wrong for each other. Celene had been flashy, daring and restless. She’d been the kind of woman who would find it difficult to stick with one man, let alone work at a marriage. But on the night he’d sat in that Abilene honky-tonk, all that had mattered was that she hadn’t looked anything like Dana Dixon. When they’d danced, she hadn’t felt the way Dana had in his arms. Her perfume hadn’t crept under his defenses and spawned a fierce hunger in him like Dana’s. And she sure as hell couldn’t tie him in a big agonizing knot with one of her smiles.
What Celene had managed to do that fateful night was to provide him with a drinking companion—and a few hours later, some long-denied companionship of another form. It had been the kind of experience that a brooding, recently rejected man should have been able to walk away from. With a hangover, to be sure, but also with just enough guilt to promise himself never to do it again. Maybe even with enough humbleness to go home and try to mend some fences.
He’d had the hangover, all right. He’d also ended up with the kind of shock that made men give up drinking permanently. Before he could apologize to Dana, only weeks after the Abilene incident, he found himself saddled with an angry, pregnant wife. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget her fury once Celene had tracked him down through a friend who’d worked at the motel. As though that one night of carelessness and stupidity had been all his fault.
And now he had a child, as well. A son, no less, born from the wrong woman. Then, as though that wasn’t problematic enough, sometime between dawn and midday, while he’d been checking on the herd in his northernmost pasture, that woman had decided she not only didn’t want to be a wife, she didn’t want to be a momma, either.
It had taken only minutes after his return to discover why John, Jr. was crying his tiny lungs out. Celene was nowhere to be found. Her clothes were gone, as was everything else she owned, and so was that damned car she’d demanded as part of their unconventional arrangement.
He hadn’t taken time to check on whatever else was missing; he’d simply scooped up John, Jr. and headed toward town to find someone to care for his boy while he did what he had to do. Only no one wanted to help him.
What was he going to do? He couldn’t go after Celene with a newborn child in tow, nor did he have an inkling how to care for the boy all by himself.
His son needed a woman. A mother. Softness.
John knew all he had within him at this point in his life was guilt, frustration and too much damned bitterness to be healthy for any human being. And a heap of heartache, but not an ounce of it for his wife.
“Damn you, Dana,” he whispered, feeling the sweat trickle down his back. This whole mess would never have occurred if she hadn’t provoked him so. “Damn you.”
He didn’t realize he had company until he heard the tap on his window. With a jerk, he swung around and looked into Bud Hackman’s rain-splattered face. Apparently his friend had decided to follow him in his patrol car. Swearing under his breath, John rolled down his window.
“Some people have the sense not to stand out in the rain,” he said in lieu of a greeting or query. “So what are you gonna do, write me up for boring a gopher or armadillo to death?”
Bud eyed him calmly through eyeglass lenses that could have used their own set of windshield wipers. “They were all smart enough to take the last yacht to Monterey. You okay, J.P.?”
John had come to group the people in his life into three categories. Everyone who was either in awe of or feared him called him Big John. Everyone who liked him—at least sometimes—called him J.P. And the few who wished he’d never crossed their paths called him Paladin. Right now he knew there were only two members in that second group.
“Sure. I’m great,” he muttered. “I get my kicks out of driving all the way to town to ask total strangers to take care of my kid while I hunt down my wife. It doesn’t faze me at all when my best friend not only refuses to help me, but threatens to arrest me for making a disturbance in a public facility.”
“All I said was that we couldn’t put out a missing person’s bulletin for twenty-four hours,” Bud replied as though indifferent to the edge in John’s voice. “And that I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to be chasing all over the country for Celene when you had greater responsibilities here.” The quiet-mannered cop hunched more deeply into the collar of his down jacket and eyed the makeshift car seat. His expression appeared to stay the same except that the raindrops on his glasses seemed to twinkle a bit more. “Whatcha gonna do about the tyke, guy?”
John’s glower intensified. “Thought I’d put him in the pen with the other new calves until he’s weaned, but I’m open to suggestions. You want to lend me Kay for about ten years?”
“I’d rather eat my mother-in-law’s rhubarb pie three times a day for the rest of my life.”
“Hmph. You think so? You should have sampled some of the junk I’ve eaten lately. Rhubarb pie doesn’t sound so bad at the moment.”
“Be careful for what you ask, old son. Lucille’s only a phone call away.”
John glanced over at his boy and sighed. “I know you think I’m slightly unhinged at the moment, Bud, and that you have to watch over me like some big guard dog to protect me from myself, but can you cut me some slack?”
“You’re making that damned difficult.”
“What are you talking about?” He’d thought Bud was going to write him up for the makeshift car seat. Surely he wasn’t accusing him of something worse, like having been drinking?
As though he’d read his mind, Bud tilted his head toward the road ahead. “Look where you pulled over.”
John glanced beyond Bud’s left shoulder—and groaned inwardly. He’d guessed wrong. It was worse than he’d imagined.
Cripes.
He’d stopped right before the turnoff to Dana’s place. Eat crackers and whistle, he thought, feeling several times the fool.
“Innocent enough mistake, old pard,” Bud continued, sounding suspiciously calm all of a sudden. “Once you get away from town and landmarks, one road starts to look like another.”
“Stuff it,” John barked, reaching for the last ounce of his self-control. “The boy was fussing, so I pulled over.”
“Is that so? For a minute there, I was worrying that you might have had something else in mind. Something as foolish as when you got involved with Celene. That’s what made me decide to follow you out of the hospital in the first place. You haven’t been in any shape to think clearly in a while, J.P.”
As he spoke he’d been glancing around the interior of the cab, making it impossible for John to miss his meaning. His truck looked the way his stomach, he, felt—a mess. Neglected. Chronically abused. Falling apart. Because he knew it was the truth, John’s mood grew even more caustic.
“You gonna stand out there and catch pneumonia for the sheer pleasure of irritating me some more? You already told me back at the hospital that there was nothing I could do about Celene, so either give me a ticket, or bug off,” he snapped, hating the whole embarrassing situation. Regardless of what some people thought, he wasn’t all quick temper and impulsiveness. Well, not always. At least he preferred to keep his personal problems to himself as much as possible. “You’re gonna get my boy sick with that wind blowing in
