thought his hearing was going just the same. He checked. “No?”
“No. Thank you,” she added after a moment, but he didn’t think she sounded very grateful.
His jaw tightened. “Why the hell not?”
It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to marry her, for heaven’s sake! He was being a good sport, though, and making the offer. The least she could do, damn it all, was accept it!
“When I marry, I’m marrying for love,” she said simply.
He stared at her. He glanced around the tiny laundry room pointedly, then at her now bare ring finger. “Forgive me if I’m wrong,” he drawled, “but I don’t see your own true love clamoring for a wedding date any longer.”
Josie got a tight, pinched look on her face and he immediately felt like a heel. “No,” she admitted quietly, then blinked and looked down at her hands.
Oh, hell. It was like kicking a puppy.
“I didn’t mean...” he muttered at last, his voice gruff. He started to reach for her, to comfort her, then remembered where that had got him last time. He pulled back sharply. “Sorry.”
In fact, he wasn’t sorry at all. This might not be the reason her engagement ought to have been broken, but Kurt Masters didn’t deserve a woman as kind and generous and open and—well, hell—as loving as Josie. But he didn’t suppose she wanted to hear that right now.
“Kurt doesn’t matter,” she said after a moment.
Sam wouldn’t argue about that. “Glad to hear it,” he said brusquely. “Then why are you saying no?”
“I told you.”
“Because you want love.” He fairly spat the word. “And what about the baby? Don’t you want it to have love?”
Her nostrils flared. “Of course I do! What are you talking about?”
“You’re depriving it of a father’s love.”
“You don’t love it,” she said flatly.
“How the hell do you know?”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?” He was incensed now, breathing down her neck.
“Because in the ten years I’ve known you I’ve never heard you express any desire for children whatsoever!”
“So maybe I changed my mind.”
Josie rolled her eyes. “Give me a break.”
“No, you give me a break. You’re the one who’s had all the time to get used to this. I’ve just had it sprung on me—”
“There was nothing stopping you coming back any time in the last seven months,” Josie pointed out with saccharine politeness.
“I thought I was making both of us happy staying away!”
“You were.”
He heaved a harsh breath. “And now I’m not. But I am being responsible. I am ready to do the right thing and—”
/> “And you’re so sure you know what the right thing is?”
He opened his mouth. He hesitated.
The hesitation was all it took. Josie folded her arms across her breasts. “You don’t want to marry me, Sam. You don’t want a child. You want to sell the inn and get the hell out of here and you never want to look back. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you came for?”
“I came because Hattie left me holding the bag!”
“Exactly. And I’m telling you, you don’t have to hold it any longer. Hattie wanted you here. Not me. It was a mistake, like you said earlier today.” She started toward the stairs, then turned back and faced him squarely. “It was, as you said earlier, ‘the whiskey talking.’”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did. You were honest. And now you’re lucky. I’m not holding you accountable for what you did under the influence of whiskey.”
“What if I want to be held accountable?”
Their eyes dueled once more.
Then, “Go to hell, Sam,” Josie said, and stalked up the stairs.
Footsteps came after her. “Don’t you walk out on me!”
Josie turned halfway up, color vivid on her cheeks. “Don’t you yell at me,” she said, in a voice quieter than his, but no less forceful. “Not if you want The Shields House to keep a good reputation.”
“The hell with The Shields House!”
Josie shrugged. “Well, suit yourself. It’s your house. Your business.”
“I offered to share it with you.”
“And I said no. Thank you,” she added, the polite afterthought as damnably annoying as her refusal. “Don’t slam the door when you leave.” She turned then, and left him standing there.
Sam glared at her back until she went around the corner. Then he stomped into the kitchen, flung open the door to the entry hall and stalked out. He managed—barely—not to snarl at the guests in the parlor. But that was as far as his good behavior went.
Fletcher's Baby Page 3