Life Shocks Romances Collection 4

by Jade Kerrion

  “She lives in New York City now.”

  “She is all right?” the woman asked. “How is her little girl?”

  Tom stiffened. “She…has a little girl?”

  The man spoke. “Her old man went to the hospital to pick her up on the third day, but she had left with the baby. She had nothing but what she had on her back and the baby things—clothes and diapers—the hospital gave her. Don’t even know how she could have made it anywhere. Her old man was miserly like.”

  The woman shuffled and stared at her feet.

  The man turned to stare at her. “Maggie-girl?”

  “I went to visit her and the baby in the hospital. Might have given her something.”

  “You gave her money?”

  “Out of my pickle jar,” Maggie said defensively. “She needed help, and I could help her, so why not?” She gave Tom a pleading glance. “Her old man wasn’t the good sort, you know what I mean?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Tom said, although something cold had lodged in his chest.

  “Not one of us. Never was. Her mother was a local girl; her family owned that piece of land long as we could remember.”

  “Which piece of land is that?”

  The woman pointed north. “Take a left about a mile out of town. It’s the third gate down on the right.”

  “Thanks.” Tom walked out of the grocery store, but before he stepped into his car, he cast a glance back into the store. The old man had tugged the old woman to him in a hug and was kissing the top of her head. His faith in humanity momentarily restored, Tom got into his car and followed the woman’s directions to Sheridan…Elyse’s…home.

  “Elyse.” The name sounded foreign on his tongue.

  How much didn’t he know about her?

  Tom had had concerns about Maggie’s vague directions, but he found a left turn about a mile out of town. He passed the first gate soon enough, and the second gate at the one-mile mark. The third gate, however, did not show up. He was about to turn the car around when he caught a glimpse of a post box about five miles from town.

  It wasn’t a gate as much as it was an opening in the barbwire fence, wide enough to fit a pickup truck. He drove up the dirt road, following it for about another mile until it led to a cluster of buildings, including a farmhouse and a barn. Both buildings might have been painted another color at some point in time, but they were now weathered gray.

  Tom pulled up in front of the house and stepped out of his car. The cold wind tugged at his leather jacket as he zipped it up. Slowly, he turned in a circle to study his surroundings.

  Nothing. Miles of nothing.

  The view had been pretty along the road, but here, it seemed threatening, as if man had tried to leave his mark, but in the end, nature had won. Shrugging off the discomfort clawing at his spine, he knocked on the door.

  Sounds shuffled behind the door, and it opened. A man, who would have been about as tall as he was, but stooped with age, opened the door. He squinted at Tom. “Who are you?”

  Tom extended his hand. “I’m Tom Lancaster. I represent a client who might be interested in purchasing some land out around here. Do you know of any homesteads that might be for sale?”

  The man snorted. “I’d sell you this land, but it ain’t mine.”

  “Whose it is?”

  “My wife left it to my daughter.”

  “I see. Would it be all right if I walked around and took a look for myself?”

  “Look ahead.” The man walked out of his house and fell into step beside Tom. “Been keeping up this place for almost twenty years now, ever since I got married and moved out here. Buildings could use a coat of paint, but they’re made of good stuff. Been standing for a hundred years. Likely to stand for a hundred more.”

  Up close, Tom could see that the man was right. The buildings weren’t pretty, but they were sturdy, made of hardwood that only seemed to strengthen the more it was subject to the ravages of nature and time. “Do you keep livestock out here?”

  “Used to keep a couple hundred head of cattle. Started selling them off after my daughter left. Didn’t make sense putting in all that work with no one to take them up after I’m gone. Now I’ve got under a hundred, and Johnny at the next ranch over cares for most of them. It’s been hard since she up and left. Feels like I got older a lot faster.”

  “This place looks great. Would she be open to an offer?”

  “Maybe. I couldn’t say.”

  “Where can I reach her?”

  “I couldn’t say.” The man’s chin tipped up. “She up and left six years ago. I reckon she’s still alive, but I couldn’t rightly say.”

  “You don’t know where she is? You didn’t try to look for her?”

  “Wicked streak, she’s got. Like her mother. A wild child. Always looking for something more than she had. It was never enough. She was never content.”

  Looking for something more. Sheridan had fled Montana looking for something more. Apparently, she had found it in New York, and she had given up a child along the way. What else didn’t he know about her? Tom looked back at the man. “So you don’t have any clue at all as to where she might be?”

  He shook his head. “I expect she’ll come home when she’s ready, or maybe when I’m gone.” His chuckle was bitter.

  “What’s her name? Perhaps I can track her down.”

  “Elyse Vogel.” The man spelled it out for Tom.

  “Do you have a picture of her?”

  “Yeah.” The man returned to the house and emerged a moment later with a photograph of himself, a woman—likely his wife—and a girl of about twelve, standing between them. “It’s the only one I have, from before my wife died. That’s Elyse, right there.” He pointed at the girl who looked like Sheridan might have looked like at twelve, except that her mouth was set in a straight line and there was a pinched look around her eyes that might have been shortsightedness…or fear.

  Tom handed the picture back to the man. “Anything else you can tell me about her that might help me find her?”

  “She has a little girl. Might be about six years old now.”

  The little girl. The missing little girl.

  Frances?

  Tom nodded. “Thanks for your help. I’ll let you know if I track her down. Where will you go if she decides to sell the place?”

  “Might go live with her. She’d owe me, wouldn’t she?”

  Tom didn’t like the sneer on the man’s face, but he said nothing more as he turned around and stepped back into his car. The car was silent—the radio would have been too distracting at that moment. He needed the silence to sort through his thoughts.

  He would have preferred a conversation with Sheridan, but how was he supposed to bring up the topic? “So, where is your daughter, Elyse?”

  If she had lied about her name and her family, who was to say what else were lies? That she had not had sexual relationships with her clients? That her fresh, girl-next-door charm wasn’t just a façade? And the shopkeeper—Maggie’s—comments about Sheridan’s stepfather? What had that woman really been trying to say?

  In the sudden tangle of facts, what were the small lies, and which were the big ones?

  Who have I fallen in love with?

  In the end, what matters—who she is or how I feel when I’m with her?

  Someone looking forward instead of trapped in the past. A man alive. In love.

  What do I trust? The scant facts or my gut instinct?

  Instead of staying overnight as he had planned, he caught the next available flight back to New York City. The plane was still taxing to the gate at La Guardia when he turned on his smartphone and found a message from Sheridan. “Hi, Tom,” her familiar, happy voice greeted him. “I was wondering if you have time to grab dessert and a coffee some time this week. Let me know.”

  Well, Aria was safely ensconced with her aunt, and he was at a loose end for the entire evening and all of the next day. Tom returned the call and was surprised when she
picked up. “Hey, I just got back in from a business trip,” he said. “Early, as a matter of fact. I wasn’t supposed to return until tomorrow evening.”

  “I’m sure Aria will be delighted.”

  “Aria’s actually staying with Charlotte overnight. I…haven’t called them yet.”

  “Oh.” She paused for a moment. “Would you like to do desserts and coffee tonight?”

  “Yes, I would. Where shall we meet?”

  She gave him an address in Greenwich Village.

  “I’ll be there—” He glanced at his watch. “—as soon as I can get there. We’re pulling up at the gate now.”

  All he had was an overnight bag he had carried onboard the plane. He beat the crowd out to the taxi queue, and within twenty minutes, was on his way to Greenwich. The radio blasted out an old hit that he vaguely recognized, but instead of tapping along to the beat, he stared out the window at the blur of lights as the buzz of activity seamlessly transitioned from day to night.

  The last wisp of sunlight had vanished from the sky when the cab pulled up in front of a small townhouse near a city park. Tom looked around. Where was the café or coffeehouse? “We’re here?”

  “This is what you wanted,” the cab driver said. “This is the address you gave me. That house, right there.”

  Had Sheridan given him her home address? Frowning, Tom paid the cab driver, and then walked up the steps to ring the doorbell.

  When Sheridan opened the door, he sucked in a sharp breath. “Uh, hi?”

  “What were you expecting?” Sheridan laughed at the surprise in his tone. She curved her fingers into a witch’s claw. “Come in,” she said in a gravelly cackle. “Come into my gingerbread house.”

  Tom laughed as he stepped into the hallway with its polished wooden floors and cream-colored walls. He walked past black-and-white photographs of waterfalls and streams and entered a living room furnished with sleek silver-accented leather furniture that looked like they might have come out of a European design house. “It’s not like any gingerbread house I’ve ever seen, although something smells great.”

  “Banana and strawberry bread pudding. Great with a rum cream sauce and irresistible with French vanilla ice cream.”

  “Did you make it?”

  She nodded. “Your timing was perfect. I’d planned to indulge myself, but it’s too much to eat on my own and it’s most incredible in the first two hours out of the oven. Come on in.” She led the way to the eat-in kitchen. The walls were a soft yellow hue, and framed watercolors of fruits and flowers decorated the walls.

  “You have a beautiful home. In comparison, mine looks like a hurricane came through, changed its mind, turned around, and went through it again.”

  She laughed and gestured to the dining nook, perfect for four but set for two. “Have a seat. Would you like coffee or tea with your dessert? The machine also makes cappuccinos, lattes, and espressos. I also have wine, if you prefer.”

  “Coffee would be great. Black. Can I help you with anything?”

  “No, no. Sit. It’s all ready, and it’s simple. Just a matter of putting everything together.”

  He leaned back in the rustic seat that evoked the imagery of a country kitchen, probably not unlike where she had grown up. It was a jarring shift from the bustle of New York City outside her doors, to the sleek European sophistication of her living room, to the coziness of her kitchen. “There are so many facets to you,” he said quietly.

  “You make it sound like a bad thing.” Sheridan set a deep bowl of bread pudding on the table in between them. She had drizzled rum cream over the dessert and set two large scoops of French vanilla on either side of the dessert. She also brought two smaller bowls and spoons. “You seem distracted. Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. It takes me some time to switch off work.”

  “I know the feeling.” She busied herself at the counter and returned a few moments later with two mugs of steaming coffee. “Does the work slow down around Christmas?”

  “Yes, it does. I’m taking a few days off between Christmas and New Year.”

  “Doing anything special?”

  “Staying home. Spending time with Aria.” He slid the shared bowl of bread pudding toward her. “What about you? Will you be visiting family or friends?”

  She scooped some dessert into her bowl. “No. I’ll be here for Christmas and New Year. Are we still on for the Christmas Eve party?”

  He nodded. “Would you like me to pick you up, now that I know where you live?”

  “Sure.” She lifted a spoonful of bread pudding to her mouth.

  “What inspired this?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Homemade dessert. An invitation to your home.”

  “We agreed to take it one step at a time.” She looked at him, her eyes wide and guileless.

  “And this was the next step?”

  “One of them, at any rate.” Hesitation crept into her voice. “Did I overstep?”

  “I…normally, I’d be thrilled to make progress, any progress, but it’s hard for me, I just don’t know…”

  “How much is real and how much isn’t?” She set her spoon down. “My past is getting in the way, isn’t it?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “I know, but it’s hard. It’s hard for me too. I’ve told you in words, but all you have are words. There’s no evidence I can offer you to prove that I didn’t sleep with ten men in the past week. Either you believe me or you don’t.”

  “That’s a hard line to take, isn’t it? Take me as I am or not at all?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I would have thought it would apply to all relationships, not just one plagued by doubt.” She pushed away from the table and walked out of the room, returning moments later with an envelope, which she handed to him.

  “What is this?”

  “Something I didn’t think I’d need to show you, but now I’m glad I have it on hand.”

  He pulled several sheets of paper from the envelope and read through them. “A health report?”

  “A clean bill of health.” She stood over his shoulder and flipped to a certain page. “Buried among the reports of my excellent blood pressure and cholesterol levels is the fact that I do not have any sexually transmitted diseases.” Her voice was cool and her body language stiff as she took her seat across from him. “Happy now?”

  “You’re not.”

  “No. I didn’t think it had to come to this. You can’t have this both ways, Tom. We can try to pursue a normal relationship the way normal people do this, or we can do this via a contract, in which case I’d have to ask you to leave now because this date is unscheduled, unpaid for, and completely out of scope of the contract you signed.”

  He slid the papers back into the envelope. “Look, I know I’m making a big mess out of this, but I haven’t dated in years, and I didn’t know how to handle a different kind of date, a different kind of woman.”

  “I’m not a different kind of woman. You can call Jessica and talk to her if you like—additional verification, perhaps—but I’d phased out of escort work ever since Nicholas married Marisa. While Nicholas had been my savior, in a way, he was still also my connection back into that world. It was the way he saw me, always. He never managed to change his perspective of me. And after he was safely married off, I realized I was done. In a way, I had been hanging around for the comfort of his friendship and the safety of his presence. Once he left, I had to deal with things on my own. By then, my blog had taken off and I had a sizeable rainy day fund tucked away, so I stopped.”

  “Then how did I manage to reach you?”

  “In the same way that my old clients reach me if they need me for a special occasion. Jess turns away all new leads, but for whatever reason, she decided to accept your call and suggested I meet up with you. She said you treated it with the care of a date, not a client, and it meant something. Now I see it doesn’t.”

  He laid his hand over hers and was surprised whe
n she did not pull back. “Yes, it does. I got waylaid by doubts and lost my way, lost sight of the fact that when I’m with you, I’m having a great time just hanging out, talking, getting to know you. I’m sorry. I want to…need to start over.”

  “And how are we going to do that?”

  “Do you have the contract I signed?”

  She nodded. “Why?”

  “We could tear it up. Really start over.”

  She stared at him for so long that he started doubting. Had he pushed for too much, too fast? Heck, was he ready for a relationship with a woman that wasn’t strictly professional and rightly governed by contracts and clearly stated limits?

  Was he ready to begin dating again, begin living again?

  There was still so much he knew he didn’t know about her—like her real name—but every relationship started with some level of uncertainty. Was he willing to take that risk? Trust her word and his gut instincts over his sister’s insistence and even Mitch’s leading evidence that Sheridan was having an affair with Mitch?

  Would he take that risk for the most fascinating, compelling woman he had ever met?

  She tugged her hand out from under his and left the kitchen again. When she returned, she had the contract in her hand. The uncertainty in her eyes reflected the debate in his mind. “Are you ready for this?” he asked her.

  She inched the contract out to him, tugged it back, and the back-and-forth motion went on for a few seconds until she exploded into rueful laughter. “This will be a first for me. Contracts have been the best things that have happened to me since…you know.”

  “I know, and I love contracts too. I wouldn’t have a job if contracts weren’t such a big deal in the world, but sometimes, contracts get in the way and the transaction trumps the relationship. Perhaps, in our case, they’ve gotten in the way enough. Maybe it’s time to push them aside, but they’re your contracts. It’s your call.”

  She stared down at the stack of papers in her hand and with a sharp, sudden gesture, tore the pages of the contract into half. Their eyes met over the broken contract, and she smiled, bright and full—the kind of smile that immediately extinguished the spark of worry lodged in his heart. “Okay, where are we?”