More than a few people strolled the sidewalks in front of the quaint stores and businesses. This time of evening, only an hour or so remained to shop as everything except for the cafes, diners and restaurants closed about six, and customers pushed in and out of the storefronts, grabbing last-minute items. Instead of the sharp honking of horns, the rumble of engines and the cacophony of Charlotte nightlife pulsing on the night air, chatter and laughter filled the warm, June evening. While the city spoke of revelry, excitement and an almost frenetic gaiety, this… Rose Bend whispered of serenity, community…home.
She exhaled hard, and as if of its own accord, her hand lifted and settled over the small curve of her belly. She hadn’t thought of this place as home in a long time, but as she looked around at the cheerful, picturesque town crowded at the base of Monument Mountain and Mount Everett, the word fluttered and snapped through her mind like the US and Massachusetts flags hoisted high in front of the city hall. Even now, several people did double takes, confused frowns marring their foreheads or their eyes flaring wide in recognition. But she didn’t stop to address anyone. Just kept walking. And moments later, she stood in front of the old, white church with its towering steeple and bell that stood guard at the end of Main.
You could throw a stone and hit a church in Rose Bend. Different denominations and congregations served a religiously diverse community. But St. John’s Catholic Church had been the first in the town, and even though its doors had closed before she’d left, it still remained as a revered monument that dated back to the 1700s. It was an institution here. But she hadn’t approached the old church to kneel on its benches and inhale the faded scent of candle wax.
Sydney strode past the black, waist-high iron gate that surrounded the building and climbed the pockmarked steps on the side. The stone path curved around the property and bypassed the ancient cemetery where those first congregation members lay under faded tombstones.
Carlin was buried at the newer cemetery on the other side of town. Undoubtedly Sydney’s parents still visited her older sister’s resting place, while Sydney hadn’t been there since they lowered Carlin into the ground. Eighteen years. What kind of sister did it make her that she hadn’t visited Carlin in almost two decades?
A shitty one.
The answer popped into her mind, clear and adamant. And curiously, the voice sounded very similar to her mother’s.
Sydney shook her head, and a whisper of movement out of her peripheral vision snagged her attention. Surprise crackled through her as she spotted a lone, tall figure standing in the newer section of the graveyard. The leaves of a soaring, ancient red oak cast shadows over him, concealing his identity at this distance. Not that she would’ve called out if she recognized him. He was obviously here for solitude just like her.
With one last glance in the mourner’s direction, she continued climbing the rise, and when she reached the top, her breath puffed from between her lips, her heart tapping out a faster beat in her chest. The view before her stole any air left in her lungs. Clouds so fluffy and white they appeared like big cotton balls embraced the peaks of huge mountains. Lush, green hills rolled like emerald waves in the distance, and houses played hide’n’ seek among them.
Peace settled over her, like an old friend eagerly welcoming her back. As she’d known it would. The people here might not be the most receptive to her being back or ever accept her. But this place? It knew her heart. Closing her eyes, Sydney tipped her head back, allowing the fat sun sitting low in the sky to warm her skin with its last rays. This had been her special place after Carlin died. Here, she could be alone. Away from the censure and overwhelming grief she’d glimpsed in her parents’ eyes. Here, she could shed the I-don’t-give-a-fuck persona she’d adorned, because God…she gave so many fucks.
Here, she could be Sydney and not sink in the shame of being alive.
“Sydney?”
Well, damn.
Irritation flashed through her, but years of living in the South already had her lips curling into a polite smile. Until she turned her head and met a pair of stunning amber eyes. A very familiar pair of stunning amber eyes that she hadn’t forgotten in the eight years she’d been gone.
Astonishment ricocheted through her, robbing her of coherent speech.
“Cole?” The shallow rasp was all she could squeeze past her constricted lungs.
A full, sensual mouth curved at the corners, that bottom lip heavy, and for a moment, his smile briefly banished the shadows lurking in his gaze. And it was that smile that confirmed the tall, wide-shouldered, powerfully built man standing before her was indeed Coltrane “Cole” Dennison. The man she’d hopelessly crushed on so many years ago stared down at her now, that jeweled gaze filled with confusion, surprise and delight.
Delight.
Coltrane Dennison was delighted to see her. Then again, her childhood friend’s older brother had always been nice to the foolish and reckless teenager she’d been. Even though she and his sister Leontyne had gotten into some scrapes that could squarely be placed at Sydney’s feet. Now… some might still call her reckless. But at twenty-six, she’d learned discipline and restraint. The hard way.
“It is you,” he said in a voice that landed somewhere between the smooth glide of water over pebbles and thunder rolling across an inky sky.
Damn. Not only had pregnancy turned her into an emotional Tilt-a-Whirl and caused hair to sprout in places it really had no business growing, but it’d apparently transformed her from grant writer to poet. Cole shifted closer, effectively cutting off her scolding of herself. Clearing her throat, she forced herself to adopt a carefree smile that was a flat-out lie.
“It’s me,” she said, slipping her hands into the pockets of her billowy red-and-gold maxi dress. “Guilty,” she added with a chuckle that sounded way too self-deprecating for her comfort.
Seemed she was always on the verge of apologizing for something.
For not saving her older sister’s life.
For not being the perfect daughter.
For not giving her baby a two-parent home.
Yep. That was her. The Queen of I’m Sorry.
He moved forward again, and before she could brace herself, his arms encircled her, his wide, hard chest pressed against her cheek and his scent wrapped around her. Her lashes fluttered then lowered, her hands raising to flatten against the strong muscles of his back. She slowly released her pent-up breath, and for the shortest of moments, she caved. Yielded to the pleasure of his—of anyone’s—genuine joy in seeing her again. Capitulated to the thrill of being welcomed instead of scorned.
Surrendered to the need for human contact, for being close to someone, held by them. Touched by them.
She stiffened. Jesus, what was she doing?
Being a damn glutton for punishment, that’s what. Hadn’t it been giving in to that last need that had led to her current state of impending single motherhood? Yes, a bottle of Moscato and a boatload of being-up-in-her-feelings had guided the way to unwise sex with her ex-husband, but still… It’d been that desire for intimacy, for emotional and physical connection, that had greased it. And that desire, the fear of being alone, had kept her in her marriage long past its expiration date.
Hours and hours on a therapist’s couch had granted her insight into the whys. Distant parents. Lack of affirmation. Viewing her looks as her primary value. Validation. Yada, yada, yada.
It all boiled down to one thing: she needed to keep dicks out of her pants because it led to nothing but trouble.
Not that Cole, her best friend’s brother, wanted her… Good God. She was devolving.
Easing out of his arms, she dropped hers to her sides.
“It’s good to see you again. God, how many years has it been? Seven? Eight?” If her abrupt retreat confused him, his voice didn’t betray it. His smile didn’t slip, and he dipped his head in a nod. “I just saw your mom
this morning at her store. She didn’t mention you were coming in for a visit.”
Because she doesn’t know.
A shiver of anxiety quivered through her at the thought of showing up on her parents’ doorstep, her life packed in her car. “Unhappy” would be a serious understatement for the confusion, disappointment and anger that would greet Sydney’s news.
Shrugging a shoulder, she glanced away from him and refocused on the view so she didn’t have to lie to his face. “I’m sure she just had other things on her mind. And it’s been eight years since the Black Sheep of Rose Bend left.” What in the hell had possessed her to add that? Because she was a master of deflection, she switched the subject. “What are you doing out here anyway? The back of a church isn’t exactly a hot spot on a Thursday night,” she teased.
She waited for a husky chuckle or his playful response, but only silence replied to her. No, it screamed at her so loudly, she jerked her head to the side and peered at Cole.
The utter desolation in his gaze punched the air from her lungs. She lifted a hand to her chest and pressed her knuckles to the ache there. How could those eyes contain so much pain and yet he still stood? Still breathe? She was having a difficult time doing both just witnessing it.
His lashes lowered, and he slid his hands into the pockets of his black, tailored pants. He turned toward the sun and the sky that bled lavender and gray. His white dress shirt clung to his taut shoulders and back. And for the first time, the shock of seeing him again ebbed enough for her to catalog the smaller details about Cole.
As long as she’d known him—and in a town the size of Rose Bend, that was all her life—his dark hair had tumbled around his face in loose curls and waves. But no strands flirted with his cheekbones or jaw. They were gone, shorn into a closely cropped cut that framed his head and exposed his sharply hewn profile. Golden wheat skin that proudly proclaimed his Puerto Rican heritage stretched across cheekbones that could slice air, but his strong, patrician facial features were more pronounced, more severe than she remembered. As if he’d lost some weight recently and the whittling down had emphasized the bold bones of his cheeks, the slant of his nose, the sensuous curves of his mouth, the slash of his clean-shaven jaw.
The same with his big body. Still tall, still a swimmer’s build with the expanse of shoulders and chest and a tapered waist, lean hips and powerful thighs. But whereas before he’d carried a sense of peace she’d always envied, now a fine tension seemed to hum from his motionless frame. As if even when not moving, he was on the verge of it. Or needed to be moving. She understood that. Because putting her hands to something, losing herself in action, prevented thinking.
Was that it? Was Cole running from his own thoughts, desperate to get out of his head?
“I was visiting my wife and son,” he said, his voice ground glass and gravel.
Pain blasted her in a fiery backdraft.
She swayed, the world expanding then contracting like a snapped rubber band. He’d been the person in the cemetery. The man standing under the tree, alone. Grieving.
Lovely, kind, Tonia. His love since high school.
She was dead.
And son. Another wave of stunned pain swelled and broke over her. Her hand rose toward her own belly. Cole had not only lost the love of his life, but a son, too.
Only a hard hand clasped above her elbow prevented her from stumbling backwards.
“Sydney.” The sharp whip of her name penetrated the roar clouding her head, steadied her trembling knees. Cole gripped her other arm, and she lifted her head, scanning his frown and the worry darkening his eyes. “Sydney, are you okay? Do you need to sit down? Can I get you—”
“No, no,” she interrupted him, shaking her head, embarrassment and pain mingling like the best of friends. “I’m fine. I just…” She trailed off.
What could she say? What was there to say in this situation? She flashed back to when Carlin died. The platitudes of “I’m so sorry for your loss” and “She’s in a better place” and “God works in mysterious ways” had bombarded her, and Sydney had wanted to howl her fury and agony at every person who’d uttered those inadequate condolences. They’d been acid poured into an open wound.
Because Carlin had belonged there with Sydney, with their parents who loved her more than anything—more than the daughter they’d been left with. And what merciful God would allow a thirteen-year-old to suffer for years from cancer only to take her away? Sydney hadn’t—didn’t—call His ways mysterious; she called them cruel.
“I didn’t know,” she finally murmured. “I’m sorry. How long?”
“Two years.” Those shadows in his gaze thickened, swallowing the gold for a moment.
She nodded. Licked her suddenly dry lips. “I don’t know exactly the depth of the grief you’ve suffered, but with…” Again, she trailed off. She might have thought of Carlin over and over again since she’d crossed the town limits, but she hadn’t spoken her sister’s name in eighteen long years. “I won’t lie and promise you that it goes away completely. But it does become tolerable after a while. And then there will be the day when you only think about them five times instead of fifty.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a faint half smile. “And then, there will come the time when their memory brings more happiness than pain and guilt. When you get there, you’ll let me know how it feels, okay?”
Because she hadn’t yet reached that plateau. But Cole had always been strong, seemingly indomitable. With the huge, loving Dennison clan behind him, she had zero doubts he would get there. She should know. His sister Leontyne had been a wonderful friend to Sydney before she left Rose Bend.
His lashes briefly lowered, and he squeezed her arms before releasing her. “How long are you in town?” he asked, not answering her question. “Leo is going to lose her mind when she finds out you’re here. Maybe you can do something about dragging her away from the inn. God knows, she’s twenty-seven going on seventy-seven with all the responsibility she piles on herself.”
“Leo? I-faked-the-swine-flu-to-get-out-of-work Leo?” Sydney gaped. “Did Rose Bend drop into an alternate universe while I was away? And did you check the seams along her hair line to make sure it’s really her and not some body-snatching clone?”
He snorted, and though it wasn’t a laugh, for a second, the shadows thinned. “You know what? I didn’t check. I’ll have to get Wolf to help me yank her away from the laundry and hold her down so we can make sure.” An evil glint gleamed in his gaze, and Sydney laughed at the image of Cole and his older brother wrestling Leo to the ground. That would be a battle she’d pay ticket fare to see.
“Whatever you do, don’t tell her I suggested it. I know some things might’ve changed here, but somehow I’m doubting her bloodthirsty need for payback is one of them.”
“Not even a little bit,” he agreed. “But back to you. How long are you here? A week? Two?”
The sigh escaped her before she could trap it. “I don’t know,” she hedged, glancing down and sweeping her hand down her baby bump. Just touching her rounded stomach comforted her, grounded her. “But since I have a good part of my life stashed away in my car, I’m guessing more than one or two weeks,” she drawled with a soft chuckle.
But like before, her teasing slammed against a wall of silence.
Wary, she tipped her head back.
Stark agony widened his haunted gaze, tautened his light brown skin and flattened his full lips into a grim line.
His gaze fastened on her belly.
Understanding crashed into her. He’d lost a child; she couldn’t imagine how that affected him. How he could bear being around children when all he probably thought about was his son who should be there with him?
“Cole,” she whispered.
“You’re pregnant,” he stated the obvious, tone flat.
Just moments ago, delight had colored his voice, his smile, his e
yes. Now, there was nothing.
An ache bloomed in her chest. As inappropriate as it might be, she missed that happiness. How many people in this town would greet her return with joy instead of curiosity, side-eye and gossip? She could count them on one hand and still have about two fingers left over.
Before she left this place to go to her parents and face their disappointment, she needed that pleasure lighting his amber eyes again.
Hell, even his pain was preferable to this, this…emptiness.
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. Curling her hand around her stomach, she cradled the swell. As if protecting her baby from his coldness. His rejection. “I’m a little over four months along.”
His expression remained shuttered, a smooth, blank mask. But the muscle along his jaw bounced like a jackhammer.
“Congratulations,” he ground out.
“Thank you,” she murmured. Then, on a sigh, she swept her hand over her head, fingers bumping into the large, bound puff at the top. “Listen, Cole…”
“Welcome home, Sydney,” he interrupted. “I need to go, but it was good seeing you again.”
He didn’t grant her the opportunity to reply. With a last nod, he pivoted on his heel and strode away, back down the rise, past the cemetery, disappearing from sight.
She continued to stare at the empty path for several seconds. What the hell had just happened? Spinning back around, she focused her gaze upon the now rapidly setting sun. But the peace and solitude of the view and the churchyard had vanished like early morning mist.
“It’s going to be okay,” she quietly reassured her baby as if he or she could hear her fervent words. Some books said babies could hear in the womb, though probably not this early in her pregnancy. But Sydney could still pretend the words were for her child instead of for herself. Pretend that Cole’s abrupt switch toward her hadn’t caused hurt to echo through her.
Lifting her shoulders high, she rolled them back. Envisioning his aloofness and cold dismissal tumbling away from shoulders that already carried too much. She didn’t have room for anything else.
The Rebel Heir Page 19