by Meg Maxwell
Phoebe bit her lip and glanced at Clementine, then at the pony. But she didn’t say anything for a moment. “Well, I don’t like the truth,” she finally shouted, hugging the grooming brush to her chest. “The truth stinks!” she yelled and then went running to the far side of the pasture, stopping at the fence and sliding down onto her bottom, her knees up and her face in her hands despite the fact that she still held on to that grooming brush. Logan could see her slight body trembling, her shoulders heaving her sobs.
Logan got up and walked over to Clementine, who looked absolutely miserable.
“I thought I was saying the right thing but lately, I get everything wrong,” Clementine said, shaking her head.
“No. You said just the right thing. She’s just a kid, but she has a lot to cope with and she does need to learn how to deal with it all so that it doesn’t take over who she is. That’s not easy. It’s not easy for a grown-up, either.”
“I know,” Clementine said softly. She reached out and squeezed his hand as if in thanks, then started heading for the fence gate to go after Phoebe.
“Clem, wait. Let me talk to her.”
If anyone knew how the truth could stink, he did. And maybe it was time to tell Phoebe that he’d been hit with a hard truth lately, one he’d found impossible to swallow, one that had been wreaking havoc inside him for months.
But how was he going to tell her she shouldn’t let her own hard truths wreak havoc with her if he couldn’t stop his from tearing him up?
Dammit. Just when he thought he had something to offer Phoebe, something that might help her, he realized he didn’t.
“Okay,” Clementine said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just wish I knew what to say, how to make things better for her. I’m supposed to be the one who knows what she’s going through.”
He reached up a hand to her cheek. “You’re doing great, Clementine. I’m not trying to overstep, trust me. You’re doing an amazing job as her foster mother. Phoebe is human and only nine and she hasn’t even been with you a week. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re doing your best and your best is amazing.”
She gave a wobbly nod, uneasily glancing over at where Phoebe was sitting all huddled up.
“I think it’s time I told Phoebe about something that I had to deal with back in August,” Logan said, pulling off his Stetson and running a hand through his hair. “And how I haven’t dealt with it very well at all.”
Clementine gasped. “I guess the right time made itself apparent.”
He nodded, setting the hat back on his head. “It sure did.” He led the way over and sat down beside Phoebe, patting the spot next to him for Clementine. She sat down beside him, and he squeezed her hand.
The girl’s shoulders were still quaking, which meant she was still crying. She took off her baseball cap and set it down next to her, then pushed her hair out of her face and used her sleeve to wipe tears away, still keeping her grip on that grooming brush.
“Phoebe,” Logan said, his heart clenching at what he was about to say. “I want to tell you something. I recently had to deal with a difficult situation. Something that tore me up inside.”
Phoebe looked up at him and wiped under her eyes again. “You did? What was it?”
He glanced over at Clementine next to him, and the trust in her eyes settled something inside him. It was time to tell Phoebe, even if he didn’t have all the answers. He just knew that his own hard truth was tearing him up because he hadn’t dealt with it. And every day that he didn’t, it would consume him more and take over his entire being, his every thought.
He cleared his throat. “Well, back in August, I received a letter out of the clear blue sky from a man telling me that he was my biological father—not the man who raised me, not the man who I always believed was my father.”
“Whoa, really?” she said, staring at him. “You must have been freaked-out.”
Yup, he thought. That pretty much nails it. “I was,” he said. “It hit me really hard. I had to deal with the truth about myself and I didn’t like it or want any part of it.”
“So what happened?” she asked. “It stopped bothering you?”
“Nope. It still bothers me. And I’ll be honest, I’m having a hard time accepting it. But do you want to know the one thing that has helped me deal with it?”
Phoebe nodded, her eyes wide. “What?”
“Talking to someone who understands,” he said. “Someone who just gets it. Someone who’s a good listener.”
Phoebe tilted her head. “Who’d you talk to?”
“I talked to Clementine,” he said, reaching over and taking Clementine’s hand without looking at her. He felt her squeeze his hand back. “And talking to Clementine helped me process everything. Sometimes I’d be really mad and clam up. Sometimes, I’d ramble on, talking in circles. But talking about it really helps. At first, I didn’t want to talk about it at all. But then I found I needed to.”
Phoebe looked past Logan at Clementine, at their entwined hands. “It was nice of you to listen to Logan.”
“I’m glad I was able to,” Clementine said. “Everyone needs someone to talk to, to confide in.”
“You know what else, Phoebe?” Logan said. “Sometimes you just need someone to listen to you, and sometimes you need to be challenged. Sometimes you really do need someone to say that it might really help if you looked at something a different way than you are. Clementine has a knack for knowing when to do both.”
The woman really did. And sometimes, he thought, you don’t even realize something until you say it aloud.
Phoebe looked at Clementine again, her eyes wide.
“I want to tell you something else, Phoebe,” Logan said. “Something that isn’t easy for me. And it has to do with you.”
“With me?” Phoebe said, her big hazel eyes curious.
He nodded. Here goes everything, he thought. There was no turning back now. Once Phoebe knew, everything would change; they would become...connected in a way he couldn’t deny any longer. And he wasn’t sure how he’d feel then.
“Phoebe, the letter I received, from the man who told me he was my biological father—that man was Clyde Parsons.” He watched her eyes grow even bigger.
Her mouth dropped open. “My Clyde Parsons? My stepdaddy?”
Logan nodded. “He was very sick and knew his time was coming and wanted to make sure I knew the truth. Clementine and I went to Tuckerville to find out some more information about him and that’s how we learned about you.”
Phoebe stared at him. “So if Clyde was your father, that means you’re...like my stepbrother.”
Every muscle in his body stiffened. He felt something close up inside him, tighten into a hard knot.
“My stepbrother is Logan Grainger! My hero is my stepbrother!” Phoebe stood up, joy on her face, and she finally let go of the grooming brush. “I can’t believe this. You’re my stepbrother! I mean, I know that Clyde and I weren’t blood-related, but still. It counts, right?”
He felt Clementine’s eyes on him. This was the million-dollar question. If he didn’t consider himself Clyde Parsons’s son, not in a way that did count, did he consider himself Phoebe’s stepbrother?
The answer, in his heart, was no. No, no, no. But the truth made the answer a yes. He was her stepbrother. And for Phoebe’s sake, that was the answer he’d give her. The truth. The truth that he hadn’t dealt with, couldn’t deal with. He didn’t consider Clyde Parsons his father and he never would. DNA didn’t make a father. That was also the damned truth.
“Yes,” he finally said, standing up. “It counts.”
She flung herself into his arms and it took all his doing, but he wrapped her in a hug. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with this, but hell, this was how it unfolded.
Clementine stood up with a wobbly smile on
her face.
“Wow, Logan Grainger, my stepbrother,” Phoebe said again and then spun around once, her smile as bright as the sunshine.
He ignored the knot forming in his shoulders. “Clementine and I both wanted you to know the truth, but I wasn’t ready to tell you until now.”
“I guess I can understand that,” Phoebe said, glancing from Logan to Clementine and back again.
“Well,” he said, hoping Clementine would pick up on his cue. “I need to pick up the boys from their sitter in a little while.” That was also the truth, but a bigger one was that he needed to be alone right now, needed to digest everything that happened today. He hadn’t expected most of it.
Clementine dusted off her jeans. “Perfect timing since we need to get home for dinner, Phoebe. Gram is making us her special pasta dish, and you don’t want to miss that.” She glanced at Logan. “Thanks for today,” she said, her voice catching.
Before he could blink, Phoebe came charging at him again, wrapping him in a hug.
“See you next week,” she said.
“See you next week,” he repeated.
It had taken everything inside him to parrot back those words.
Chapter Nine
At dinner all Phoebe could talk about was finding out that her rodeo hero was actually her stepbrother. Phoebe’s happiness meant everything to Clementine, but she couldn’t help longing for Phoebe to feel even a smidgen of that same enthusiasm for her foster mother. As she pushed around Gram’s amazing pasta with prosciutto and peas in pink cream sauce, her appetite gone, Clementine chastised herself for that line of thought; after all the girl had been through, Phoebe deserved all the joy in the world. Clementine fully understood that Logan was a connection to a clearly loving parental figure in Phoebe’s life, the only person who’d been there for her, who’d loved and taken care of her. Someone who had taken her to all Logan’s events, making Logan as important to her as he must have been to Clyde, in his own way.
Of course Phoebe was even crazier about Logan Grainger than she’d been when he was just her hero. As if there was anything just about a hero. But now he’d been elevated to superhero.
She would just have to keep trying to find her way into Phoebe’s guarded heart. Thing was, no matter how hard she tried to blast through the barriers the girl kept erecting, she couldn’t. During dinner, Phoebe would politely answer Clementine’s questions and politely acknowledge a comment she’d made, but there was no gusto in her voice or expression.
After dinner, Essie Hurley, who knew Clementine pretty well, could clearly sense her granddaughter was uneasy and needed some time to herself and asked Phoebe to watch a video with her about the rodeo and explain how things worked. Phoebe had jumped at the chance.
Thankful for dear Gram, Clementine had trudged upstairs and taken a long bubble bath, trying to do what she herself had said had to be done: accept the truth. Phoebe adored and revered Logan, and as her foster mother Clementine needed to be grateful that the girl had someone to feel that way about. Even if it wasn’t her. She’d stayed in the bath a long time, the lavender bubbles helping soothe her body and mind, but when she came out, her heart was as heavy as it had been before.
As she tucked Phoebe in for the night, pulling the covers up under her chin, Phoebe said, “This was one of the best days of my life.” Then she’d yawned big, twice, and Clementine should see she was exhausted, that the long day of school, chores at the ranch and conversations that had taken surprising turns had done a number on her. She needed to rest.
Clementine kissed her on the forehead and said good-night, then turned to leave, and at the door, when she looked back, Phoebe had turned on her side, her eyes closed, her expression one of absolute contentment, the scrapbook of Logan’s accomplishments peeking out from underneath her pillow.
A certain peace came over Clementine herself at that sight. The expression on Phoebe’s sweet young face was the very expression Clementine hoped the girl would always have. It meant she was happy.
“Good night, sweet girl,” she whispered to Phoebe then quietly left the room. She was thinking about turning in early herself, not that she expected to sleep, when her phone buzzed with a text from Logan. Phoebe had left her Texas Rangers cap in the pasture and he’d drop it by in the morning.
How about I come pick it up now? she texted back. I could use someone to talk to.
Come on over. I’ll put coffee on.—L
Better make it herbal tea. I won’t be able to sleep as it is.
Done.—L.
After Gram assured her it was fine with her for Clementine to leave, that she’d keep an ear on Phoebe, Clementine drove over to Logan’s with a box full of biscuits and cookies that her grandmother insisted she take. That was her Gram.
He was at the door when she pulled up, waiting for her. He looked so handsome in his navy T-shirt and worn jeans, his feet bare. The sound of a teakettle started to whistle. “There’s the water,” he said. “I’d better go shut off the burner before it wakes the twins.”
She followed him into the kitchen and set down the box of treats on the counter. “You were wonderful today, Logan. How you handled things, what you said, how you said it. I don’t know where you got your gift from, but I envy it.”
He poured steaming water into the mugs and gave each tea bag a few dunks. She could smell the chamomile from where she stood. “I just said what felt right. I learned that from you.”
She burst into tears and he rushed over to her and enveloped her in his arms, letting her cry and just holding her. It felt so good to be in his strong arms, his soapy, masculine scent all around her. She took a deep breath and looked up at him. She loved him so damned much that she lifted up on her toes and kissed him.
He stared at her, his blue eyes intense. “The last time I kissed you, you told me we shouldn’t, that it would complicate things. I’ve worked very, very hard to respect that and not touch you. But if you kiss me again, I can’t promise you anything.”
She couldn’t help the smile that broke through. She knew she was aiding in her own future heartbreak, that Logan Grainger was a lone wolf, as least for the foreseeable future, and that he didn’t love her. But she needed to feel his hands on her, wanted him to kiss her, wanted what he’d wanted the last time: to be taken away from herself, to be taken out of her life for just a few minutes. So she put her hands on the sides of his face, his late-night stubble sexy against her fingers. Then she tilted her head up and kissed him again. He tightened his hold on her, deepening the kiss and she felt herself melting against him.
“Are you sure?” he asked, trailing a finger from her cheek down her neck and along her collarbone. Shivers tingled up her spine. “You said you needed to talk and you seem...heavyhearted now. I don’t want to take advantage of your vulnerability, Clementine.”
Cold water poured on her head. “Meaning you want me but not in the morning.” She hadn’t actually meant to say that, but it had been bursting inside her and had come out.
“Meaning I want you desperately and I’m just not sure of anything else,” he said. “My life has been turned upside down, Clem. I told you about the con-woman. I told you about the letter. I’ve told you everything. My ability to trust is this big,” he said, putting his thumb and forefinger very close together. “I want you. But I’m not willing to hurt you again. You want love and romance and marriage and happily-ever-after. I don’t believe in any of that anymore.”
She let out a sigh and pulled back a bit. At least he cared about her, she realized. He might not love her, might not want her in his life that way, but he clearly cared about her. And since they were now connected not only by the twins but by Phoebe, neither of them could walk away so easily.
She stepped back farther, putting some necessary distance between them. “Today was pretty intense,” she said, changing the subject. She’d come h
ere to talk about today anyway, not to kiss Logan. Not to be held by him. Not to hold out hope for something he’d told her time and again couldn’t be.
Wouldn’t be.
“Agreed,” he said. “Almost too intense for me. Once I picked up the boys from school I tried not to think about anything else but them, to be present for them. But they’ve been asleep for a few hours now and everything’s been going through my mind.” He turned to the counter, adding a spoonful of sugar just the way she liked, then reaching into the refrigerator for the cream and adding a splash in each mug.
“So you’re okay with being a big stepbrother?” She’d been so touched when he’d told Phoebe that their connection counted. It meant the world to Phoebe.
He handed her the yellow mug. “Not really, Clem. I’m just trying to live by the new rule of what is is. Truth is truth. In a roundabout way I don’t like, I am her stepbrother. So I said it counted.”
She stared at him, the strain in his voice making her realize just how not okay he was with it. “You seemed at peace with it when you were talking to Phoebe.” But of course he wasn’t. That was her wishful thinking, hoping for what might be.
He didn’t respond and she knew they both could use a break from the conversation. She reached for the box of treats her grandmother had given her, setting two cookies on a napkin. She handed him one and he bit into it.
“Who made this?” he asked. “It’s amazing.”
She smiled. “This is from a batch that Phoebe made with Georgia, Hurley’s head baker.”
“Well, tell your sister I said she’s an amazing pastry chef.” He took a sip of his tea, then sat down at the square wooden table by the window and gestured to the seat across from his. “I’ll be honest, Clementine. I’m not at peace with this stepbrother thing. I don’t want to consider Parsons my biological father. So I don’t want to consider his stepdaughter my stepsister. Does that make sense?”
She sat down and put her mug on the table. “Yeah. It does.” Of course it did. She might not like it, but it made sense. She understood why he felt that way.