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So he sat on the edge of his father’s bed and let the old man flail his withered arms at him, striking him repeatedly, shouting more addled nonsense about Cord’s long-dead mother and his uncle Brandon and a baby that Caine didn’t seem to realize had never existed.
“Whatever your mother did, that baby was a Stockwell. Remember. We are Stockwells. We take care of our own. And I know her. She had a thousand reasons to hate me. But still, no matter what I said, I knew…deep down, I knew she was true to me. That baby…that baby was mine.”
Cord took another series of sharp blows, to the shoulder, across the neck, to the center of his chest. By then, he decided it was time to buzz for the nurses.
His father needed calming. And Cord himself had to get back to his own quarters and finish up his negotiations with Becky’s nanny-to-be.
After Cord left her, Hannah sat very still for several long moments.
What to do? How to answer?
Her heart’s desire—to stay with Becky.
Her mind’s wise instruction—to let Becky go. Now, though it would break her heart in two to do it.
She could get over a broken heart. She had done that more than once already in her twenty-five years of life.
But oh, if she lingered, it could only get worse. With every day, every hour, every minute that passed, she would love Becky more. And the risk would be greater, the pain a thousand times more terrible, if for some reason, she had to let Becky go.
And that could happen, so very easily. Cord Stockwell was a rich man. And the rich—at least in Hannah’s sad experience—were different. They broke rules. They broke hearts. They broke agreements. And they thought that their money gave them the right to run right over everyone else getting things their way.
Hannah sat up straighter.
Wait a minute, she thought. Just a cotton-pickin’ minute here.
This was not seven years ago and she was a grown woman now, not some lost little orphan looking for love where she shouldn’t be. And Cord Stockwell may have been too rich and too good-looking and too lucky with the ladies for her peace of mind, but he did seem, sincerely, to want to do right by Becky.
Her peace of mind was not the issue here. Neither was her foolish heart.
The issue was, what was right for Becky.
And she would make her decision based on that and that alone.
Right then, Hannah heard Becky cry. One short, insistent yelp came through the receiver on the table beside her.
A silence followed, but a brief one. In a moment, Becky started to wail. She was hungry.
Or she needed changing.
Or comforting.
Whatever.
Hannah rose to go to her.
Gunderson and the redheaded nurse reappeared a moment or two after Cord buzzed for them.
Cord was holding his father by then, an embrace that was actually an attempt to keep the sick man from harming himself. “More morphine,” he said. “And it will have to be by injection. Get it ready. Now.”
In his arms, Caine thrashed. “Didn’t I? Didn’t I keep my promise? Raised the bastard as my own…”
Gunderson glanced at his watch. “He had his last dose at—”
Caine raved right over him. “You witch…I loved you. Always loved you. All those others…nothing, damn it. Never. No one. Only you. But you…I know you loved him. Always. You never stopped. So I only wanted…to wipe out the taste of you.”
Cord held his struggling father close and glared at the nurses. “Get it ready, I said.”
The redhead filled the syringe. Cord held Caine still as she administered the dose.
Caine gasped. “Cold. Cold. Sinking…down…”
Within seconds, the old man went lax. Gently Cord laid him back against the pillow. A rank sigh escaped him and then he was still.
Cord rose from the bed. “Can you two take care of him now?”
“Of course, sir,” said Gunderson.
The redhead nodded.
“Trim his fingernails, will you?” Cord commanded as he strode toward the door. “He cut me, they’re so long.”
Behind him, both nurses made sounds in the affirmative.
In the hall, he found the maid he had sent away earlier. She hovered near the door to his father’s rooms, brown eyes huge with apprehension.
“It’s all right,” he said gently. “Go on in and finish up. He won’t bother you. He’s sleeping now.”
The maid dipped her head. “Sí. Okay. Thank you, Mr. Cord.”
He returned to his private sitting room to find that Hannah Miller wasn’t there.
His first reaction was a hot burst of fury. The little upstart had dared to take his daughter and leave.
But then, over the baby monitor, he heard it: the soft sound of a woman’s voice, sweet and only a little off-key, humming a lullaby.
He found her in the baby’s bedroom, which had robin’s-egg-blue walls, white furniture and a border near the ceiling of twinkling stars and smiling moons.
She sat in the white wicker rocker. She’d pulled up the shade of the window a few feet away to let in the afternoon light. She rocked slowly while she hummed, cradling his daughter and feeding her a bottle.
The woman’s hair had both auburn and gold highlights, just slight hints of red and blond in the chestnut waves that fell to her shoulders. The curve of her cheek, as she bent over his daughter, looked pale as milk, soft as the petals of a white rose.
At first, she didn’t see him. She had left the door open. And he entered quietly, listening as he came, for the soft sound of her lullaby, for the slight creaking of the rocking chair.
He stood there, in the doorway, watching the light on her hair, the curve of her arm as she cradled his child.
He felt the strangest sensation right then. A warmth down inside himself, a tiny bud of something.
It might have been hope.
But no.
More likely, it was only weary relief. The peace here, in his daughter’s blue bedroom, was a thousand miles removed from the Napoleonic horror of his father’s sickroom. And the little Okie’s tongue could be sharp, but right now, she wasn’t using it. Right now, she sounded damn sweet, humming and rocking away, a dreamy smile on her lips, as his child contentedly sucked at her bottle.
Naturally such a sight would soothe him, after what had just transpired in his father’s room.
Hannah looked up. The humming stopped, the rocking chair stilled. He heard her quick, surprised intake of breath.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She shrugged. And then she actually granted him a smile. “This girl was hungry.”
Damn. She was a pretty woman when she smiled.
He demanded, more gruffly than he intended to, “Have you made up your mind?”
She didn’t seem bothered by his gruffness at all. She looked down at Becky again, said in a dreamy voice to match the expression on her face, “I have.” She looked his way again, frowned. “You’ve cut yourself.”
He touched the scratch on his jaw, where the beads of blood had dried now. “It’s nothing.”
“Don’t rub it. You’ll start it bleeding again—here.” She produced a tissue from her sleeve and held it out.
“Blot it real gentle.”
He stared at the tissue dangling from her slender hand.
And, out of nowhere, an old memory popped to the surface of his mind and bobbed there, clear as a bubble made of glass.
Outside, in back, on the wide sweep of lawn between the house and the formal gardens. High summer. And ice cream. Vanilla with fudge syrup. He’d had a big bowl of it.
His mother had worn white—all white. Her blue eyes were shining and her dark brown hair tumbled in soft waves down her back. She had laughed. And she’d pulled a handkerchief from her white sleeve. “Cord, honey, you’ve got chocolate all over your little face. Come here to Mama. Let me clean you up….”
“Mr. Stockwell?” The social worker was staring at him, a crease of worry etching itself between her smooth chestnut brows. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he said curtly. “I’m fine.” He stepped up close and took the tissue from her, just to stop her from holding it out. And he blotted his jaw, as she’d told him to do. The tissue came away with two bright red spots on it.
“There.” He tipped it briefly toward her so she could see.
“Nothing, as I told you.”
She made a low, considering noise, as if she didn’t agree, but could see no benefit in arguing the point.
He thought of his father, once so proud and strong, now weak and wasted, striking out, prone more and more frequently to episodes like the one today as death closed in on him. Maybe Ms. Miller was right. It meant a lot more than nothing, this tiny scratch on his jaw.
He tucked the tissue into the pocket of his slacks. “I’m still waiting for your answer.” He couldn’t resist adding, “You seem to enjoy that—making me wait.”
He assumed she’d take offense. She was always so prickly. But no. She only smiled again, that smile that transformed her. “I’m sorry you think that. Of course, it’s not even a tiny bit true.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Fair enough.”
Becky pulled away from the bottle then, and yawned wide and loudly. Cord watched his daughter, wondering how such a tiny mouth could stretch so big.
“Here.” Ms. Miller tucked the empty bottle into the flowered bag on the other side of the rocker. “You can burp her.” She found a cloth diaper in the bag and held it toward him, the same as she had that damn tissue a minute ago. “Put this on your shoulder. I’d hate to see you get spit-up on that beautiful shirt.”
He scowled, thinking, I’m Cord Stockwell. I don’t do burping.
“Take the diaper,” she said.
So he took it.
“Put it on your shoulder.”
He did that, too.
She gathered the baby close and rose from the rocker.
Cord backed up.
“Come on,” she dared to taunt him. “It’s a skill you’ll have to develop sooner or later.”
“How about later?”
“How about now?”
What the hell choice did he have? He held out his arms and she put his baby in them.
“Good,” she said. “Cradle her head. That’s right. Now gently, onto the shoulder…”
Becky sighed when he lifted her and laid her against his chest. He could feel her little knees, pressing into him. She smelled of milk and baby lotion. And her hair was soft as the down on a day-old chick. She made a gurgling sound. And then she let out one hell of Texas-size burp.
“Excellent,” intoned Ms. Miller.
He gave her a look over the dark fuzz on Becky’s head.
“I’m so relieved you approve—and are you coming to work for me, or not?”
She nodded. “I am. Temporarily.”
He patted Becky’s tiny back—gently. She was so small. It was like patting a kitten. “What does that mean, temporarily?”
“It means I’m going home now to pack up a few things and arrange for a neighbor to water my houseplants. Then I’ll stay here, in the nanny’s room, for a few days, or however long it takes to find you some quality live-in child care.”
She would work for him. But not for long. Strange how he disliked the idea of her leaving. She was an exasperating female, but a damn worthy adversary, too. He could respect that. “Why don’t you just take the job yourself? You’re exactly the kind of nanny Becky needs. And I can guess what a social worker makes. Not near what I’m willing to pay.”
Was that sadness he saw in those green eyes of hers? “Thanks for the offer, but no.”
