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One palm resting on either side of the sink, Reid stared out the kitchen window, watching raindrops snake down the glass as wind buffeted Martina’s butterfly bushes. She often stood here, overlooking the wildlife that visited her gardens. She’d probably been standing on this spot when she’d called him a couple months back to tell him about Billy’s prognosis.
After they hung up, Reid threw everything he owned into his duffle bag and drove straight through, arriving in Amarillo the very next day. He’d moved into the same room he’d occupied when his mom was the Rockin’ C housekeeper and his stepdad the foreman.
Hanging his head, Reid wondered if he would’ve been so quick to come back and help out if his injuries hadn’t already ended his rodeo career.
Just one more thing to feel guilty about.
Well, he was here now. Determined to do everything in his power to help Billy and Martina, in any way he could, for as long as they needed him.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck one, reminding him that Billy was right: The rooster crowed mighty early at the Rockin’ C. If Reid knew what was good for him, he’d try to catch some shut-eye, starting now. He flicked off the kitchen’s overhead light and quietly climbed the wide, wooden stairs, skipping the third and the tenth so the predictable squeak wouldn’t wake Billy or Martina.
Two hours later, he lay on his back, fingers linked beneath his head, still staring at the darkened ceiling. The rain had stopped, but the wind blew harder than ever, rattling the panes in his French doors.
He wondered if Cammi had made it home safely, if her homecoming had been warm and welcoming. She hadn’t seemed at all that enthused about being back in Amarillo. Brokenhearted because she hadn’t “made it” in Hollywood? Reid didn’t think so. Cammi seemed too down-to-earth, too levelheaded for pie-in-the-sky dreams of stardom. No, her reluctance, he believed, was more likely due to a falling-out with some wanna-be actor in L.A. Or maybe she’d come home for the same reason he had…to help an ailing sibling or parent.
It got Reid to thinking about his own father, who’d taken off for parts unknown the moment his mom said “We’re going to have a baby.” And his mother? Well, for all her good intentions, she had a talent for choosing no-account men. The promise of a leak-proof roof and a steady supply of whiskey was enough for her. In exchange, she promised forty hours’ worth of work each week…from her young son.
She had already put four ex-husbands behind her when she said “I do” to Boots Randolph. Grudgingly, Reid had to admit that Boots had taught him plenty about ranching. And while he’d been the best provider, he also had a hair-trigger temper, and Reid still bore the scars to prove it.
Had Cammi run off to California to escape a father like Boots?
The very thought made Reid clench his jaw so hard that his teeth ached, because it wouldn’t take much of a blow to break someone that fragile.
No, not fragile. Cammi’s demeanor—right down to that model-runway walk of hers—made it clear she was anything but delicate. He liked her “tell it like it is” way of talking, admired how she looked him dead in the eye and admitted the accident had been her fault—no excuses, no explanations.
She was agile, as evidenced by the way she’d balanced that tray of diner food on one tiny palm. Quick-witted, too, so he couldn’t imagine what had distracted her enough to run that red light.
Picturing their vehicles again, gnarled and bent, made Reid cringe. It could have been worse. So much worse, as he knew all too well. Miraculously, they’d both walked away from the wreck without so much as a hangnail. “Thank God,” he whispered, though even as he said it, he knew God had nothing to do with their good fortune. If the so-called Almighty had any control over things like that, Rose London wouldn’t be dead, her husband wouldn’t be a widower and her four daughters wouldn’t have grown up without a mama.
He forced his mind away from that night. Far easier to picture Cammi, smiling, laughing, gesturing with dainty hands. Once she’d locked onto him with those mesmerizing eyes of hers, he’d been a goner. She’d looked so familiar that he’d thought at first he’d met her somewhere before. But Reid quickly dismissed the idea, because he’d never seen bigger, browner eyes. If he met a girl who looked like that, it wasn’t likely he’d forget!
Reid sensed Cammi was nothing like the women who’d dogged his heels from rodeo town to rodeo town. How he could be so sure of that after spending forty-five minutes in her presence, Reid didn’t know. Still, it was a good thing, in and of itself, because it had been a long time since he’d felt anything but guilt.
Guilt at being born out of wedlock. Guilt that taking care of him had made life a constant struggle for his mother. Guilt that though he’d turned himself inside-out to please his parade of stepdads, he’d never measured up. Guilt that, while rodeoing was by its nature a business for the wreckless, his devil-may-care attitude had cost him his career. And the biggest, naggin’est guilt of all…that one rainy night a decade and a half ago, he’d been behind the wheel of the pickup that killed a young wife and mother.
He tossed the covers aside, threw his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned forward, elbows balanced on knees. Head down, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, Reid stared through the French doors, deep into the quiet night. Self-pity, he believed, was one of the ugliest of human emotions. He had no business feeling sorry for himself; he’d been given a lot more than some he could name. He had his health back, for starters, a good home and a steady job, thanks to Martina and Billy. If not for this confounded disease of Billy’s, he’d have the pair of them, too, for decades to come.
He’d taught himself to dwell on the positives at times like this, to get a handle on his feelings—remorse, shame, regret, whatever—because to do otherwise was like a slow, painful death. Billy and Martina needed him, and he owed it to them to get a grip.
A well-worn Bible sat on the top shelf of the bookcase across the room. Martina had put it there, years ago, when he’d come back to Amarillo for his mother’s funeral. “Whether you realize it or not,” she’d said, “Boots did you a favor, beating you until you’d memorized it, cover to cover.”
“How do you figure that?” he’d griped.
She had smiled, hands folded over her flowered apron. “Anything you need is in those pages. That’s why folks call it ‘The Good Book’!”
She’d been so sure of herself that Reid had almost been tempted to believe her. But blind faith had been the reason his mother had married badly…five times. If she hadn’t taught him anything else, she’d shown him by example what a mind-set like that could cost a person!
Three or four steps, and he’d have Martina’s Good Book in his hands. Two or three minutes, thanks to Boots’s cruel and relentless lessons, and he’d locate a verse that promised solace, peace, forgiveness. A grating chuckle escaped him. Just ’cause it’s in there don’t make it so, he thought bitterly.
In all his life, he’d known just two people who were as good as their word, and both of them were fast asleep down the hall. He loved Billy and Martina more than if they’d been his flesh-and-bone parents, because they’d chosen to take a confused, resentful boy into their home and love him, guide him, nurture him as if he were their own. Though he’d given them plenty of reason to, they’d never thrown up their hands in exasperation.
And he wouldn’t give up on them now.
Suddenly, he felt a flicker of hope. Again, Reid considered crossing the room, taking the Bible from its shelf. Maybe Martina had a point. She and Billy had made God the center of their lives for decades, and they seemed happier, more content—despite Billy’s terminal illness—than anyone he’d ever known. Maybe he should at least give her advice a try.
He stood in front of the bookcase and slid the Bible halfway out from where it stood among paperback novels, Billy’s comics collection and Martina’s photo albums. A moment, then two, ticked silently by….
“Nah,” Reid grumbled, shoving the book back into place. He remembered, as he slid between the bedcovers, how often he’d overheard Martina’s heartfelt prayers for Billy’s healing.
But the healing never came. Instead, Billy’s condition worsened, almost by the hour. If God could turn a deaf ear to Martina, who believed with a heart as big as her head, why would He listen to a no-account like Reid!
Staring up at the ceiling again, he shook his head. There was no denying that Martina believed God had been the glue that held the decades-long marriage together. Once, during a visit to the Rockin’ C a few years back, Reid had encountered a deep-in-prayer Martina in the living room. Glowing like a schoolgirl, she’d sung the Almighty’s praises. “You talk as if He hung the moon,” Reid had said, incredulous. She’d affectionately cuffed the back of his head. “He did, you silly goose!”
Something otherworldly was certainly responsible for their contentment and happiness. Scalp still tingling from Martina’s smack, Reid had wondered if he’d live long enough to find a love like that.
“You’re only twenty-seven, son. Give the Father time to lead you to the one He intends you to share your life with.” As Reid opened his mouth to object, she’d added, “Think about it, you stubborn boy! If He could hang the moon, surely He can help you find your soul mate!”
Soul mate, Reid thought now. Did such a thing even exist anywhere other than in romance novels?
Romance. The word made him think of Cammi. Pretty, petite, sweet as cotton candy. When his gaze was drawn again to the gilded script on the Bible’s spine, he stubbornly turned away, closed his eyes.
As he drifted off to sleep, it was Cammi’s smiling face he focused on.
A few hours earlier…
“Wow, lady,” the cabbie said. “This is some place you’ve got here.”
“Isn’t mine,” Cammi corrected. “River Valley is my dad’s.”
He nodded. “Still, mighty impressive all the same.”
She couldn’t deny it. Anyone who’d ever seen the ranch had been impressed, if not by the three-story stone house, then by the two-lane wooden bridge leading to the circular drive, or the waterfall, hissing and gurgling beneath it. Everything had been the result of her father’s design…and his own hardworking hands.
The tall double doors swung wide even before Cammi stepped out of the cab. Bright golden light spilled from the enormous foyer, painting the wraparound porch and curved flagstone walkway with a butter-yellow glow and casting her father’s burly form in silhouette. A booming “Camelia, you’re home!” floated to her on the damp Texas breeze. Then, his deep voice suddenly laced with concern, Lamont added, “What’s with the taxi? Did you have car trouble?”
Cammi grinned at the understatement. “You could say that.”
“You should’ve called,” he said. “I’d have come for you.”
Could have, should have, would have. How many times had she heard that before leaving home?
Lamont held out his arms and Cammi melted into them. Plenty of time to tell him about the accident—and everything else—later. For the moment, wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, she put aside the reasons she’d left home. Forgot his “you’ll be sorry” speech. Forgot how determined she’d been to prove him wrong, for no reason other than that for once in her life, she’d wanted to make him proud.
Proud? So much for that! Cammi thought.
“Good to have you home, sweetie.”
My, but that sounded good. Sounded right. This was where she wanted…no, where she needed to be. And if the length or strength of Lamont’s embrace was any indicator, her father felt the same way. At least, for now. “Good to be home,” Cammi admitted.
He released her and went for his wallet.
“Dad,” she started, “I can pay the—”
But Lamont had already peeled off a fifty. “That’ll cover it, right, son?” he asked, shoving the bill into the driver’s hand.
“Yessir, it sure will!” Eyes wide, he waited for permission to pocket the bill.
“Keep the change,” Lamont said, grabbing Cammi’s bag.
The man beamed. “Sayin’ ‘thanks’ seems lame after a tip like this!”
Grinning, Lamont saluted, then slung his arm over Cammi’s shoulder. “Drive safely, m’boy,” he said, guiding her toward the house. He hadn’t closed the front door behind them before asking, “Where’s the rest of your gear?”
“I shipped some boxes a couple of days ago. They’ll be delivered tomorrow, Monday at the latest.” She tugged the strap of her oversized purse, now resting firmly against his rock-hard shoulder. “Meanwhile, I have the essentials right here.”
“Meanwhile,” he echoed, frowning as he assessed her rain-dampened hair and still-wet clothes, “you’re soaked to the skin.” He nudged her closer to the wide, mahogany staircase. “Get on upstairs and take a hot shower. After you’ve changed into something warm and dry, meet me in the kitchen. Meantime, I’ll put on a pot of decaf.”
In other words, Cammi deducted, despite the late hour, he expected her to fill in the blanks—some of them, anyway—left by her long absence; she hadn’t been particularly communicative by phone or letter while she’d been gone, with good reason, and she was thankful Lamont hadn’t pressed her for details. Now the time had come to pay the proverbial piper. “Warm and dry sounds wonderful,” she said, more because it was true than to erase the past two years from her mind.
“Everything is exactly as you left it.”
How like him to keep things as they were. Though her mother had been gone thirteen years when Cammi headed west, the only things Lamont had replaced were the linens, and even those were duplicates of the originals. Something told her it was love of the purest possible kind that kept him so stubbornly attached to his beloved Rose. The fact that her dad had held on to memories about her, too, inspired a flood of loving warmth. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” Cammi said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too.”
At least for now you do, Cammi thought.
Suddenly, the prospect of being in her old room, surrounded by familiar things, rejuvenated her, and she took the steps two at a time, half listening for his oh-so-familiar warning:
“You’re liable to fall flat on your face and chip a tooth, bolting up those stairs like a runaway year-ling.”
He’d said the same thing, dozens of times, when Cammi and her sisters were children. She stopped on the landing and smiled. “I’ll be careful, Dad,” she said, pressing a hand to her stomach, “I promise.” He had no way of knowing she had a new and very important reason to keep that promise.
Cammi blew him a kiss and hurried to her room. The sooner she got back downstairs, the sooner she’d know if this amiable welcome was the real deal…or a temporary truce.
Real, she hoped, because she would need his emotional support these next few months, even if it might come at the price of seeing his disappointment yet again. How would she tell him that, in yet another characteristically impulsive move, she’d exchanged “I do’s” with a movie stuntman in a gaudy Vegas wedding chapel? And it wouldn’t just be the non- Christian ceremony he’d disapprove of.
When Reid had asked earlier if she had a husband and children, her heart had skipped a beat. For a reason she couldn’t explain, it mattered what Reid thought of her. Mattered very much. So much so, in fact, that though she’d enjoyed his company, she’d rather never see him again than risk having him discover the truth about her. And if a stranger’s opinion mattered that greatly, how much more difficult would it be to live with her dad’s reaction!
For the past four months, since learning of Rusty’s death and the baby’s existence, Cammi had spent hours thinking up ways to break the news to her father. She’d hoped an idea would come to her during the long, quiet drive from California to Texas. Sadly, she still didn’t have a clue how to tell him that in just five short months, his first grandchild would be born.
Lamont would be a terrific grandfather, what with his natural storytelling ability and his gentle demeanor. If only he could learn he was about to become a grandpa in the traditional way, instead of being clubbed over the head with the news.
What Cammi needed was a buffer, someone who’d distract him, temporarily, anyway, from asking questions that had no good answers. “Hey, Dad,” she called from the top step, “where’s Lily? I sort of expected she’d be the one bounding down the front walk when I got home…with some critter wrapped around her neck.”
“Matter of fact, she’s in the barn, nursing one of those critters right now.”
Lily was the only London daughter who’d never left home. A math whiz and avid animal lover, the twenty-four-year-old more or less ran River Valley Ranch. “As much time as she spends with her animals,” Cammi said, “I’ll never understand how she manages to keep your ledger books straight.”
“That makes two of us,” Lamont said, laughing.
She ducked into her room, telling herself that if she survived coffee with her dad, she’d pay Lily and her critter a little visit. Maybe her kid sister would drop a hint or two that would help Cammi find a good way to tell them…everything.
A shiver snaked up her spine when she admitted there was no good way.
Lamont’s back was to her when she rounded the corner a short while later, reminding Cammi of that night so many years ago, when she’d padded downstairs in pajamas and fuzzy slippers. “Dad,” she’d whimpered, rubbing her eyes toddlerlike despite being twelve years old, “I can’t sleep.”
When he’d turned from the kitchen sink, his redrimmed eyes were proof that he hadn’t been able to sleep, either, that he’d been crying, too. “C’mere, sweetie,” he’d said, arms extended as he settled onto the caned seat of a ladder-back chair.
She’d ignored the self-imposed rule that said a soon-to-be teenager was too old to climb into her daddy’s lap, and snuggled close, cheek resting on the soft, warm flannel of his blue plaid shirt, and closed her eyes, inhaling the crisp spicy scent of his manly aftershave.
Even now, all grown up and carrying a child of her own, she remembered how safe she’d always felt when those big arms wrapped around her, how soothing it was when his thick, clumsy fingers combed through her curls. Her unborn baby deserved to feel safe and protected that way, too; had her impulsive lifestyle made that impossible? Could Lamont accept what she’d done, at least enough not to hold it against his grandchild?
It hadn’t been hard to read his mind that night, the eve of Rose’s funeral. What was going through his mind now? Cammi wondered. Had looking through the rain-streaked window at his long-deceased wife’s autumn-yellowed hydrangeas conjured a painful memory? Had the moon, which painted a shimmering silver border around each slate-gray cloud, reminded him how much the mother of his children had always enjoyed thunderstorms?
She wouldn’t tell him about Rusty and the baby tonight. Tomorrow or the next day would be more than soon enough to add to his sadness. There’s a time and a place for everything, she told herself. And sensing he’d be embarrassed if she walked in and caught him woolgathering, Cammi backed up a few steps, cleared her throat and made a noisy entrance.
“Hey, Dad,” she said brightly, shuffling into the kitchen on white-socked feet. “Coffee ready?”
He masked his melancholy well, she thought as he turned and smiled.
“Sure is,” Lamont said. “Still drink it straight-n-plain?”
“Yessir.”
“We Londons are tough, so save the milk and sugar for kindergarten kids!” they said in unison.
Laughing, father and daughter sat across from one another at the table. A moment passed, then two, before Cammi said, “So how’ve you been, Dad?”
“Fine, fine.” He nodded, then reached across the table, blanketed her hand with his. “Question is, how’re you?”
She looked into gray eyes that glittered with fatherly love and concern. There were a few more lines around them than she remembered, but then, worrying about her had probably put every one of them there. Cammi felt overwhelmed by guilt. He’d worked so hard to provide for his girls, all while doing his level best to be both mother and father to them. He deserved far better than what she’d always given him.
“I’d hoped to accomplish something out there—” she blurted. “Something that would make you really proud of—”
“You’ve always made me proud,” Lamont interrupted, “just being you. You know that.”
She didn’t know anything of the kind, especially since her mother’s accident, but it still felt good, real good, to hear him say it. Suddenly, she found herself fighting tears.
Lamont gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. “I told you before you left home that those Tinsel Town phonies didn’t have enough accumulated brain matter to power a lightbulb.”
He’d said that and then some!
“So how’d you expect dunderheads like that to have enough sense to see what a great li’l gal you are!” He patted her hand, then added, “I know you gave it your all, sweetie. If your best wasn’t good enough for ’em, well…” He lifted his chin a notch. “Well, that’s their loss.”
So he thought her failure to land any decent roles in L.A. was responsible for her dour mood. Cammi was about to set the record straight when Lamont said, “You did the right thing, coming home. You have any idea what you’ll do now that you’re back?”
Lamont’s question implied she was home to stay, and he was right. This baby growing steadily inside her deserved a stable home, deserved to be raised in a house where it would be treasured, and protected and nurtured by a big loving family. It didn’t matter one whit what was good for her; from the moment she’d learned of its existence, Cammi had put the baby first, always, and that meant giving up her crazy ideas of stardom. She’d earned a degree in Childhood Development, had spent nearly three years teaching four-and five-year-olds before heading for L.A.
