Ben watched the two rugged ranchers warily at first. But then, after fifteen minutes or so, he seemed to realize that they presented no threat to him. He grew accustomed to their staring and he ignored them. He ate his cereal and fruit with gusto and drank watered-down apple juice from the sippy cup Belle carried along wherever they went.
There was so very much to discuss. But every time she glanced at Preston’s battered face and saw his blank-eyed expression, she realized she didn’t know where to start. And even if she had known what to say, the busy diner didn’t seem the right place to talk. So she said nothing—except to agree with Charlotte that the scenery in Montana was spectacular and she would love to visit the Christmas Craft Fair.
When the meal was finally over, Preston claimed the check, piled some bills on top of it and cleared his throat. “Belle, I’d like a few words. Alone.” Grudgingly, he added, “Please.”
She took a wet wipe from a pocket of Ben’s diaper bag and cleaned the little sweetheart’s face and hands. “Charlotte, could you take Ben back across the street with you?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” She faced Preston again. “How about a stroll?”
“Fine.”
Charlotte rose, put on her coat and scooped Ben out of the high chair. She put him in the stroller and bundled him up again.
He laughed, a delighted chortling sound that warmed Belle’s heart. “Shar-Shar. Kiss.”
“Oh, yes.” Charlotte leaned close to him and he made a loud smacking sound with his little mouth against her cheek. She beamed at him. “Thank you, young man—now let’s put on this nice, warm hat.” She put it on him and tied the yarn ribbons under his chin. “There. Are we ready?”
“Yes!” declared Ben.
“Bundle up,” she instructed Belle in that motherly way she sometimes did as she got behind the stroller and aimed it at the door. “It’s bitterly cold out there.”
“I will,” Belle promised.
Marcus opened the door when Charlotte reached it. She pushed the stroller through. Wordless, Preston and Silas watched them go.
And then, out of nowhere, Silas found his voice. “That boy’s a McCade if I ever saw one.” He said it loud enough that every listening ear in the diner was treated to the big news. And then he spoke to Preston. “And damned if he didn’t get those baby blue eyes of yours.”
“Keep it down, Dad,” Preston growled, already on his feet. He shrugged into his sheepskin coat and shoved his hat on his head. Then he grabbed Belle’s coat and held it open for her. “Belle.”
She got up and let him help her into it. “Thank you.”
Silas was sliding from the booth.
Preston stopped him. “You stay here, Dad. Have yourself to another cup of coffee. This won’t take long.”
“I’m up to my eyeballs in caffeine as it is,” Silas grumbled. But he did sit back down.
“After you,” said Preston.
She led the way to the door.
Outside, the gray sky was growing lighter. She pulled on her winter gloves and put on her wool hat against the blustery cold. With Marcus in their wake, they hunched down into their coat collars and forged off up the street, snowflakes whirling around them. Christmas decorations, battered by the harsh wind, clinked rhythmically against the Victorian-style streetlights that lined the street.
“I would like to...apologize,” he said stiffly as they passed a jewelry store and then a gift shop, neither of which were open at that hour. “I got completely out of hand this morning at the motel.”
She sent him a sideways glance. He had his head hunched very low and his hat tipped down against the wind, shadowing his eyes. His swollen mouth had a grim twist to it. In spite of the fact that he was going to take Ben from her, she felt a tug of sympathy. “I imagine it must be a lot to take in.”
“Yeah, it is—and I shouldn’t have been so hard on you last night. You’re only the messenger, right?” He laid on the irony.
That got her back up a little. “I am, as a matter of fact, Ben’s legal guardian. So my responsibilities in this matter far exceed those of one who merely bears news.”
“Fancy talk,” he muttered.
“It happens to be the truth.”
He made a low, scoffing sound. “Here’s a truth for you. He’s my son.”
“I know that, Preston.” She kept her voice carefully even.
“And he’s what—a year and a half old?”
“Yes, he is.”
“But this morning is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on him. That’s the truth. And it’s not right.” He waited—apparently for her to say something, to argue the point. When she didn’t, he added, “She should have told me.”
“I know. And she knew it, too. I don’t know why she didn’t get in touch with you before she—” it was still hard to say the words “—before she died. After college, we didn’t see each other as often as we might have wished. She had her work. I had mine. I lived in Montedoro and traveled a great deal, raising funds and awareness for Nurses Without Boundaries. She was living here, in America—in Raleigh, North Carolina, and often off on a dig somewhere for her studies. I hadn’t seen her in person for two years when she called to tell me she was sick.”
“You’d never seen Ben until then?”
“No. I kept meaning to go to her, to meet her new baby, to spend some time catching up. But somehow, I never managed to make the time. Not until she called and told me about her illness, about how bad it was. I went to her then, at the end of October. We were with her until the end, Charlotte and I. I asked her more than once about...the baby’s father.”
He did look at her then. His eyes were haunted beneath the brim of his hat. “This way.” He offered his hand. She took it and couldn’t help thinking of the night before when he had kissed her, when he had raised her hand to his warm lips.
He led her off the sidewalk, into a courtyard between the buildings, out of the wind. He let go of her fingers to brush snow off one of the benches there. They sat down, side-by-side but not touching.
He asked, “What did she say, when you asked her about Ben’s dad?”
“That it was a one-night thing. That she hardly knew the man. And that she kept meaning to get in touch with him. That she would get in touch with him—with you, as it turned out. But she did nothing to make that happen through her final month of life. When she gave me that letter I showed you last night, I was reasonably certain of what would be in it. By then, I had a good idea of what she intended. I understood that she wasn’t planning to be the one to get in touch with the father of her child. I accepted that. I couldn’t do otherwise. She was so sick. She was in no condition to reach out to you, to tell you what you needed to know.”
“But
