she asked, standing on tiptoe to reach the last three cameras on the top shelf.
“Joey, yes. You assumed Marsh is his father.”
She stood mute, waiting for him to continue.
“Unless I’m mistaken, you alluded to that at the restaurant,” he said.
Half the lights in the room were burned out and the bulbs in the other half were so dim and the fixtures so grimy, light didn’t begin to reach into the corners. Murky shadows pooled beneath the small tables and mismatched chairs. The billiards tables in the back were idle, the shape of the neatly folded bedroll barely discernible from here.
Carefully tucking Bubble Wrap around another camera, Ruby finally said, “Are you telling me Marsh isn’t Joey’s father?”
“It’s possible he is.” Reed’s voice was deep, reverent almost, and extraordinarily serious. “But it’s also possible I am.”
Surely Ruby’s dismay was written all over her face all over again. But she didn’t have it in her to care how she looked.
The baby she’d seen before lunch was possibly Reed’s? Had she heard him correctly?
“Oh, my God.”
He nodded as if he couldn’t have said it better himself.
She slid the cumbersome box of cameras aside. Resting one elbow comfortably on the bar’s worn surface, she gestured fluidly with her other hand and said, “Have a seat, cowboy. This is one story I’ve got to hear.”
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