adrenaline was pumping full-speed. He stopped pacing and made himself sit on the edge of a leather chair in front of Walter’s desk. “I thought I knew my sister inside and out, but this will of hers— Maybe I should find a PI and have him run a report on Shaye Bartholomew.”
“Don’t waste your money,” Walter advised him. “I’ve known Shaye’s family all my life. Carson Bartholomew has never been the best father. He’s a cardiac surgeon, so you can imagine the hours he keeps. He never saw much of his kids before his wife died, let alone after.”
“How did Shaye’s mother die?”
“A brain aneurysm she never knew she had. She just fell asleep one night and didn’t wake up again. After that, Carson saw to the kids’ physical needs but not much else. Although he hired a housekeeper, Shaye did the mothering, the cooking, the shopping and anything else that needed to be done. That’s what made her become a social worker, and a damn good one. I’ve been involved in some of the cases she’s handled. So don’t think a PI’s report is going to give you any more than I can tell you. She’s a good woman, Dylan. She was a good friend to Julia, and I think your sister knew what she was doing.”
Dylan’s head jerked up as his eyes met Walter’s. “You don’t think I deserve custody?”
“This isn’t a matter of deserving, boy. Julia loved you. She wanted the best life for you. She knows your blood’s in your work. Why would she want to saddle you with a baby? On the other hand, if Timmy’s with Shaye, you can be involved in his life as much as you want to be when you’re here. I’m sure she wouldn’t turn you away. That’s not Shaye, and Julia knew it.”
“I feel as if I have a responsibility—”
Walter cut him off. “You fulfilled your responsibility when you took Julia in and cared for her. Don’t be a martyr.”
Walter had never pulled punches with him and now, for the first time all day, Dylan relaxed into the chair, realizing how tired he was. Looking down at his clothes, he imagined the sight he made, needing a shave and a haircut. More than that, he needed a shower and a couple of hours of sound sleep. Maybe he could catch a few winks at the hospital.
He wasn’t a martyr, but he did care.
Standing, he zippered his jacket. “I’m going to run by my apartment to make sure everything’s still in one piece and take a shower. But if you want me, I’ll be at the hospital.”
“You always were stubborn,” Walter muttered.
“I’ve had to be.” Crossing to the door of Walter’s den, Dylan said, “Thanks for everything you’ve done. I’ll keep you informed.”
When Dylan left his friend’s house, wind buffeted him as pictures of Julia played in his mind—how happy she’d been when she’d come to live with him, how she’d cooked for him, how she’d chewed the end of her pencil as she’d solved math problems. He hadn’t come home this Christmas. He’d planned his schedule to take a break when his nephew was born.
Dylan’s eyes burned. He was just too damned tired.
As he climbed into the rental vehicle, in spite of his worry over Timmy, he saw Shaye’s face as she’d lifted it to the snowflakes. Switching on the ignition, he blanked out the image, needing to keep on an even keel, needing to forget that when he’d touched Shaye Bartholomew, everything inside him had gone on alert.
She’s just another woman.
But then he thought about his sister’s fondness for Shaye and her decision to leave her child to her friend. In turmoil, in spite of Walter Ludlow’s words, Dylan knew the next few days would be crucial in making his decision on whether to stay in Wild Horse Junction or go back to the life he’d come to love.
Chapter Two
As Dylan carried the last of his gear into his apartment, the space definitely had the feel of a bachelor pad not lived in for six months. Situated on the second floor of a rambling old farmhouse on the outskirts of town, Dylan kept it for when he returned to the area. The retired farmer who lived on the first floor kept watch for him and sent someone in to clean once a month when he wasn’t home. It had always suited his purposes just fine.
Yet now the place held so many memories of Julia and her years with him that he felt bombarded. Although he could now indulge in a bit of luxury if he wanted to, he hadn’t. Practically furnished when Julia had lived here, he’d replaced the second-hand sofa with a more contemporary comfortable one. The TV and sound system sitting on pine shelves were utilitarian, too, rather than up to date. Julia had bought the setup for him one Christmas after she and Will were married. His small kitchen with its bar and stools was functional, and he still slept in the thrift-shop bed he’d bought after he’d landed his first job. The second bedroom, which had been his sister’s, was now filled with file cabinets that stored transparencies and negatives. Cartons of photographic equipment were stacked in any spare space. A third bedroom was occupied with state-of-the-art equipment—computer, scanner, two printers and a fax machine. Julia had often shaken her head with a smile and told him he should invest in drapes rather than update his computer. But he never had.
In spite of the memories, the unlived-in feel of the apartment bothered him now, when it never had before. Because he’d lost Julia and she’d never be calling to chat with him again while he worked? She’d never be testing out a new recipe on him when he was home? She’d never be—
The thoughts tightened his chest and made breathing difficult.
After Dylan turned up the heat, he stripped off his clothes and showered, letting the sluicing hot water splash away images that were just too painful.
He’d found a pair of clean jeans and was pulling on a tan-colored, long-sleeved flannel shirt when his cell phone beeped. He’d placed it in the charger on the bedroom dresser. He picked it up, bracing himself as he switched it on.
“Mr. Malloy? It’s Dr. Carrera.”
Dylan’s heart hammered faster. “Yes, Doctor.”
“What’s your blood type?”
“AB positive.”
“Good. Timmy is anemic and we think a transfusion will help. Fortunately he’s AB positive, too. Would you be willing to give blood? Or should we go to the blood bank?”
“Of course, I’ll give blood. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Something about giving his life force to his nephew seemed right.
“Careful on the roads, Mr. Malloy. Snow’s making them slick and we don’t want any further tragedies.”
Further tragedies. Such a generic way of putting it. The words didn’t begin to cover what Dylan was feeling.
“Is Miss Bartholomew still there?” he asked before the doctor hung up.
“Yes, she is. She also wanted to volunteer for a transfusion but she’s not a match.”
A picture of Shaye was beginning to form in his mind; a picture of a woman who was a caregiver. He hadn’t known many women like that in his life and neither had Julia. Maybe that’s why his sister had gravitated toward Shaye.
Thinking first and foremost
