скачать книгу бесплатно
Dreams dumped in the mud of his marriage.
He, who worked earth and stone, who wore boots and dripped sweat, hadn’t been good enough. Not for Melody’s daddy, or her.
But her belly had cultivated his DNA. His sweet Hallie. Tying him forever to Melody.
He thought of the woman tonight— Breena of the crafts shop—and recollected her quiet, rueful voice. Her soap scent. Her long black hair. All, different from Melody. So damned different.
He strode to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. Forget the woman. Forget Melody. Only Hallie mattered.
In the fridge, he found a mixture of vegetables and leftover meat loaf and arranged them on a plate, then shoved the entire concoction into the microwave.
Hallie returned, resignation in those summer-blue eyes so like his own. She shrugged off the Gore-Tex jacket he’d bought her last April, tossed it over a chair. “She wasn’t there.”
What could he say? Your mother is an idiot? Better yet— Your mother needs to accept she has a teenager living in her house?
Mouth shut, he set the table, hauled out the bowl of food when the microwave buzzed. In silence they sat and ate. Finished, he took the plates to the sink and flipped on the tap.
Hallie came beside him, catching the tea towel hanging on the oven door. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
His heart rolled, sweet and painful. Wish and you might receive. How many times had he yearned for her to voluntarily choose him? Though not through distress.
He looked down at her dark head just shy of his shoulder, at her smooth, pale forehead, the slant of her small, straight nose. “You don’t have to ask, Hallie. This is your home, too.”
She dried both plates together, set them on the counter. “Mom’ll stay at Roy-Dean’s, anyway.”
“She do that a lot? Leave you alone overnight?”
“Just since she’s been dating him.”
In other words, since last August, when Melody, his daughter in tow, had relocated to Misty River from Eugene. Two months.
Why hadn’t Hallie told him before?
Roy-Dean Lunn, eight years younger than Melody.
A pretty boy she paraded through town like a talisman for her aging face.
Lunn worked road maintenance, fixing highways and secondaries; winters, he ploughed snow in northeast Washington and Idaho. Down times, he blew his money on women and booze. Now he blew it on Melody while she blew off her responsibility—her legally assigned responsibility—to Hallie.
Whose fault is that?
Mine, dammit. I should have fought harder when I had the chance.
Except, he had fought hard—as much as his meager savings had afforded a decade ago. But Melody stemmed from second-generation money and politics and influence; her daddy owned Misty River Chev Olds and Seth, standing in front of a female judge who pitched her tent in the mama-bear-protecting-her-cub camp, had lost his footing.
Hearing she’d won the full right to raise their daughter, Melody had volleyed tears in front of the judge and Seth, seeing his ex’s wet gratitude, could only bow to the decision. Hallie was five years old. Much as it killed him, he knew his work hours weren’t conducive to a tot in kindergarten. His baby girl needed her mother, and that was that.
In the end, he got “visitation” every Sunday and was awarded joint legal custody, which granted a say in the child’s education, health care and other major facets of her life.
Then, five years ago, Melody—wanting her “last big chance at life”—had moved to Eugene, near her brother. A three-hour drive away. Where visitations with Hallie were chewed up by motel costs and travel time that disintegrated her belief in him. Even his phone calls couldn’t rectify the ever-widening gap between him and his daughter as she trudged through her teen years. His fault, of course. All his fault.
Well, he couldn’t alter the past, but he could do something about Roy-Dean Lunn.
“From now on when he shows up,” Seth said, “call me and I’ll come get you.”
Hallie tossed the utensils into the drying rack. “It’s okay. I can crash at Susanna’s or Grandma Owens when I know he’s coming. Tonight we… Mom wasn’t expecting him, that’s all.”
Seth drained the water. “I want you to come here, Hallie. Don’t bother your grandmother or your friend.” You’re mine, not theirs.
“Dad, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” He faced her. “It’s not okay. You page me or call my cell phone or leave a message with Wanda at the office.” Her face, a river of emotion, had him setting a hand on her shoulder. “What was the fight about?”
She dropped her chin. “Nothing.”
“You walked here.”
A shrug. “I was mad.”
He gathered that. Tugging the towel from her hands, he hung it over the oven handle. “Wanna tell me why?”
Her lips were plank-straight.
Okay, he wouldn’t push. She’d tell him in her own good time. He stacked the plates in the cupboard, laid the utensils in the drawer.
She eyed him. “Aren’t you going to hassle me?”
“Nope.”
“Mom always does if I don’t tell her.”
He leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “Want to watch some TV or play a game of chess?”
Another shrug. “Sure. Whatever.”
He chose chess. They played in the living room while logs burned and crackled in the fireplace, and she beat him.
“Guess I’m a bit rusty.” He smiled and got a sheepish one in return. His chest ached. “Want another round?”
A little smirk. “Want to lose again?”
“Ha! You’re on.”
This time, he won.
“Luck,” she told him, and grinned. His heart tumbled.
“That so? Make it two out of three.”
She had him checkmated within forty minutes.
Damn, he was proud. She was an admirable opponent, this daughter. He wanted to reach out, stroke her ponytail. His hand lifted, dropped. Too much, too soon. He couldn’t recall the last hug, the last kiss. Had she been five? Ten? I miss you.
Something must have shown in his face; she gathered the board and players back in the box, got up to return the game to the bedroom she used whenever it was his turn for “parenting time,” a new term for visitation rights. That was another thing he wished were different. Now that Hallie was older, he wanted her to visit on her own. Not when he asked, or when the system deemed it correct, or when arguments sent her running.
Squatting by the fire, he replaced the disintegrating logs. Spruce sap sweetened the room.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, honey?”
She stood just beyond the coffee table, a slim, shy figure, hands burrowed in baggy denim overalls. His throat tightened.
“Mom doesn’t want me dating.”
The fight. “I see.”
Her eyes, full of need for him to understand. “It’s not fair. She started dating when she was thirteen and I’m— I’m already fifteen.”
“Barely four months, Hal.”
“Still fifteen,” she persisted, those eyes growing more determined. “I’m older and more mature than a lot of my friends and they’ve been seeing guys since they were like twelve.”
Seth hung the iron poker on the hearth and rose. “Want some hot chocolate?”
“No. I want to talk about this.”
The topic had him itching to pace. He wanted to help her— God, he wanted to help her. But how? He said, “We can talk while it’s brewing,” and returned to the kitchen, where he set the milk on the stove to warm. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hallie crouch beside Roach, stretched out in the mudroom doorway. As she stroked his broad head, the dog thumped its stubbed tail on the linoleum, and watched her every move with guarded eyes.
The sight prompted a memory of the Quinlan woman the moment Seth had removed the groceries from her cold arms on the shoulder of the highway. Caution: it flashed across her face before she climbed the ladder into the cab and again when he took her keys for her truck at the back door of the shop.
In the months after he’d found Roach hiding under his front porch, he often speculated on the animal’s past. Why had the dog slunk on its belly to sniff his hand, then crawled quick as a light-affected bug back into its dark cavern?
Tonight, Seth wondered what lurked in the lady’s past that had her on a speedy retreat into that little hovel of a shop. And how long would it take to coax her out…
She’s not a stray, Seth. You can’t cure her ills.
Nor did he want to. Last thing he needed to do was worry over some woman he happened to offer a ride. Irritated with his thoughts, he said briskly, “Milk’s ready.”
In the pantry, he found packages of marshmallows and Oreos, put them between the mugs on the old oak table. Easing into one of the four chairs, he said, “So, who’s the boy you wanna date?”
“I didn’t say there was a boy.”
Seth lifted his eyebrows.
“Okay,” she said, with a sheepish smile. “There’s this guy… Tristan.” She shook a few marshmallows into her mug. “He’s really cute and wants to go to the matinee tomorrow. It’s not that big a deal, but Mom wants to come, too.” Hallie raised her head. “Can you imagine what everyone would think?”
He could. Kids, ten and up, whispering for months about how Hallie Tucker was chaperoned by her mother—her mercurial, wild mother—to an afternoon movie. Yeah, he could imagine, big time. And while he wasn’t crazy about the idea of Hallie alone with a boy, he was less enthused about Melody tagging along.
In a skirt the size of a belt.
Moody lips scored in ho-red.
Give-it-to-me stilettoes hiking her petite frame.
“She won’t even listen,” Hallie continued. “All she keeps saying is, ‘I was a teenager once, too.’ Like she’s the queen diva on puberty or something.”
No surprise there. The woman had been born snapping gum. Still did, if Seth had anything to say about it. Which he didn’t.
Tread carefully, man. You don’t want Hallie storming off, believing you won’t come through for her. Damn. He stood between a rock and a hard place. “How ’bout if I talk to your mother?”
“She won’t listen to you. She doesn’t listen to anybody.”
“Maybe she will this time.”
“She won’t. It’s either her way or the highway.” Across the table, Hallie observed their reflections in the night window. “I hate her.”
“You don’t mean that, honey.”
“Yes, I do. She’s getting so weird. I hear kids giggling behind her back whenever she comes to the school. The way she acts, the way she does her hair, the way she dresses. Since she got those implants last spring, she only buys tops that show—”
“Hallie.”
“It’s true! Like she’s so ho—ot.”
“Hallie.”
“I don’t care.” She turned away, but he caught the hurt. “It’s like we’re in a contest or some dumb beauty challenge. It’s totally stupid.”
“She’s your mother, babe.”
“Yeah, well, I wished she wasn’t. The way men look at her, it’s like she’s a…a bar tramp.” Her bottom lip quaked.
A vice gripped his chest.
There was nothing more to say. She was right; they both knew it. “Drink your chocolate,” he told her.
Chapter Two
Coffee mug in hand, Breena stepped onto the front porch of Earth’s Goodness at eight-thirty the next morning. The wind from the night before had faded and, under a soft sun, the quiet spice of fall crisped the air. She didn’t miss Frisco. Didn’t miss the snarl of traffic, the bitter smog, her joyless marriage.
She’d make it in this Oregon town, yes, she would. The next twelve months would prove it in ways the last thirty-five years in California hadn’t. If worse came to worst, Misty River was still a good place to hole up until she mended her heart.
The sound of a motor turned her head. Her Blazer, the sun glinting off its maroon roof, stopped in front of the shop. A young man climbed from the driver’s side.
“G’morning,” she called.
He gave a short wave and came around the hood as she went down the steps. They met at the gate. “You people work fast.” The name Tristan and The Garage Center were stitched in orange above the left pocket of his jade coveralls.
