Her Secret, His Child: A Little Secret

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  She had one focus, one goal: doing what was best for Ashley. Life on the run, hiding, wasn't it. Reaching for a recent photo of her daughter laughing at her from Santa's lap, Jamie kept her eyes glued to the image as Kyle Radcliff answered his phone.

  "Yes, Ms. Archer, thanks for getting back to me so promptly…"

  His voice was just as she remembered it. When she remembered it. It was so warm, almost as if he were in the room with her. She could see him sitting there on the end of the hotel bed, hunched over, his head in his hands as he told her about his mother's death, "…so I'd like to hire your services."

  He wanted to hire her services. She hadn't gotten to that part of the memory yet. The part where he'd turned out to be just like all the rest. Her voice stuck in her throat.

  He wanted to hire her services.

  She wanted to die. Right then. Right there. What was the point of fighting anymore? She was who she was. Who she'd always been. Who she'd always be. The floor started to spin and she almost gave in,

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  almost let that feeling of vertigo swallow her up. Almost.

  And then her vision cleared again. And she could see the image she held of her laughing little girl. The trusting eyes. She couldn't let Ashley be a part of this. Panicking, she tried to think of something to say. Did he know she'd had a child?

  She concentrated on the red velvet dress she and Ashley had picked out together for the much-anticipated visit with Santa.

  "Ms. Archer? Are you there?" He'd called her "Jamie" before.

  "Yes. I'm here." She didn't know what else to say. How to keep him away from Ashley. How to keep the woman she'd been away from her child.

  "So do you think you'll be able to squeeze me in?"

  Would he go away if she did?

  "What exactly did you have in mind?" She hated the words, hated herself for saying them. But she was afraid that if she turned him down, he'd figure she was playing with him, would take it as a challenge, a come-on. That he wouldn't go away. After all, men like him weren't used to hearing "no" from women like her. Probably because women like her never said that particular word to men like him.

  "You're the professional, you tell me." His voice was pleasant, calm, detached.

  "You're the one paying the bill." The words practically choked her. But she had to gain some time, figure out what to do, how to get rid of him without making him suspicious—or even curious.

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  Her daughter's entire future depended on making this man nonexistent immediately. Forever.

  She not only didn't want him to call her again, she didn't want him to think of her again.

  "But I've never hired an accountant before—"

  What?

  "An accountant?"

  "I'm sorry, I assumed you were an accountant," he said.

  His voice carried a hint of the self-deprecatory humor that had ensnared her almost five years before. That long-ago night, his humility had caused her to let down her guard, to do one of the stupidest things she'd ever done.

  "Dean Patterson gave me your name," he continued. "Said you do taxes. I just assumed you were an accountant."

  "lam."

  "Oh. Good. So, do you have time to take on one more client? Like I said, my records are in fairly good shape, but with the move from Las Vegas to Colorado and selling my house, I'll need all the help I can get."

  Records? She'd clearly missed something.

  ' 'Dr. Patterson gave you my number?'' The room had begun to spin again. Relief was making her light-headed.

  "I'm sorry to impose like this on a total stranger, but the dean said you were the best."

  A total stranger. "No!" Jamie's mind raced. "No, it's no imposition." The dean and his wife were good to her. They sent her seventy-five percent

  HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

  of her business. They had no idea who she'd been before she moved to Larkspur Grove, pregnant, single and two semesters short of her degree. She'd met them at a student-welcoming session, and for some reason Jamie had never understood, they'd shown an interest in her right from that first introduction, befriended her, helped her get established. They'd guessed, based on her silences, that she was a widow. She'd never corrected the assumption.

  "You'll take me on?"

  Kyle Radcliff sounded hopeful, but she heard nothing more personal than that in his voice.

  She was trapped. There was no way she could decline without arousing suspicion, maybe not his but certainly the dean's. She'd just told Dr. Patterson about Ashley's request for dance lessons, the tuition, recital fees, the costumes involved. Just thanked him profusely for saying he'd send another client or two her way.

  Jamie took a deep breath. "It might be a couple of weeks before I can get to you."

  She'd met him once. It had been dark. She looked completely different now. She'd run into one of her college professors from the University of Nevada a couple of years ago and even he hadn't recognized her. Surely someone who'd seen her only once, at night, wouldn't know who she was.

  "No problem. This all happened so fast I need a little time to unpack and find things, anyway. I just registered with the Las Vegas Educational Job Service in December and didn't expect a permanent position to come through until the fall."

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  The Las Vegas Educational Job Service. Which consisted of one very energetic woman, the service's owner, Wanda Kendall. Wanda had an office at the university in Las Vegas and was the person who'd helped Jamie find Larkspur Grove, the one who'd arranged for her work-study position so she could finish her degree at Gunnison. The woman who'd introduced her to Dean Patterson.

  "Were you teaching in Las Vegas?" At the university? When she'd been a student?

  "Yeah," he said easily. "I was head of the English department at a private college just outside the city."

  A private college. With no connection to Jamie at all.

  Okay. So maybe here was her chance to prove there was no part of that other woman, the woman he'd known and forgotten, still left inside her. Here was her chance to put the past behind her, once and for all. To prove to herself that she could. And maybe, finally, to forgive herself…

  "Mr. Radcliff, you've just hired an accountant."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The house was quiet. Ashley slept soundly, tucked beneath her Little Mermaid comforter, as Ariel and Flounder smiled down at her from the walls above. Jamie had no idea how long she stood in her daughter's doorway, absorbing the comfort of her presence. Yet no matter how long she stood there, it wasn't long enough.

  She'd made it through the day. Managed to convince herself that she was fine. That the phone call changed nothing. That it wasn't any big deal.

  Until darkness fell. And the woman Jamie had been, the woman who'd worked nights, returned to haunt her. Nighttime was often bad for Jamie; she was used to coping. But that night, none of her coping techniques were working.

  She couldn't find peace. Couldn't shut the doors in her mind. Memories flooded her relentlessly until she was drowning, suffocating beneath their weight…

  Jamie had only been four, Ashley's age, when her widowed mother married John Archer. Though she'd loved her mother, Jamie had known, even then, that Sadie Archer wasn't a strong person. It was why Jamie had wanted a daddy so desperately.

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  She'd hoped and prayed for someone big and strong to take care of them, to keep them safe. She hadn't known, then, to be careful what she wished for.

  John was big and strong, all right, but the day he'd moved into her life was the last day Jamie ever felt safe. He'd been a hard man to please, an unforgiving man. And no matter how hard she tried, Jamie never could please him. She spilled her milk; she made too much noise; she left water on the floor in the bathroom.

  At first, her mother had taken the beatings for all the things Jamie had done. But it wasn't long, a few months maybe, before Jamie started getting them herself. By her f
ifth birthday, lying was a way of life. Stories came as automatically as the bruises she had to explain.

  And several years after that, when it had become obvious that Jamie's young body was stronger than that of her frail mother, she began to take the hits for both of them. She'd been twelve the first time she stepped in front of a fist aimed at her mother's chest.

  And seventeen the last time she'd felt his hands on her body…

  Covering her mouth to stifle the sobs, Jamie backed away from Ashley's door. The memories weren't letting up. And Jamie couldn't bear to live through them in her daughter's presence.

  She stumbled into the kitchen, as far from Ashley's room as she could get, and slid down to the hard cold tile, leaning against a cupboard. All her

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  possessions were new since she'd moved to Larkspur Grove—even her underwear. Especially her underwear. She'd brought nothing with her. Not so much as a photograph. But that didn't obliterate the past's existence. It lived and breathed inside her. In her heart, in her mind…

  The cemetery in Trona, California, was lush, green, full of flowers. And crowded. Jamie had had no idea so many people had cared about her mother. But it made no difference. Surrounded by all these people, she still felt completely alone. Apart. Frozen. It had all been for nothing.

  All the struggles. The prayers. The hopes for a better day. The promises of freedom from hell. They'd all been for nothing. Her mother had lived a life of torment. And then died. She'd never escaped. The future had ended before she'd ever reached it.

  '"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid…'" The minister's words faded beneath the screaming in her mind. Peace! Not where she stood. And fear? What else was there?

  "You okay, baby?" John's arm stole around her shoulders. She would have lost her lunch if she'd had any. All afternoon he'd played the role of loving stepfather. Just as he always did when anyone was around to see him. Anyone who mattered.

  Jamie and her mother had never mattered.

  Though she couldn't make herself respond to him, she held herself steadv by sheer force of will, bear-

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  ing the weight of his arm about her. She hadn't missed the tightening of his fingers on her upper arm. He'd issued his warning—she wasn't to make a scene. The warning would be a bruise by nightfall.

  And no one would ever believe that John had given it to her. Everyone loved John. He was a charming, personable man with a reputation for generosity. Jamie cringed every time she heard him described as a "wonderful family man." But she knew better than to try telling anyone what had really been happening at home all these years. She knew John would deny everything in that charming salesman's voice of his. He'd talk about how difficult she was, what a burden she'd been to him, what a liar she'd become. They'd believe him. They always did.

  They'd believed him that time she'd told her kindergarten teacher he'd beaten her so badly she ached all over; he'd claimed merely to have spanked her once for lying to him. He'd actually had tears in his eyes when he'd related how hard it had been to raise a hand to her, saying he'd tried everything else to stop her compulsive lying.

  It also hadn't hurt that he'd been valedictorian of his class, in the same school district. Or that his parents—now dead but long revered—had both put in many years on the board of education.

  And, of course, the die had been cast from then on. Jamie's word was no longer valid. She was labeled. A compulsive liar.

  Her stomach cramped with fear, she hoped the bruise on her arm was the only one she'd be sporting that night. John had been the perfect stepfather since

  HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

  her mother's death three days before. But there had been people around. Her mother's elderly sister, who'd flown in from Florida. Neighbors. Members of the church they attended.

  They'd all be gone by evening.

  '"In my father's house are many mansions: if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you…that where I am, there ye may be also…'"

  Recognizing the familiar Bible verse, Jamie felt the first prick of tears that day. If only it were so. If only she could be sure her mother finally had her mansion.

  Her expression stoic, Jamie refused to allow the tears to fall.

  And as her mother's casket was lowered into the ground, she looked not at her mother's grave, but at the people around her. Their tears flowed freely. They mourned a wonderful, giving, fragile woman.

  And not one of them knew.

  "Let's go," John said, hugging her close.

  Longing to flee, to throw his arm away from her, to spit in his face, Jamie walked slowly beside him. There'd been times during the last thirteen years when John's softer mood would linger for a week, even a month or two. Dared she hope this was one of those times? That the mood might remain? With head bowed, she stared at the ground every time someone stopped them to offer condolences, nodding when the pressure of John's fingers forced her to acknowledge a comment here and there.

  Sure they were all sorry. Sorry her mother had

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  died. But what about being sorry she'd lived? Was Jamie the only one who felt that? She'd rather her mother had been spared the whole sorry business.

  "At least you have each other. You'll need that now." Pastor Hammond was talking to them outside the limousine provided by the funeral home.

  Jamie studied the way her black dress shoes matched the darker patches in the pavement. Pastor Hammond didn't have a clue. He was supposedly a man of God. A man with divine knowledge. And he didn't have a clue. Not that she could tell him. If, by some miracle, Pastor Hammond did believe her, which she doubted, John would kill her. She could take that for granted. There was no law powerful enough to keep John from killing her.

  The reception at the church passed in a total blur. Some of Jamie's friends from high school were there. She knew she spoke with them, though she had no idea what their conversation was about. Jamie was used to putting on a facade. Hell, she'd taken gym class with broken ribs the year before. No one had guessed there was anything wrong.

  "I can't believe we're finally seniors," Loretta gushed, her hungry eyes checking out all the men in the room.

  Following her gaze, Jamie wondered how many of those men had another, uglier, side. One the world never saw. Their superior physical strength gave them all an edge that women couldn't possibly fight.

  "Yeah." Jamie finally answered Pastor Hammond's daughter. "Just eight more months." Lo-

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  retta's enthusiasm to leave high school was one of the few things Jamie had in common with the other girl.

  A high-school diploma meant freedom to Jamie. Without her mother there, needing her protection, she couldn't get away from John fast enough. And once she was eighteen, graduated from high school, he wouldn't be able to make her stay.

  Somehow the rest of the afternoon passed, night fell, and Jamie was at home with John. Alone. Her aunt had left for the airport a few minutes before, and Jamie, having changed from her black dress to a pair of jeans, sweatshirt and tennis shoes, was hiding out in her room. Hoping she wouldn't be noticed by the man she heard slamming things downstairs. Was it possible he actually felt some compassion for her? That he'd realize how much she was hurting and leave her be?

  Studying her second-story window, she thought about climbing out. The bushes below were full enough to break her fall. She had nowhere to go, but that wasn't what stopped her. It was knowing how bad things would be when John eventually got her back. He'd broken her arm the last time she'd used that window.

  And then refused to allow her to see a doctor to have the arm set. It had healed eventually. But it still ached whenever she used it too much.

  She'd rather just take her chances on being slapped around until John had finished venting his rage. Bruises didn't hurt much afte
r a day or so. And they didn't last.

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  "Jamie!"

  Her heart skidded to a stop. The bellow was ugly. Oh, God, here it comes.

  "Yes?" She ran quickly to the top of the stairs, eager to appease his anger, not intensify it.

  He was such a bastard for doing this to her.

  "Get down here now!"

  Fear was a familiar companion, yet it still grabbed her by the throat as she hurried downstairs. Maybe this was one of the times he'd be content just to holler at her for a while.

  Her long permed hair, tied back in its familiar ponytail, bounced on her back with the force of her descent. And then she was at the door of his study. God, if you're around, please go in there with me.

  "What?" she asked, forcing herself to sound amenable. She leaned against the door frame.

  "Don't 'what' me." John's handsome face was twisted in a sneer. "You know we have some things to discuss."

  Not sure what to say, what to expect, Jamie just stood there. She knew from his tone that she wasn't in his good graces. She just didn't know why. Or how bad it would be. She didn't move, barely breathing, not wanting to do anything that might further raise his ire.

  "Your mother being gone changes things." He sat behind his desk, going through papers. He was still wearing his dark suit from the funeral, but he'd removed the jacket, loosened the tie. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his forearms.

  Trembling, Jamie couldn't take her eyes off the

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  muscles that flexed in those forearms with each object he moved.

  "Now that your mother's gone, I owe you nothing," he said. "Not a stitch of clothing, not a meal or a bed."

  Was he going to kick her out? Adrenaline pumped through her as she straightened in the doorway, waiting for him to continue. If he kicked her out, she'd know there was a God after all.

  "I've been supporting you all these years out of the goodness of my heart, out of love and devotion to your mother."

  If she hadn't been so excited, suddenly, sensing freedom within her grasp, Jamie would have burned with rage at his lies.