“Where could they have been going?” California? Sean missed San Diego, somehow seemed to believe that if he could go back there, life would be as it was. As if Peter waited there on the front lawn of the suburban house that he and Sean had shared when Dana first met them. If only it were that easy.
“They were headed for Arizona, I imagine. Zoe’s great-aunt lives in Phoenix. She’s Catholic, like all Pilar’s folks. I suppose Zoe figured she’d take her side.”
“Side on what?”
“Zoe is all set to go away to college in three months,” Rafe said obliquely.
“College?” Dana had been picturing a ninth or tenth grader! Sean with a senior? Sean, who had all the social sophistication of a golden retriever pup? Now she knew there was some mistake!
“Harvard, just like her—” Rafe paused. “Harvard. She’s…bright.”
As in very bright, Dana interpreted the pride echoing behind that western understatement.
“She’s been working all her life for this. Aims to be a doctor, a surgeon—though the school counselor tells me she could shoot higher than that if she wants. Sky’s the limit. But Harvard’s the start…the door she has to walk through to get where she’s going. Where she deserves to go. Her life’s just blossoming, just starting to happen—” He slammed the wheel with a fist. “And now this? I don’t think so. Now that your kid has messed her up, there’s only one way out.”
“Abortion, you mean,” Dana murmured. She suppressed a sudden urge to look back at Petra. To grab the baby and pull her over the seat and into her arms. “Does Zoe agree?” Zoe, who’d broken out of her room somehow and tried to flee the state?
“She…Neither of us was making much sense back there,” Rafe growled. “We’re not used to banging heads. But once she’s calmed down and thought it through…”
I wonder. “There’s always adoption,” Dana observed, her voice carefully neutral.
“Zoe starts college in three months.” Montana’s words might have been carved from Rocky Mountain granite.
THEY DROVE THE REST of the way in silence. But angry as he was, Rafe found he couldn’t focus all his thoughts on the coming confrontation. Sitting only two feet to his right, she tugged at his awareness. Dana Kershaw. Small and dark, she should have looked boyish with her short, silky brown hair falling into her big slate-green eyes, yet she was anything but. She had a softness and a warmth about her that were feminine to the core. Reminded him of the little half-Siamese cat Zoe had owned for years, all silky fur to the touch, daintily elegant—and absolute hell on dogs five times her size, if they looked sideways at her kittens. His lips twitched as he remembered the way she’d faced him down at her baby’s door. Not a woman to be crossed.
Kershaw’s a lucky man, he found himself thinking. You could tell the good ’uns at a glance, just like he could size up a corral full of horses and choose the best mount. He grimaced, realizing where this thought was heading—it was just a leftover from his earlier frustration. God, was it only three hours ago that he’d been sitting across a table from Mitzy Barlow? It seemed another lifetime.
What he’d learned about Zoe—like a knife stroke cutting that happy life from this strange present, him speeding through the night with a gentle, fierce woman, her eyes reflecting like fathomless pools in the windshield whenever a car passed them by. And Zoe, turned from his loving, loyal daughter into a defiant stranger! One stumble across the kitchen floor and he’d picked up someone he’d never met before—a young woman who’d loved a man, made a baby by him, cast her father’s wisdom aside to fly to her mate. To flee as if he were some kind of ogre, not the father who’d turned his own world upside down to make a good life for his own baby…How could everything change this fast?
Nothing’s changed, he told himself savagely, and wished he could believe it. Not really. There’d be a week or two of hurt feelings and ugly necessities, a week or two of sorrow after that, then they’d get back on track. She’s worked too hard. I won’t let this ruin her life.
His headlights picked out a creek bending in from the darkness to edge the highway, then a state police car parked on the shoulder above it; ahead of that, a pickup. Two pale faces stared back through the truck’s rear window, as Rafe swung in behind the patrol car and parked. “We settle with the Statie first, Dana. He’ll want to hear that we’re taking this seriously.”
“Believe me, I am.” She checked her child, who was still sleeping, then hurried after Rafe as he strode to meet the state trooper, now unfolding from his car.
She handled it well, Rafe had to admit, as Officer Morris assured them that he could arrest Sean for everything from car theft to speeding. Dana didn’t try to excuse or defend her son, but simply promised that he would be punished, that such a grievous misjudgment would never be repeated. Clearly of a mind to be satisfied, the trooper finally nodded, marched off to his car, got in and carved a swift U-turn, then headed off toward the truck crash near Durango.
“You were lucky,” Rafe observed, hearing the distant engine shift into overdrive. He turned. And now, for someone who’d run flat out of luck…
Both doors of the shabby pickup opened as he stalked toward it. “Daddy?” Zoe called fearfully from the far side.
But Rafe had another target in his sights. The greedy, undisciplined spoiler who’d led them all to this disaster. “I want a word with you, punk,” he said quietly, barely aware that Dana Kershaw plucked at his elbow. He shrugged her off.
Head high, the boy paused beside his open door and let him come. Rafe’s strides slowed and he drew in a harsh breath. This was his enemy? Half a head shorter than him, with the gangly limbs, the too-big feet and hands of a boy? He’d pictured an eighteen-year-old, at least! “You’re Sean Kershaw?” He glanced toward the cab in spite of himself, as if the kid’s older brother might burst forth.
“My stepson,” Dana declared, swinging around to stand shoulder to shoulder with the kid.
Rage and frustration had been building inside Rafe all night. He’d contained himself—barely—but had promised himself a full and glorious venting when he found its deserving target. But now? You could stomp a man, but this—this unshaved brat? He caught the kid’s collar between thumb and forefinger. “How the hell old are you?” he demanded, ignoring both Dana’s and Zoe’s yelps of protest.
“Old enough and get your hands off me!” The boy chopped up a forearm, breaking his grip.
“Old enough for what, you little runt? To wreck my daughter’s life?”
“He’s fourteen, and you leave him alone,” Dana cried, stepping between them. “I said we’d talk tomorrow,” she added in an urgent undertone.
“Fourteen!” Rafe shook his head. What the hell?
“Daddy!” Zoe pleaded.
Zoe had betrayed him for this—this puppy? “Get in the truck,” he snapped without glancing aside.
“Don’t,” countered the kid. “He can’t make you do anything you don’t want.”
“Oh, can’t I?” He prodded the boy’s shoulder. “Mind your own business, sonny.”
The
