by Arlene James
“Bring Bella and Jackie and come home,” Dawn ordered. “We’ll be her family. We—”
“Petapan,” Fawn interrupted, using Dawn’s Lenape name. “We should at least give him a chance to do the right thing, don’t you think?”
After a long silence, Dawn said softly, “Whatever happens, remember our mother.” Then she ended the call.
As if I could forget, Fawn thought. As if a daughter could ever forget her mother’s mistakes.
Chapter Two
How dare she? Dixon fumed, letting the wind suck the door closed behind him. Pretty little Fawn Whoever obviously didn’t know his mother very well or she wouldn’t have lectured him like that.
Giving birth to you ought to be enough.
He mimicked the words in his head as he skirted between the front end of the pickup and the storage room at the end of the carport.
What did this Fawn person know about it? She’d never seen his mother sleep around the clock after one of her benders or heard the whispers at the grocery store. Fawn had never watched some strange man literally drop her loopy mother in the front yard and drive away while she reeled toward the house. He’d always wondered what was so wrong with him that she couldn’t stay home and sober—until he’d realized that his grandmother was right. What was so wrong was Jackie.
So why was she here now? After all those years when all he’d wanted was for her to come home and settle down, now all he wanted was for her to go away before she ruined everything good in his life. He finally had a healthy relationship with his dad, worked for the family business, a plan for the future, a family, and that hadn’t been easy, given the animosity toward his father from his maternal grandparents, who had raised Dixon.
His grandparents and his dad had tiptoed around each other for years after Gregory Lyons had returned to town following an eight-year stint in the army. At twelve, Dixon had barely even remembered his father, despite many letters and photographs and a few visits. Greg had a new family by then, a wife, Lucinda, and a baby son. Jackie had gone into a tailspin upon Greg’s return, partying for days at a time. Dixon’s grandparents had feared that Greg would sue for custody, so they’d kept him at arm’s length. Greg and Lucinda had soon enlarged their family with a second son, but Dixon’s time with his dad and his dad’s family had remained limited until Grandma Crane died in a fall when Dixon was twelve.
With Jackie spending more time partying than with her son, Grandpa could no longer find excuses to keep Dixon away from his Lyons family, who had proved remarkably accepting of him. They’d even asked him to live with them, but he couldn’t leave his grandfather alone with Jackie, and that had caused some awkwardness on all sides until he’d turned sixteen and could drive himself over to his dad’s place whenever he’d wanted. He’d really gotten to know his brothers then, and he’d started to learn his dad’s trade, building. Dixon had turned out to be a more than fair carpenter.
Jackie had barely waited for Dixon to turn eighteen before she’d taken off with Harry Griffin. After his grandfather’s death a couple years later, Dixon worked for his dad, and they’d done well together.
Dixon had been surprised when Jackie had actually married Harry. Loud, stout and bald as a pool cue, Harry had stood a good head shorter than Jackie. Assuming that his mother was just using the affable trucker to get her teeth fixed, because her drug use had destroyed her once beautiful smile, Dixon had expected her to return to War Bonnet after she’d gotten what she’d needed from the man, but she’d claimed to be happy and had always described Harry as a “fine man.” Dixon had always privately supposed that Harry either had money or was more indulgent of Jackie’s partying ways than her parents had been.
From the looks of her, she hadn’t mended her ways over the years. She looked closer to sixty-four than forty-four. And he really did not need her reappearing after all these years with some unmarried mommy and baby in tow. No matter how stunningly beautiful that little mother might be.
A brisk wind rattled dead leaves across the crisp brown grass surrounding the house. Dixon turned up his collar and hunched his shoulders to protect his ears as he descended the gentle slope that led him the fifty yards or so to the barn, deliberately turning his attention to the waiting livestock and away from his unwanted guests.
The red sheet metal structure loomed dark and large in the cold, windy night. Newly oiled, the door hinges merely whispered as he pushed the narrow panel inward and stepped over the sill. Three horses and the restless heifer snuffled and shifted in the loamy blackness. The body heat of the livestock warmed this corner considerably, but if the outdoor temperature dropped much further, the heaters he’d installed last year would cycle on.
Reaching up, he switched on an overhead light and swung it to illuminate the nearest stall, where the heifer awaited his attention. He’d haltered and hobbled her, as the local veterinarian, Stark Burns, had suggested, to keep her from opening the stitches that ran from the dew claw to midhock of her left hind leg. She was not a happy patient. Using the pill pusher, he got the medication down her then unwrapped the leg, applied the prescribed salve and put on a new bandage, while avoiding the vicious swipe of an angry tail.
The wound was still fresh, and he couldn’t see any improvement yet. Worse, the heifer appeared to be losing weight. That could be disastrous for a pregnant cow. Dixon tipped extra feed into her trough and mixed a few sugar cubes into it to tempt her before leaving her to go see to the horses.
He took care of the geldings, Jag and Phantom, first. Both were big, powerful cutting horses that he’d dearly love to show professionally. The stallion, Romeo, was meant to be his ticket to competing with the other two horses. The sleek chestnut bay had the bloodlines of cutting horse royalty, but he’d been born early and extremely small. Dixon had taken the chance that he would grow to a suitable size, and he’d been right. By spring Romeo would be old enough to start training. Then all they needed was one good showing at competition. After that, Romeo would get a chance to prove he could produce—or, more accurate, reproduce. The stud fees should allow Dixon to try his hand at cutting horse competitions without risking the ranch or his normal income. It was a long-range plan that his dad fully endorsed, and Dixon had worked patiently to bring to fruition.
As was his habit, he spent some time with the skittish stallion, gentling and grooming the animal. While he worked with his hands, his mind worked over his problems, specifically his mother. He couldn’t deny that at times he felt lonely living out here on the ranch by himself, but he had plans and a purpose for his life, and he wasn’t about to let Jackie throw a wrench into all that. The Bible told him to honor his mother, and maybe Jackie had given birth to him, but she hadn’t raised him, not really. His grandmother had been his real mother. He wasn’t at all sure that he owed Jackie honor or anything else.
Resolved, he put away the curry brush, turned out the light and left the barn for the house. He’d tell Jackie that she and her friends could stay the night, then he’d take a shower and figure out something for dinner. Surely they could manage one difficult night without resorting to ugliness. He prayed about that as he trudged up the slope to the house.
The wind felt bitterly sharp, as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in the hour or less he’d been in the barn. He let himself into the welcomed warmth of central heating and immediately caught the heady aroma of sizzling steak, his stomach growling. Frown in place, he stepped into the doorway of the kitchen even as he shucked his coat, his hat still on his head. Pretty Fawn stood at his stove turning a slab of chicken-fried steak in his biggest cast-iron skillet. Evidently they’d brought groceries because he certainly hadn’t had that steak on hand. Before he could comment, he heard Jackie playfully say, “Boo!”
A quick glance showed her playing peekaboo with the baby, who sat in a carrier on top of the table, waving her arms excitedly while Jackie draped a soft blanket ove
r her little face and quickly pulled it away.
“I see you, Bella Jo. Peekaboo!”
Instantly, Dixon flashed back to an early memory, one he had almost forgotten.
He crouched behind his grandmother’s easy chair, quiet as a mouse. Suddenly his mom popped over the top, reaching down to tickle him.
“Boo! I found you, Dixon Lee. Mama always finds her boy.”
She scrambled around to sit on the floor with him, hugging and tickling. They were both laughing when his grandmother came in to say that she was going into town.
“Wait a minute. We’ll go with you,” Jackie said eagerly.
Grandma made a face and shook her head. “No, Jackie. It’ll take too long, and it’s way too much trouble for a quick trip to the store.”
“But I haven’t been out of the house in days except to work.”
“Well, whose fault is that? You should’ve thought of the consequences of your actions a long time ago.”
Setting him aside, Jackie stiffly rose. “I made a mistake, and I’m never going to stop paying for it, am I?” she choked out.
His grandmother looked at him then, and Dixon thought, Me. I’m the mistake. His grandmother rolled her eyes, then turned and left the room. A moment later his mother also left the room, slamming the door angrily behind her and calling for his grandfather.
How long had it been before he had seen her again? It had seemed like weeks, but he knew it had probably only been days. To a boy of three, days might as well have been weeks, though. The old bitterness welled up in him.
“You can’t stay,” he announced baldly, the words out before he even thought them. Jackie looked up, surprise and dismay on her lined face before she carefully masked her emotions. He lifted off his hat, steeling himself, and plunked it onto the hook beside the door before tossing aside his coat and actually moving into the other room. “You are not going to ruin my Christmas,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, “and we both know that’s what will happen if you stay.”
“I’ve never wanted to ruin anything for you, Dixon,” his mother said softly, sitting back in her chair, “but we have nowhere else to go.”
We? Dixon shook his head. So, it was a package deal. He turned his attention to Fawn. Did Jackie think dragging along this young beauty and her kid would soften him, make him more apt to open his home? What an opinion she must have of him, of men in general.
“And where’s your husband in all this?” he demanded of the dark-haired beauty. If they were asking him to take them in, he had a right to know. Didn’t he?
She looked stunned, standing there with a plate of chicken-fried steaks piled one on top of another, her dark, tip-tilted eyes wide. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your husband,” Dixon repeated. “Why isn’t he taking care of y’all?”
Blinking, she shook her head. “I’m not married.”
No, of course she wasn’t. Why was he not surprised? He slid his mother a disgusted look and stomped out of the room.
Going straight to his bedroom, he made short work of getting clean and dressed again. He was not—not—in any way pleased or relieved or even curious about how or why the woman cooking in his kitchen could show up with a baby and no husband. This itchy, nervous, supersensitive feeling was nothing more than concern.
He wondered what to do with himself, only to determine that this was his house and he’d be hung before he’d be relegated to his bedroom by a pair of unwelcome interlopers and an infant.
After stomping on his boots, he headed back to the kitchen, but at the last moment he derailed into the vacant living room, where he plopped down onto the sofa and prayed for...something. Strength, wisdom, the right words. Kindness? He didn’t know what to ask for. He just knew that he needed help.
* * *
“You’re crying.”
Fawn hadn’t seen Jackie cry since Harry had died, and God knew she’d had plenty of reasons to weep. She’d been strong for so long now, but her weakened physical state was obviously wearing on her.
“I knew he’d be bitter,” Jackie whispered raggedly, “but...” Shaking her head, she wiped at her eyes and focused on the baby. “It’ll be okay.” She managed a wobbly smile. “Despite everything, this has always been my home. It’ll be okay.”
Fawn didn’t know if Jackie was trying to convince herself, comforting the baby or sending up a prayer of faith. Turning back to the stove, Fawn took a plate from the counter and filled it. She carried it to the table for Jackie then poured a glass of water and laid a knife and fork next to it, along with a paper napkin.
“Do you need me to cut the steak?”
“I’m not that far gone.”
Smiling grimly, Fawn went back to the stove and filled another plate, this time with full portions. She poured iced tea into a tall tumbler, pocketed napkins, laid the knife and fork onto the plate and carried everything from the room in search of Dixon Lyons. Thankfully, she found him in the living room, sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. He had showered and changed, but even with his head bowed she could tell that he hadn’t shaved. She was glad because she had the feeling that he would be wildly attractive clean-shaven, and she didn’t need that distraction.
“I brought your dinner.”
He jerked, as if he hadn’t heard her approach. For an instant he glared up at her, but then his gaze softened and he reached for the plate, nodding.
“Thanks.”
Parking the heavy stoneware plate on his thighs, he picked up the knife and fork and began to eat. When the steak cut easily, he lifted an eyebrow. He hummed when he began to chew but otherwise said nothing.
Fawn passed him the napkins and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. He shot her a glance but continued eating without comment. While he ate, she took the time to pray, asking for the words to make him understand the situation and face his responsibilities. When she was done, she decided that bluntness would suit this man best. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Your stepfather is dead, and your mother is dying.”
Dixon dropped his fork and looked up at that. “What did you say?”
Fawn met his gaze squarely and said as kindly as she could, “Jackie is dying. It’s her heart. They’ve recommended her for transplant, but for many reasons she’s low on the list, so it’s not likely she’ll live long enough to receive a new heart.”
After placing his knife on the plate, Dixon carefully set the plate aside. “You’re telling me that my mother’s heart is so bad she’s literally dying.”
“Yes. And because Harry was an independent trucker, what insurance they had barely covered his debts. He left her destitute. She tried to work after his death, but her pregnancy wouldn’t allow her to continue, so—”
“Whoa.” Dixon held up a hand, palm out, gray eyes wide. “Pregnancy? Her pregnancy?”
“Of course. Apparently, she already had heart damage, but no one realized it. She was tired all the time, sick and weak a lot, headaches, nausea, various pains and swelling... They were seriously talking about ovarian cancer. When they first found out she was pregnant, we thought that explained it all. We didn’t know until after Harry died that her heart was bad. And the pregnancy just wrecked it.”
Dixon stared at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. “You’re saying my mother was pregnant when Harry died?”
“Obviously.”
“How is that obvious?” he demanded, spreading his hands.
Shrugging, Fawn braced her hands on her knees. “I’d think that Bella makes it obvious.”
“Bella! Bella?”
It hit her then with the force of a slap that he really didn’t know, hadn’t put it together at all. Her head jerked to the side as the implications registered. “Oh, how stupid I am.” No wonder he’d asked about her husband! What he must think! Shaking her
head, she tried to set it all straight. “The baby is your sister.”
If his eyebrows had risen any higher, they’d have disappeared into his hairline. “What?”
“Bella Jo is your sister.”
“But...” He couldn’t seem to form words for several seconds. “Her hair...”
“Is dark like Harry’s,” Fawn supplied. “Or like Harry’s was before he started going bald and shaving his head.”
Still, Dixon stared blankly at her. “I don’t understand.”
Fawn went to her knees, reaching for his right hand. She gripped it tightly with hers. It was a strong hand, long-fingered and square-palmed, calloused with much use.
“Dixon,” she said carefully, “Bella is your mother and Harry’s daughter.”
His gray eyes plumbed hers. “Not yours?”
“No.”
He gripped her so hard that Fawn feared bruises, but she showed no response.
“My sister.” Suddenly, he dropped Fawn’s hand and bowed his head, pressing his temples with his fingertips. “My sister.”
“Yes. Born the last day of July.”
He looked up again, obviously doing the mental math. “She’s barely four months old.”
“That’s right.”
“My mother’s forty-four! How did this happen?”
Fawn sat back on her heels, trying to find a suitable reply to that. “The usual way, I imagine. I know it took them both by surprise, but they were happy about it, ecstatic. Especially Harry. He was only forty, you know.”
Dixon looked at her then as if she’d suddenly grown an extra nose. Lifting his hands to his head again, he fell back against the couch. “Oh. My. Word.”
Fawn thought about trying to point out the ramifications in light of his mother’s health issues, but he was obviously struggling with these fresh realizations, so she kept quiet. After a moment, confident that he finally understood what had brought them here and why they could not simply leave again, she quietly rose to her feet, picked up his plate and left him alone with his thoughts.