Almost Home (30 page)
The phone rang, and he reached for it eagerly,
grateful for the interruption. "
he barked into the phone.
"Hello, Zach."
His stomach twisted into an immediate, familiar,
sickening knot. "What do you want?"
"I hear you had a little chat with Veronica,"
"I told you I wouldn't let you con Katherine into
thinking you were her father."
"We could have made a nice run, Zach. Katherine
Whitfield has all kinds of money backing her up, and we could have gotten some
before she figured out the truth. But no, you had to get in my way. After all I
did for you."
"All
you
did for me?" Zach asked in
disbelief. "You
almost ruined me."
"I saved you from an
orphanage."
"So you could use me,
like you're trying to use me now."
"Everyone uses
everybody. That's the way of the world."
"Your world,"
Zach said tightly. "Not mine."
"You'll be sorry, son.
Sorry you ever crossed me."
"You had a vasectomy.
You refused to take a blood test. The game is over."
"There's always
another game."
"Not with Katherine,"
Zach said, feeling fiercely protective, an emotion he was not entirely
comfortable with. In fact, he couldn't remember having felt it before. Maybe a
few twinges of guilt for one of the nice ladies his father had conned into bed
or out of a savings account. But never this overwhelming determination to save
someone from his
father's clutches. "Leave
her alone," he added forcefully.
"You're hardly in a position to call the shots,
Zach. Your appalling amount of integrity has left you vulnerable."
"I don't care what you tell the
"So you say now. I wonder if you'll change your
tune."
"Why don't you go back to wherever you were and
leave us all alone?"
"Us?"
"Go to—" Zach's words were cut off by the dial
tone, and Zach slowly hung up the receiver, feeling both angry and worried.
double cross. Never had, never would. But what else could he possibly do to
Katherine?
discredit him, but there was nothing his father could do to hurt Katherine.
That was all that mattered. Unless…
far more than he should about a woman who'd only come to town a few days
earlier. But what did he know? And more important, what was he going to do with
the information?
* * *
Claire
Stanton was shocked to see Jackson Tyler sitting on a bench in front of the
Hastings Grill, where she was meeting Leeanne and Mary Jo for a late lunch.
Dressed in a navy blue pinstripe suit, his face cleanly shaven, his brown hair
cut short and styled around his face,
him con hardworking people out of their life savings. Charming, he might be,
but decent and honest, he was not.
She wondered what he was doing in town. His appearance
seemed to have an uncanny correlation with Harry's private investigation. She
hoped
trouble. The boy deserved a life of his own.
Stanton, it's a pleasure."
"Mr. Tyler." She kept her voice deliberately
cool. "I thought we'd seen the back of you a long time ago."
"I have a son living in
Surely I'm allowed to visit him."
"Zach isn't in town. He's at the farm. But you
already know that, don't you?"
He inclined his head, acknowledging her point. "I
always liked you, Mrs. Stanton. Sharp as a tack, but not quite as nearsighted
as your husband. You have the ability to see the big picture."
She didn't like the turn of his conversation or the
look of pleasure in his eyes.
present.
"I have to be on my way."
"Ah, yes, lunch with Mary Jo and Leeanne. The
only one missing is Margaret."
She drew her tongue against her suddenly parched lips.
"Excuse me."
"I'd like a word with you before you go."
"I don't think we have anything to talk about."
"On the contrary, I think you'll find our
conversation most interesting."
She wondered what secret he thought he'd found out
about her. It would do him no good to blackmail her. She was almost seventy
years old, too old to care about her reputation. She'd learned a long time ago
there were far more important things in life than a clean name.
"It's about Margaret," he said.
She felt her pulse quicken in spite of her resolve not
to rise to the bait. "Margaret has been dead for twenty years."
"Has she?"
mean, are you really sure she's been dead that long?"
Her heart skipped a beat, but she silently counted to
ten. Jackson Tyler was a born liar. She wouldn't let him get to her.
"No comment?" he asked. "Or are you
counting the years in your head?"
"Why don't you just say whatever you have to say
and stop beating around the bush?"
"Have you met Miss Whitfield?"
A chill came over her body. "Yes."
"You don't think she
looks—familiar?"
"In what way?"
"Her walk. It reminds
me of Margaret. Did you notice?"
Claire swallowed. She hadn't
noticed the walk, but she had noticed a certain tilt of Katherine's head. No,
she was being ridiculous. "I don't know what you're implying, and I don't
want to know."
As she tried to move around
him,
in 1972, six months after Margaret left
Claire gasped. "You
don't know that." He couldn't know that. No one but Margaret and possibly
the father of her baby had known that. The father? Jackson Tyler? She felt
nauseated at the
thought of her daughter
and this slimy man. But for a brief moment it crossed her mind that it wasn't
totally impossible. Margaret had always been impulsive where men were
concerned.
"I know Margaret was pregnant,"
that's not all I know."
He wanted her to ask, to beg for the information.
There was a part of Claire that wanted to do just that. But she hadn't lived
with
"You're a con artist, Mr. Tyler. Why would I
believe anything you have to say?"
"Because I know the truth."
"I sincerely doubt that. What do you really want?"
"A chance to help you. You've taken my son under
your wing. I certainly owe you something for that."
"Zach is none of your concern. You left him to
forage for himself when he was just a boy. Don't pretend to care about him now."
"We're not talking about me and my son. We're
discussing you and your daughter."
"We're not discussing anything. I'm leaving."
"Why don't you ask Miss Whitfield about her
mother, what she looked like, the way she sounded when she laughed, the color
of her hair, her eyes?"
"Miss Whitfield's mother died when she was twelve
years old," Claire said, gaining new confidence as she remembered their
conversation in the garden. "She's in her twenties now, so that would mean
that her mother died fourteen or fifteen years ago, not twenty."
"Now, that's an interesting point. And I probably
would have agreed with you if I hadn't stopped by Miss Whitfield's room last
night. I thought I'd take a little peek around. You'll never guess what I
found."
God help her. Claire wanted to walk away, but she
couldn't. There was something niggling at the back of her mind that urged her
to jump to the conclusion he was offering her. Claire had felt an immediate
connection with Katherine, but that couldn't have anything to do with Margaret.
"You're not going to ask me, are you?"
tsk, Mrs. Stanton. You're very stubborn. You're just dying to know. Admit it."
She lifted her chin in the air. "Miss Whitfield's
belongings are private. She could have you arrested for trespassing."
"I wonder if you'd feel the same way if you saw
your daughter's quilt draped over Katherine Whitfield's bed. All those
beautiful lilies of the valley. I remember when Margaret showed me the quilt.
She said it was the only good thing she'd ever done."
Claire felt the blood drain out of her face. Margaret's
quilt? The one they'd worked on together from the first day Claire had taught
her daughter how to thread a needle? "Katherine couldn't possibly have
Margaret's quilt."
to walk away, then paused. "Oh, and by the way, that information was free,
but if you want to know who Margaret's lover was all those years ago, I'll
expect some compensation." He tipped his head once again. "You have a
nice day now, Mrs. Stanton."
Nice day? Claire felt like the bottom had just dropped
out of her world. Why on earth would Katherine Whitfield have Margaret's quilt?
* * *
Katherine ran a
brush
through her hair, staring at her face in the mirror, wondering why she didn't
look any different on the outside when she felt so different on the inside.
Last night she'd given herself wholeheartedly to a man who never wanted to see
her again.
Despite Zach's convincing good-bye act, Katherine knew
she'd gotten to him, and it wasn't just womanly pride that told her that. She'd
felt him surrender to her. For a few minutes last night, he'd been hers,
completely, absolutely. And now he was gone.
Katherine shook her head, noting a tiny red strawberry
on her neck where his teeth had marked her skin. She closed her eyes and
remembered the way his mouth had trailed across her face, his tongue tracing
her earlobe, his teeth nipping at her skin. The memory started her heart racing
and she quickly opened her eyes, willing it away. She didn't want to remember.
There was no point.
As Zach had said, they'd had sex. No big deal.
But it was a big deal. She couldn't deny it. Maybe she
was a typical woman, but she hadn't just had sex with Zach, she'd made love
with him. And she wanted to be close to him on so many levels that had nothing
to do with the physical. Not that he hadn't made her body sing in ways she'd
never imagined.
No matter,
Katherine
told herself firmly.
He's not the man for you. He doesn't want to
be the man. He's moody and irritable and has a huge chip on his shoulder, and
he's out to prove something to the world. In fact, he cares more about that
horse of his than he cares about you.
Katherine sighed, wishing she could make herself
believe Zach was the wrong man. But she kept thinking about his pep talk a few
days ago, the way he'd told her not to quit, when she knew deep down he wanted
her gone. In her mind she could see his smile, the way it lit up his face when
he forgot to be on guard, the pride in his voice when he talked about Rogue,
the desire in his eyes when he looked at her—as if she were the only woman in
the world, the only woman for him.
Not that she was in love with him. It was too soon for
that. But as she reached a hand to the mark on her neck and traced it with a
shaky finger, she knew she was lying to herself.
Zach Tyler had gotten into her heart, and she was
going to have a heck of a time getting him out. The thought of never seeing him
again, never hearing his voice, never feeling his touch on her skin
…
She wouldn't cry, not now, not ever. She'd known what
kind of man he was before she slept with him. She wouldn't be sorry it had
happened no matter how much it hurt now.