Then who would be left? Who would she be?
God, she didn’t know. And how pathetic was that?
“Reagan.” Ezekiel’s voice penetrated the thick, dark morass of her thoughts, and she jerked her head up. He stood in the opening of her car door. A car she hadn’t realized he’d stopped and pulled over, and a door she hadn’t heard him open. “Come on out.”
He extended his hand toward her, his green eyes, so full of concern, roaming over her face. Slowly, she slid her palm over his and allowed him to guide her from the vehicle. Only then did she notice he’d parked on the side of a quiet, deserted road.
She recognized it. Several country roads twisted through Royal, some leading to the ranches that dotted the town and others leading to rolling fields filled with wildflowers. This one lay several miles outside her parents’ gated community. A bend in the road and a thick copse of trees shielded them from anyone who might travel past the end of it. As Ezekiel closed the door behind her, turned her so he rested against the Jaguar and pulled her into his arms, she was thankful for the semi-privacy.
“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he murmured against her head as he wrapped his arms around her, one big hand tunneling through her hair and pressing her to his chest. “Let it go. No one can see you here. Let it go because I have you.”
The emotional knot inside her chest tightened, as if her body rebelled against the loosening storm inside of her. But in the next moment, the dam splintered, and the torrent spilled out. A terrible, jagged sob wracked her frame, and she buried her face against Ezekiel’s chest as the first flood of tears broke through.
Once she started, she couldn’t stop. How long she wept for that sixteen-year-old girl who’d been abandoned by the boy she’d loved and her family, Reagan couldn’t say. It seemed endless, and yet, seconds. Fists twisted in his shirt, she clung to him, because at this moment, he was her port in a storm that had been brewing for years.
Eventually, she calmed, her harsh cries quieting to silent tears that continued to track down her cheeks. And even they stopped. Ezekiel cupped one of her hands and pressed a handkerchief into it.
“Thank you,” she rasped, the words sore against her raw throat.
He stroked her back as she cleaned up the ravages of her weeping jag.
“I’m here if you want to talk. Or if you don’t want to talk. Your choice, Reagan,” he murmured.
The self-preservation of her family’s demand for secrecy—as well as her own guilt—battled the urge to unload. But God, she was tired. So tired. Yes, she struggled with trusting people, in trusting herself. Maybe, just maybe, she could try to take a little leap of faith and trust him...
“When I was sixteen, I was involved with a boy—well, he was nineteen years old. My parents didn’t approve of him. And in hindsight, I understand why. But back then, I was just so hopelessly in love with him and would’ve done anything for him. And I did. I rebelled against Dad and Mom. I saw him behind their backs, sneaked out at night to see him. He consumed my world as a first love usually does. But...” she swallowed, closing her eyes “...I ended up pregnant.”
Ezekiel stiffened against her, and she braced herself for his reaction. Shock. Disbelief. Pity. Any or all of them would be like a punch to her chest.
He shifted, settling more against his car and drawing her between his spread thighs. Pulling her deeper into his big, hard body. Gentle but implacable fingers gripped her chin and tilted her head back.
“Open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me.”
She forced herself to comply, and her breath snagged in her lungs. Compassion. Tenderness. Sorrow. But no pity. No disappointment.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, so don’t look down while you give me your truth.”
She stared at him. Nothing to be ashamed of. No one—not her parents, not her brother or sister—had ever said those words to her. But this man did. Against his wishes, she briefly closed her eyes. That or allow him to glimpse the impact of his assurance. He’d said her eyes reflected her feelings, and she didn’t even want to identify the emotion that had her mentally backpedaling. Had fear rattling her ribs and clenching her stomach.
Shoving everything into a lockbox deep inside her, she drew in a breath and lifted her lashes, meeting that piercing green gaze.
“As you can expect, my parents didn’t react well to the news. And yes, I was terrified. Yet I also believed my boyfriend when he said he would never leave me. What I hadn’t counted on was that dedication not measuring up against the check my father waved in front of his face. Dad paid him off, and he disappeared. And my parents... They sent me away. To a girls’ home in Georgia.”
“I remember,” Ezekiel said. “It was just before the school year ended, and Harley was upset because you wouldn’t be with her for the summer. She never mentioned—”
“She didn’t know,” Reagan interrupted, shaking her head. “No one except my family did. My parents didn’t want anyone to find out. I was supposed to go to the home, have the baby and adopt him or her out. I didn’t want to give my baby up, but they were adamant. They were embarrassed and ashamed.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue. “Especially my father. Before, we’d been close. I was a self-admitted daddy’s girl, and there was no man greater than my father in my eyes. But afterward... He couldn’t even look at me,” she whispered.
“And this?” He gently pushed her fingers aside—the fingers that had been absently rubbing the scar on her collarbone.
“When I was about fourteen weeks, I started cramping. I didn’t tell anyone for the first couple of days. But the third morning, pain seized my lower back so hard I doubled over and almost fainted. I did fall, and on the way down I clipped myself on
the dresser.” She again stroked the mark that would forever remind her of the worst day of her life. “I lay there on the floor, curled up, bleeding from the wound when I felt a—a wetness between my legs. I was miscarrying.”
“Oh, Ray,” Ezekiel whispered, lowering his forehead to hers, and his breath whispered across her lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Spontaneous miscarriage, they called it,” she continued, needing to purge herself of the whole truth. To cleanse herself of the stain of secrecy. “They told me there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it, but I still felt responsible. That it was my punishment for disobeying my parents, for not being the daughter they deserved, for having unprotected sex, for not being good enough for my boyfriend to stay around, to love me—”
“Sweetheart, no,” he objected fiercely, his brows drawing down in a dark frown as his head jerked back. “None of that is true. It happens. My mother suffered two miscarriages. One before me and one after me. It happens to good people, to women who would’ve made wonderful, loving mothers. It was biological, not penal.” Worry flashed in his eyes. “Were you hurt more than you’re telling me?”