had never specifically spelled out her wishes regarding Robbie and his birth mother, but if she were here…
But she’s not, Aidan thought bitterly. And the situation was very different than if she had been. His first duty was to protect Robbie, at all costs. He didn’t owe Winnie Porter a damn thing.
Oh, for godssake, babe, the breeze seemed to whisper, don’t be such a tight-ass!
Aidan jerked so hard he nearly lost his balance. But a moment later Winnie’s voice replaced his wife’s, a voice every bit as strong and determined—even in pleading—as June’s had been, along with a pair of smoky blue eyes unafraid to meet his dead-on. Of course, the woman was bleedin’ crazy…
And sometimes crazy’s just courageous in disguise.
June again. His nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath, Aidan squeezed shut his eyes, remembering how June had said, after they’d met Winnie, how much alike she thought she and Winnie were.
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” Aidan said aloud, then shook his head, thinking, And who’s crazy now? Only to violently shiver when the wind shoved at his back, insistent as a pair of hands, pushing him upright. Even more alarming was the way it seemed to be whistling, Talk to her Just that, over and over, until he thought he’d go mad. Madder than he suspected he already was, at least.
The wind—and the whistling, and the words—stopped when he went back inside. Thank God for small favors, Aidan thought as he tossed his bottle in the garbage, then went upstairs to say good-night to his son. Except Robbie was already asleep, a tangle of bedclothes and long arms and legs, Spider-Man and Transformers at war. Aidan straightened out boy and bedding as best he could, then eased himself onto the edge of Robbie’s bed to brush one permanently oil-paint-stained hand over his son’s shaggy hair. And underneath the hair, a face that spoke the truth far more in sleep than it ever did when the lad was awake, his expression as tangled as his bedding.
“We’re a right mess, you and I,” Aidan said softly, the emptiness inside about to stretch him to bursting. Things were supposed to get easier, “they” said, after a year. Certainly, Aidan had hoped they’d be more adjusted to their new reality better than they apparently were.
Then he thought of the look in Winnie’s eyes and realized that some realities are harder to adjust to than others, whether you’re “supposed” to or not.
Aidan’s loss was permanent, irreversible, the hopelessness of it an odd sort of comfort, he supposed. But for a nine-year-old child…
For a woman who, nine years ago, had quite possibly felt backed into a corner…
Releasing a long, silent sigh, Aidan rose from the bed and left his son’s room, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as he went.
Chapter Three
The next morning, Winnie awoke with a yelp when an ice-cold doggy nose torpedoed underneath the comforter to make contact with her warm back. Instantly awake—and cranky—Winnie flipped over to glare at the beast whose toothy grin was a blur in the wriggling excitement that was Annabelle.
It’s morning? We go play? Find things to herd?
“Forget it,” Winnie grumbled. Between feeling like she’d hosted a rowdy keg party in her brain all night and an unfamiliar bed, she was lucky if she’d logged in three hours the entire night. Morning, whatever. And it was coollld out there on the other side of the comforter—
“Oh, hell,” she muttered, remembering that Aidan had invited her to breakfast. That she’d said yes. That loneliness and butter-soft Irish accents were a really, really bad combination. That—
That somewhere in the distance, a rooster was crowing.
“Crap, what time is it?” she asked the world at large, grabbing her watch off the nightstand, then sinking back into the mattress, groaning. Lord, show me a sign, she’d prayed the night before, mainly because Elektra was a big believer in the suckers and Winnie was up the creek, whether I should go or stay. Whether her wanting to get to know Robbie was a right idea, or a relapse into the stubbornness that had ruled so many decisions for so many years. Then Aidan had called, not a minute afterward, and she’d thought, Wow. Fast service.
“I can’t do this,” she now said to the dog, even though she had no earthly idea what this was. Annabelle stopped wriggling long enough to cock her head at her mistress, after which she heaved a great doggy sigh, laid her snout on top of the mattress and commiserated with Winnie with what she probably thought was her best soulful look. Except Annabelle, not being a hound, didn’t do soulful very well. Annabelle was all about perky and playful. Like a cheerleader.
Sure enough, after, oh, ten seconds of sympathy, the dog moonwalked backward, bowed with her butt in the air and yarped. Her version of Get your fat bee-hind out of bed. Now.
With a sigh of her own, Winnie dragged said bee-hind out of bed, the comforter wrapped around her shoulders and trailing after her like a poufy coronation cape as she let the dog out, then clumsily put on coffee, because facing the world—and Aidan—without fresh caffeine in her system wasn’t gonna happen.
Her cell rang. Winnie stared at it, shimmying on the counter like a rattlesnake, a thought that made her shudder mightily. With any luck, it would be Aidan, canceling. Except then she realized, yeah, well, if she wanted to get closer to Robbie, going through Aidan was her only option.
And according to Elektra, once you accepted a sign, you were pretty much stuck with it.
“Good,” Aidan said the moment Winnie put her phone to her ear. Now she heard the crowing in stereo. “You’re awake.”
“Up, yes,” she said, yawning. “Awake, not so much.” Annabelle whined at the back door; Winnie shuffled over to let her in.
“I thought I said breakfast was at eight-t’irty?”
And early morning Irish attitude was just what she needed. “It’s eight…” She squinted at her watch. “Ten. So no problem.’
“Glad to hear it,” Aidan said, and hung up.
Winnie looked at Annabelle, who’d been pretending not to listen. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing,” she said, but, sadly, dispensing advice was not part of Annabelle’s job description.
The village of Tierra Rosa, Winnie thought as her truck wound up, then down, the curved main drag like a roller coaster on downers, was oddly charming, in a Tim-Burton-gone-Southwest kind of way—a cross between an old Spanish settlement, a set for a fifties’ Hollywood Western and a trailer park. To add to the confusion, she mused as she spotted the cafe, was the occasional bank or church or police department building that was pure Sixties blah.
“No, baby,” she said to the dog as she got out, leaving the truck windows at half-mast since the temperature had inched up to maybe fifty or so, “you have to stay here.” After a moment of looking bereft, the dog sighed and sat. Annabelle was nothing if not flexible.
Then, the breeze zipping right through the persimmon-colored velvet blazer that had seen her through any number of Octobers, Winnie started toward the cafe and was hit by a wave of nervousness so
