Their Secret Child Read online

  Ah, hell. Skip crossed the room. "Becky, next time let me know before you leave the property, okay?"

  "Why? Is there something wrong with them?" She cut a glance toward the window.

  "No." Only thirteen years of abandonment by him. "We live in the country and I'd rather you didn't go somewhere without telling me." He tried to soften his anxiety with a smile. "It'll keep me from worrying."

  "Jesse never cared where I went."

  Jesse Farmer, her adopted dad. "I'm not Jesse, honey." He brushed the too-long bangs from her eyes. "Look, I'm still learning the family thing, so bear with me, okay? If I'm a little paranoid it just means I need to know you're okay." That no one is hurting you anymore.

  With a shrug she wandered to his clothing boxes stacked near the closet's open door. Peering inside, she said. "I don't think we'll be friends with them anyway."

  "No?"

  "Ms. Malloy isn't...very friendly."

  "In what way?" Had Addie slammed the door in Becky's face?

  Another shrug. "She seems...uptight. Maybe it's because her daughter stutters and stuff."

  He'd heard about Addie having another child, one from the man she divorced seven months ago.

  "How do you know she stutters?"

  "She was sitting on their front step when I went over, and we were chatting about her dolls when the mom came outside."

  "Oh."

  Becky looked over her shoulder. "The little girl's really cute—and shy. And she has these big brown eyes. I think her mom is overprotective because of the way she talks." Suddenly, her face brightened. "Hey, maybe we can ask them over for dinner in a couple days and—"

  "Whoa, whoa." Skip brought up his hands. "Let's take it one day at a time, Bean. We've got a lot to do around here first." Primarily, he needed to get reacquainted with the lady in question. "How about we wait a few days, see where we're at with the unpacking." He inclined his head toward the door. "You haven't even checked out your room yet."

  Which told him how much neighbors and friends meant to his daughter. The "friends" she'd had in the trailer park in Lynnwood—where her family had lived—Skip wished she'd never met.

  Becky rushed into the hallway, bent on her assignment. "Which room is mine?"

  He leaned in the doorway. "There are four, so take your pick."

  "I can? No way!"

  He watched her dash into each, listened to her "oohs" and "aahs" as she toured their confines, until in the last and farthest from his room, he heard, "This one! I'm picking this one."

  He was grinning when she poked her head from the doorway. "Is that okay?"

  "Yup, it's yours. And so are these boxes." He walked to five piled in the corridor, hoisted two into his arms. When they had carried them in, he said, "Have at it, honey. Decorate it any way you want."

  She flung her arms around him in a quick, rare hug. "Thanks, Dad."

  "My pleasure." He walked to the doorway. "You going to be okay for a bit? I'd like to wander over and introduce myself to Ms. Malloy and her daughter. Might as well find out now if I'll need to plant a twenty-foot wall in front of my house."

  Her eyes were apprehensive. "Really?"

  Skip laughed. "Just kidding, Bean."

  "Oh. Want me to come?" She looked longingly around her room.

  "No. You have fun. I'll be back in two shakes." He started down the hallway.

  "Dad?" She peered around the doorjamb.

  "Yeah."

  "Don't let Ms. Malloy scare you."

  "Why? Is she ugly?" From what he'd seen across the school gym last week, she looked as he remembered. Petite and pretty.

  Becky shook her head. "Her eyes are mean."

  He couldn't imagine it. Addie had the prettiest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen. And they gazed at him every day from Becky's dear face.

  All through lunch, the memory of Skip's daughter smiling at Michaela dug like a sliver into Addie's thoughts. He had a daughter who looked like him. Who was almost the age their child would have been. Wasting time had obviously not been a priority in Skip Dalton's life. How incredibly dumb she'd been to presume he had mourned the loss of their child. Instead, he immediately found someone else and— She slammed the last rinsed lunch plate onto the drying rack and bit her tongue to keep from screaming.

  Some rich guy looking for a summer place. Too late she associated the chitchat in Burnt Bend regarding the house in the trees across Clover Road....

  He had been that guy.

  Such a fool she was, keeping her head in the sand, shunning gossip. She hated it at seventeen when she found herself pregnant, and she hated it today, but sometimes, dammit, she should listen. On rare occasions that grapevine fed vital information.

  A laugh welled in her throat—before anger, dislike and hurt surged forth. Damn him.

  He would have known she lived within shouting distance. He would have investigated his neighbors, the area surrounding his land. A successful and affluent man like Skip Dalton would have taken precautionary steps before moving into a community, especially a rural community where trees and three-hundred-yard driveways concealed houses from view. He was money now. Barrels of money.

  "Mommy?" Michaela spoke at her side.

  Cool head, Addie. Your daughter is all that matters. "What, angel?"

  "Can I lick s-s-some honey off a s-s-spoon after we check the b-b-bees?"

  "Oh, button." Addie cupped her child's face, kissed her silky hair. "You bet." And just like that the hurt in her heart eased. "Go to the washroom, then we'll head out."

  "Yay!"

  Smiling, she watched the child run from the kitchen. Michaela loved honey—such a natural source of nourishment— and, amazingly, was not afraid of the hives.

  Michaela, she thought. Her baby, her reason for living.

  Two minutes later, she led the way down the path to the wooden honey shed where she kept their "spacemen" suits, as Michaela called the white coveralls they wore to attend the hives, and where, in an hour, she would be melting the wax off the honeycombs with a hot knife before running the honey.

  For years, Addie's father operated eighty hives, but Addie's main responsibility was Michaela. Added to that was the high school where she'd begun teaching again after her divorce. So last winter, she had reduced the apiary to twelve hives. Eight on a red clover field three miles down the road, and four on a neighboring cucumber-squash patch. Although she harvested the bulk of the honey the first week of August, the clover bees would continue to produce until Labor Day.

  She was stacking the fresh frames—combs in which bees produced harvestable honey—when Michaela darted for the shed door. "Mom! I f-f-forgot F-F-Felicity."

  Chuckling, Addie handed her daughter the house key. "Can't have that, button. Don't forget to lock up when you come out."

  From the time Michaela was old enough to come along, Addie had set the rule that only one doll came for the trip when they went to see the bees, and that doll remained secured in the truck's cab away from the insects.

  As Michaela in shed down the path toward the back door, Addie headed for the pickup with their coveralls and gear: hive tool, smoker and the last stack of fresh frames.

  That'd be so cool, Becky Dalton had told Michaela when she asked if the girl wanted to see the hives thirty minutes ago.

  How old was she? Eleven, twelve? What did it matter?

  A lot, dammit!

  He'd moved on without a second's thought after telling Addie how much he loved her, and that nothing short of death would keep them apart. Lying rat. God, how could she have been so stupid?

  "Arrgh!"

  Rehashing the memories, she wanted to scream and stamp her feet.

  A thought had her stumbling. What if he'd gotten a college girl pregnant around the same time he and Addie—

  Oh, God. Her heart hurt. How often had she stood at the edge of that game field over the years and looked up at the bleachers? And remembered.

  Remembered sitting among the hundreds of cheering students, watching
the boy in the black-and-gold Fire High uniform take charge of his team.

  How many times had she wondered if their baby had his eyes or mouth or those crazy elongated lashes? Whether she was tall or short, dark or blond? If she had his runners' legs?

  Most of all, she wondered if the child knew how badly Addie had wanted her. And failed her.

  She threw the gear into the bed of the truck harder than necessary, then reached down to the stack of frames on the ground. Forgive me, little one.

  A shadow fell across her face. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of a pair of ratty men's sneakers.

  "Hello, Addie."

  Her heart slammed her ribs. His voice. So familiar and at one time so beloved. She couldn't move, couldn't move an inch. He's here was her only thought. Right here.

  Slowly she rose; turned.

  He stood two strides away, hands shoved into the pockets of a pair of tan cargo shorts. He'd always been tall, but today, this moment, thirteen years after, he loomed over her five-foot-four stature.

  On occasion she had glimpsed his face on TV, noted the transformation of boy to man. Where once he held girls in thrall, today he undoubtedly did the same to women. Not because he was handsome, but because he exuded an elemental roughness manifested by those hewed cheeks and jaw, those dark brows, that hawkish nose.

  A breeze riffled the flip of brown hair on his wide forehead and a memory speared up. There was a time she had trailed her fingers through that lock. A time she'd loved its texture.

  "It's been a long while," he said when she continued to stare.

  She gathered her scrambled thoughts. "What do you want, Skip?"

  Imperceptibly, his shoulder lifted. "Just to say hi."

  "And now you have."

  "I'm...um..." He looked around her front yard. His eyes were still that rich honey color, she noticed. Full of deep, dark mystery.

  On a gesture to the big house she watched rise from the earth over the past three months, he said, "My daughter and I moved in across the road today."

  Disregarding her pattering heart, she picked up two supers— square boxes housing the honeycomb frames—and carefully set them inside the truck.

  "Yes," she said. "I noticed the moving trucks earlier, and... Becky met my daughter" She couldn't help emphasizing my. His daughter looked like him, the way Michaela looked like Dempsey. But, dammit, no matter how the cards fell, Michaela was her daughter.

  My daughter. Mine.

  Leaning down, he grabbed the second stack of honey frames. "I know. That's why I came over. I wanted to make sure she didn't cause trouble."

  So. This visit wasn't to reacquaint them or introduce his family to hers. He was here to make sure he wouldn't be considered a lousy parent for having an intrusive daughter.

  How like Skip. His name suited him after all. Skipping town thirteen years ago and now skipping back without a qualm, without a single concern that he'd nearly killed her with his brush-off.

  Did he even care that she'd suffered twenty-three hours of labor, that she'd died a million deaths when they whisked her baby away in the time it took her to inhale a single breath?

  Do you know I still wonder where she is?

  "I have work to do," she said, seizing the frames from his hands. "And you have your family to go back to."

  His wife, no doubt, would be wondering what he was doing across the road at the neighbor's house. The neighbor dressed in thready jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and old leather boots. On a blistering hot day.

  "It's just Becky and me," he said. "And she's fixing her room. You know how girls are. They... They fuss over..." He stepped back when he saw her eyes narrow. "Stuff." His hands found his hip pockets. "Addie, I..."

  She shook her head. "No. This is not old home week. I do not want you coming around here, Skip." Telling me about your child, your life. His mouth opened and she held up a hand. "It's not up for discussion. You made your choice long ago. Let's leave it at that."

  "I'm sorry."

  She released a sharp laugh. "For what? For coming back to the island? For walking up my drive? For your daughter showing up on my doorstep?"

  He blinked. "For everything." His throat worked a swallow. "From the beginning."

  If he didn't leave soon, she'd throw a loaded box of honey frames at his head. "Please, go home. Go back to your... mansion, to your...whatever it is you do." On a mission, she marched to the honey shed for another load before she realized she'd finished and had locked the door.

  Never mind, she'd find something else inside.

  Shortening his stride, he kept an easy pace beside her. She had read about his shattered shoulder, the one ending his star-hung career despite five operations.

  She damn well wouldn't feel sorry for him.

  "Addie, we're going to be neighbors. For a long time. I'm not moving. Can't we put the past behind us?"

  Whirling around, she looked up into those mellow eyes with their silly stretchy lashes. "Now, there's an idea. Can you tell me how it's done? How do you forget the past, Skip? You're a whiz at it, aren't you? Is it one of those twelve baby-step procedures?" She hated being catty, but the last thing on her radar was this man's feelings.

  Again, the long-lashed blink. "You've changed."

  "Damn right I have. It's called growing up." She rammed the key into the shed's lock, flung open the door. "You should try it."

  "You think my life's been a barrel of laughs'?"

  She heard the pinch of anger. "I don't give a flying rat's rump about your life. As long as it doesn't interfere with mine, we're good to go."

  He stopped in the doorway, succinctly blocking a portion of natural light. Reluctantly, she noticed his nut-brown hair needed a good trimming.

  He said, "I understand you teach at Fire High." The anger was gone, replaced with a softness she did not want to examine.

  From a shelf, Addie selected four more supers with honey frames. Red clover meant a high volume of blooms and extra work for her miniature buzzing charges. Maybe she would need additional frames after all. About to march back out the door, she paused. "Why did you build across the road?"

  "The land was for sale."

  "There were at least three properties along the shoreline you could've bought. People with your money buy water views. They don't do Little House in the Big Woods."

  "I like the woods."

  "Not good enough." She pushed past him, into the sunshine.

  "What do you want from me, Addie? Blood?" Though his shoulder sagged imperceptibly, he took the supers out of her arms. Her heart twisted. He had no business helping her, and certainly not with a permanent injury. He went on, "I'll gladly give it to you if it makes you feel better. But it won't change things for us. It won't—'"

  She stopped. "Us? There is no us, Skip. There was never an us, not even when we were dating. You made that perfectly clear when you left." When he'd told her, I need to try, Addie. I need to try and make the big leagues. Don't hold it against me. And she hadn't. What she couldn't understand was the way he disregarded their baby. He hadn't wanted to accept the responsibility for a child he'd helped create. Even as he told her, I'll be back for you. We'll do this together: That's what hurt. He hadn't returned. And for that she would never forgive him.

  Of course, now it was all clear.

  He'd had another woman in the wings. Same old Skip.

  Biting back the ache in her throat, she walked to the truck. Michaela sat on the front stoop with Felicity, the American Girl doll, against her chest.

  "Want to get in the truck, puddin'?" Addie said. "We're leaving now."

  Lips working to release words, the child looked to Skip.

  Addie set the supers on the ground and hurried to her daughter. "What is it, button?" Had Michaela heard them arguing in the shed?

  She glanced over her shoulder at the man loading the pickup's bed, his arm muscles delineated and tanned in the sunlight. Once those arms had held her. Once they had kept her safe, made her feel wanted. />
  God, what was she doing, mooning over Skip Dalton's muscles?

  She turned to her child. "Slow and easy, angel," she whispered. "Slow... That's my girl. Nothing's going to hurt you."

  Addie watched her daughter's gaze dart to the side, before she felt Skip crouch beside her. His knee brushed her calf muscle and shot heat into her blood. Keeping her smile in place, she prayed her eyes were calm. She did not want Michaela recalling any unpleasant Dempsey memories.

  "Hi, Michaela." Skip said softly. "I'm Becky's daddy. Remember Becky who came over today from the house across the road?"

  The child's eyes were anxious as she looked at Addie.

  "Slowly, baby," she whispered. "It's okay. Skip's our new neighbor. He's... He's not here to hurt me. He came to meet us."

  Beside her. Skip shifted so his position left a small gap between them. "That's right, Michaela. And when Becky gets her room all fixed up, she'll show it to you. With your mommy's permission, of course."

  "I l-l-like B-B-B-Becky." came her tiny voice.

  Addie swallowed hard. "I know you do, button."

  "C-c-c-can s-s-s-she come over t-t-to play?"

  "Maybe one day." She blushed aside her daughter's wispy bangs. "Ready to go to our bees?"

  A quick head bob.

  "Come on, then." Taking Michaela's hand and ensuring she stood as a buffer to Skip, Addie walked to the truck's passenger door.

  When she'd buckled her daughter in place, she went around back to retrieve the remaining supers, but Skip had completed the job and was slamming up the tailgate.

  "How long has she been stuttering?" he asked, and instead of curiosity or repugnance, she heard a parent's gentle concern.

  Her heart battled. She did not want him concerned. She did not want him to be gentle or genuine or kind. She wanted him to be the Skip Dal ton she remembered. The one who chose footballs and adulation over diapers and 2:00 a.m. feedings.

  Still, she considered. She could make up a story, or tell him to mind his own affairs. After all, she owed Skip Dalton zip.

  On a long sigh, she decided to go with the truth. Best from her than the grapevine. "It started when she was learning to speak, but it worsened when her father walked out on us last year."