Return to Paradise

by Carol Grace

  "Which brings me to the present," she said with only a slight tremor in her voice. "Or close to it. Before I landed in your pasture, I was going to be married."

  "To the diamond necklace," he said bitterly. He resented everything about the guy without knowing anything about him.

  She gave a faint smile. "Yes. I almost made it to the altar in fact. I had the dress and even a whole slew of presents. But when I went in for my physical exam the doctor told me that I couldn't have children, couldn't sustain a pregnancy. I underwent every test that they could think of, but the diagnoses were the same."

  She said the words slowly, carefully, so there could be no mistaking them for something else. Either by him or her.

  "What about in vitro fertilization or..."

  She shook her head. "Not for me."

  He frowned. "So you didn't get married. Why not?"

  She leaned forward. "Why not?" she asked incredulously. "Nobody wants to marry a woman who can't bear children."

  "I don't believe that," he said, feeling his blood pressure rise. "Who is this guy who wouldn't marry you just because you were infertile?"

  "Michael Taylor Thomas the Fourth, who's expected to produce a Michael Thomas the Fifth. I don't blame him. He was under a lot of pressure from his family. I understood. I really did." She had her elbows on her knees now, looking so earnest it almost broke his heart.

  "Well, I don't. If he wanted kids so badly why wouldn't he adopt?"

  "Would you?"

  "If I wanted them."

  "But you don't."

  "I have Sarah. She's all the children I need."

  "Yes, I see. You're lucky, you know."

  "I didn't know how lucky. Not until you came along." He took her hand in his.

  But she pulled it away and braced her arms against the chair.

  "I didn't mean to unload all this on you." She looked around at the latticework that framed the porch, as if seeing it for the first time. "It must be the change of scene, or the hour or..."

  "Maybe it's me," Parker suggested. "I'd like to think you wanted to confide in me."

  "I owed you some kind of explanation," she said.

  His blue gaze turned cool. "You don't owe me anything. Not the story of your life, not an explanation. Nothing. If that's why you're cooking for me and taking care of Sarah, then you can go. I don't want your thanks anymore, Christine."

  She was surprised at the tension in his voice. "What do you want?" she asked. "You said you wanted me to give us a chance. But that was before you knew. Before you knew that I can't have children."

  She buried her face in her hands to hide her tears. The tears she could no longer control. When she finally stopped crying, she looked up at him with questions in her eyes.

  "I still want to give us a chance," he said firmly. He waited. She didn't say anything. So he asked again. "So where do we go from here?" His voice was rough and deep in the silence.

  "You said Sarah was all the children you wanted."

  "Yes. As you can see, she's a handful."

  "But if you did want more, you'd adopt?"

  "I'm not sure," he said with a frown. "I've never really thought about it before. But is this about me, or you? Would you adopt a child?"

  "I—I don't know. When I see how difficult it is to raise a child by yourself..."

  "And what a mess I've made of it," he added ruefully.

  She reached out to put her hand on his arm. "No you haven't. Not at all. Sarah's a wonderful girl. If I thought I could do half as well..." She trailed off. She noticed he didn't offer to go in with her on any adoption plan. Maybe if she had a twelve-year-old she wouldn't, either.

  But she didn't. She didn't have a child and she didn't have a husband. And it didn't look like she was going to get either one. Especially if she hung around here waiting, hoping, praying that Parker would come around to wanting her enough to start a new life, a new family. She might as well realize that he meant what he said. He had one child and one was enough. Where did that leave her? On her own again. "You can go," he'd said. Yes, she would go, but not yet.

  "Let's not go anywhere from here," she said, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "I'll stay until Sarah's all straightened out. Until her situation is stable and she doesn't need me anymore. Then I'll leave. Because after all, I have things I want..." She trailed off and glanced up at the screen door where a shadow flickered against the light from the living room. "Sarah?" she called.

  Parker got to his feet and looked inside. "No one there," he said to Christine.

  She stood. "I thought I saw.. .just for a minute. I hope to heaven she didn't hear us." She stood and opened the door to the living room. She tried to remember what they'd said, how it would have sounded if someone had overheard. But no one had, she told herself. She walked into the house with Parker at her heels. She had nothing more to say.

  She felt drained and emotionally exhausted. Without a backward glance she murmured good-night and climbed the stairs. The music was still blaring from Sarah's room as she passed. Christine closed her bedroom door behind her, hoping Parker wouldn't knock. He didn't. He didn't even pause when he passed her room on his way to his. She breathed a sigh of relief. Relief mingled with sorrow too deep for any more tears.

  Christine was exhausted. It was due to the tears and the frustrations of the day. But there was also relief. There were no more secrets between them. Parker understood her and she, unfortunately, understood him. She wanted a mate and child, he'd already had one of each. More than enough. She and Parker were attracted to each other, but it was a flame that burned too hot to last. It would burn itself out and then they'd part without tears or regrets. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  It seemed to be only minutes later that Parker was shaking her by the shoulder. "Christine, wake up. It's Sarah. She's gone."

  She sat upright and snapped the night-light on. "What? Where?"

  His face was pale, his eyes hollow sockets. "I went to tell her to turn the music off and I found this note addressed to you." He thrust it at Christine.

  You guys are so dumb. You don't get it, do you? I'm leaving. You stay.

  Christine pressed her hands against her temples and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "I don't get it," she said, grabbing a shirt and pulling it on over her nightgown. "What did I say? What did she hear?"

  He shook his head while she yanked on a pair of sweatpants. "I don't know. All I know is her horse is gone. But she can't be very far. She's had—what, two hours?"

  "Have you called around?"

  "The two ranches adjoining ours. They haven't seen her. I'm sure she's not going to knock on somebody's door. She's hiding until we 'get it.'" They hurried down the stairs. Parker put his finger to his lips. "I don't want Pop to get wind of this. He'd worry."

  "Right," she whispered. "She's probably in a barn or an outbuilding or something, don't you think?"

  "Probably. So I'm going out on my horse."

  "Can I come?"

  He paused at the back door. "Sure, but you don't have to. She's not..."

  Christine's lower lip trembled. "My daughter, I know, but I love her anyway and I feel like I'm to blame."

  "That's ridiculous," he said shortly.

  Christine followed him out to the barn, grateful that he couldn't see the angry flush on her cheeks. Did he mean it was ridiculous for her to love his daughter, or ridiculous for her to take any blame? Either way he was shutting her out. Refusing to let her be part of his life, part of his family.

  Briskly he saddled both horses, his and the mare she'd ridden while she was there. They rode together out into the night without speaking. Christine didn't know where they were going and she didn't ask. He made her feel like she didn't have the right to know.

  She tried to recall her exact words on the porch and how they could have been misinterpreted. But all she could remember was saying she'd stay until Sarah didn't need her anymore. It was so ambiguous as to be misinterpreted many
ways. It could mean she'd stay until Sarah was eighteen, or until next week. If they found her—no, when they found her—she'd explain... Yes, how would she explain when she didn't really know how long she'd stay?

  She loved Parker, that much was clear. And maybe he loved her. But she wanted children, a baby to raise, to rock to sleep at night, to rejoice over its first step, first word, first day at school. She knew enough to know a single person had a slim chance at adopting a baby. Even if she could, and even with her financial resources, would she have the emotional strength to do it alone?

  Maybe it was time to give up her dream, she thought as they galloped through the fields. Maybe it was time to move into the future. A future with Parker was worth pursuing, even if it meant giving up the idea of a child of her own. They'd have Sarah. As soon as they found her.

  In her reverie and because of her slower horse, she'd fallen behind Parker. She called to him and he waited for her to catch up. "Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Toward the Livermores' spread. Sarah used to play there as a child. I don't know," Parker said, his vocal cords taut. "I don't know what else to do, where else to go." He held the reins with white-knuckled fingers. His mind was spinning like a top. She'd threatened to run away before, when he'd disciplined her, but she'd never done it. What had pushed her over the edge this time? If he were running away, he'd go to one of the weathered sheds that dotted the grassy landscape. But which one? She knew the area as well as he did. Maybe better.

  He pulled up in front of an old abandoned sheepherder's cabin, jumped off his horse and threw the door open. The musty smell of old wool greeted him, but nothing and nobody else. He looked up and shook his head at Christine who waited patiently on her horse in the pale moonlight, her eyebrows drawn together, her lips pressed tightly together.

  She did love Sarah, he thought. She worried about her, cared about her almost as much as he did. If she were Sarah's mother, she would never have left her. If she were his wife and Sarah's mother, they would have had more children, a whole houseful. But it was too late. Sarah was almost a teenager. And she'd need more supervision, not less. It wasn't fair to ask Christine to take her on. He motioned to Christine and they headed off to investigate other cabins, other barns, and never found a trace of her. The sun was rising over the mountains in the east when they rode toward the Hendersons' back forty acres just in case...

  Adoption. He'd never thought of it before. Why should he? He had no reason to adopt. The Georges over in the next county had adopted a couple of Vietnamese orphans and they'd turned out all right. Turned into valedictorians and went on to college in fact. People said you loved them just like they were your own. No, that couldn't be. He'd never love another child the way he loved Sarah. However much trouble she gave him, she was his baby. Always would be. The twelve years had passed in a flash. He could remember the day they brought her home, holding her in his arms, inhaling her sweet baby smell...

  Christine had never known that special feeling, of the tiny fingers wrapped around hers— If she adopted a baby...if they adopted a baby If he could persuade her to marry him... If she knew how much he loved her. If she loved him. So many ifs.

  First they had to find Sarah. She was nowhere. She'd vanished in the vast Colorado grasslands.

  At dawn he pulled up at the far northwest corner of his ranch, took his hat off and waited for Christine to catch up to him. "Let's go back," he said, noting her slumped shoulders. He had to get her home to get some rest. "See if there's any word. Maybe she came home," he said, but in his heart he knew she hadn't. He just didn't know where to look anymore. And he was worried about Christine. She wasn't used to riding this far and this hard. She didn't complain, but her cheeks looked hollow and her eyes red-rimmed.

  She nodded, but he knew she didn't believe Sarah had returned, either. They trotted slowly across the field in the early morning dawn without speaking. Christine saw the shoe before he did. A size eight white athletic shoe that belonged to Sarah lying on the ground. Christine yelled, got off her horse and held it up triumphantly.

  "What does it mean?" she said.

  "Maybe she is home," he said, his heart pumping wildly.

  "Go ahead," Christine said, with a wistful look at old Cindy, knowing she couldn't keep up with Parker.

  With a burst of speed Parker raced across the grazing land toward the ranch house, leaving Christine behind to ride her tired horse as fast as she would go.

  Sarah was leaning against the barn when he got there, barefooted, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, tears welling in her eyes as her father rode up. He slid off his horse and his knees shook so violently he was afraid he'd fall down. Then he grabbed her tightly in his arms. "Sarah..." he began, half-furious, half-relieved. "Where were you?"

  "In Mulholland's barn," she said in a quivery voice.

  Mulholland. The one place he didn't look.

  "I'm sorry," she said, her face buried against his chest. "I didn't mean to..."

  "What did you mean to do?" he asked, frowning down at the top of her head.

  "Get you guys together. Make Christine stay." She gulped loudly. "I heard what she said. She'd stay until I got straightened out. Well I'm not straightened out. I need help. I need you and I need her. And you need each other. You don't even know it, do you?" she asked, her eyes wide and bleary.

  Parker shook his head with disbelief. Where did a twelve-year-old get these ideas? How did she get so smart so fast? "So you thought if you ran away we'd realize that you weren't okay, that you needed Christine to stick around. You've got some idea that she'd stay here if only she realized how much you need her."

  Sarah nodded, then dropped her head to her chest. "But during the night when I was cold and hungry and thinking about it, I thought maybe I was wrong. Maybe I'd just scare her away cuz I'm so bad."

  "You're not bad," he assured her, smoothing her hair. "Just a little mixed up."

  "Did she already leave?" Sarah asked, raising her tear-stained face.

  "No, of course not. She's been out looking for you, with me."

  "She will leave though, won't she? And it's all my fault."

  He held his daughter at arm's length and looked into her eyes. "Christine is here now because I asked her to come. Because you and I, we both needed her. And she agreed to stay until we don't need her anymore. But--"

  "But that'll be never," Sarah interrupted.

  "Yeah," Parker muttered. "I know."

  He was filled with a sudden sadness knowing that there was nothing he could do to make Christine stay there. He could try throwing himself at her feet, promise her a whole orphanage if she wanted it, but if she didn't want him, if she didn't love him, she wouldn't stay. He turned as he heard hoof beats in the distance. "Here she comes," he told Sarah.

  Sarah bit her lip and threw her father a frightened look. But Christine was off her horse before the old mare had even come to a complete stop and she'd wrapped her arms around Sarah and hugged the girl so tightly Sarah couldn't have recited the apology she'd been practicing if she'd wanted to.

  Christine's tears of relief flowed freely and mingled with Sarah's. Between sobs Sarah managed to tell Christine how sorry she was and how she hoped she'd stay with them forever. Christine lifted her head and met Parker's gaze. "Forever's a long time," she said.

  He nodded. "We were hoping, Sarah and I, that you'd at least give it some thought."

  Her mouth fell open in surprise. "What, staying here?"

  "I know, you've got your own life now."

  "Your own mother and your own house," Sarah added solemnly. "But..." Sarah looked back and forth between the two of them, and with all of her twelve-year-old wisdom realized that the situation was now out of her hands. She yawned and wiped one dirty hand across her face. "I gotta go in now," she said.

  They watched her go, then turned to look at each other. Christine didn't know if she was hallucinating after a night without sleep or if Parker had really asked her to think about staying there
forever. She couldn't read the expression on his face that was lined with fatigue. And she couldn't very well ask him to repeat it. Maybe he'd changed his mind.

  "Well," she said lightly, "all's well that ends well."

  "I'd like to think it was a beginning and not an end."

  "Parker," she blurted, gripping the fence post, "what is it you want to begin?"

  "Everything. You, me, a new family. I know, I said Sarah was enough of a family, but I was thinking tonight, thinking as I was looking for her, scared to death I'd lost her, of Sarah as a baby. It was hard raising her by myself, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. And if we did it together, all of us, you and me and Sarah and Pop, it ought to be a lot easier, and a lot more fun."

  Her heart was pounding, her head was floating somewhere above her body looking down at this improbable scene. Was this Parker Robinson suggesting marriage and adopting children? She had to be sure. "Are you saying you would marry me and adopt a baby?" she asked incredulously.

  "Not a baby, some babies. If you want them, I mean," he said, his face creased with anxiety.

  "Well, yes, of course I want them."

  "What about me?"

  She rushed into his arms, and buried her face on his shoulder. "I've wanted you ever since you rescued me. You know what they say about the person who saves your life, don't you?"

  "You belong to them?"

  "And they belong to you."

  "We belong to each other," Parker told her, and then he framed her face with his broad hands and kissed her slowly and deliberately as if they had all the time in the world. And they did.

  Epilogue

  Christine paced back and forth in front of the picture window in the living room of the ranch house. Huge, flat snowflakes were falling outside, coating the bare branches of the birch trees, but she didn't see them. Her eyes were on the horizon, watching for a car, waiting...

  She heard the back door open and then slam shut, felt a brief gust of cold air and turned to see Parker shrug out of his sheepskin jacket and hang it on the coat rack in the hallway. She tried to smile, but her lips quivered uncontrollably.