скачать книгу бесплатно
All he’d known was that he couldn’t stay in Houston.
Kane pursed his lips. “I could always use an extra set of hands around here.”
Zach raised his eyebrows. Lifted his empty sleeve. “Will half a set work?”
Kane’s wince was so slight, Zach doubted most people would have noticed it. “Poor choice of words. You want an apology?”
“If you give me one, I’m going to lose what little respect I have for you.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Kane said so drily Zach was surprised a puff of dust didn’t come out of his mouth. “You can start tomorrow.”
Zach finished his beer, hoping to wash away the sudden tightness in his throat. “I appreciate it.”
“Tough getting those words out, huh?”
“Only when saying them to a Bartasavich.”
Kane’s grin was sharp and appreciative and not the least bit insulted. Best of all? He didn’t point out that Zach was a Bartasavich, too—in blood if not in name.
“You know, the apartment upstairs is empty,” Kane said. “If you need a place to stay.”
“I’ll pass.”
“You could bunk with us,” Kane suggested. “We have a guest room on the first floor.”
His brother obviously thought Zach was refusing due to the apartment being on the second level. That wasn’t it. He could handle a few steps. It might even be good for his recovery, climbing up and down a bunch of stairs each day.
But he didn’t want to owe Kane for anything more than the job.
“Does Charlotte know you go around collecting strays?” Zach asked of Kane’s wife.
Kane lifted a shoulder. “You’re not a stray. You’re family.” As if reading Zach’s mind, he quietly added, “Whether you like it or not.”
He didn’t like it, but that wasn’t news. “I don’t need a handout. I make my own way.”
“It’s a place to sleep, not the account number to my trust fund. It doesn’t have to mean you like me or that you suddenly want to change your name to Bartasavich and come over for Christmas dinner.”
“I’ll find a place. On my own.”
Maybe.
The only other time he’d been to Shady Grove, he’d stayed at a Holiday Inn off the highway, but that had to be at least five miles away. And he didn’t think there was any public transportation in town. Not exactly a great setup for a man who needed to relearn how to drive.
“King’s Crossing has rooms,” Kane said, writing something on the back of a cocktail napkin. “But it’s on the other side of town. Bradford House is closer. It’s a bed-and-breakfast, though, not a real hotel.” He handed Zach the napkin. “I put my cell number on there, too. On the off chance you can’t find a room tonight and would rather ask for help than sleep on the street.”
Easy for Kane to say. He had this place, his pretty little wife, probably a house with a white picket fence. He had Estelle, his eighteen-year-old daughter and the only Bartasavich Zach actually cared about.
He had everything.
The only thing Zach had was his pride. And he’d choked down enough of it today.
Zach had to lay the napkin on the bar to fold it with his one hand. When he was done, he stood—getting off the stool was considerably easier than getting on the damned thing—and dug his wallet from his front left pocket.
“How much for the beer?” he asked, putting the napkin in with his money.
“On the house.”
“Don’t,” Zach said, holding Kane’s gaze. “Don’t make me regret coming here.”
“Yeah, I get it. You make your way,” Kane said mildly, pulling another beer. “It’s one beer. You going to insist I work you twelve hours a day? Pay you minimum wage and not one cent more?”
“How. Much?”
Kane served his customer then wiped his hands on the towel. “Ten should cover it.”
Zach narrowed his eyes. “Ten bucks for a draft? What’d you do, lace it with gold?”
“The drink was four dollars, but I figured you’d want to leave your friendly bartender a nice tip.”
He handed him a five. “You figured wrong. What time should I come in tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here at noon.”
“Noon? What’s the matter? Need your beauty sleep?”
“That’s why I’m the fairest of us all,” Kane said, pouring tequila into a blender.
Zach scratched the scar at his right temple. Had to admit what Kane said was true.
Especially now.
“I can be here earlier. I don’t need special treatment. I’ll put in a full day’s work.”
“I come in at noon,” Kane said, slicing a lime, “because I’m behind this bar most nights until 2:00 a.m. then I spend another half an hour cleaning up. I’ll need you to come in when we open for lunch, so you’ll work the early shift, 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., Monday through Thursday, and 7:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. either Friday or Saturday night. I know math has never been your strong suit, so I’ll save you from having to count on your fingers. Each shift is eight hours.”
“Hard to count to eight,” Zach said, waving the fingers of his left hand at Kane, “when you only have enough for five.”
Kane sent him a bland look, not the least bit of sympathy in his gaze. “Take off your shoe, then, and use your toes.”
Apparently Kane wasn’t going to coddle him like a child.
Or worse, treat him like an invalid.
Zach bent and picked up his duffel bag. Put it over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“I don’t suppose you want me to drive you to a hotel?”
“Nope.”
“Right. If you change your mind—”
“I won’t.” He wouldn’t. Not about anything.
He turned and skirted the stool, his leg hurting worse now than when he’d first come in, but he kept going. His entire focus on taking the next step. Then another.
He’d just passed the end of the bar when Kane’s voice reached him.
“Hey,” his brother called. Zach stopped but didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. It took all he had just to remain upright, and would take extra effort to get him out the door. No way was he risking falling on his face in front of all these people by trying something as fancy as a turn without anything to hold on to.
“Before you come in tomorrow,” Kane continued, “do me—and the world in general—a favor and see about getting that stick dislodged from your ass.”
Several customers laughed; a few watched him to catch his reaction. Nope. No special treatment on Kane’s end.
Guess he shouldn’t have been worried about that.
Zach’s answer was to walk away—arm raised, middle finger extended.
He didn’t smile until he stepped outside, the door shutting behind him.
Maybe coming here hadn’t been a mistake after all.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a7356250-3dd6-5555-896c-b66627b7fefe)
“MAMA?”
Checking her phone on the bottom porch step outside Bradford House, Fay didn’t even glance up. She heard the words Mom, Mommy and Mama at least a thousand times a day. Both of her sons seemed to start every single sentence with one of them. They were like the background music to her life.
“Hmm?” she asked, closing out her text messages to check her emails.
Mitchell, her three-and-a-half-year-old, crouched in front of her, peered up into her face. “Mama?” He shook her free arm. Repeatedly. And hard enough to have her head wobbling along. “Mama? Mama?”
With a half laugh, half sigh, she smiled at him. “What-a? What-a? What-a?”
“Mama, are you mad at me?”
“What? No. Of course not. Why would you think that?”
He shrugged. Rubbed her arm, his hand warm and clammy and covered in potting soil—which now streaked her skin from elbow to wrist. “I asked if I could plant the daisies and you didn’t answer me.”
She flushed. Guilt, so easily induced, twisted in her stomach. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t hear you. I was checking my phone.” Standing, she put her phone in her pocket. Took hold of her son’s hand. “Of course you can plant the daisies. We’ll put some in here,” she continued, picking up a sunny yellow ceramic pot and carrying it out to the grass. “Why don’t you pick out the colors while I open another bag of soil?”
“Okay!” He raced over to the flat of colorful gerbera daisies and knelt down, studying them intently.
She dragged the potting soil into the sunshine, the grass thick and green under her sneakers, then used a pair of scissors to open the bag. Knowing how much Mitchell liked to “help,” she waited for him to bring the flowers over so he could fill the pot.
“Mama,” he said, running back to her to tug on her jeans. “How many?”
“Let’s start with three and go from there.”
He nodded, then hurried back to the flowers.
Her baby didn’t like to venture too far from her. Every few minutes he’d come back to her side, touch her leg or arm, make sure he had her attention, that she was still there, and then wander off again.
Elijah would have just yelled at her, as if he was a half a block away instead of across the brick sidewalk that bisected the yard. Then again, Elijah was more likely to take off down the street than stand still long enough to pick out daises, let alone plant them. That boy had energy to spare.
While she so often felt as if she had none.
But not today. Today she’d taken control. As much as she’d wanted to curl into a ball after her conversation with Damien, she hadn’t. She’d showered, dressed, put on fresh makeup and straightened her naturally curly hair.
Just as Shane liked it.
She’d gotten the boys up, cooked pancakes in their tiny kitchen while they got dressed, then sent Elijah off to school before greeting her guests downstairs. She’d put in a few hours in her office, letting Mitch watch TV before heading to WISC, an upscale clothing boutique downtown. It had taken her close to an hour, but she’d finally chosen a deep purple lace chemise and matching panties for tonight. Mitch had been so patient and well behaved, she’d taken him to Panoli’s for lunch. After pizza, they’d stopped at the garden center on the way home.
She eyed the flats of flowers—over a dozen perennials and annuals of all shapes, sizes and colors littered the space between the driveway and sidewalk, plus two azalea bushes, a rosebush and three different kinds of decorative grass.
She chewed on her pinkie nail. Perhaps she’d gotten a tad bit carried away, but there was nothing better than tending a garden, caring for it so it flourished. Bloomed. Cullen’s Greenhouse had just received a new shipment, and she’d had a hard time reining in her enthusiasm.
And, it seemed, her business credit card.
Not that Neil would complain. Or even question the purchase. He never did. Her brother trusted her to run Bradford House as she saw fit, and encouraged her to make every decision, from what sort of linens to use to whom to hire. Whatever she wanted, he made sure she got.
But sometimes she wondered if his being unable to refuse her anything had less to do with trust and more to do with him thinking if he denied her something she’d break into a million pieces. Pieces he’d be unable to put back together.
“I got three, Mama,” Mitch said, his little arms around three plastic containers as he headed toward her. “See?”
“I do see,” she said, crossing the short distance to take two of the flowers from him. “These will look very pretty together.”
“Yeah. I got yellow ’cuz it’s your favorite color and red ’cuz it’s mine and orange for ’Lijah. It’s for all of us. They’ll be a family like we are.”
She hated that he didn’t remember a time when they’d been a real family. That he’d never had his father in his life full time.
She brushed his hair back. The once almost-white strands were now darker, with a definite reddish tint, but it was still baby fine and stick straight. “You know,” she said, wanting to ease Mitchell into getting used to having Shane around, “Daddy’s favorite color is red, too. Just like you.”
Mitch seemed more curious by the idea than happy over it. Then again, he was shy around strangers, especially men. And that his father was a stranger broke Fay’s heart.
Thank God all of that was about to change.
“It is?” he asked.
She nodded. “So maybe these flowers could be for all of us. You and me and your brother and your daddy.”
“Do you want them to be?”
She knew what she should say. That she wanted him to make that decision. That he didn’t have to include Shane in anything he did, not after Mitch had spent only a handful of days with Shane since he was a baby.
But that wasn’t all Shane’s fault. She bore some responsibility for the problems in their marriage. For not being strong enough to weather the tough times. For wanting too much. For needing too much.
“I do want that,” she said, unable to hide what was in her heart. “Very, very much.”
