Their Secret Child Read online

  Becky eyed the plate, which he nudged in her direction.

  She said, "I'm sorry for making you worry."

  "And I'm sorry for coming unglued."

  Her eyes widened. "You didn't. Not like—"

  Jesse Farmer. Skip didn't want to think what her adopted father might have done.

  Chin on her knees, Becky said, "I like that you worry."

  "You do?"

  "Yeah," she said. "It makes me feel like you care."

  "I do care, Bean. More than I can describe. I want to protect you and give you everything I can."

  She stared ahead. "You already have."

  No, he thought. Not everything. But one day soon he would. One day soon, he'd give her Addie.

  Breathing with relief, he nodded to the sandwiches. "Sure you don't want one?"

  Her blue eyes took in the minifeast. "They got mayo?"

  "Not a speck."

  At that she glanced up. "You know I hate mayo?"

  He couldn't stop the slow, half smile. "I hate it, too."

  "Really?" She bounded to the foot of the bed and reached for the plate. "Guess I'm like you then."

  "Guess you are," he replied, and his heart tumbled.

  They ate in silence for a minute.

  "Dad?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Does this mean I'm really your daughter?"

  "You always were, Becks." He had explained the DNA testing before she had come to live with him, before he'd proceeded with her legal adoption from the state.

  "But I always wondered where I got some habits from, y'know? Jesse used to say I got my finger-tapping from him, so I stopped doing that. I didn't want to be like him."

  "Just be your own person, Becky."

  "But I like having some of your ways. It makes me feel like I've got a past I can finally figure out."

  A past to figure out. As a parent, he was having enough trouble figuring out right now. "Let's take it a day at a time." At least tomorrow was a past not yet written. And it held Addie. He could learn from her.

  If she let him.

  By 4:30 p.m., a deluge fell from the sky. Rain pounded the earth, creating puddles wherever there was a dip, and the wind roughhoLised with the trees.

  With Michaela trotting at her side. Addie hurried to the house from the honey shed, where she'd spent the afternoon scraping wax off the filled frames before extracting honey from their cells.

  By mid-September the season would be over. She hoped selling almost 400 pounds of honey and dozens of candles from the wax would add a nice sum to her savings and repair the shingles lifting on her roof.

  "Can we go eat at Becky's house, Mom?" Michaela asked as they entered the kitchen through the back door. "She said her dad's barb'cuing."

  Shaking back her damp hair. Addie pulled wet strands from Michaela's cheeks. "I doubt they'll be barbecuing in this weather, button." A blessing in disguise, considering.

  "When then?"

  "I don't know." Never.

  Michaela set her doll on the table and walked to the tea towel hanging on a cupboard handle. "Don't you like M-M-Mr. D-D-Dalton?"

  "I like him." He's different now. A man with a child. And I still get flushed when I see him.

  Today she had reached out to touch him. Lord, her sisters were right. Her feelings for him were piled high and deep in the closet of her heart, and they were beginning to spill free.

  Mentally liberating herself of his hold, she rolled her shoulders and went to the sink to wash her hands before starting supper.

  "Was h-h-he mad at Becky 'cause she came with us?" Michaela asked, wiping rain from the doll's face.

  "He was worried about her, button."

  "He looked really m-m-mad."

  "He wasn't." Not every man is like your father, Addie wanted to point out. but she knew the words would make little difference. Dempsey's dour moods had left an indelible imprint on Michaela in the few short years they had been a family.

  Michaela fixed Barbie's dress. "He yelled at Becky."

  Addie came to the table, sat on the chair beside her child. "Michaela, listen to me. Mr. Dalton wasn't yelling. He was very worried about Becky. See, he's allergic to bees and gets very, very sick if he's stung. So sick he can die if he doesn't get medication right away."

  Michaela's eyes rounded. "C-c-can Becky d-d-die?"

  "No. Becky doesn't have the same problem." Thank God.

  "Then why d-d-does Mr. Dalton g-g-get worried?"

  "She's his daughter. Everything concerning her worries him." Addie touched her child's cheek. "Just like I worry about you."

  Michaela raised her head. "'Cause I s-s-stutter?"

  "Oh, love." Addie brought the child around and lifted her onto her lap. "Your stuttering is just a little part of you." She snuggled Michaela close. "I'll tell you a secret. It's a parent's job to worry about their children. They want to make sure their babies are safe and happy and loved. And that never stops, even when the babies grow up."

  "How c-c-come Daddy d-d-doesn't w-w-worry about me?"

  "He does. In his own way." Damn you, Dempsey, for doing this to your daughter. You could at least phone once in a while.

  Michaela was silent for a long moment. "I'm sorta s-s-scared of Mr. D-D-Dalton."

  The words should not have come as a shock, but hitting Addie in Michaela's soft, tiny voice, they did. "Don't be," she murmured.

  "What if he runs away from Becky? Like Daddy ran away from me?"

  "Daddy didn't run away, Michaela. He chose to leave. He wanted to live a different life and so he left. It had nothing to do with you. Nothing.''

  Michaela popped a thumb into her mouth, signaling that no matter what Addie said to the contrary her daughter would believe what she wanted to believe. She kissed her child's hair. She would do what she had to do. "No more thumb. All right?"

  A small nod. The thumb reluctantly left Michaela's mouth.

  Another kiss and she set the child on her feet. "Good girl. Bring over the phone and Becky's number."

  Michaela's eyes rounded. "Are we eating barb'cue at Becky's?"

  If the invitation still existed. "Let's see if Mr. Dalton agrees."

  Michaela dashed to the counter where the notebook page lay with Skip's number in bold black beside the telephone—the page he had exchanged with her the day he'd constructed the birdhouse.

  "This doesn't mean we'll be going," she said when her daughter grabbed the paper and receiver.

  "But Becky said," Michaela persisted.

  "It's not Becky doing the cooking, honeybun. Now, go find some dry clothes, okay?"

  Michaela dashed off and Addie dialed.

  "H'lo."

  "It's Addie," she said, and suddenly lost her voice at the sound of his.

  "Hey." Warmth and gladness encompassed the word; her heart jumped a bit. For a second, she was a teenager again, hearing that welcome and familiar baritone greeting.

  She squared her shoulders. This was for Michaela. "Sorry to intrude, but Becky asked my daughter to your house for—"

  "Barbecued chicken. I know." He chuckled. "Might as well get used to it, Addie. Our girls like each other—and you and I have been inadvertently tossed into the mix."

  "Only as parents," she said. "Nothing more."

  "Hmm." She could hear his smile. "Can you be here by five? The kids can play for a bit and we can talk while I cook."

  "The hi-honey-how's-your-day kind?" she tried to tease in return, and it felt good.

  He didn't hesitate. "Might as well begin somewhere. See you in twenty." Then the phone hummed.

  No, she thought, we don't have to begin at all.

  Suddenly she was exhausted. Outside the wind soughed in the trees and rain pelted the roof and washed the windows. All she wanted was to make a quick, easy meal, take a hot bath and spend the evening with a book. She did not want to go back into the storm. Oh, face it. It's Skip you don't want to see again.

  Liar.

  When the phone shrilled, she snatched it to h
er ear.

  "I'll pick you up," he said without preamble.

  "That's not necessary. I have an umbrella."

  But he'd already hung up. She stared at the phone, too tired to redial and argue. Pulling herself out of the chair, she went down the hall. At Michaela's door, she asked, "Almost ready, pumpkin?"

  "Uh-huh." Addie saw that her daughter had changed into a pink long-sleeved top with a sparkly Tinkerbell on the front, and pink pants. Her pink sneakers were on the wrong feet again. "I'm bringing these Barbies." Ten dolls lined her bed.

  "Honey, why not bring four, instead?" Becky had been sweet about the dolls that first day, would she be again? Something told Addie yes. The girl was a kind soul. Was she like her mother, the woman Skip'd had a relationship with? "Two for you, two for Becky," Addie said, veering from the thought. "That way they won't get crowded in your knapsack."

  Michaela considered. "Okay."

  If only her life was as simple. Addie thought.

  "Are we going now?"

  "Soon as I shower. Meantime—" she pointed to the pink sneakers and whispered "—you might want to switch your shoes."

  Twenty minutes later, Skip stood on the front stoop holding a huge navy-colored umbrella. Addie caught her breath at the sight of his smiling eyes, and him in bootcut jeans with a crease down the leg—who ironed denim these days?—and a burgundy jacket.

  Rain drummed the earth and sluiced over the eaves of her roof. The wind harassed the three big hemlocks fronting her house. She barely heard the sounds because with one arm Skip had scooped up Michaela. "Come on, tyke. Let's get you into the car."

  Circling Addie with the other arm, he ushered her across the gravel to his Prius, then gently stowed Michaela into the rear.

  Seconds later, he'd tossed the umbrella in the trunk and climbed behind the wheel. "I've forgotten our island storms." He furrowed strong fingers into his rain-dewed hair.

  Addie couldn't speak. Not once had her ex taken as much care with his family as Skip had in these few minutes. Dempsey had been about Dempsey. Becoming a father hadn't changed that trait. Oh, he loved her—when it was convenient and fit his mood—but being a daddy constricted his vision, his grand plan of things. Which meant, Addie realized soon enough, that Dempsey loved the idea of fatherhood. Not the reality of diaper changes, nor the middle-of-the-night crying and teething fusses, not the spills, messes, colds and earaches, nor the million fundamentals that raising a child set in motion from the moment of birth.

  Exactly, if she analyzed it, like Skip. Yet, somewhere in the last decade he had learned to care.

  Turning the ignition, he shot her a glance. A raindrop trailed along his temple. "What?" he asked, when she couldn't look away.

  "You've changed."

  He huffed a breath. "God, I hope so."

  She faced the windshield. The wipers swathed the rain as he headed down her narrow road where evergreens and oaks swayed ominously with the wind. "Maybe," she said, "I've jumped to conclusions too fast—"

  A thunderous boom resonated through the car.

  "Jesus!" Skip slammed the brakes. Addie's heart stopped. Flinging the door open, Skip leapt out.

  "Mommy!"

  Pulse erratic. Addie tried to see through the watery rear window.

  "It's all right, baby." she soothed, touching her daughter's knee as the child grabbed her hands. "Mom won't let anything hurt us." God, what had happened? Fear whipped her belly. Where had Skip gone?

  "D-d-don't g-g-go, M-M-Mommy."

  "I'm here, honey. I'm here." She had to rely on Skip. For the first time she had to rely on the man who had once left her in a crisis.

  Please, don't let it be bad.

  But she sensed the ominous. She sensed it before he bent into the open door moments later. "Addie." Rain peppered his shoulders, his hair, carved rivulets down his strong, lean cheeks. Yet all she focused on was the unhappiness in his dark eyes. "A tree's smashed your truck and house."

  Chapter Five

  One gazed at the destruction of her pickup and left wall of her house.

  The tree was a hundred-feet tall and had been in the ground to the left of the front stoop since before her grandfather's day. What worried Addie were the remaining hemlocks swinging like a pair of trapezes in the wind and the mammoth hole hewed by the downed tree's root ball.

  Addie couldn't move from the spot where she'd bumped to a stop after leaping from the car. She could see Skip's dark head and flashes of his burgundy jacket while he walked along the tree's periphery and investigated the damage. Branches covered the stoop and engulfed the truck as if it were a maroon egg shielded by a monstrous green bird.

  "Mommy!"

  Michaela stood beside the car, clutching a Barbie and scanning the scene with round, terrified eyes.

  "Go back inside the car, honey." Addie called, wanting desperately to view the destruction more closely, but hearing her daughter's angst. "I'll be right there. Get out of the rain."

  "I'm s-s-scared!" The child's gaze darted up at the trees swaying wildly along the edges of the lane.

  "Skip!"

  His head popped up through the branches of the downed tree.

  Addie cupped her mouth. "I'm taking Michaela to your house to stay with Becky." Where she'll be safe. "Be back in a few minutes."

  A wave and then he disappeared again.

  Addie ran to the Prius. The keys were still in the ignition. Slipping behind the wheel, she started the motor...and recognized she sat where he had minutes ago, that her hands gripped the wheel where his had rested, but all thought of Skip vanished when she saw her house in the side-view mirror. Tears smarted. Her home. Her lovely, quaint little carriage house...

  Wrecked in approximately three seconds.

  She should have had those trees thinned last summer. Living on the island, she knew what storms could do, how they could ravage beach property, flood basements, down trees in a heartbeat onto homes and vehicles. She'd seen it a dozen times over the years.

  And she'd heard the old-timers talk about thinning evergreen branches so the wind could stream through.

  But what had she done? Left her trees because she hadn't been able to afford five hundred dollars to have a guy climb the trunks and chop off some of the boughs. Today they had acted as sails, blocking the wind, forcing stress on the surface roots.

  And then hit her house. The trees had crushed the wall of the laundry room where, a half hour before, Michaela had thrown her wet clothes.

  A knot formed in Addie's throat; she could barely breathe.

  "Mommy?" Michaela spoke from the backseat. "Is our h-h-h-house g-g-g-gonna be ok-k-kay?"

  Addie leaned into the rear seat and kissed her child's rosy mouth. "Everything's going to be fine, angel." She forced a smile she didn't feel. "I'm taking you to play with Becky for a little while. Would you like that?"

  "Yeah." Michaela nodded, her ponytail bouncing. "Can we go now?"

  "You bet." She put the car in gear. Behind them, she saw Skip tour the root hole. She wouldn't think about the repairs—or buying a new truck.

  She could kick herself to forever and back about saving on the pruning costs last year, except she'd needed the money for Michaela's speech therapy on the mainland, until the new school therapist in Burnt Bend gained more inroads than the highly recommended doctor in Seattle.

  She pulled up in front of Skip's house. "Come on, sweets," she said, unbuckling Michaela's seat belt. "Time for you to have some fun."

  "Are you g-g-going to s-s-stay?"

  "I need to see what the tree did to the house, honey."

  They walked up the porch steps to the front door; it opened instantly.

  "Hey, Mick." Becky's eyes held pure delight. To Addie, she said politely, "Hi, Ms. Malloy."

  "Becky, a tree's fallen on our house and I have to help your dad sort things out. Could you please watch Michaela for me until we're done?"

  The teenager's jaw dropped. "A tree fell...? No way!"

  "It's a really b-b-b-bi
g t-t-t-tree, Becky," Michaela piped up, spreading her arms. "Way b-b-bigger than this."

  "Omigod!" Becky tugged Michaela into the house. "No worries, Ms. M. I'll look after Mick. You go."

  "Thank you."

  "Wait." Becky cried as Addie headed for the car. "Dad doesn't have a raincoat and neither do you." She flung open the front closet. "Here." She handed Addie a man's yellow slicker, then dug out a smaller one of the same color. "It's mine. Might be a bit small, but it'll help."

  Grateful, Addie tugged on the coat. The sleeves were a few inches too short, but it would keep the damp weather at bay. "Thank you, again." The girl was a wonder. Leaning down, Addie kissed Michaela's nose. "Listen to Becky, okay? I'll be back soon as I can. Love you."

  "Love you, M-M-Mommy."

  Skip's raincoat under her arm, Addie ran for the Prius.

  His hands were bruised and bleeding from yanking at the tree's massive boughs without gloves. He didn't care about his torn skin. Cuts healed. But Addie's house, her truck...

  She must be devastated. Hell, it wouldn't surprise him if she went into a state of mild shock. He'd seen her face when she stood gaping at the damage. He'd heard her anguish when she'd called out to him about taking her little girl to his house.

  Michaela. The kid was already stressed, he suspected, for a dozen other reasons. And now this. Oh, he knew nervous tension wasn't the root of stuttering. He'd done some Internet research after he had met the child two weeks ago. Stuttering, he'd learned, stemmed predominantly from the way a child's speech evolved, though the stress he or she encountered at the time could augment or prolong the disorder. He hated to think how the child would internalize a tree crashing on her home.

  Not every kid is as resilient as Becky. Prickly needles scratching his face. Skip climbed among the tree's branches and tried not to dwell on the experiences his daughter had endured. Every time his mind waded into that mire, he wanted to haul off and slug something. Namely himself for not having the guts thirteen years ago to stand up to his old man and stand by the woman he'd loved.

  Concentrating on what he had to do now for Addie, he lugged aside a limb the diameter of his thigh. Another branch of equal size had gouged a hole into the side of the house. He nudged wet, fanlike offshoots out of the way and peered through the unbroken window next to where the tree speared the laundry room.