by Laura Abbot
“Thank you for letting us come, and ’specially for Mona. She’s a super cat.”
“Why don’t you tell her goodbye while I get your coats?”
Kylie dashed off to the living room, where Mona had scampered. Libby moved quickly to the closet, extracting their parkas. When she turned around, Trent laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re great with her, Lib. I appreciate that.”
“She’s easy to like.”
“I, uh…” He paused, his eyes clouded. “I know this probably isn’t the time or place, but here goes. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you back…well, you know when. I wasn’t there for you the way I should’ve been. I said some terrible things.”
Libby’s knees shook and she felt hollow inside. “What’s done is done. We’ve both moved on.” She was pretty sure he wanted her to tell him she’d forgiven him, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she said, “I’ll take good care of Kylie.”
“I know you will.” He was staring at her with an intensity that aroused feelings she was reluctant to identify, then finally turned away. “Kylie, time to leave.”
After they’d left, Libby couldn’t move. Rooted to the spot, resting her forehead against the closed door, she thought she might be sick. Sorry? He’d said he was sorry? Was he seeking forgiveness now? Damn him!
Entwining her arms around her abdomen, she finally made it to the rocking chair, knowing that nothing—nothing at all—could salve the wound he’d opened up.
She couldn’t have said how long she sat there. It might have been mere minutes—or hours. The repetitive to-and-fro of the rocker failed to soothe her. She was way beyond soothing.
She should have been rocking a baby. His baby.
Impelled by a force beyond herself, she rose and moved toward her bedroom, knowing on the one hand the act was masochistic, but on the other, inevitable. She knelt on the braided wool rug, her heartbeat a mournful thud, then, with trembling hands, raised the lid of the cedar chest. The aromatic fragrance nearly gagged her.
She could stop now. She didn’t have to do this. But instinct was deaf to reason. Burrowing beneath sheets, tablecloths and out-of-season clothing, she found the hardcover volume, long buried.
Blind, futile rage enveloped her as she wrested the book from the depths of the cedar chest, oblivious to the disorder left behind.
By the soft light of the bedside lamp, she forced herself to read the title that her fingers involuntarily traced. “My Baby Book.”
Clasping this journal of dashed hopes to her chest, she carried it to the bed, where she perched on the edge like a sleepwalker recently aroused. She flipped to one of the first pages, filled with her own handwriting. “How Mommy Told Daddy About Me.” Then, “Mommy’s First Visit to the Doctor.” And finally to the stark white, blank pages—screaming loss—after “Mommy’s Third Month.”
Her throat worked in spasms but she refused to cry. She had shed enough tears to last a lifetime, and they had changed nothing.
How dare Trent reenter her life? How dare he bring that precious, beautiful daughter of his to break her heart? And how could her body have betrayed her? Good Lord, for a brief moment this evening, she’d been aware of him in an intimate, sensual way.
She stared at the book in her lap, knowing that from this moment on, it would serve as a potent reminder. Trent was no part of her life. He had long ago given up any claim on her.
He had never understood how she felt. He’d even been cavalier. To him it was “just a miscarriage.” To her, a loss beyond bearing.
Now he had his child. She had no one.
For him, it had been a simple matter. She would never forget his words that awful day when she couldn’t stop sobbing, when nothing could stanch her pain and grief. “It’s not the end of the world, Lib. We can always have another baby.”
No, he hadn’t been there for her. That same day, love died.
CHAPTER FOUR
TRAPPED IN AN UNDERTOW of guilt, Trent concentrated on his driving, focusing on every intersection, each curve in the road.
“Daddy, did you see how Mona curled up in my lap? She has the softest fur and I love petting her. ’Course, I love Scout. Dogs are my favorites, but cats are…”
Kylie had jabbered nonstop ever since they left Libby’s. His role, limited to nodding occasionally or muttering a well-timed “Uh-huh,” left him too much time to think. To remember.
Libby’s euphoria when the home pregnancy test had turned up positive. The way she had welcomed morning sickness as a harbinger of the new life within her. Her ecstatic plans for turning their tiny second bedroom into a colorful nursery. How nearly every conversation had revolved around possible baby names.
That wasn’t all he remembered.
With a shame that tightened his stomach, he also recalled his own panic.
A baby? No way was he prepared—not financially and certainly not emotionally. He was a young man, for cripe’s sake, enjoying his free lifestyle. On a whim he could jump in his truck and take off with his buddies to follow the snow or fish a hot section of the river. Then when he got home? Libby would listen to his adventures, laugh at the appropriate moments and applaud his feats. And at night? Sex that made his blood boil just thinking about it.
He had felt that he was being cheated. A baby would spoil everything. He wasn’t ready. This couldn’t be happening. Libby wanted him to share her excitement, but somehow he could never wrap his mind around the concept of late-night feedings and dirty diapers. It was more fun to escape to the nearest tavern or gather his friends for a poker game.
Yeah, he wasn’t proud of his reaction to Libby’s pregnancy. After the divorce and his move to Billings, he’d had plenty of time to reflect—and to grow up. Then he’d met Ashley and once again been faced with the prospect of fatherhood. This time he had promised himself things would be different. He would be a loving and responsible parent.
“Daddy, I’m scared.” Kylie’s last words penetrated his thoughts. “About tomorrow.”
“The reading?”
“I, uh, I’m not very good.”
“You used to be.”
“That was before…”
She didn’t have to complete the thought. Before Ashley died. “Yes, but you can be again. Especially with Miss Cameron’s help.”
Kylie’s fear and doubt came out in her voice. “Maybe.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She was silent a moment, then, with hushed awe, she added her final thought, which totally undid him. “She’s wonderful, Daddy.”
Oh, God, what if he’d never had Kylie? Never known the awesome feeling of cradling his daughter in his arms? Libby had every right to hold him in contempt. How could he ever have considered a baby an inconvenience? A burden? His daughter had been the only thing keeping him from going over the edge after Ashley died.
His heart felt heavy. How friggin’ lame was the apology he’d offered Libby tonight? She should’ve thrown him out of the house. Yet despite her far-from-cordial feelings toward him, she’d embraced his daughter, offering her the affection and approval she so desperately needed. Libby was obviously a more sensitive human being than he had been.
But could she forgive?
In light of the past, it seemed a huge thing to hope for. But he was going to continue asking. Begging if necessary.
Because Libby’s soulful eyes, her gentle treatment of his daughter, the sense of homecoming that enveloped him the moment he stepped over her threshold—all stirred something deep within him.
She had been his first love. He wanted her to be his last.
“Are we home yet, Daddy?”
“Not yet, sweetie.”
No, not by a long shot. They would never be truly home until he could prove to Libby he was a new man. A better one.
AFTER A FITFUL NIGHT, Libby had awakened late, thrown on a pair of wool slacks, a soft red turtleneck, an oversize yellow fleece vest and boots. Racing against time, she pulled her hair into a ponyta
il and dashed from the house. Despite her misgivings about Trent and all the buried emotions he had brought to the surface, she couldn’t be late for her first tutoring appointment with Kylie.
The sun was just peeping over the mountains when she pulled into the faculty parking lot. Suddenly, the thought of facing a day of lively second-graders wearied her. She shrugged. That’s what you get, dummy, for letting Trent Baker turn your world topsy-turvy. She couldn’t tell what had caused her insomnia—the reawakened grief, her anger at his belated apology or her maddening yet undeniable attraction to him.
His words had dredged up a past she’d spent years blocking from her memory. Not just their marriage. But something else, something just as painful. An image of her stepfather caused her to ball her fists. Vernon G. Belton was a politician with the common touch, or so the press portrayed him. A friend to the downtrodden. Yet when his stepdaughter’s actions had threatened to embarrass him, sacrifices had to be made. What was one troubled girl weighed against political expediency?
Libby trudged toward the school, determined to clear her mind of such poisonous thoughts. Kylie needed her encouragement, not her bitterness.
By the time Trent and Kylie appeared, Libby had finished her first cup of coffee from the teachers’ lounge, written the day’s assignments on the board and unearthed the book she intended to use for her reading session with Trent’s daughter.
“Good morning, Kylie.” Libby pasted on her broadest smile, noticing with chagrin that her lips quivered when she glanced at Trent, who looked as though sleep had eluded him last night, as well.
“Have you had breakfast?”
“Cereal.”
“Good. It’s hard to work on an empty stomach.” She gestured toward the reading table. “Shall we?”
She sent Trent a pointed look, but he stood, as if rooted, staring at her.
He shifted from one foot to the other. “I appreciate this, Lib. Can I pay you?”
“That won’t be necessary. We’re not allowed to tutor our students for pay, though we can offer extra help.”
“Oh.”
“Bye, Daddy.”
Trent bent down to give Kylie a hug. “See you later, sweetie.”
Just before he turned to leave, he touched Libby’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he said, his voice husky.
Libby watched him walk down the hall, that slow, sexy amble of his so familiar to her.
“Miss Cameron, are you okay?”
Caught. Feeling herself flush, she turned back to Kylie. “Sure, honey.”
The girl settled into a tiny chair while Libby pulled up her desk chair. Chewing her lower lip, Kylie fingered the book nervously. “You’ll laugh.”
Libby stilled Kylie’s restless hands. “Never.” She picked up the reader. “This is a wonderful story about a bear. Why don’t we begin with it.”
“Okay.”
Kylie made a fumbling start, but with Libby’s encouragement, she soon began reading with more ease. When they finished, Libby gave her a quick hug. “That was a great beginning. You read with lots of expression.”
“That’s what my mommy used to say.”
“Your mommy was right.”
Solemnly, the little girl nodded. “I know.” She entwined her fingers nervously. “Could you, uh, help me again?”
“Certainly. Why don’t we do this early-morning reading twice a week until you feel ready to give it up?”
“We can talk to Daddy about it, right?”
Libby stifled a sigh. Talking to Daddy was dead last on her list of desirable things to do. “Maybe when he picks you up this afternoon.”
Mary Travers poked her head in the door. “You two are quite the early birds.” She approached Kylie and laid a hand on her head. “Are you settling in all right?”
Kylie merely shrugged.
Mary smiled reassuringly. “Give us a chance, Kylie. We love having girls like you in our school.” She winked at Libby. “Isn’t that right, Miss Cameron?”
“Yes, and I’m the lucky teacher who got Kylie in my class.”
Outside, Libby heard the roar of a school bus pulling into the driveway. The other children would soon be descending on them, and from that point on, she would have no more time to think about Trent. Thankfully.
“Have a good day,” Mary said to both of them, before heading toward the bus-unloading zone.
Mary’s presence had a calming effect, not only on Kylie, who had moved to her desk to unload her backpack and arrange her school supplies, but on Libby. And unwittingly, Mary had reminded her of the perfect antidote to Trent.
Doug.
CHAD LARRABY PRANCED down the street toward Trent in imitation of a touchdown-scoring NFL player. “We did it!” he said, extending his palm for a high five. “The insurance is in the bag.”
Trent grinned. “You’re the man.” In truth, Chad was the man. He had taken on the formidable challenge of whittling down their liability rates. Trent held open the door of the Kodiak Café and stepped aside. “Coffee’s my treat.”
“You’re on,” Chad said, rubbing his hands together.
Weezer waved from behind the cash register where she held court each morning, and one of the waitresses made a beeline for their table with a pot and two mugs in her hand. The aroma of the café’s signature cinnamon rolls was impossible to resist. Both men ordered one.
Chad spread his arms along the back of the booth. “How does it feel to be back in Whitefish?”
“Great. I sure appreciate your giving me this opportunity.”
“You’d have done the same for me. We’re on our way, pal.”
Trent hoped so. The business plan looked good on paper, but in the middle of winter it was hard to gauge how many tourists would book their services, especially in light of the recent forest fires. The business had to make it big during the summer season. That meant long hours, seven days a week. He would have to make arrangements somehow for Kylie. But he’d worry about that later. “Are you still on the search and rescue team?”
“You bet. Speaking of which, we’re having a training session next week. Any chance you’d be interested in joining us?”
Trent was tempted. It was right down his alley. While he was in college, he’d been involved with the Bozeman-area group. Simply remembering his role in several harrowing rescues gave him an adrenaline rush. “I’d hate to leave Kylie. Let me think about it.”
“If you’re interested, my daughter Lisa does quite a bit of baby-sitting. But back to Kylie. How’d she do yesterday at school?”
“Okay, except for the fact that some midget-size sadist made fun of her because she can’t ski.”
“We can fix that in a hurry.”
“That’s what I told her. I’m thinking of taking her up to Big Mountain on Saturday.”
“You better let old Uncle Chad come along. Nobody should try to teach their own kids how to ski. I had to put mine with an instructor when they wouldn’t listen to me.”
Trent grinned wryly. “You have a point. Besides, I want the two of you to get acquainted.”
“You’ve got a deal. Lori’s taking our kids to Helena this weekend to visit her folks, so I’m free.”
After discussing plans for their exhibit at the upcoming outdoor show in Kalispell, Chad looked beyond Trent toward the door, then rose out of his seat, waving his hand. “Chuckers, over here.”
A florid, heavyset man approached, a broad smile lifting the tips of his red handlebar mustache. “Well, damn, if it isn’t Trent Baker.” He grabbed Trent’s hand in a knuckle-crunching grip and slid into the seat beside him. “I haven’t seen you since that camping trip when we all got knee-walking drunk. Heard tell you’ve been working down Billings way.”
Trent cringed, remembering the results of that trip. He’d had the mother of all hangovers and had to listen to Libby’s complaints about abandoning her for the weekend. In high school, Chad, Chuck and Trent had been part of a group of guys who ran together and raised more than their share of hell, but
after Trent married Libby, she had become increasingly jealous of the time he spent with them. “I’ve been living in Billings for quite a few years.”
“What brings you back?”
Chad gave him the short version of their new business venture.
“I was sorry to hear about your divorce from—” Chuck struggled a moment with his memory “—Libby? I always thought you two made a great couple.”
Chuck appeared oblivious to Chad’s warning frown, but Trent faced the question head-on. “Some things just aren’t meant to be.” Coffee sloshed in his stomach. “I remarried—a Billings woman. She, uh, died about a year ago.”
“Oh, hell, man. Sorry.”
“I have a little girl. I can’t think of a better place to raise a kid than here in Whitefish.”
Chuck clapped him on the shoulder. “Me neither. Glad to have you back.” He stood. “Now, if you gents’ll excuse me, I’m meeting a fella here. But, hey—” he shot out a forefinger pistol style “—how about we plan a get-together Monday night at the sports bar? Toss back some Moose Drool,” he said, mentioning a popular Montana microbrew. “Tell a few lies.”
Chuck Patterson might be a balding thirty-five-year-old, but his brain was stuck in the mid-80s. “Maybe sometime,” Trent replied vaguely. “Right now, I’m staying close to my daughter. Everything here is pretty new to her.”
“Sure, I understand. Adios.” Chuck lumbered off toward the back of the café.
Chad watched him walk away, a bemused smile on his face. “You’d never know old Chuckers had been a wrestling champ, would you? Or that he has five kids.” He leaned forward. “Don’t think for a minute, though, that he’s settled down. He’s still a wild man.”
Trent took another swig of coffee. “Am I getting old or have I just outgrown him?”
Before Chad could answer, the waitress returned with their piping-hot rolls, gooey white frosting melting on the tops. Chad cut off a bite, but paused before eating to give Trent an answer. “You have responsibilities now.”
“Yes. I do.” Somehow, at the moment, those responsibilities seemed more burdensome than not. Yet no way did he want to be sitting in some smoky bar, watching pro-wrestling and listening to a beer-befogged Chuckers regaling him about the “good old days.”