Jane Bonander

by Warrior Heart

  Not wanting another skillet flung in his direction, Jackson made tracks for the door. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, dammit, and you’ll hear me out.”

  “Get out of here you…you loutish, putrid drunk. And don’t you dare say anything to my daughter. Don’t you dare.”

  “I had no way of knowing I’d find my daughter here, with you.” His excuses sounded whiny and pathetic, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  Libby’s chest heaved, and her face was an angry red. “If you utter one more peep, I’ll cut out your tongue while you sleep, damn you.”

  Sensing he had no options, Jackson left, uncomfortable with his own anger yet not at all surprised by hers.

  7

  Libby stood in the center of the room, her fingers pressed against her mouth and her chest still heaving. Blood rushed into her ears, thrumming like a waterfall. She continued to stare out into the darkened hallway long after Jackson had gone. The only sound she heard was the drumming of the grandfather clock as it stroked nine, mimicking the pounding of her heart.

  The door to Mahalia’s quarters opened, then squeaked closed. Turning slowly, Libby found the housekeeper looking at her, her expression almost contrite.

  Shuddering with anger and fear, Libby swallowed. “You heard?”

  “I heard.” Mahalia surveyed the damage, then, with broom and dustpan, swept up the mess.

  “How…how can this be? How can it possibly be true?” Libby crumpled into a chair and rested her forehead on her arm. Her head was crowded with noises: Jackson Wolfe’s paralyzing words, her own dread and skittering heartbeat.

  Usually quick with her answers, Mahalia had only questions. “Why’d he come back now? What’ll happen to that poor little gal when she hears this? What are you gonna do?”

  Gathering strength, Libby sat up, but felt the need to press her shaky fingers over her lips. “What am I going to do, or what do I want to do?”

  Mahalia chuckled, her good humor returning. “Well, I know what you’d like to do, so tell me what you’re gonna do.”

  Libby narrowed her lids. “I’m not sure yet, but believe me, I’ll think of something.”

  “I have no doubt you will,” Mahalia answered, a smile in her voice.

  Libby continued to fume. She stood and paced. “If that man thinks he can sashay in here after all these years and simply pick up where he left off, he has another think coming. I mean, he left her, Mahalia. He left her! I can’t imagine any reason to do such a thing that wouldn’t sound like a feeble excuse.”

  Mahalia made a consenting noise in her throat. “Little Dawn’s gonna have quite a shock.”

  “Oh, not just Dawn, but Dawn Twilight.” In spite of her rage, Libby had to admit it was a beautiful name. “He might assume my anger was for myself, but it wasn’t. My first thought was how Dawn would react to this…this monstrous news.”

  “Well,” Mahalia interjected, dumping the broken glass into the wastebasket, “by the looks of this kitchen, your reaction was pretty danged violent.”

  Libby was remorseful. “I’m sorry about the mess, Mahalia, I didn’t even think. I threw the first thing I could lay my hands on.” She tried to push stray strands of hair into the braid at the back of her neck, but her fingers shook so badly she couldn’t.

  “Hmm. Good thing you didn’t grab the meat cleaver.”

  “Men,” Libby muttered with a huff. “They have no instincts at all. Did he expect us to fall into his arms, grateful he’d finally decided to return? Kiss his feet as if he were some conquering hero?”

  Mahalia tsked. “You need a cup of tea with a splash of whiskey in it.” She crossed to the cupboard to prepare the concoction.

  Libby expelled a harsh sigh and rubbed her temples. “I need something, all right.” She needed her head examined, that was what she needed. How cleverly he’d played her, doing just enough little chores around the place to endear him to her. The kiss loomed in her mind, and despite her fury, her lips tingled at the memory. She mouthed a mild curse. He’d probably calculated that as well. And fool that she was, she’d actually begun to fall for him.

  Mahalia set a cup of steaming tea on the table and motioned Libby to drink. She took a sip, grimacing at the taste of the whiskey, then took another. After the fourth swallow, she finally felt the knots in her stomach loosen.

  “He doesn’t have a prayer of reclaiming her, you know.” She ran her index finger around the rim of the cup, suddenly feeling very clever and quite confident.

  “That a fact?” Mahalia poured more tea into Libby’s cup, then added another dash of whiskey.

  “I hold the winning card.” Oddly, the tea tasted far better now.

  “Yes, honey, but if he really is Dawn’s daddy, that’s a powerful thing. Why do you s’pose he’s waited all this time to come forward and claim the little gal?”

  Libby took a slurp of the tea. “He’d better have proof, that’s all I can say.”

  Mahalia agreed. “He shore do need proof, but even without it, why would he claim to be her daddy if he ain’t? It ain’t like she’s an heiress or somethin’.”

  “I don’t know,” Libby whispered, her confidence flagging once again. “Still, unless he has proof, he has no real claim.” She tossed Mahalia a cunning smile, knowing that in this game for Dawn’s custody, she held the ace.

  “You’d best get to bed, Libby,” Mahalia suggested, eyeing her carefully.

  Perhaps, she thought, but what she really wanted to do was give that man a piece of her mind—while her brain was numb. She stood, the whiskey-laced tea making her bold.

  Without thinking twice, she marched up the stairs, intent on confronting the man again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dark shape lurking at Dawn’s bedroom door. Her heart took a leap.

  She rushed across the carpeted floor and grabbed his arm. He turned, surprised.

  She refused to relinquish her hold. “Get away from her door.” Her voice was a cross between a whisper and a hiss.

  With a swiftness that belied his size, Jackson lifted Libby off the floor and carried her down the hall, away from Dawn’s room.

  She pummeled his chest. “Put me down, you ape!”

  “Keep screaming, and you’ll have everyone out here gaping at us.”

  Dawn poked her head out and squinted into the hallway, her glossy hair in tangles around her face. “Mama?”

  Jackson released her, and Libby ran a fluttery hand over her own hair. “I’m sorry, dear. Did we wake you?”

  Dawn’s expression was puzzled as she looked from Libby to Jackson. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong?”

  Libby hurried to the door. “Nothing’s wrong, dear. I…I thought I saw a mouse, that’s all. Go back to bed.”

  “Cyclops is in my room. Should I put her out in the hallway so she can catch it?”

  Libby hustled Dawn to her bed. “Yes. Of course. We’ll let Cyclops take care of it.”

  Once Dawn was snug under her covers, Libby tiptoed out and shut the door. Jackson hadn’t moved.

  She marched toward him, fists on hips. “Now see what you have me doing?” she scolded. “I’ve never lied to her before. Never.”

  His eyes were dark and his expression explosive. “If you have anything else to say to me, let’s get out of the line of fire. All I need is for those nosy old coots to come out, sniffing around for scandal.”

  He took Libby’s arm, but she pulled it away. “I don’t need any help from you,” she snapped, then tramped to the third floor.

  Once in his room, she rubbed her arm where his fingers had been and glared at him. She hoped she had bruises in the morning, but unfortunately all she felt was tingles racing up and down her flesh. “What were you doing at Dawn’s bedroom door?”

  He loomed over her, his wide shoulders and thick arms menacing. “I was watching my daughter sleep. I have that right, you know.”

  Libby swallowed a jagged lump of fear. “How many times have you done that?”

  He turned away from
her. “A few.”

  True fear seeped into her chest and the buzz from her tea dwindled fast. “What if she’d seen you?”

  “She didn’t.”

  Libby surveyed the room, noting the masculine touches he’d inadvertently added to his surroundings, like his saddlebags, his battered leather travel bag, and a pair of boots that looked big enough to plant trees in.

  “So.” His features were cautious when he faced her. “Where does this leave us?”

  Libby would save her trump card for morning. “I want to see some proof.”

  He jabbed his index finger at his chest. “I’m the proof.”

  She inched toward the door, suddenly feeling uncomfortable being in the same room with him, behind closed doors. “That’s not good enough.”

  “It’ll have to be,” he snarled.

  The fury she’d felt earlier returned, burning in her stomach and radiating everywhere. “You’re insane if you think I’ll let you take Dawn away from me.”

  He gave her a mocking smile. “I don’t think you’ll have much choice.”

  She gripped the doorknob and twisted, wishing it were his throat or, heaven help her and God forgive her, his all-fired precious manhood. “We’ll see about that”

  The following morning Libby awoke with demons thrashing around in her head. Besides the effects of the whiskey in her tea, she suffered from sleeplessness, because all night long, thoughts of her conversation with Jackson had kept her awake.

  She also had to deal with the fact that never before in her entire life had she unleashed her temper. Never. And even though she’d been out of control, throwing things like a raving lunatic, she’d held back. Lord help the world if she ever truly let go.

  After Dawn had left for school, Libby retrieved the precious papers from her safe and marched to the third floor, knowing that his room was the only place in town where they might have privacy. She knew he was there, because he hadn’t come down for breakfast.

  With her papers in one hand, she pounded on the door with the other. Before he answered, she took a deep breath, expelling it slowly.

  From the other side of the door, he told her to come in.

  Libby stepped inside, her gaze moving swiftly away from his wide, hard chest as he slipped into his shirt. The hair that covered him looked soft and lush, and how she could think about running her fingers through it not only surprised her but made her angrier than she already was.

  Her eyes drifted to him again, and they studied one another, neither speaking. Battle lines were drawn.

  The damned dog leaped off the bed and greeted her, yapping, growling, and wiggling at the hem of her skirt.

  “Mumser.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to the bed. The dog took a running leap, landing on a pillow.

  “Stay,” Jackson ordered. To Libby he offered a chair.

  “I’ll stand, thank you.” She sounded perfectly prudish, relieved that her feelings didn’t show, for in spite of everything, he was still a physically compelling man. She couldn’t turn off her feelings, although she wished she could.

  He continued dressing, an act that should not have been sensual but was. Even though he was fully clothed, Libby continued to imagine the naked chest beneath the shirt. Oh, she hated this feeling!

  She clenched her papers in her fist and jumped right in. “As I said last night, I won’t let you say a word to Dawn unless you have some proof that you’re really her father. You can’t imagine what a shock this will be.”

  Muscles clamped in his jaw. “Why would I claim her if she weren’t mine?”

  Mine. The word shivered through Libby, rekindling her anger. “Do you know what kind of father you are?”

  He swung away and crossed to the dry sink. “I imagine you’re going to tell me.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, if you truly are Dawn’s father, you’ve lost all the privileges that go along with it. What makes you think you can come here and step right into her life? Did you imagine she’d have no feelings about being orphaned? Actually, ‘abandoned’ is a better word. ‘Orphaned’ would mean she no longer has parents, which obviously, if I’m to believe your claim, isn’t the case.”

  “You don’t know anything about my reasons, you sanctimonious harpy.”

  She ignored the insult. She simply didn’t care what he thought of her. “And unless you’ve been in a coma for the past twelve years, which I doubt, I don’t have to know your reasons. Did you think Dawn was some…some empty vessel that only you could fill?”

  He retrieved a brush from the marble top of the dry sink and drew it through his thick hair, seemingly unperturbed by her ranting. “I’m her father, and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.”

  She took a deep breath and slowly counted to five, her anger simmering at his blasé attitude. “Oh, but I think there is.”

  He arched an eyebrow in her direction, but continued grooming his hair. “Now this I’ve got to hear.”

  She stepped forward and shoved the papers under his nose, holding them there until he took them.

  “What the hell—”

  “Read them.” She folded her arms across her chest and waited.

  He tossed the brush onto the dry sink, his expression changing as he thumbed through the papers. When he finally raised his head, his eyes were so hard and cold they appeared chiseled from marble,

  “You adopted her?”

  Libby almost sagged with relief. “All nice and legal. She’s been my daughter in every respect for almost six years.”

  Jackson strode to the window, presenting her his back. “All nice and legal,” he repeated. “I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you fully understand the consequences of adoption, or you wouldn’t be so calm about it.”

  “She’s still my daughter. My blood.” He didn’t sound threatened at all.

  “And she’s my daughter, too.” Keep your head, she thought, pulling in a long, deep breath.

  “So we’re at an impasse?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned. I’m right, and you’re wrong,” she informed him.

  He snorted a sardonic laugh. “Too bad you lack confidence.”

  “The law is on my side, Mr. Wolfe.” She wasn’t nearly as confident as all that, but she’d be damned if she would let him know it.

  “How much does she know about her heritage?”

  Libby frowned. “She knows she’s a half-blood, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He faced her again, his eyes still cold. “Does she know anything about the religion of her people? Their customs?”

  Libby retreated a step. “Why…why no. I know nothing about those things.”

  “So basically,” he began, slowly approaching her as if he were a prosecutor and she were on trial, “she’s simply a nice little Christian girl with unusually brown skin who goes to a school for Whites and learns their fabled history.”

  Libby’s anger stirred, but she didn’t step away. “Fabled? What do you mean?”

  His smirk was almost hungry. “The history of conflict always has two sides to it, although we read about only one.”

  “And you’re saying that our white history is a lie?”

  “Graphically colored in favor of the Whites. No mention is made of the horrors the Indians suffered when our ancestors trampled them and wrested away their land.”

  At the harshness of his statement, Libby flinched. “And you know the whole truth, is that it? You and no one else?” She forced a cynical laugh. “You’ll do anything to shift the guilt, won’t you?”

  “I have no guilt.”

  The haunted look in his eyes told Libby otherwise. “I’d like to believe that, for it would make you even less worthy than you already are, but I don’t.”

  He yanked his jacket off the chair and shrugged into it. “I don’t give a damn what you believe. She’s my daughter, and I’m going to claim her.”

  Reflexively, Libby grabbed his arm again.

  His e
yes revealed a dispirited look that took the simmering edge off Libby’s anger.

  This constant battling would get them nowhere. She was becoming as callous about Dawn’s future as he, and it had to stop. As much as she hated to, she had to use another tactic. “Please,” she pleaded softly. “If I need time to adjust to this, think about Dawn. And,” she added, feeling the hardness of his muscled arm beneath his sleeve, “let me be there when you tell her.”

  “I’ll consider it.” He whistled for the dog, who jumped into his arms, then both were gone.

  Libby stood in his room, feeling an ache so deep that it went into her bones. As far as she could determine, the conflict over custody could have no favorable ending.

  Ethan fumbled for a cigarette as he approached the abandoned shed. His palms were sweaty and he felt like shit. If he kept losing thousands at his monthly poker games in Eureka, as he had been doing over the past six months, he would run out of funds. Hell, he’d gone through his own money a long time ago. What he was doing now, and had been for years, was clear-cut embezzlement.

  So far, he’d gotten away with it. So far. Ethan winced and pressed his fist against his stomach. Christ, it burned like the devil. The cramping had become worse lately, and none of his old remedies worked anymore. He’d had enough plain milk to choke a calf, and if he ever saw another cup of wintergreen tea, he was afraid he’d vomit.

  He pulled the flask from his inside coat pocket, removed the cap, and took a long pull on the contents. Milk and whiskey. A decent compromise. It had become the only thing he could tolerate when his stomach began to rebel.

  Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been followed, he stepped to the door of the shed, opened it, and hurried inside. Cleb Hartman, one of his poker partners, sat at the battered table, smoking a cigar. Axel Worth, Vern’s deputy, stood beside the cold, dead fireplace.

  “ ’Bout time you got here.” Axel fidgeted with his gun belt.

  “I had some business to take care of.” Ethan took a seat across from Hartman. “So what have you found out?”