The sound of frantic claws scrambling toward the door caught her attention and a tiny dog that was obviously part Chihuahua shot through her legs. It barked and yapped, showing its nasty little teeth. “This is Buster?” Pescoli said as Edie picked up the tiny pooch.
“Oh, no, this here’s Fifi.” She held Pescoli’s gaze for a second. “Trust me, you really don’t want to meet Buster.”
At the sound of his name, the dog in the back started growling and barking wildly again, sounding as if he were big enough to eat Fifi in one bite.
“Really, it would be a very bad idea,” Edie said and slammed the door in their faces.
A father?
Cade could barely get his mind around the truth, if that’s what it was, and from the medical reports that Hattie had left with him, it seemed that her story was accurate. He’d watched her leave, hadn’t stopped her when she’d said, “Okay, that’s why I came here, to let you know that the girls are, at least biologically, yours. You have rights and . . . and I should have told you before, but I just couldn’t. So there’s not a whole lot more to say.” She’d looked at him with those damnably intelligent eyes and waited for him to say something, but he hadn’t. Didn’t even know where to start.
Her face had still been flushed from his comment about Bart. She’d nodded to his continued silence and turned away, and he’d watched her shove open the heavy shed door and disappear into the coming night. Only when he’d heard her engine turn over did he shake himself back to action. “Son of a bitch,” he’d whispered as he’d turned out the lights and, head swimming with thoughts of those two little imps who he’d let himself believe to be Bart’s, made his way up to the house. He hadn’t noticed that Zed’s Ford was missing, but the house was empty when he’d walked inside.
He was alone.
Which, all things considered, was a good thing. Though he was covered in grime and grease, he hadn’t bothered even cleaning up, just poured himself a healthy dose of whiskey and opened the envelope to spread its damning contents over the old plank table that had been in the house as long as he could remember.
Originally, when their mother was still alive, all four boys had always occupied their assigned seats. Ma and Pa had been situated at either end of the table, Zed and Dan in chairs on one side, Bart and Cade occupying the bench near the wall.
To this day, he took the seat on his end of the bench and now, he glanced down its scarred length to a spot where Bart had, after Ma had died, carved his initials into the wood.
God, that was a lifetime ago.
He looked across the table to the spot Dan had occupied, catty-corner fro
m him, and imagined his older brother looking back at him, silently offering him advice. Cade’s insides twisted when he realized he might lose the brother who had been his mentor all his life. “Damn it all to hell,” he said under his breath, then swirled his drink, looking into the amber depths, unable to imagine what the world would be without Dan Grayson. Certainly not a better place. If he could get his hands around the throat of the bastard who’d done this, he would gladly strangle him. He blinked, imagining Dan in his chair. It had been decades since he’d sat on the smooth wood seat on a daily basis.
Long before all their lives had been forever tangled in Hattie Dorsey’s seductive web.
Don’t blame her, Cade. She’s right. She didn’t do this on her own.
He reread the reports and saw that Bart’s sperm count was practically nonexistent, the likelihood of him fathering any children nil.
He didn’t believe Hattie had been involved with anyone else; hell, the guilt she’d experienced by being with him about killed her, so he had to assume Mallory and McKenzie were his.
And really, what did it matter? Bart was dead, Dan still in a coma in the hospital, and Zed despised Hattie; always had, always would. So that left him to be the father figure to the girls he considered his nieces.
Was anything so different?
Hell, yeah! He was a father. A damned father. A role he’d never really considered playing, not that he didn’t love Hattie’s imps, he did, but a father?
Of course it had crossed his mind, but he’d put it aside, always telling himself that if there were a modicum of truth to his suspicions, someone would have told him.
Well, that someone did.
Today.
And ridiculously he was furious. Stung that it had taken her this long to come up with the truth.
“Shitfire,” he whispered to no one but the dog who, lying on the couch in the living area, didn’t seem to notice. “Apparently you’re as blind as I am,” he yelled across the room to Shad, who didn’t so much as lift his spotted head.
Daughters! Two daughters! A whole vista of dance lessons, cheerleading squads, softball games, and boys with hot cars, boys who couldn’t keep their dicks in their pants, randy teenagers just like he’d been, came to mind.
He shoved the faded reports aside and, carrying his drink, walked to the window to stare outside. Snow was falling, covering the woodpile, drifting against the stables and catching on the windowsills. Peaceful. Serene. In direct opposition to the storm of emotions roiling through his mind. He remembered all too clearly the night Hattie had come to him, breaking it off, sobbing that she was a horrible person for what she, what they’d, done to Bart.
Attempting to console her, he’d pulled her close and told her that it would be all right. He’d taken one whiff of the perfume lingering in her hair and kissed her cheek, tasting the salt of her tears, and she’d pushed him away, with such force he’d been surprised. “Never,” she said, blinking hard, her lips trembling, outrage and guilt burning in her wide, anguished eyes. “Never touch me again.”
And he hadn’t. Two hours later, he was on his bike and heading west, tearing down the road twenty miles over the speed limit, putting the dust of Grizzly Falls and the heartache and confusion that was Hattie Dorsey in his rearview. He’d intended to stay away forever but couldn’t resist the draw of the wedding when he’d shown up and made an ass of himself. He still cringed inside when he remembered that foolish show.