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“What?”
Ah—was it only his imagination, or had Devon suddenly gone still…still as a marble statue? Except, he thought, no statue had ever had hair that vivid.
“You heard me,” he said harshly, staring at her so hard his eyes burned. “If your parents’ house was such a great place to raise a kid, why did Susan run away from it?”
Her eyes shifted downward to the hand that rested on the chair back, for that moment the only thing alive in her frozen face. Then she pulled in a breath, drew herself up, and said stiffly, with none of the previous vibrancy, “My sister was always…a difficult child. She was headstrong, spoiled. Rebellious. I imagine she ran away because she didn’t like my parents’ rules. I’m sure she thought she was being mistreated—”
He couldn’t stop a laugh; it made a sound like blowing sand. “No kidding.” Tucking the little one more securely into the cradle of his arm, he pushed away from the counter. No one said a word when he moved toward the door.
Halfway there, though, he turned. Again, he felt as if he had no choice as he softly said, “Tell me something, Devon. How can you do this? To Emily. After—”
“What?” She’d gone wary and still again, just like before. “After what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He took a breath, then shook his head. No. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t say it, not with his parents—his mom—sitting right there. Instead, he smiled a hard little smile. “Susan used to say she had nobody—you know that? Nobody who cared a damn about her. Nobody in this world, that’s how she put it. That includes you, doesn’t it? You said, you imagine she probably thought she was being mistreated. Don’t you know what was going on in that house? Where were you when your sister needed you?”
It was cruel, and he knew it. It wasn’t like him; he knew that, too. He felt the weight of his mother’s reproachful glare and fortified himself against it, bracing himself to meet instead that other pair of eyes…green-fire eyes.
There was no flinching this time; she lifted her chin and those eyes stared back into his. “I was away—in law school—when Susan left. I’d have been there for her, if I’d known—”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Eric said softly. He turned and left them there.
His going left a void that wasn’t quite silence. To Devon it felt like a sort of hum, a current of tension and distress that was almost audible.
She heard Lucy exclaim, “I don’t know what’s happened to him, I swear,” and probably would have gone after her son then and there if her husband hadn’t tightened his hand on hers and held her where she was—a tiny, private gesture. She also saw the tight, shiny look of worry on Lucy’s face, the tense and skittery way she sat, like a little brown bird perched on a fence, half a heartbeat away from flight.
“How ’bout some of that coffee you made? Sure smells good.” Mike’s gaze, thoughtfully appraising, rested for a long moment on Devon, and she felt a curious tickle of unease. She couldn’t have explained why; his eyes held only kindness and compassion.
They’ve seen a lot, those eyes. They understand too much.
“I’ll get it,” said Devon, and was surprised when her voice came out sounding as rusty as Lucy’s. “How do you take it?”
“Black is fine.”
“Lucy?”
“What? Oh—yes…black for me, too.”
Devon busied herself with the cups, and it didn’t seem strange to her that she, the guest, was serving coffee to her host and hostess. She was bemused and dismayed, though, to find that she felt shaky and nervous doing it.
I’m probably just hungry, she told herself as she bit savagely into cold leathery toast.
Chewing stolidly, she thought about the scene that had just played itself out in the predawn quiet of a farmhouse kitchen…her first meeting with the Opposition. Her thoughts weren’t happy ones. She hadn’t handled it well. She’d allowed herself to be blindsided, and that never happened. When she thought about why it had happened, all she could come up with was an appalling list of mistakes. Her mistakes. Devon hadn’t gotten to be where she was—that is, one of the most respected and feared young attorneys in Los Angeles—by making mistakes.
Mistake number one, she’d failed to prepare herself. So far, the information she’d been able to assemble on Eric Lanagan was proving to be woefully inadequate. Most of what she knew was in the form of statistics gleaned from Emily’s birth certificate: age, race, state of birth. From that, with the help of her firm’s private investigators and a judge’s court order, she’d been able to put a trace on his credit cards. Finding him, tracking him down—that had been the easy part. Finding out who he was—that was where she’d slipped up.
Mistake number two, she’d fallen victim to her own preconceived notion of what kind of person Eric Lanagan was.
Which had led directly to Mistake number three, seriously underestimating her opponent.
And why not? she furiously asked herself. Twenty-eight-year-old man with no employer of record befriends nineteen-year-old homeless woman and gets her pregnant—that sure said Punk-Sleazebag-Loser loud and clear to her! Didn’t it?
She’d come prepared to despise Eric Lanagan and to fight him tooth and nail on behalf of her parents for custody of her sister’s child. But she hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected him to have parents who would unhesitatingly take her in in the middle of a blizzard and give her a bed and pajamas and an old flannel bathrobe that smelled of sunshine. She hadn’t expected Eric Lanagan to have such an interesting and compassionate face, and eyes—like his father’s, she was startled to realize—that gave the impression they’d seen way too much of the world’s failures and cruelties.
And, she thought with a curious little flutter high up under her ribs, it was damn hard to despise a man while he was holding a tiny baby in his arms, tenderly, expertly feeding, burping and then rocking her to sleep.
“So—you live in Los Angeles, then?”
Devon jerked her gaze and her attention back to the two people who were sitting at the table, sipping coffee and watching her—one warily, the other with that quiet curiosity she found so unnerving. She chewed toast, drank coffee, swallowed.
“That’s right—downtown L.A., actually.” It was Mike who’d asked, but she addressed her reply to Lucy as well. And all the while she was telling the Lanagans about her high-rise corner condo—from one side of which, on a clear day, she could see the Pacific Ocean, and from the other, snow-capped mountain peaks—making bright, tension-easing conversation, with another part of her mind she was gnawing and nibbling at the problem—the enigma—of their son, like a dog with a thorn in its paw.
I need to find out more. I have to get to know him.
Footsteps thumped on the stairs, making no effort to be stealthy. Devon’s heart lurched, and so did her hand; she swore under her breath as hot coffee slopped onto the front of the flannel bathrobe. Again Lucy started to get up, and again Mike held her where she was. The footsteps clumped down the hallway; a bulky shape flashed past the service room, past the open kitchen doorway. The door to the back porch opened, then banged shut. A moment later the outer door did, too. Three pairs of eyes jerked toward the windows, as if pulled by the same string.
“Chore time,” Lucy announced. And this time when she pushed back her chair, her husband didn’t try to stop her.
The windows were filled now with a swirling, milky light. Dawn had come, and no one had noticed.
Devon retreated to her room while around her the farmhouse awoke to the routines of a snowy winter morning. Footsteps clumped up and down stairs, doors banged, buckets rattled—activity as incomprehensible to Devon as some mysterious ritual performed by aliens. She wished she could be interested in, or at least curious about what was going on. When, after all, was she ever again likely to find herself on a farm? But all she felt was frustrated. Thwarted. Boxed in. She had things to do, important things. But right now none of those objectives seemed achievable. Without the means to accomplish her purpose, without the ability to change her circumstances, she felt powerless—and Devon O’Rourke did not like feeling powerless.
She’d have to call her office, at least—let them know what had happened. Still too early for that, though; the offices in L.A. wouldn’t be open for hours. Even if she’d had her cell phone with her, which she didn’t. What had she been thinking of, to leave it in the car? And where, exactly, was the car?
Pacing to the windows did nothing to soothe her restlessness. In fact, it made her feel even more as if she’d been shut into a box—all she could see out there was a wall of swirling white. Now and then the snow thinned enough to unveil shadowy shapes—nearby, the gnarled skeletons of great oak trees, and farther away, the hulking mass of a huge old barn, the kind she’d heretofore seen only on the pages of calendars and in children’s picture books. She couldn’t see any sign of the rented Lincoln Town Car complete with GPS—though she knew it had to be out there, somewhere, under all that snow. She hoped it wasn’t in the road, at least. She hoped it wasn’t—though she suspected it might be—in a ditch.
Someone, a bulky and indistinguishable shape in a parka, was crossing the snowy swath between the house and the barn, accompanied by two smaller shapes which romped and frisked in excited circles around the bulky one. Mike, apparently, because a moment later there was a soft tapping at Devon’s door, and Lucy put her head in.
“Hi—” her voice was scratchy-soft, her smile strained. “I just wanted to check and make sure…Mike and I have to go out and do chores. Since Eric’s not…uh… Can you keep an ear out for the baby in case she wakes up?”
Suppressing panic, Devon gulped and said, “Oh—sure, yeah, that’s fine. No problem.”
“Eric’s gone out.” Lucy gave an embarrassed little shrug and left it hanging.
“So I gathered. But, if you don’t mind my asking—” Hell, she’d ask it anyway, in utter exasperation. “Where could he possibly go, in this?”
Lucy’s smile slipped, became gentler, less strained. “Oh—the barn, I imagine.” She stepped into the room, still holding the doorknob, and leaned against the partly open door. She was wearing quilted snow overalls, Devon saw, over a thermal turtleneck pullover. “It’s where he always used to go when he was upset about something…or mad at us.” Devon hadn’t said a word or changed her expression, but Lucy suddenly shrugged and looked uneasy. “Well, you know how kids get.”
“Not really,” said Devon in a companionable sort of way. “Never having had any myself.”
Lucy made a sound like swallowed laughter. “Well, you were one—and not so very long ago, either. You must remember what it was like.”
“Not really,” Devon said dryly.
Lucy looked at her for a moment as though she didn’t believe her, then smiled again, that same soft little smile, and for some reason this time it seemed almost unbearably poignant. “You said your sister was headstrong and rebellious? That pretty much describes Eric, when he was growing up. Maybe that’s part of what drew them to one another, do you suppose? Kindred spirits….”
Her eyes flew to the windows and she drew herself up, looking fierce and faintly embarrassed. “I’ve got to see to my animals. Sorry to bother you—just wanted to make sure—”
“Go ahead. I’ll look in on the baby, no problem.”
“Okay…well…shouldn’t be long…” Halfway out the door, Lucy turned back to sweep Devon with a quick, appraising look. “If you need any warmer clothes, help yourself to whatever’s in the closet. It’s mostly just things I haven’t gotten around to giving away, anyway.”
“Okay, thanks.” Devon stepped quickly forward when Lucy would have closed the door. Wedging herself into the open space she said in a low voice, terrified that she might wake the sleeping baby, “Uh, you said Eric’s in the barn? I really do need to talk to him. Do you think it would be okay if I…”
“I’d wait a little while,” Lucy said, and her smile was more wry, now, than sad. “Give him time to work it off.”
Thwarted once more, Devon gave a little huff of frustration. “Work what off?”
“Whatever it is,” Lucy said softly, “that’s eating him up inside.”
Chapter 4
After Lucy had gone, Devon went back into her room and for a few minutes stood with her toes curled up inside her oversized slippers, frowning at nothing and dithering over her choices. Her choices seemed annoyingly limited.
She needed to talk to Eric—that was absolutely number one on her priority list. But Lucy had asked her to wait awhile, so she couldn’t do that. At least, not right this minute, which was when Devon preferred to do things.
In the meantime, though, she could get dressed. Should get dressed. But the clothes she’d taken off last night were still unpleasantly damp, and neither they nor anything else she’d brought with her for what she’d expected would be an overnight stay in a nice hotel seemed remotely appropriate for an Iowa farm in a blizzard. Lucy had invited her to help herself to whatever she might find in the closet, and as unappealing as that prospect was, she supposed she’d have to take her hostess up on her offer unless she wanted to spend the entire day in borrowed pajamas and an old flannel bathrobe.
Perhaps she could take a shower. Oh, she longed to take a shower; not only could she have used the morale boost, her hair was also sorely in need of the taming only a good shampooing could give it. And no time like the present, when she had the house all to herself.
But then she realized—if she took a shower, she wouldn’t be able to hear the baby if she cried.
That was when it hit her—she was alone in the house…with a baby! An extremely tiny baby, moreover. A helpless infant no more than a few weeks old.
Panic seized her. Her heart pounded; she began to sweat. Oh, God—what did she know about babies? She couldn’t remember ever having touched one, let alone picked up one, fed one, changed a diaper. Oh, God, she thought, what am I going to do if it wakes up?
A series of images flashed through her mind, vivid as a slide show: a tiny fist waving against the backdrop of a masculine pec that was enticingly adorned with a smooth brown nipple. A big hand with long, sensitive fingers rhythmically patting a blanket covered with pink bunny rabbits and yellow ducklings. A tiny head covered with red-gold down bobbing just below an angular beard-stubbled jaw.
She gave a snort, laughing at herself—though mysteriously, her heart still pounded.
Get a grip, Devon. Think about it—if he can do it, how hard can it be?
She could handle one little tiny baby. She was a grown woman, more intelligent and capable than most. Of course she could do something millions of people, all kinds of people, even some not-all-that-bright people, managed to do quite capably every day. And just to prove she could, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.
The door directly opposite hers was open. Devon could see a tumbled bed, and on it what was unmistakably a fuzzy yellow…her heart gave a leap before she recognized it as a bathrobe, the one Lucy had been wearing this morning. The master bedroom, then. The door next to it was open, too—obviously a sewing room or workroom of some sort, eclectic and joyously cluttered. The door at the far end opposite the stairs was the bathroom. That left only one door—the one next to Devon’s.
That door was closed. Never one to waste time once she’d made a decision, before she could even think about chickening out she marched up to it, seized the doorknob and turned it. Quickly and silently she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Then she just stood there, absolutely still, while her heart banged itself silly against her ribs.
Eric’s room. She knew instantly that it was his, and that almost nothing in it had changed since he’d left it, probably as an eighteen-year-old heading off to college. The bedspread and curtains were faded blue denim, the furniture old, scarred and brown. There was a desk topped with a hutch, the shelves of which were filled with books, mostly paperbacks. A stereo and a revolving carousel that held an assortment of both tapes and CDs took up most of the space on a long, low dresser, along with a lamp with a parchment shade and a base shaped like a horse’s head.
One surprising thing: on the walls, where she would have expected to see posters of rock concerts or sports stars, maybe some shelves lined with athletic trophies, instead there were photographs—dozens of photographs, of people and animals, buildings and landscapes, both in color and black-and-white, all expertly matted and framed. Devon recognized several shots of the barn she’d seen from her window this morning, one bathed in glorious sunset light, another—this one dramatic in black-and-white—against a backdrop of a stormy sky, still another in happy primary colors, red, green and blue, like a child’s crayon drawing. There were portraits—lots of portraits, mostly casual—of people Devon didn’t know. There was a very pretty, wholesome-looking girl with freckles and a perky smile, and an incredibly old but still beautiful woman with tragic eyes and a face that looked as if it might, at any second, break into laughter. She did recognize Mike and Lucy, photographed both together and separately. And, good Lord, was that—no, it couldn’t possibly be—but it was—Rhett Brown, the former president of the United States, standing beside an old rope swing hanging from a huge tree limb. And sitting in the swing was none other than Dixie, the First Lady!
All this Devon observed in a few seconds while she was trying hard not to look at the one thing in the room that was trying to demand her attention. Which was a nest surrounded by pillows in the middle of the blue denim bed, and in the nest, what appeared to be a small snowdrift of pink bunnies and yellow ducklings.
No sense in trying to avoid it. She walked toward it slowly, tiptoeing, dry-mouthed, her heart still bumping along, gathering speed like a runaway wagon. Her knees touched the edge of the bed. She caught her breath, then leaned over to get a better look, and felt a giddy urge to laugh—not with amusement or anything like it, but simply a release of tension. And a profound sense of wonderment and awe. Tears sprang to her eyes; she found that she was hugging herself, trying to stop herself from shaking.
The cause of all this unheralded emotional turmoil was lying on her back, but propped with pillows so that she was rolled almost on her side. One tiny fist lay like a half-open blossom against a plump pink cheek. Her mouth was open, and from it issued a soft but unmistakable snore.
Susan’s baby. My niece.
Devon drew a shuddering breath. “Hello, Emily,” she whispered.
She put out a finger but pulled it back before she touched the fat, velvety cheek. She stood for a long time—looking, and looking, and looking.
The barn had always been Eric’s special place of refuge, since the day he’d bravely and defiantly climbed the forbidden ladder to the loft, off-limits to a five-year-old, and discovered the newborn kittens his sister Ellie’s cat had hidden there in the hay.
Back then it had seemed to him a safe and friendly place, warmed even on days like this by the body heat of the animals winter-quartered there, the busy and contented sounds they made filling all the spaces inside the barn so that the storms howling outside its walls seemed far, far away. In the summertime, its dim and dusty emptiness made a different kind of refuge, a cool, quiet escape from sun and responsibilities and the hot, sweaty work he’d hated so.
The camera in his mind had loved the play of light and shadow inside the old barn, a montage of patterns and colors, constantly changing: shafts of sunlight slanting through open doors, shimmering with dust motes; moonlight glimpsed through windows fogged with drifts of spiderwebs; shadows leaping across a rough-plank wall, brought to life by a swinging lantern; heat lamps bathing newborn calves in pools of molten gold….
But that was pure enjoyment. Other times he’d come to the barn, like now, with his emotions in turmoil, his heart full of rebellion and his mind full of questions. At those times it wasn’t enjoyment he’d been looking for, but peace. Acceptance. And if not answers, at least the patience to wait for the answers to come.
More often then not, back then, he’d been able to find those things here—and why that was, he wasn’t sure. Though later in his life he’d wondered if it was because inside the barn’s walls, everything—from the spiders in the rafters to the cows with their new calves—seemed so simple, all of life reduced to its basic elements: food and shelter, birth and death. And everything beyond those walls, like the noise of the storm, had seemed, for that moment, at least, far away and therefore inconsequential.
He’d been a kid, then. Naive, to put it mildly. He found that out later in his life, too, about the same time he’d discovered that some of those things outside the barn were closer to him than he’d thought, and there was no escaping their consequences after all.
So, what was he doing now, running off to his childhood refuge when he had damn little hope of finding peace, there or anywhere else? Certainly not acceptance, not of any kind of scenario that would involve giving up Emily to this woman—this lawyer—and her parents. Not answers, either. Or ideas. He’d used up his last one, bringing the baby here, to the place he’d been surprised to realize he still thought of as home. For all the good it had done him, or her.
No—as far as answers and ideas went, he was fresh out. And he hadn’t much hope of finding any new ones waiting for him in his mom’s old barn, either. Stupid idea.
Still…amazingly, there was something calming about working alone in the early morning quiet, cleaning out stalls by the gentle light of a hanging lamp. It had been a long time since he’d wielded a pitchfork or shoveled manure—not activities he’d ever relished in his youth—and he was mildly surprised to discover it felt good to work up a sweat. He’d actually taken off his jacket and, finally, even his shirt.
His mom and dad had been in and out, starting the morning chores. He’d stopped shoveling long enough to ask his mom who was looking after the baby. She’d given him a searching look before answering, “She’s still asleep. I asked Devon to keep an ear out for her.”
He’d had nothing to say to that, and had just nodded and gone back to shoveling, using the physical activity and his own sweat to dampen down the fiery sizzle of anger in his belly.
After that, his parents, no doubt remembering his old habits, had pretty much ignored him. Still, he’d been glad when they’d finished the chores and gone back to the house, and the quiet he remembered, if not the peace, had settled once more around him.
When he again felt a cold blast of arctic air and heard the storm’s howl rise abruptly from a muted roar to a banshee’s scream, he thought it must be his mom or dad come back, probably to tell him the little one was awake. When he saw instead the bundled shape of someone that couldn’t possibly be either of his parents, his heart gave a leap, then settled down to a quick, angry thumping.
He watched in impassive silence while the figure, clumsy in snow-dusted parka and rubber chore boots several sizes too big for her, struggled to push the door closed against the buffeting wind. She gave a wordless cry of victory when she succeeded in dropping the latch into its cradle, then whipped around and leaned against the door, breathing hard.
She looks scared to death, Eric thought, amused. As though she’d just managed to escape a pack of ravenous wolves.
Oh, he wanted to feel contempt for her, this thin-blooded California girl, threatened by a little snowstorm. He tried. But…dammit, there was something fierce, even triumphant about the way she threw back the hood of her parka and shook out that fiery hair of hers, and try as he would, he couldn’t manage to convince himself it was contempt he really felt.
She came toward him, absently brushing snow from her coat and looking around her like someone who’d been magically transported to an alien world. Rather the opposite, he thought, of Dorothy finding herself in Oz.
“What do you want?” he asked before she’d gotten far; he couldn’t explain why he didn’t want her coming close to him. “She awake?”
“What? Oh—no, Emily’s still sleeping, or was when I left. Anyway, your mom…” Apparently fascinated by the barn, she’d finally got around to looking at him, only to do a double take and interrupt herself with a blunt, “Aren’t you cold?”
Eric glanced down at his naked chest. “Only when I stand around,” he said meaningfully, and twirling the scoop, rammed it, with more energy than was necessary, under layers of dirty, wet, trampled-down straw. He heaved the shovelful toward the pile he’d been building in the center aisle without checking to see if his visitor was out of the way or not, and got an infantile satisfaction when he heard her exclamation of dismay.
Didn’t slow her down a bit. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her skirt the manure pile, brushing straw off of her parka sleeve now, instead of snow, and come to lean her elbows on the gate of the stall next to the one he was working in.
He went on shoveling, thinking if he ignored her she’d take the hint and go away. No such luck. Apparently lawyers didn’t understand subtlety. Looked like, if he wanted to get rid of the woman, he was going to have to use more direct measures.
He stopped shoveling, and scoop held at the ready, said, “What do you want?” just as she opened her mouth to say something. A lifelong habit of good manners—for which he could thank his mom and dad’s stubbornness—made him halt and give her a sardonic go-ahead shrug.
