Coming Home To You

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“So,” he said casually, “you mentioned last night that you knew my brother. How well?”

“Not well. I spent a few hours with him one weekend at Columbia in 1987.”

“Were you lovers?”

Her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t liked the question. “No, we weren’t lovers. What made you think we had a sexual relationship?”

“Because that was the only kind of relationship James had with women.”

“Well, he didn’t with me. Besides, I wasn’t a woman. I was a kid, a teenager with zero experience.”

“How did you meet?”

“A reporter from The New York Post was writing an article covering one of his concerts, and apparently James’s manager convinced her to include some of the fellowship students from the university in the photographs. I was among the five or so they brought in to meet him. James and I talked, swapped family stories, and then we went our separate ways. He was extremely nice to me when he didn’t have to be, and I’ve never forgotten it. Period. End of story. No sex involved.”

“And you said this was at Columbia?”

“I was in graduate school and he was playing a concert in Manhattan that weekend.”

“Graduate school? I thought you said you were still a kid.”

“I was.”

“You must have been a really smart kid.”

She simply shrugged.

“And you never saw James again after that day?”

“Nope.” She turned to him and folded her legs underneath her. “You know, you could have asked me this last night and saved yourself the trouble of bringing me here today.”

“I didn’t bring you here to ask about that.”

“Then why? Last night you were ready to boil me in oil, and then suddenly you’re at my door asking me to go riding. What gives?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m not sure. I told you I knew about Pine Acres, and maybe you were afraid I’d show up here. Or you wanted to find out what I might write about you in the book. Is that it? Those are the only two things that make sense to me. Did you think by bringing me out here I’d present you and the ranch in a more favorable light?”

“You read people pretty well.”

She looked directly at him. “A lot of the time. But you’re harder to read than most.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“I haven’t quite figured that out yet. But I will. You’re a contradiction, Hayes. You send out so many conflicting signals I’m not sure what to think of you.”

“Conflicting how?”

“Well, for example, you claim not to care what people think of you, yet everywhere you’ve donated money around town, you have plaques acknowledging the contributions. I’m not criticizing your generosity, but that seems a little self-serving to me, and the plaques…well, tacky. You’ve also had your name put on the front wall of this place as the major contributor. For a man who doesn’t encourage visitors and doesn’t seem to want friends, you’re going out of your way to ensure your name will be remembered in this town. Very contradictory.”

“You really think the plaques are tacky?”

“A little.”

“I suppose they are.”

“Am I right about your reasons for asking me here today?”

He nodded. “When you mentioned Pine Acres, it made me uneasy. I decided you might be less likely to hurt my kids if you came out here and got to know them. And, too, by showing you the ranch I hoped to change your opinion of me. I was suddenly reminded of that old saying, ‘Never argue with a man who buys his ink by the barrel.”’

That made her smile. “I’d never burn you in print for being nasty to me. That’s not my style. But I am glad you invited me here. I can’t remember when I’ve had a more enjoyable afternoon. The ranch is incredible, and so are the kids. I’d like to know more about them, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“Is your interest personal or professional?”

“Both, I guess. I’m interested in the ranch because I think you used some of the money you inherited from James to build it.” She paused, apparently offering him the opportunity to deny or confirm her statement. He did neither. “If it’s true,” she continued, “that does make Pine Acres a part of my story.”

“See, that’s what I was afraid of. You’re jumping to conclusions about things you know nothing about. I don’t want you writing something that might make the ranch look bad.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “There’s no reason to be concerned. I can’t imagine anyone finding fault with what you’ve done here, including me, and the only reason I asked about the kids is because I’m interested as a person, not as a writer. Will you tell me about them?”

He hesitated.

“I swear I’m only asking because I like them.”

“All right, but you can’t use anything I say about any individual child. I can’t stop you from mentioning the ranch in your book, but I don’t want the kids hurt by the public knowing the intimate details of their lives.”

“You have my word. I won’t include them.”

He took off his cap and played with it as he talked, telling her first about some of the children she’d met but who hadn’t come to the pond with them.

“Now tell me about Tom,” she prodded.

“Tom’s had it hard. His parents and two sisters died a few years ago from carbon-monoxide poisoning caused by a faulty heater. He was spending the night at a friend’s house and came home to find the bodies. He lived in six foster homes before he came to the ranch last spring.”

“Why has he lived in so many places? He’s so polite and sweet. I can’t understand why a family wouldn’t want him.”

“Because he’s a teenager. They’re more trouble, and they cost more money to care for. Some people don’t want to deal with that extra expense.”

“Are they all orphans like him?”

“No, the majority have at least one living parent, but due to neglect, abuse or some other reason, the kids have been removed from the home. Some have emotional problems brought on by what’s happened to them, and finding adoptive families is next to impossible.”

“Those scars on Shondra’s arm. How did she get them?”

“Her mother’s an addict. When she got high she used Shondra as an ashtray.”

“Dear God.”

“Keith and Adam, the twins with all the freckles, their father’s in prison.”

“What for?”

“Blowing their mother’s head off in front of them.”

He winced when he saw what his words did to her. He’d deliberately been crude to shock her and gauge her reaction. But seeing her distressed look, he felt ashamed of himself.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asked quietly.

She was silent for a long time. She looked at the water, the pier, everywhere but at him. Finally she spoke. “Yes, I want to know. I want to understand how these children came to be here.”

He debated whether he should go on. He knew the horror stories, the kids used as punching bags or pawns in dirty divorces, the ones treated worse than animals or as property. But for someone who wasn’t familiar with the realities of child abuse and neglect, hearing what little value some parents place on the lives of their children could be unsettling.

“Please,” she urged.

“Melissa’s mother was only fourteen when she gave her up. LaKeisha’s mother was also a teenager. She already had two other illegitimate children by two different men, so she wasn’t able to take care of her.”

“And the shy boy with the drawings of sports heroes in his room?”

“That’s Kevin. He was abandoned in a bus station. We still don’t know the extent of the trauma he’s been through because he won’t talk about it. He was sexually abused and was probably forced by his father to act as a prostitute.”

“But he’s a baby! How could a parent do that to a child?”

“We’ve seen them as young as nine and ten selling themselves to finance their parents’ drug habits.”

“How is that possible?”

“I know it’s hard to believe. I had trouble believing it myself, but it happens, and more often than you’d imagine.”

“And Henry? What’s his story?”

He shifted on the pier, making the old boards creak. This story he wasn’t sure he could share without breaking down.

“Henry’s mother…” He stopped and swallowed as the bile rose in his throat. “Henry’s mother had a new boyfriend, and having the kids cramped her style. She was also heavily in debt. So she talked the boyfriend into helping her set fire to the house, a little two-for-one special. Her idea was to collect the insurance money and get rid of the kids at the same time. They tried to make the fire look like an accident, set by the kids playing with matches. As best we can figure, she told four-year-old Sarah that some bad men wanted to hurt them and she should take Henry and hide in the closet and not come out until she came for them. Because she trusted her mother, Sarah did it. Then they set fire to the adjoining bedroom.”

“What happened to Sarah?”

“She died a few hours after the fire of smoke inhalation and burns. Henry spent nearly two months in the hospital recovering from pneumonia and the damage the smoke did to his lungs, but thankfully, he wasn’t badly burned. Sarah had shielded him from the fire with her own body.”

“What happened to his mother and her boyfriend?”

“He made a deal with the district attorney to testify against her and got fifteen years. She pleaded not guilty, and her trial comes up in a couple of months. It’s a capital-murder case, so she’s still in jail, but that hasn’t stopped her from using Henry to get sympathy from the court. She won’t sign over custody of him because it would hurt her case, and the state won’t sever her parental rights because, until she’s convicted, she’s considered innocent.”

“So Henry’s in legal limbo because the state can’t place him until there’s a disposition of the case?”

“Yes,” Bret said, slipping his cap back on. “It stinks because her rights are being placed above Henry’s.”

“And Henry’s father? Where is he?”

“He was a one-night stand she picked up in a bar. I doubt she even knows the guy’s name.”

The laughter of the children drifted toward them on the gentle breeze. He smiled as he watched Henry toddling after the older kids in their game of tag.

“Will you adopt him when he becomes available?” she asked.

“I can’t.”

“But single men can adopt. These days it’s done all the time.”

“I know, but it’s not an option for me.” He stood abruptly, wishing he’d never allowed her to pursue this. He walked toward the tree where they’d tied the horses. She ran to catch up with him.

“Hey, wait! I don’t understand. Why isn’t it an option for you? Anyone with eyes can see you love that little boy and he loves you. He hangs on every word you say.”

“I can’t adopt him. Drop the subject.” They had reached the horses and he snatched down the reins, which had been looped over a branch. He put his foot in the stirrup and started to mount, but she touched his arm.

“But if you love—”

He whirled and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I said I can’t,” he yelled, making both her and the horse jump. “Why won’t you listen to me, Morgan? I can’t adopt him. I can never adopt him. I’m no better than his mother.”

“Why do you say that?”

His face contorted with the pain he felt in his heart. “Because,” he said in anguish, “I killed my own brother.”

CHAPTER SIX

HE’D NEVER MEANT to tell her. For six years he’d lived with the guilt of having sent his brother to a fiery death, and not once had he shared his pain with anyone outside the family. But she’d pushed until the pain had boiled over. She’d dug until the wound that had festered for years broke open.