the chair and to the phone. “Do not call your brother. This is between me and you. Here, right now. That’s why I left without telling him.”
“You didn’t tell him because you know what he would have said.”
“You’re right there, belle. I don’t have to take orders from Devon Malone.” He held her hands in his with an iron grip, but it wasn’t a cruel hold. More like a plea for her to stop. “I’m not going to do anything to hurt you or the boy. I just wanted to…see him.” His hands went soft over hers. “I just wanted to see him and make sure he was safe.”
Tears pricked at Gena’s eyes. She could see the love Eli had for Scotty there in the shadows around his dark eyes. She knew that same fierce love inside her heart. And she had no right to Scotty, no legal right. Eli could take him by force, or he could just take him. Period. How could she fight that? Worse, how could she fight the pain and torment this man had felt for the last few years? For all of his life.
“I won’t call Devon yet,” she finally said, the heat from his hands making her too aware of him. “But I can’t let you take Scotty away from me. I can’t. I love him so much. Please think about this. You can sleep on the couch tonight, and we’ll talk again in the morning. But understand I’ll be guarding him all night long.”
She watched as his soul went into war. Gena could see it all there like a storm cloud on his face, the pain, the shame, the anger and then as the deep slashes of fatigue caught up with him, the resolve. “You don’t have to guard the boy from me, catin. I am not a thief in the night. I’m just a father who wants to…know his son.”
“I understand that and I want that for you,” she said, a shudder of deep relief sliding down her spine. “If you’d like to stay here in Captive Cove for a while, I can let you have one of the other cottages. There’s a small one right next door. It’s yours for as long as you want.”
“How about for a lifetime?” he said, the words a harsh whisper.
Gena didn’t know how to respond to that question. This man was so different from anyone she’d ever met. He was like the night, dark and mysterious and dangerous. His clipped Cajun accent and the way he spoke the English language with such a colloquial French twist, made her heart do funny little things. Lydia had warned her about Eli. Not about the dangers inside the man, but about the vulnerable darkness that he tried so hard to hide. It was there now in his eyes, in his expression, in the way he sat staring at her like a caged, wounded animal.
And she had always had a soft spot for hurt creatures of any kind. “Eli, you can stay and get to know your son, but on my terms. All right?”
“Do I have any other choice?” he said, getting up to stalk to the sink. “Captive Cove! Now that is a fitting name for this place if ever there was one.” Then he turned and came to tower over her. “But you need to understand one thing yourself. I’m only doing this your way for the boy’s sake. Got that?”
She bobbed her head. “We can agree on that, at least.”
He lifted a hand in the air. “Just give me the key to the cottage. I don’t want to stay in here.” He shrugged. “If he wakes up and finds me here, he’ll have questions. Questions that should have been answered years ago.”
Gena felt that jab toward her life here with Scotty hitting her with ice-pick precision. He resented her, but he had to tolerate her in order to see his son. She didn’t know why that should hurt so much, but it did.
“I’ll get the key,” she said. “You’ll find everything you need in the cottage—linens, some food staples, coffee and wood for a fire. We can get the rest when this storm clears up. Until then, you’re welcome to have your meals here. And we’ll explain things to Scotty after he’s had time to get to know you.”
He pulled his gaze away from her to stare out the window. “When will this weather clear?”
“I’m not sure. The weatherman predicted a lot of snow. It could be tomorrow or days from now.”
He rolled his eyes, indignant with this confinement. Eli Trudeau was not a man to be locked away or shut inside. He looked like he belonged out in nature, walking, hunting, stalking, staring at the moon. He had a heart of the night.
Gena prayed she could bring some light into his battered soul.
Eli pushed his head back against the soft pillows on the old four-poster bed, then closed his eyes, memories of Leah moving like wind through his tired mind. He could see her there walking along the bayou behind their little house, her long blond hair falling away from her face, her hand on her already-protruding belly as she smiled down at the child she carried. But that vision was quickly replaced by the one he couldn’t keep out of his mind, the one he could only imagine because he hadn’t been there—the sight of his beautiful wife lying in a sterile hospital room hooked up to wires and tubes so that their child could stay alive long enough to be born.
Eli jerked his head up, wiping his eyes as if to get rid of the horror of that image. Staring into the crackling fire across the room, he thought, Do you know how much I loved you, chérie? Do you know that I would have fought all of them just to be by your side?
Too late now for that. But not too late for a chance to be a father to his son. And so he waited, hearing the clock strike midnight, hearing the gentle falling of snow all around the little house and the falling of the last burned log in the grate, hearing the ocean crashing madly against the shore. He waited and watched and listened as if he were on the most dangerous mission of his life. And maybe he was. He just had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling about things.
He wouldn’t sleep. He knew that. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep. Eli found no peace in his dreams or in his waking hours.
He’d traveled thousands of miles just to find his son, but his soul had traveled a long and rocky road just to find a little redemption. He’s seen that redemption tonight, shining like a beacon in his son’s dark eyes.
“Scotty,” he said out loud. “What kind of name is that?” He tested it. “Scotty Trudeau.”
Did they even let him go by the name Trudeau? Probably not. Scotty Malone? “Scotty,” he said again into the darkness of the neat, comfortable room. The name echoed like a child’s giggle against the walls.
Outside the wind howled and laughed, mocking Eli’s attempts to wrap his mind around fatherhood. It was bitter cold, but he felt a hot sweat moving over his body like a fever. He gripped the patterned quilt on the bed, wondering if he was going back into that dark place inside his own head again.
“Can’t go there,” he reminded himself. “They’d force me to go back to Ireland.” And he was not going back there, ever. How the Shepherd lived there was beyond Eli’s comprehension, but at least his friend and fellow CHAIM agent had been kind when Eli had tried every trick in the book to break out of the ancient stronghold that had held him captive for months. “Retreat? More like a padded, emerald-green prison.”
Pushing that time and those memories out of his mind, Eli tried to pray. He’d promised Lydia he would pray each time he got an urge to do something stupid—like leave New Orleans and come all the way up the coast in the middle of winter to see his son and make sure he was safe and sound. But his prayers were more of a haphazard merging of words. Help. Hurt. Anger. Pain. Scotty. Scotty. Leah. Gena. Help me. Help them. Lord, help us all.
Gena.
