“Aren’t you worried?” Frank demanded, his stomach grinding. He reached for a bottle of antacids he k ept in his desk and washed four pills down with a splash of Kentucky whiskey. “There’s nothing I can do if Uncle Robert wants to locate Bibi’s kid.” Collin didn’t seem the least concerned, just stood at the window squinting past the snow-dusted high-rises of the city to the bay beyond, where white caps played. Leaning against the glass, his hands in the pockets of his suit pants, his jacket pushed back to show off the flat stomach beneath his oxford cloth shirt, he could have passed for one of those damned models in any of the upscale catalogs that Bonnie k ept all over the house. Sometimes he wondered if this fair-haired boy was his. Collin didn’t seem to have an ounce of Sullivan gumption—that same fighting spirit that had forced the family to flee from oppression and starvation in Ireland centuries ago, the fire in the belly that had pushed his ancestors to work harder and climb ever upward, st epping on whatever pathetic souls got in their way until late in the nineteenth century when, after decades of hard work, some wise savings, and a few lucky gambles, they’d made enough money to buy a slot in Boston society—a slot that each succeeding generation had made more prestigious until now. None of that Sullivan drive, that fire, appeared in his washed-out son. Too much of Maureen in the boy. “I didn’t know Bibi had a baby.” “That’s just the point. None of us did. Back then Robert had some sense and he found a way to ensure that the kid never showed his face here again, never darkened our doorst eps, never expected to collect a penny of any of what he might consider his inheritance, but all that’s changed. Robert seems to think his power will live on if he can find an heir, r eplace Stuart.” Collin winced a little, but tried to hide it, and Frank experienced that same burning doubt he underwent years ago when Stuart had been alive, when the boys had been close and shared secrets. “If you ask me, Robert’s blown a gasket and probably needs to see his shrink again.” Collin rubbed his upper lip, as if some beads of nervous perspiration had collected there. “How old is the boy?” “Somewhere around fifteen, I think. It happened within the year after Stuart’s death—nearly killed Adele, I guess. First she lost her boy and then her daughter turned up unmarried and in a family way.” Collin closed his eyes for a second, as if trying to pull himself together. “What about the father?” “Long gone. Someone in the military who never knew he’d sired a bastard.” “Does the man have a name?” Finally, Collin seemed interested. “If he does, Robert’s not saying, doesn’t want the guy to come sniffing around.” Another spasm of pain curled a bony fist around his stomach. “Christ!” Collin whispered. “A kid. Who would’ve thought?” “No one. Until now. And that’s the way it should stay.” As was always the case, Frank had to steer his son into the right way of thinking. “Listen, Collin,” he said with all the patience he could scrape together, “if Robert finds his grandson, we may as well kiss the family fortune good-bye.”
“You mean kiss off his part; we still have control of the mills and factories.” “But they’re not as valuable as they once were. Overseas labor and the unions are working to kill us. We’ve got mortgages and bills. Robert holds the real wealth.” Collin’s lips curved into some grim resemblance of a smile. “I imagine we’ll get by.” “For Christ’s sake, get some spunk, will you!” Frank’s temper reared its ugly head and took control of his tongue. The pain in his belly gripped harder. “You’re the poorest excuse for a son I’ve ever seen.” “So you’ve said,” Collin responded wryly, as if he didn’t give a good goddamn. A look passed between them, a dark, secretive look that Frank had come to understand, but he ignored Collin’s attempt to derail the conversation. Frank didn’t know how to get through to his firstborn, to batter down his wall of indifference, to make the kid see red. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been so hasty with Daegan; maybe de ep down he was the kind of son you really wanted,” Collin taunted. “Oh, shut up. He was nothing, nothing but a mistake.” “A mistake? Maybe so but he’s got spunk. Shit, he’s on spunk overload, if you ask me.” Collin’s eyes were positively frosty. “Anyone who tries to shoot the balls off Frank Sullivan’s got a helluva lot of spunk.” “He could be dead by now.” “You don’t even know? God, Dad, that’s weak.” “He’s out of my life, but now, if Robert has his way, that bastard of Bibi’s will be back in the family by Christmas.” “So what do you want me to do? Worry?” “For starters, yes. Then you might think about having a boy of your own.” “It hasn’t worked out.” “Well, it can’t, not when you’re always out of town, sailing and yachting and—” “Doing business,” Collin said, and Frank was reminded that Collin had boosted sales for the company. Ready-wear was the one area that wasn’t slipping into the red. “You should still have time to make a baby. I thought you married Carrie because you were attracted to her. I expected a grandson the next year.” Collin crossed from the window to the desk. “I married Carrie because you thought she would be the perfect mate for me. It was past time, you said, and I stupidly agreed. If you want to know the truth, Dad, Carrie and I are s eparated, have been for six months, and we’re talking about divorce.” Frank felt as if he’d been hit in the gut. “There is no divorce in our family.” “Bull. Bibi’s divorced.” “Bibi’s not my daughter, thank God. She’s always been a wild card.” “Just don’t have any illusions, Dad. You won’t get any grandkids from me. Besides, you’ve got Wade, Alicia’s little prince. He should be enough of a grandson for you. The way she goes on, that kid is the smartest, brightest, most athletic kid on earth. Any son I had wouldn’t be half as good. Just be thankful you’ve got another generation in Wade.”
Frank felt cold as death. Who was this man he’d raised from a boy? “Now, if there’s nothing else...” Collin slipped his arms through a wool coat that probably cost a thousand dollars. “There will be no divorce,” Frank said but the door was already slamming shut behind his son, the boy upon whom he’d pinned all his hopes. He dropped his head into his hands and waited for his heart to stop slamming against his ribs, for his blood pressure to slow, for the fire in his gut to subside. As he calmed, he reached for his whiskey glass and took a long sip that burned a warm and friendly path down his throat. Frank was sick of apathy. Everywhere he looked, his family didn’t seem to give two lousy cents. Maureen, hell, she was frigid from the first time he’d touched her years ago in the backseat of his father’s Lincoln. They’d both been in college at the time. She’d kissed him and lain down willingly, giving up her virginity without so much as a struggle. When he’d reached under her sweater to touch her tits, she hadn’t stopped him, even when he discovered she was wearing a padded bra and that her breasts were a pathetic size, the nipples small and pale, she’d let him stroke her. He’d figured the size of her boobs didn’t matter; she was the right girl. Rich and sophisticated, she rounded out his rough edges, the same edges he’d honed while rebelling against his father for favoring his brothers over him. Besides, Maureen had been a challenge. None of the other boys had made it to first base with her and here she was practically begging for it. So he’d kissed her, fondled her, and pushed her skirt up past her waist. She’d been wearing tights and he’d ripped them as he’d pulled them to her knees, then tore off her panties. Her mound wasn’t moist, and inside she was tight and dry. She cried out when he tried to touch her with his finger, and nearly screamed when he leaned down to kiss her between her legs. “What—what—oh, my God, Frank! No, don’t!” she’d whispered, horror written all over her face. Afraid she’d stop putting out all together and knowing that there was a hundred bucks riding on whether he’d score or not, he decided to go for broke. Unzipping his fly quickly, he didn’t bother kicking off his pants but shoved himself de ep into the driest piece of pussy he’d ever felt. She screamed as he pressed inward, struggling, but he was too far gone. His weight pinned her and he moved faster and faster, kissing her, nipping at her tiny breasts, rutting in her and never once feeling her juices flow. Damned virgin. Finally she quit struggling and lay there, wide-eyed, as if it were her duty to acc ept him. He’d come with a great, triumphant roar, the bull elk mating with the most sought-after cow in the herd. Afterward, he reached for a cigarette and stuffed her ripped panties into his pocket. His trophy. But as he’d inhaled that first puff, Maureen had come to life again. Expertly, she cleaned her blood from the leather seat and plucked the panties from his pocket. Clucking her tongue, she put the evidence de ep into a side pocket of her purse. “You should have bet more, Frank,” she said, tilting her head in a way he’d found years later to be annoying. “A hundred dollars. Such a pittance. I was worth a thousand, or maybe five thousand.” She picked his cigarette from his fingers and took a long, slow drag. A tic developed under his eye. “How’d you find out?”
“Doesn’t matter. What does is that you’re going to marry me.” She made the statement in a cloud of smoke. “What?” He couldn’t believe his ears. They’d hardly dated and he wasn’t about to be tied down to a woman as cold as a frozen fish fillet. “You’re out of your mind.” “I don’t think so.” She went on to tell him that if he didn’t comply, she’d tell her parents that he’d raped her—she had the ripped panties and bloody hankie to prove it. Her uncle was a judge, she reminded him, one who was once considered for the Supreme Court. Then there was that little matter of the bet—how ugly. A bet was reserved for common sluts and girls without any breeding or brains. He couldn’t believe it and wondered aloud why she wanted to tie the knot. Because it was time. Because it was expected. Because he was a Sullivan. Had he ever considered that she might have had her own little bet—one with her girlfriends—about whether or not she could wangle a marriage proposal out of the most confirmed of all the bachelors on fraternity row? Case closed. He hadn’t had much choice but to marry her. What he hadn’t known at the time, what she’d k ept from him for nearly five years, was that her family money had been squandered by her parents and that to ke ep her healthy and cultured way of life intact, she’d been forced to marry. She’d picked Frank as the primary target, probably because Robert had already given up bachelorhood. All in all, the marriage had worked, he supposed, exc ept that his son had this soft, apathetic side he didn’t understand. Alicia was stronger, manipulative like her mother, but with the Sullivan bearing added in. Bonnie—well, Bonnie just didn’t seem to care about anything. She was always losing herself in a book, a movie, some cause célèbre. If it wasn’t saving the whales or the rain forest, it was freeing some loser on death row. She sure didn’t give a damn where the money came from that k ept her from bouncing checks to whichever liberal issue was her current favorite. Another spineless Sullivan. How could he have spawned two? Bonnie still lived at home and had no current boyfriend, no impetus to move. Frank supposed Collin was right, he was lucky that Alicia had Wade, a kid who was a little disturbing because he reminded Frank of Stuart. God, how he’d hated that smart-aleck brat. Now, once again, it was up to him. While Robert was determined to undermine his side of the family, Frank was determined to save both his fortune and his r eputation. He put one foot on his credenza and reached for his drink. No little bastard of Bibi’s was going to mess things up. “So how’s your love life?” Laura teased when Kate answered the phone. “As if it’s any of your business.” Kate sank into a chair. Tension that had been with her for days drained out of her muscles at the sound of her sister’s voice. “Come on, tell me,” Laura coaxed. “It’s that cowboy next door, isn’t it?
The one you were so worried about.” Kate laughed, blushed a little, and wished to high heaven that Laura lived closer, that they could share a cup of coffee together, the local gossip, swap tales about children—well, if Laura ever got around to having any. “Why don’t you fly out here for Thanksgiving?” she asked, suddenly needing to see her sister so much it hurt. Aside from Jon, Laura was the only family she still claimed. “Oh sure! With Jeremy’s work schedule? Why don’t you just ask me to fly to the moon and back.” “I’m serious. You could come.” Laura laughed. “Sure I could, and then who would do your snooping for you?” “Is that why you called?” Kate said, her throat instantly tight. Maybe Laura had found something out about Daegan or about Jon’s real father or if... but that was too far-fetched, wasn’t it? Daegan and Jon—related? The thought had raced through her head before, but she’d dismissed it. They didn’t look alike and the bond they’d recently formed had nothing to do with genetics. Besides, all Jon’s talk about his father had evaporated over the weeks. “Y
Ep One down, one to go. One of the Daegan O’Rourkes lives in Carmel, California, with his wife and three kids.” “And the other?” Kate hardly dared breathe. “Still checking, but so far no prison record.” “And Jon’s parents?” “My friend’s still looking into it, but so far nothing. Whoever gave birth to him didn’t want him to ever find her. You know it’s too bad you can’t call Tyrell Clark,” Laura mused aloud. “I wish I could too,” said Kate, “but he’s dead.” “Yes, it’s too bad,” said Laura. For whatever reason, Tyrell had linked Kate with Jon, and for that she would always be grateful. The new baby had given her a reason to live again, to smile, to think about the future. She heard the back door open and the thunder of his size tens thudding against the floor as he clattered through the back hall. “What’s for dinner?” he asked, rounding the corner with Houndog, fur finally beginning to grow back, on his heels. “Got to run,” Kate told her sister. “The bottomless pit is on the rampage and hungry yet again.” “Very funny,” Jon said as he rummaged in the refrigerator. “I thought so.” Laura laughed. “Give him my love, will you, and for God’s sake, Kate, lighten up.” “Think about Thanksgiving.” “No way, but I’ll try for Christmas.” “And I’ll hold you to it.” She hung up just as Jon found a burrito and heated it in the microwave. “You were talking about Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah,” she said, snagging a soda from the refrigerator. “I twisted Aunt Laura’s arm, but she can’t come. She sends you her love.” He rolled his eyes as the microwave dinged. Refusing to use an oven mitt, he juggled the burrito that was beginning to ooze hot cheese onto his fingers. “Ouch.” He flopped the burrito onto a plate. “I guess it’s just you and me and the turkey this year,” she said. “How about Daegan?” he asked as if he didn’t care one way or the other. He found a fork in the drawer and settled into a chair at the kitchen table. “You mean how about inviting him here for Thanksgiving dinner?” “Yeah.” He lifted a shoulder. “Why not?” She shouldn’t have been surprised. It seemed Jon, after his initial distrust of the man, was completely won over. She only hoped he wasn’t setting himself up for a fall. What about you? Aren’t you playing the same dangerous game with your emotions? She had only to think of the last times she’d been alone with him, how he’d kissed her, how she’d put up no resistance, how she’d wanted to make love to him. Blushing, she felt the tops of her ears burn. “He might have plans.” Jon shot her a look that called her a fool. “Like what?” “I don’t know, but... people have families.” “Not him, I bet. He’s a loner.” He sank his fork into thick crust. “So, is it okay? Can I ask him?” Knowing she was playing with hot emotional fire, Kate lifted a shoulder. “Sure,” she heard herself saying. “I guess it doesn’t hurt to ask.” But de ep down, she wasn’t so sure. Bibi Sullivan Porter was a damned good liar. But so was Neils Van Horn and he could feel it when someone was straying from the truth. Bibi was straying all over the globe. And she was anxious as hell. Watching her nervously light another cigarette and recross those long legs he found so distracting, Neils sat on the edge of a gold-and-white- striped couch in the middle of her gold-plated condominium. When all else had failed, he’d called on her despite her father’s warnings. If Robert wanted to find his grandson, he’d have to let Neils work all the angles. Bibi had been undone from the moment he’d st epped into her condominium on the fourteenth floor. He’d taken in the surroundings: acres of plush mauve carpet covered here and there by she epskin rugs, weirdo abstract art, sculptures in black and purple, paintings of inanimate objects all out of proportion, and tables and chairs—mostly black and Oriental— clustered around potted plants in odd little groupings throughout the rooms. She’d tried to mask her anxiety, of course, and had offered him a drink. She’d even kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her on the couch as they’d talked and the lights of the city had become visible as night had fallen. She’d stuck to her story claiming that a sailor named Roy Panaker had been her lover. It had been a whirlwind affair lasting no more than two weeks and she’d never seen his wallet, never snooped to see if he’d given her a phony name, never once thought that he might be lying to her. He’d told her he was originally from Phoenix, that he’d moved around a lot as a kid, and that he was just about finished with his hitch in the navy. She didn’t even think that he might have used an alias, or that he could have had a wife and children tucked away somewhere, or that he could
have been scamming her. She’d been young and naive at the time, and when he’d said good-bye, that he was shipping out, she’d never expected to see him again. She’d found out she was pregnant the next month. It was all too neat and convenient in Van Horn’s opinion, and even though she met his stare, eye to eye, she seemed to be holding back. Beatrice, he surmised, was used to adjusting the truth and living with lies. It all seemed so easy for her. But he wasn’t buying. She’d k ept a cigarette burning during the entire interview. When she’d squashed one out, the next minute she was delving into her gold case for a r eplacement. It was as if nicotine was helping her stay the course, calming her nerves, ke eping the lies un-tangled as he grilled her. It didn’t matter. She could lie until she was blue in her pretty little face. He’d figure it out. He’d just start with her phone records, then her credit card bills, find out if she was in contact with anyone suspicious. He’d check her fax machine calls, her e-mail, her credit card receipts. He had people in all phases of the industry, those who were totally legitimate and those who made a practice of breaking the law. “Look, Van Horn, if you want to know the truth, I’d just as soon not start all this. I know Dad thinks he needs to find my baby, but I disagree. It wouldn’t be fair to the child.” “Nor to you.” “Right.” He spread his hands. “It’s just a job to me,” he said, matching her lie with one of his. “Your father hired me to find the boy and I intend to do the best that I can.” He sipped from the expensive scotch she’d poured for him. “You know, I thought you’d be curious about your son.” She closed her eyes a second. “It’s too late.” “But he’s your flesh and blood.” “I know and there was a time when I wanted to find him, especially once I had the operation... when I knew I couldn’t have any other kids. But then my life changed, I went through the divorce and now I’ve met a man who doesn’t want to be reminded that I had a past before I met him.” “Don’t you think that’s unreasonable?” She swirled her drink and considered. “I... I think it’s necessary, if Kyle and I are going to make things work. Look, this really isn’t any of your business, is it?” “No, but I’d hate to think that you were working against me or hiding information.” She laughed brittlely and glared at him over the rim of her glass. “The last time I saw my son was on the day he was born. His father never knew a thing about him.” “Ever?” “Right. So you’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Van Horn, wasting my father’s money. Even if you do locate Roy, he’ll think you’re nuts. He probably doesn’t even remember me. It’s been a long time.” Neils smiled, his gaze moving over her bare calves. “I doubt that any man could forget you.”
“Well, he did a fine disappearing act.” “Isn’t that something?” Van Horn said, then drained his drink and set it on the corner of a glass and brass table. “It’s almost as if the guy never existed.” “If he didn’t exist, then how could I have a son?” she asked, tilting up her pointed chin. She looked older than she was then, her hair, mahogany that shimmered as if it had been professionally colored, her blue eyes enhanced with aqua contacts. She wore a short sarong of sorts, black and gold threads woven into some gauzy fabric that showed off a hint of cleavage as well as revealed shapely, well-muscled legs. “Maybe you’re protecting someone else.” “Someone else?” she r epeated with a humorless laugh. “Who would that be?” “You tell me. A married man, perhaps? One with a family? Or... someone unsavory—a thug with a criminal record? A boy underage? Lots of possibilities.” “Well, you ke ep checking them out, Mr. Van Horn, that’s a good idea. My father’s a very wealthy man and I don’t think you’re above stretching out this investigation to get as much of Daddy’s money as you can. Go ahead. But as I said, you’re wasting his money and my time. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” She stretched out her legs and rolled her bare feet into black velvet slippers, then ushered him to the door. As he rode the elevator to the first floor, he wondered exactly what her secrets were. At the time of the baby’s conc eption, she’d been living at home with her folks, and the Sullivans had proved to be a clannish lot. There were lots of family get-togethers and even her brother Stuart and her cousin Collin were best friends when they could have easily been rivals. Bibi hung out with the boys when she could and had few girlfriends, but there was one, Tina Petricelli, who had moved away from Boston a few years back and Bibi’s first husband, Arnold Porter, who, though remarried, might provide some insight into Bibi’s previous love life. Sooner or later Van Horn would find out what secrets she thought she’d buried long ago. He made mental notes to call on those close to Bibi, and to check on the events of Stuart Sullivan’s death, which had to have happened, according to the chronological order of events, right around the time that the kid was conceived. He’d thought for a second that maybe Stuart had been the boy’s father—it would explain so much about the secrecy surrounding the birth and Stuart’s untimely murder—but he’d tossed the notion aside. If that was the case and Robert had the slightest inkling about the kid’s parentage, he would never have hired Neils—or would he have? The old coot was weird and talked about Stuart as if he were some kind of saint. The elevator bell chimed softly and he landed on the first floor. A woman draped in red leather and walking two greyhounds entered the car as he turned up the collar of his coat and edged through the re volving door. Bitter cold ripped into him as he hit the street. Snow was still piled along the curb and the wind tore by in a frigid rush that burned his cheeks. Hands de ep in his pockets, he headed for a little Irish pub a few blocks away. He’d have a couple of drinks and meet his silent partner again. One way or another he’d find the truth about the boy’s father, discover where the kid was, and then sell all this vital information to the highest bidder.
“Take the kid and run as far and as fast as you can!” Bibi said, her voice nearly strangled with hysteria. “Van Horn’s on to us, I just know it.” Daegan felt his jaw tighten to the point of pain. “He will be if he figures out you called me.” “He won’t. I’m in a phone booth and I wasn’t followed, now, do you hear me, I don’t trust Van Horn. He’s a slimy little bastard if there ever was one and he’s going to find you and the boy so you’d better pack up and leave right away.” “I’m working on it.” “For a month? Christ, Daegan, it’s almost Thanksgiving! How long are you going to draw this out?” Standing in his small, dingy kitchen, he could imagine the lines of strain on her face, the worry in her eye. “He’s even talked to Arnold.” “Arnold?” “My ex! Arnold called me yesterday and read me the riot act about Van Horn showing up on his doorst ep, asking all sorts of questions, making him late for his damned squash game. He acted as if it was my fault.” “Bibi, for God’s sake, get a grip—” “A grip? A grip?” she r epeated. “Jesus, don’t you understand anything, Daegan? Van Horn’s going to find you!” “Not if I can help it.” “Then grab the kid and take off.” As if it were all that simple. “And be up on charges for kidnapping?” “You’re the boy’s father!” “Not legally, Bibi, now just calm down,” Daegan insisted, though his own pulse was pounding with dread. It was time for the truth. Kate deserved to know what was happening. “Oh, for the love of God, Daegan, I can’t calm down! I’m freezing my butt off out here! Just do the job you were paid to do and get the hell out of Dodge!” “Cute, Bibi.” “Not meant to be. It’s not just Van Horn, you know. Daddy’s putting the screws to me. Van Horn’s convinced him there was no Roy Panaker, so now Daddy’s asking questions, not just of me, but of everyone else in the family, even my girlfriends.” “And Arnold.” “Yes, and that’s not the worst of it. Collin called to make sure I was going to Frank’s house for dinner, said he wanted to talk to me about something. Do you know how long it’s been since Collin spoke to me? Years, Daegan, years! He’s never started a conversation with me since Stu was killed and you left Boston. It’s almost as if he blamed me for all the problems, and now, now he wants to chat over roast turkey and damned cranberries!” “Stop it! You’re working yourself into a lather about nothing,” he said though his own stomach twisted at the mention of his half brother—Collin the blond, the beautiful, the chosen. Oh, shit. “Just slow down, take a de ep breath—” “Don’t patronize me, Daegan. I put up with that all my life from Stuart, Daddy, and Collin. I don’t need or expect it from you! Okay?”
He ground his back teeth together and suddenly knew what it would be like to be a wounded animal, cornered with nowhere to run. “I’ll handle things on this end.” “You’d better,” she said, “because Daegan, if this all blows up in my face, I’ll hold you responsible!” “I’ll ke ep that in mind,” he drawled before hanging up and running a hand over his face. Bibi was losing it, but she did have a point. What was the reason he was hanging around? Why not put an end to this insanity? Because he didn’t want to. The damnedest thing had happened. In the weeks since Jon’s run-in with Todd Neider, the boy had been coming over, not just for boxing lessons, but to learn to ride a horse, shoot a rifle, shore up the old fence line. Even the dog had started coming out from under the porch, sle eping on a mat just inside the door as the nights had grown colder and once in a great while thumping his mangy tail at the sight of Daegan. No more growls from old Roscoe or suspicious stares from the kid. Jon seemed to find him fascinating, and Daegan was hard-pressed to destroy a relationship so tenuously woven. In the beginning, because of the boy’s gift, he’d expected Jon to divine a lot more about him, but if the boy had figured out that Daegan had ulterior motives for moving in next door, he hadn’t said a word. In fact, all that talk about seeing into the future or the past seemed to have disappeared. Or the kid was just ke eping it to himself, as Daegan had. But Bibi was right. Sooner or later this whole mess was going to blow sky-high. He had to figure out what he was going to do. With Roscoe tagging reluctantly behind him, he made his way to the barn, where he spent the next couple of hours cleaning some of the tack and machinery, then spreading oats and hay into the mangers of his two horses. As he used his jack knife to cut the twine of bales he’d bought from a rancher who lived fifteen miles up the road, Daegan thought about his ranch in the Bitterroots and wondered why he didn’t miss the place—the one spot on earth he’d once considered home. He called every week and his foreman assured him that everything was running as well as could be expected. They’d lost a pregnant cow to black leg, but had inoculated the rest of the herd and no other animals had been stricken. He should return, should find his life again, but he was beginning to think that the rest of his miserable existence was tied to Kate Summers, her son, and Hopewell-damned-Oregon. Bibi’s call disturbed him. As long as he was here, close to Kate and Jon, he was like a campfire on the prairie, a beacon that would lead Van Horn to Kate’s front door. On the other hand, he was the only chance of protection they had. No telling what Van Horn’s plan was. Robert Sullivan’s intentions were clear—he’d do anything to get the boy back in the family. He didn’t give a damn about Kate or her son’s feelings. Then there was the Neider family to consider. Todd wasn’t about to stop harassing Jon unless his father st epped in and the old man had made his viewpoint pretty clear. “Son of a bitch,” he growled, kicking a bag of oats in frustration and sending a rat scurrying through a hole in the floorboards. Roscoe barked uneasily and Buckshot snorted. Daegan had no choice but to put his cards on the table and tell Kate the truth. She’d be furious and hurt and probably tell him to go straight to hell, a place he’d visited more than once before in his lifetime. But the thought of not seeing her again, being s eparated from his boy, drove a stake of pain through his heart. He could fight her for custody, he supposed, and consequences be damned, but then she’d be sure to hate him with a blinding ferocity that would tear at him for the rest of his days. Charging out of the barn, he felt the breath of the coming winter, fierce and unforgiving, in the wind at his back. A few flakes of snow swirled in the air, and ice had formed in the mud puddles from the rain they’d had earlier in the week. He heard Kate’s car before he saw it, and dread pounded in his heart.
Since that night on the porch when he’d kissed her and made mental love to her, they’d k ept their distance, at least physically. She seemed to have been as shaken as he, and the few times they’d run into each other, they’d been polite, even friendly, but hadn’t come close to the same intimacy they’d shared in those few minutes of passion. But it had lurked there, just below the surface of their civility to each other, that simmering desire that created a raw ache de ep in his soul and k ept him awake at night for the feel of her beside him. Her car ground to a stop and she flew out the door, her hair streaming behind her as her boots crunched furiously on the gravel. “Who do you think you are?” she demanded, her eyes snapping gold fire. His heart nearly stopped. She knew. Somehow, some way, she’d figured out why he was here. She advanced on him and jabbed a finger at his chest. “You had no right, do you hear me, no right to bulldoze your way into my business.” “Hey, whoa—slow down,” he said, ready to defend himself. Whether she believed it or not, Jon was his son as much as, probably more than, hers. “I know you went over to Carl Neider’s place!” That’s what this furious tirade was all about? Daegan nearly laughed with relief, but the consternation gripping her beautiful features stopped him short. “Weeks ago.” “Doesn’t matter when it happened.” “I figured old man Neider needed to know what his kid was up to.” “And so you took it upon yourself to tell him to ke ep Todd away from Jon.” “I just suggested he might not want to let his boy ke ep bullying other, smaller kids.” “But—” He lifted a dark, curious brow and watched as she snapped her mouth closed then threw her arms in the air and turned away from him, as if staring into his eyes was too distracting. “Jon’s my son, not yours,” she said finally and he felt a rip in his heart. Oh, lady, if you only knew. “I guess this might be all my fault, the way I let him come over here all the time to pester you and—” “He doesn’t pester me. I enjoy having him around.” The honesty in his words caused her shoulders to stiffen. She let out a long, slow breath, which formed a cloud in the frigid air. “Listen, Daegan, I appreciate all you’re doing for Jon. And... well, to be honest, I thought it was kind of nice—pushy, but nice—that you watched over the place at night. Jon... he needs someone other than me that he can look up to or d epend on or whatever you want to call it, but you have no right to go up to Carl Neider or anyone else and threaten him and oh—” He grabbed her wrist and spun her around, his fingers tightening like a manacle. “Something had to be done, Kate. Sheriff Sit-On-His-Ass wasn’t going to lift a finger and we both know it. He was hoping the situation would just fade away, but that’s impossible with Neider’s kind.” “There hasn’t been any more trouble...” “Don’t you wonder why?” “No, I—” “Because Carl Neider understands that I mean business!” Kate tried to yank back her hand, but he refused to let go. “I should have been the one,” she said. “Jon’s my son and—” “And you wouldn’t have made near the impression I did,” he said, feeling a hard smile curve his mouth. “Neider heard me.” “The whole damned town heard you, everyone but me! I heard it from one of my students, Daegan. Try and imagine my surprise and what an idiot I looked like as I didn’t know a thing about what was going on!”
“It was between Neider and me.” “And Flo Cartwright—Neider’s girlfriend—she apparently overheard you giving Carl the business.” He remembered the blonde lounging behind the screen door of the shabby trailer. “This is a small town, Daegan. You shouldn’t have gone over there in the first place, but once you did, the least you could have done was tell me about it. This does in volve my son, you know.” Her lips drew together in frustration and he saw a gamut of emotions play across her features. At this moment in time she didn’t know whether to hate him or love him, and he was hoping she’d find some middle ground. He supposed if she ended up hating him, which was highly likely, it would be better than if she was foolish enough to consider loving him. Love could only end in disaster. “You threatened him.” “Within an inch of his life,” Daegan agreed, pulling her closer and leaning down so that his nose was nearly touching hers. “It’s the only thing bullies understand.” “You had no other choice?” she demanded. “I don’t think so, no.” God, she smelled good and the sight of snowflakes melting on her cheeks and catching in her hair nearly undid him. Her lips parted slightly and he saw the change in her eyes, a dark awareness that transformed her fury into a hollow yearning. His response was quick and primal. “Oh, hell,” he growled and wrapped his arms around her, capturing her chilled mouth with his own. She seemed to melt against him, her heart a hammering echo of his own, her arms surrounding him as if it were the most natural act in the world. A vital part of him, one he’d k ept locked away for most of his life, struggled to break free. His eyes closed, and as the first snowflakes of fall swirled around them, he opened her mouth with his tongue, tasting and teasing and feeling the velvety warmth of her. A soft little moan es caped her throat and he wound a hand through her hair, holding the back of her head while the other reached upward beneath her jacket to feel the weight of her breast. Her mouth opened farther and he rubbed a thumb over the cup of her bra, feeling her nipple harden and strain. Already his blood was on fire, his skin itching to rub against hers, his mind ablaze with images of her satiny body arching to his, joining in splendor, her breasts, ripe and peaked with dark button-tipped disks begging to be suckled. Their joining would be a hot, savage union that would leave them both spent and heaving, sweat dripping from their bodies. He pulled the shirt from her jeans and his fingers scaled her ribs, touching, feeling, slipping the front clasp open. “Daegan, oooh,” she whispered against his ear and he rubbed in slow, sensuous circles belying the fire running through his veins. “I don’t think —” “Neither do I.” “I mean... I should go home. Jon is expecting me... Oh, God, please—” With all the willpower he could scrape together, he released her, letting her blouse and jacket fall back into place. Trying to ease the ache in his loins by shifting his jeans, he saw her take in a long, shaky breath as both her hands raked impatiently through her hair. “I don’t think I’m ready for this,” she confessed, and the honesty in her gaze pierced straight to his soul. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to rein in his galloping emotions, attempted to find that clear-thinking common sense that had seen him through the most painful and complicated portions of his life. “I’m not ready either,” he admitted.
“I—I don’t know if I’ll ever be,” she said softly, squinting up at him before walking to the old split rail fence s eparating the barn from the house. Wrapping her arms around a silvered post, she stared through the trees toward her place. “You still love your husband.” “No. I did for a long time, but Jim’s been gone for almost sixteen years. I don’t really remember what he looked like, even though I still have pictures. And Erin, my baby, she’d be a junior in high school now, probably have a driver’s license, be dating...” Kate blinked rapidly and looked away. With a squaring of her shoulders, she slapped the post and faced him again. “No reason to dwell on it, is there? I’ve still got Jon.” But not for long, he thought with a sick feeling that tore at all his convictions. How could he tell her the truth? How could he take her son from her? How could he not? Every day was one day closer to the truth— either from him or Robert Sullivan, and that meant they were one day closer to a day of reckoning when she would realize why he’d come here and then she would hate him forever. “Does he look like his father?” Daegan asked suddenly and she tensed. “Pardon?” she said, her voice nearly a gasp. “You said you couldn’t really remember what Jim looked like. I wondered if Jon resembled his dad.” She bit her lip. “No. Not at all.” Tell her. Now’s the time! “But he doesn’t look much like you.” “He takes after Jim’s side of the family,” she lied, her mind racing wildly. Why did he want to know? Why now? How had she been so stupid to bring Jim and Erin into this conversation? “His... his brother. My brother- in-law.” Daegan’s head jerked up. “Does he live around here?” “No... still back in Iowa, I think, but we’ve kind of lost touch.” Oh, Lord, now she was getting herself into the thick of a mess she couldn’t get out of. She remembered her vow to Tyrell Clark, how she and Jon would remain without past ties, and now she was confiding in this man—a stranger to her really, a man who heated her blood, yet of whom she knew so little. “I’d better get back,” she said quickly, dusting hands that were cold as the November air. “Jon will be home any minute and I want him to eat something and do his homework before he gets any ideas about coming over here.” “He’s always welcome,” Daegan drawled, staring at her with those stormy gray eyes that caused her pulse to jump and her heart to pound. She climbed back in her car, switched on the wipers, and drove the short distance to her house. But she k ept glancing in the rearview mirror expecting Daegan—or someone—to follow her. Don’t be paranoid, she advised herself. Just because he asked a few questions, he doesn’t have to be sinister or evil. She slammed on her brakes and studied her reflection in the mirror, this time looking into her eyes and seeing the truth. She wasn’t afraid for Jon, not anymore. She was afraid for herself, because like it or not, she was giving her heart to the man living in old Eli Mc Intyre’s house. “You’re comin’ to our house for Thanksgiving dinner, aren’t you?” Jon asked as he unbuckled the cinch of Loco’s saddle.
“Did your mom invite me or is this your idea?” Daegan asked. It had been three days since he’d seen Kate, and the invitation sounded suspiciously as if it had been Jon’s plan. “She says it’s okay.” Jon stared at him with round Sullivan eyes and Daegan didn’t have the heart to turn the boy down. “Sure, I’ll be there, then,” he said and felt guilty when he saw a smile stretch along Jon’s jaw and a light of anticipation brighten his gaze. What would he say when he found out the truth, when he realized Daegan was not only his father but a liar as well? A man who could ruin his life? “Just let me know what time.” “Four o’clock. We eat around five or five-thirty.” Jon slid the blanket off the gelding’s back and tossed it over the rail of a stall. Snorting loudly, the gray searched for any leftover oats in the manger. “Am I supposed to bring anything?” Jon laughed. “Mom said you’d probably ask and she said just bring your appetite.” Unfortunately Daegan was always hungry around Kate, but it didn’t have anything to do with food. Lately he’d been thinking of her, hoping to see her again, plotting excuses to get her alone. Ever since Bibi’s phone call, he’d been on the alert, listening to the town gossip about possible newcomers, ke eping his gaze trained on the gate to Kate’s lane whenever possible. He’d also called a friend of his in Boston who was gathering information on Neils Van Horn. Before the guy showed up, if he showed up, Daegan would be waiting. And then what? The truth, damn it. No matter what it cost. He glanced at the boy who was his son. Jon’s face in the low wattage was set in concentration as he began to brush Loco’s muddy hide. At this moment he looked younger than fifteen, and Daegan felt a protective surge race through his blood. He’d missed Jon’s first words, his first uneven st eps, the chance to teach him how to cast a fly into a swift mountain stream, the best way to break a tackle in football, and the importance of being your own person, but most of all, Daegan had missed the chance to be a father to his only son after growing up knowing what it felt like to have no father who cared. Could he really give up the rest of Jon’s youth as well—the few years the boy had left before becoming an adult? And what about Kate? Could he live the rest of his life knowing that she would rather spit on him than talk to him? How would he be able to rise each morning and know that he’d never see her or his son again? Jon finished brushing the horse and together they crossed the frigid yard to the house where, as they did every time they were together, they split a Coke. Never mind that it was below freezing outside, together they sat near the old wood stove, sipped from chipped enamel mugs, and Jon told him about his life. “Neider giving you any more trouble?” Daegan asked him. “Nope.” Jon frowned into his mug and blinked as if something was weighing on his mind. When he glanced up, his blue eyes were troubled. “Mom said you talked to Todd’s dad.” “That’s right.” Biting his lip, Jon scowled, but didn’t say anything. “What’s on your mind?” Daegan prompted. He rested the heel of his boot on the brick pad that supported the blackened stove. “I hate him.” “I know.”
“I mean I really hate him.” Daegan nodded, watching as Jon’s brow furrowed and his lips twisted into a knot. “But Todd’s dad beats him.” Daegan didn’t move. Jon looked at the floor, avoiding Daegan’s stare. “I don’t mean that he gives him a swat, I mean that he hits him over and over again when Todd messes up.” “Jesus.” Anger and disgust gnawed a hole in Daegan’s gut. “He came back to school last week and in gym class I saw his legs; they were all bruised. Someone asked Todd what had happened and he said he’d fallen down the back st eps and scraped himself.” “But you don’t believe him.” “Nah.” Jon swirled his Coke and the two cubes of ice clinked together. “I... um... well, you know that I sometimes can see things—not always, though, and sometimes I’m wrong, but usually if I get a clear vision...” His voice trailed off and he worried his lip while still rotating his cup nervously. “Anyway, I’ve touched Todd and seen into his mind, if that’s what you want to call it. He’s scared shitless... I mean scared to death of his old man after he’s had a few beers. Todd locks himself into his bedroom, but his dad comes in and hits him with a belt, over and over again, and Todd, he cries for his mother. She left a long time ago, married someone else, had some other kids and never calls or sees Todd.” “Damn.” Daegan’s anger was white-hot. “No wonder the kid’s a mess. What about social services? If you’ve seen the bruises, then someone else has to have as well, a doctor or a teacher—what about the gym teacher?” “He’s the football coach.” Jon’s eyes rose from his cup to meet Daegan’s. “He thinks everyone should be able to take a hit now and again. ‘Makes boys into men,’ he says, but it’s all a bunch of crap.” “Does Todd know that you’ve seen what happens to him?” “Oh, yeah. That’s why he hates me so much. He’s afraid I’ll tell, and well...” Jon shifted in his chair as if he’d like to crawl out of his skin. “Sometimes he makes me so mad I say the first thing that comes to my mind. I know he’ll stop picking on me or giving me a bad time if I bring up the fact that his old man beats him.” “And you feel bad about it?” “Sometimes. It makes the other kids laugh at him, and even though he deserves it—man, does he deserve it—I know what it feels like.” He took a long swallow from his drink, as if his throat was suddenly parched. “So what do you think we should do?” Daegan asked, studying the boy. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to get Todd into any more trouble, not now anyway.” “What if he starts picking on you again?” “Then I’ll have to beat him up myself,” Jon said with a cocky grin.
“You think that would be the answer?” Jon offered him a one-sided smile that was so much like his own he could barely breathe. “The best one we’ve got.” “Gotcha!” Adrenalin coursed through Neils Van Horn’s bloodstream. With a hoot, he slapped the itinerary onto the top of his metal desk and silently praised himself for being one helluva private detective. Sullivan was getting his money’s worth. He took a pull on his beer and leaned back in his chair, balancing the bottle on his flat stomach. Perseverance, perseverance, perseverance! Ha! Take that, Beatrice, you snobby bitch. Finally, he’d struck pay dirt and he could feel his wallet growing heavier by the second. Glancing again at the copy of Bibi’s itinerary, he wondered what she was up to. Narrowing his eyes, he let the cold beer slide down his throat. Recently, about the time the old man started making noise about finding the kid, Beatrice had taken herself a little trip to San Francisco, where she’d met her doctor boyfriend for a fun-filled weekend. But on the way to the West Coast, she’d stopped in Helena, Montana—just a layover, but a strange one considering that there were plenty of nonstop flights coast to coast. Oftentimes a person had to stop in Denver, Chicago, Minneapolis, even Dallas, but Helena, Montana? Never. Besides, Bibi had already stopped once in Chicago, where she’d changed planes, and rather than take the continuing service to Seattle, she’d opted for a smaller jet with a destination of Backwater, U. S. A. Two hours later she climbed aboard yet another plane, this one headed for her final destination of San Francisco. There had to be a reason she’d spent a few hours on the ground. Why? To meet someone? Who? He picked up a legal pad with his notes scattered through half the pages and thumbed through the wrinkled sheets. He’d already checked and found that the only person who was remotely associated with Bibi or the Sullivan family who lived within a radius of five hundred miles of the airport was Daegan O’Rourke, Frank Sullivan’s bastard, the guy some people thought had killed his half cousin, Stuart. So why would Bibi want to talk to O’Rourke? What could they possibly have in common? O’Rourke was a juvenile delinquent turned into a goddamned cowboy, for Christ’s sake—a cowboy! From South Boston. If nothing else, O’Rourke had a sense of humor. Bibi was a fading Boston socialite, a rich divorcée intent on marrying an uptight doctor. As far as Neils knew, Bibi and Daegan had nothing to share exc ept they were related to one of the meanest sons of bitches of all time—good old Frank Sullivan. Born wealthy, Frank had spent his life feeling third in line while William was alive and then second best when his eldest brother had died. Insecure and mean, Frank Sullivan reminded Neils of a street tough, rather than a guy who’d been born with a silver spoon rammed down his gullet. Why would Bibi fly halfway across the country to see O’Rourke? He wrote Daegan’s name on the note pad and circled it over and over again, trying to come up with a reason. O’Rourke had been a private investigator himself; maybe Bibi had hired him to help her. With what? To check on
her boyfriend? Nah! The timing was too coincidental and Neils didn’t put much stock in coincidence. So what? Did they share a secret? Did he know about the kid? He stopped drawing and concentrated so hard that his head began to pound. His other leads had dried up. He’d tried to locate Tyrell Clark’s staff but had come up empty-handed. Even the women who worked for him, Rinda Du Bois and Kate Summers, were no longer anywhere near Boston. Rinda lived in the Florida Keys somewhere, still working for a lawyer, and she hadn’t seen or heard from either Tyrell or Kate for fifteen years. Kate Summers, well, he was still looking for that one. Her name was just too damned common, but he wasn’t giving up. She’d left Boston soon after the baby was born, before Tyrell’s death. Perhaps she and Tyrell were lovers, or maybe she knew about his illegal scams that the IRS was looking into, or... she left with a baby? “Oh, hell, you’re really losing it, Van Horn,” he growled at the empty room, but he doodled around her name on the yellow paper. She might just know something, but he couldn’t find her or her family. Her father was dead, her alcoholic mother dead as well, an aunt and uncle in Des Moines acting as if she’d fallen off the face of the earth because of some vile thing she’d done as a teenager and her sister—hell, what was her name? Linda? Lori? No, Laura. That was it. Laura Rudisill Something or other. Neils hadn’t tried to get through to her because Kate, who had only worked for Tyrell Clark a little while, seemed like such a longshot to be in volved in something of this magnitude. She was barely more than a rec eptionist. Would Clark have trusted her with the truth about Beatrice Sullivan’s baby? Or could she have stumbled upon it innocently—is that why she disappeared so completely when she left Boston? Or had she been, as Neils originally suspected, Clark’s girlfriend? He’d given up on that angle for the time being because he had this interesting development with good ol’ Bibi and her infamous bastard cousin. He’d start with Daegan O’Rourke. He had his number somewhere... Flipping through the pages of his notebook, he found the scrap of information he needed, then decided against making a phone call. No, a visit would be better—harder for O’Rourke to avoid. Face to face, that’s how it was gonna be. Neils dropped the pad back onto the table and swilled down the rest of his cold beer. He’d have to call his silent partner in all this—see how she took the news. She might even give him a little insight. And O’Rourke, his story should be interesting. Licking his lips, Neils glanced at his coffee-stained desk calendar and saw that it was only two days until the holiday. It seemed fitting somehow. “Happy Thanksgiving, O’Rourke!” Grinning, he looked through his window with the crack in one corner. “Get ready to spill your guts.”