Читать книгу Necessary Secrets - Barbara Phinney - Страница 8

After spending thirteen years in army logistics and supply, Sylvie had met her share of intimidating jerks. Most she either ignored or answered with a blunt, uncomplainable “Yes, sir.”

But cornered in this stifling birthing room, she could do neither. Nor was it in her nature to lie. She had kept herself as honest as possible in a trade that had more thieving bin rats than it had army boots.

Try as she might, she couldn’t ignore the intimidating man who filled the doorway, any more than she could have ignored him when he scooped her up like a child and walked calmly across the street to the clinic.

Oh, she hadn’t been so fully unconscious that she didn’t realize she was being carried. She’d felt his arms around her, the heat of his chest penetrating deep into her…and, well, if truth were told, she hadn’t minded it one bit.

They say one’s whole value system changes when one faints; it certainly had with her. But not to the point of telling this man she was carrying his nephew or niece. What if he asked more questions? What if he wanted to know how serious she’d been with Rick? What if he learned the truth?

She turned her attention to the window, wishing it could open and let in the strong mountain breeze she so desperately needed. “What did the receptionist tell you?”

“Nothing you could use in a formal complaint, if that’s what you’re thinking. I put two and two together. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re pregnant.”

If she opened her mouth, she’d tell the truth, the way she’d always done. She pursed her lips.

Jon continued, his arms folded over his chest. “I’ll take that as a yes. I didn’t know you and Rick were so close. He always spoke highly of you, but in a supervisor-subordinate sense. Or so I understood.”

She slid off the bed, ignoring the sharp pang of hunger that booted away her fading nausea. “Look, yes, I’m pregnant, okay? But as to who the father is, that’s my business, not yours.”

She tried to brush past him, but he stepped in front of the door and at the same time kicked it shut with the heel of his shoe.

The sharp click echoed around the hot, quiet room.

“We’re not done talking, Ms. Mitchell.”

Her head shot up. For the first time, she stared hard at him, forcing herself to notice every little detail of his handsome face.

She’d like nothing better than to fire back that he had no right to decide when she was done talking. She leaned in close….

Too close and way too personal for her liking.

Well, maybe not totally against her liking. If circumstances had been different…

His coal-black hair wasn’t neat the way his smooth polo shirt and pressed pants were. Maybe he was the kind of man who ran his fingers constantly through it.

She peered into his narrowed eyes, recognizing in the dark, brittle-blue irises a hint of Rick. Although Rick’s would have narrowed in the sunlight only, not out of mistrust like this man. She’d rarely seen Rick without one of his trademark, handsome grins. He had trusted so easily, she thought, her stomach tightening again.

Shaken by the memories she’d conjured up, she stepped back from Jon.

Somewhere from down the corridor, a baby wailed. Jon snapped his head around, listening. The crying stopped almost immediately.

Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at her. “I wonder if it was the father or the mother who picked that baby up. What do you think?”

“I’m sure it was the nurse.” She took another step forward again. “Now, please excuse me, Mr. Cahill.”

“Call me Jon. Because you’re going to see a lot of me in the future,” he said in a smooth-as-silk voice.

She shot a sharp glare into his calm features. “I haven’t confirmed your suspicions, Mr. Cahill.”

“It’s my business to read people’s faces, Sylvie. Yours is no different. I’m not condemning you for carrying my brother’s child. I’m just telling you I will be a part of its life.”

“You didn’t tell me how you came to suspect such a thing.”

“The receptionist gave me a date when you’ll be ‘cured,’ and from your commanding officer, I learned when you left Bosnia. You retired eleven weeks ago immediately after Rick’s memorial service. You’ve been pregnant about twelve weeks, haven’t you?”

What could she say? She nodded.

“You told me you and Rick got stuck overnight more often than not, confirming what Rick had already told me in his e-mails.” He drew in a deep breath, as if controlling some troubling part of himself. “Rick died March twenty-sixth. All of these facts plus the way you reacted when I mentioned him made me suspicious. Am I correct?”

Hunger kicked at her again, but this time she fought off the pangs. She could stand on a parade square for days, shifting very little, never feeling hungry, tired or woozy. Yet today, feeling like the stuff at the bottom of a horse stall, she could barely nod her head.

She managed to anyway. What was the use? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that this guy…with eyes like frozen diamonds, who had cradled her in a way she hadn’t figured she would want to be cradled…he wouldn’t give up until he knew the truth.

“Yes,” she whispered, shocked that she was relenting. “This is Rick’s baby.”

Wait. She’d plowed through a tour of duty in one of the world’s worst war zones without ever weakening, and yet one moment of Jon’s questioning and she’d caved. What was wrong with her?

For starters, she hadn’t plowed through the whole tour of duty without weakening. There was that one night…when she’d thought only of herself. And how she hadn’t wanted to die a—

Jon folded his strong-looking arms across his powerful chest and nodded. Sylvie’s knees wobbled, and she recalled briefly how good it had felt being carried, her head sagging against his firm, warm shoulder.

“Good.” Leaning forward, he took her arm and steered her into the corridor without so much as looking her way. “Now that we have that confirmation out of the way, I’ll drive you home. On the way, you can tell me what everyone said about the age difference between you and Rick. It must be more than ten years.”

Jonathan Cahill was a bastard. And Sylvie knew bastards. They came a dime a dozen in the army. This man cut to the quick, wasted no words and had a damn annoying expectation that his questions would be answered truthfully and immediately.

And he scared her. Rick had told her once that his parents were both dead, leaving him and his brother alone. What he had neglected to tell her was that his older brother was as possessive of Rick’s memory as he was downright nasty.

She would have protested the way he directed her out of the medical center, but she didn’t want to call attention to herself, or her condition.

The hot Albertan sun beat down on her when they stepped outside. How she managed to reach Jon’s rental car was beyond her. Of course, his firm grip on her elbow had helped.

No! She didn’t need his help. She shrugged off his hand and with a deep breath, managed to stay upright as Jon unlocked the car with the touch of a remote control. She took the opportunity of his averted attention to recover her faltering independence. If he had thought of helping her inside, he was mistaken. She threw open the door and climbed in.

Oh, my. Leather seats. Cool, smooth, yielding to her hot, aching form like the surf on the Adriatic beach where she’d taken her four-day R&R, back in November.

Jon Cahill had rented the best car in town.

She sank against the backrest.

“Good thing I parked in the shade,” he said, climbing in beside her and starting the engine. He glanced up at one of the large red maples that lined the parking lot. “It would be hot enough to have you faint again.”

She didn’t comment as he cranked up the air-conditioning.

“Which way?” he asked.

She directed him out of town, uncertainty nibbling at her. She couldn’t imagine the military divulging its secrets, and she doubted that Jon had come all this way to merely find closure. He knew more. Or he suspected more.

He’d said something about not knowing the truth. During the debrief, her CO had told her the military still had to finish their investigation. Considering what she knew, yes, of course, she was expected to keep silent. And for once Sylvie had been in full agreement. She had no desire to discuss what had really happened, especially with Jon Cahill and his obvious deep-seated bitterness.

She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about your father. My mother died about ten years ago.”

“So you live with your dad on your ranch?”

“Now that I’ve taken over the place, yes. Sort of. I did when I came home on leave, of course.” She sighed at her foolish stumble of words. “I guess I do now. But he and Andrea go south in the winter. A few years ago he remarried. My stepmother…she’s great and all, but…”

“But what?”

Sylvie shrugged. “I don’t know her very well. She’s a lot younger than Dad and loves the great outdoors. They take university students on primitive expeditions all summer long. They’ve been gone for the past two weeks.”

“I see.”

Great. She sounded like a jealous daughter, but she wasn’t. Andrea kept Dad active and alive. She was good for him and had even convinced her father to sign the ranch over to Sylvie, something Sylvie had secretly hoped would happen.

“So you haven’t told your father about your pregnancy yet. And you don’t know how to, either, right?”

“Reading my face again?”

“Among other things.” He turned to her when they stopped at Trail’s only traffic light, and as they lingered at the intersection, his gaze drifted up from her knees, pausing at her hips a moment, before completing the inspection with a journey to her face. “How long will your father be gone?”

“Most of the summer. On and off. And I’m not worried about what he’ll say. Dad is, well, mildly supportive of everything I do. Andrea might want to help a bit too much, but at least she’s never had a baby, so I won’t get too much anecdotal advice.”

He kept staring at her face, as if gauging whether or not she was telling him the truth. Then, as if he’d just remembered he was driving, he noticed the green light and eased the sports car into the intersection.

“What about your mother? Tell me about her,” she asked. He blinked once before answering.

“She died a few years ago.”

Yes, of course. Now she remembered. Rick had told her that lung cancer from too many cigarettes had killed his mother.

“You don’t smoke, I hope,” Jon said, as if reading her thoughts yet again.

“No.”

“Good.”

The traffic lessened as they put the town behind them and brought the foothills closer. Sylvie forced herself to relax, but the effort was in vain. The man beside her radiated the tension of a coiled spring. One sudden shift of the unknown force that held him together, and that spring would fly out like a destructive missile.

Ridiculous idea. He was a grieving man, not a loose cannon. Besides, she could handle loose cannons if she had to. She’d taken leadership courses. She knew—and had practiced—all the styles of leadership. She’d been good at soldiering.

Leaders were made, not born, the military touted, and she’d always believed that. But this man? He would have aced any of those courses. Leadership seemed as sculpted to him as the smooth, tanned skin he wore.

“Turn right here,” she told him, glad she could occupy them both with her directions. Because as soon as they reached her ranch, she’d offer her thanks, her condolences and then ask him to leave.

Jon turned the car when Sylvie pointed to a sign at the start of a long driveway. “Mountainview Ranch Campgrounds,” he read out loud. He didn’t understand. “A campground? I thought you said this was a ranch?”

“It was. And still is. When ranching bottomed out a few years ago, my father cut way back on the number of cattle and decided to diversify. A campground was one of the ideas he came up with. You know, campers wanting to experience ranch life the easy way, with motor homes and wagon rides?”

Jon peered out the side window to his left, noticing the small barn and corral that filled the center of the circular driveway. “And he’s raising exotic animals, too?”

Sylvie let out a short laugh. “Andrea’s contribution was a small petting zoo for the kids. She had to justify bringing a pot-bellied pig into their marriage. Since then, we’ve acquired a mule deer, two llamas and six foul-tempered Canada Geese who never want to fly south in the fall. But the kids love them.”

Jon touched the brakes when he spied a small group of children, who, ignoring the sign not to feed the animals, chucked handfuls of grass over the fence to the llamas.

“You can’t work this ranch alone. You’ve just retired, and now you’re expecting,” he stated the obvious.

“I have some hands. Lawrence is my biggest help, and I had three others, though one quit in the spring. They’re all expected to work both the campground and the ranch.”

“Big ranch?” In one easy sweep, he assessed the house where his nephew or niece would call home. Not a bad location. What kid wouldn’t love a ranch-cum-campground with zoo animals and wide-open spaces? He and Rick had spent their childhood in a postage-stamp-size home in middle-class Toronto.

“Not like it used to be. Only forty-two breeding cows on less than 100 acres, twenty of which are now used for camping.”

“Not much to graze on.”

“No, it isn’t. We grow some silage, but thankfully, because we’re small, we’re entitled to lease a certain portion of federal land. It works out well for us, the government land being el-shaped and connected to our land by a good trail. I used to ride out there all the time.”

“A lot of work?”

She shrugged, trying to make it appear everything was fine. She failed. And he knew it. It was a hell of a lot more work than she was making it out to be. “We manage okay. Most of the work’s in the late fall, anyway.”

Jon drove up to the main house, following Sylvie’s directions, his eyes focusing on the sprawling bungalow. The house was set apart from the campground office, which sat over to his right. He eased to a stop just as Sylvie threw open her door.

“Thanks for the ride. I feel better already.”

He snapped his attention back to her, scrambling out of the car before she could bolt into the house. “How are you going to get your car back?”

She stopped at his front bumper. “I’ll send the men in later. It’s no big deal. We make trips into town all the time.” After a pause she added, “Like I said, thanks for the lift.”

“That’s it?” Jeez, she couldn’t just expect to cut him loose. “Just thanks?” He clenched his jaw to check his rising temper. “I came here to find out what happened the night Rick died. No one will tell me. Even the death certificate didn’t say one damn thing. Just ‘death as a result of an accident.’ No one’s at liberty to say. I even had to wait to bury him, and I’ll be damned if I’m waiting any longer to find out how he died.”

Her face impassive, Sylvie stared at him while he vented his fury. He took another seething breath and added, “Put yourself in my shoes. After all of that, I find out my brother’s warrant officer is carrying his baby, and you want me to walk away with just a ‘thanks for the lift’?”

He tightened his fingers into painful fists, trying to force his body to stop shaking. When it refused, he stalked up close to Sylvie. Only when she stepped back in an attempt to retake her comfort zone, did he realize how far he was willing to push the issue.

He’d push it all the way, if he had to. He would stay here as long as it took to find out the truth. Hadn’t his chief suggested as much?

He looked down at Sylvie’s face. So clear, with features so fine and smooth it was hard to believe she’d made a career in the army. “How did my brother die? How long had you two been intimate? Was this baby planned between you two? Or did it just happen? Were you planning to marry?”

She went white. Cursing, he grabbed her arm and steered her past the wild tangle of weeds and up the crooked steps of her verandah. Damn, he should have waited before he lost his cool. But she seemed as likely to brush him off as her commanding officer had, as the escort officer had when Jon had driven up to Ottawa to meet the Hercules aircraft that had carried Rick’s remains back to Canada. That man informed him that an autopsy had been scheduled. Jon had even had to wait to bury him. To grieve properly.

At the front door he steeled himself, wondering briefly if he should push himself into her home. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll find you something to eat, all right?”

She jerked her arm back, her eyes wary yet unwilling to meet his. “I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry Rick died. I really am. Good grief, I’m carrying his baby. I wish I could, but I can’t tell you anything about his death. I signed a nondisclosure agreement, and the investigation—”

With a frown and lips that snapped shut, she stopped. He waited, silently urging her on. “That’s all I can say,” she added.

Too hurriedly, he thought.

She shook her head, finally blurting out, “Bosnia isn’t a placid little country, as much as the Bosnian government wants it to be. It’s a war zone, Jon. Soldiers die in war zones. Rick died in the line of duty. You should try to find some comfort in that.”

“Do you?”

She pulled away from him and stalked into the house. The door would have slammed shut in his face had he not been close enough behind her to throw out his palm and deflect it.

He followed her down the quiet hallway. When they reached the kitchen, Sylvie stopped and Jon nearly ran into her. His own gaze trailed after hers as she looked across the kitchen table to an older man, who stood holding a coffee cup.

“Dad?” she said, obviously surprised. “What are you doing home?”

Sylvie tried to smile at her father, to return the warmth in the grin he offered, but her hunger and Jon plowing into the kitchen behind her weakened her feeble attempt.

She watched her father’s gaze linger on her face a moment, then snap to Jon. She cleared her throat. “Dad, this is Jon Cahill. His brother was Rick Cahill. Remember, the…one who died?”

She needed to say more to her father. But now? She couldn’t just blurt out that she was also pregnant with Rick’s baby and that Jon Cahill had driven her home because she’d fainted on Trail’s main street.

No. Dad deserved to be told in a more private setting that he was going to be a grandfather.

How would he react? Sometimes, when she was young, he peered down at her after a long day outside, with a tired look that seemed to ask who she was. There was always something more important to do than to listen to his daughter’s endless, excitable chatter.

Old news, she told herself. Dad’s happy now.

She looked at Jon. “This is my father, Allister Mitchell.” She bustled past them as they shook hands across the table, not wanting to elaborate on why Jon was here, or why he’d stormed into the house after her. But she couldn’t let Jon tell her father, especially in the no-nonsense terms in which he seemed to express himself.

“Jon came to Trail looking for me. He wanted to discuss what happened to Rick.”

Allister nodded. When she first arrived home, Sylvie had given him and Andrea the briefest of explanations. Rick and she had been driving to one of the outposts when a slide had stopped them. Rick had been injured and unfortunately he’d died.

She swallowed. No thanks to her.

Her father had the wisdom to let it go at that, and Sylvie was thankful the military had shut up on the details. After reporting on the death and the memorial service, the media had turned its focus on the other hot spots around the world.

“So, Jon,” her father was saying, “how did you find Sylvie? She doesn’t go into town regularly.” He turned to her. “Why did you go in? Lawrence noticed you didn’t take the truck, so it wouldn’t have been for supplies.”

Lawrence was their old ranch hand. A second father to her. She straightened her shoulders and smiled at Allister. Without Andrea at his side, her father seemed much more approachable. Andrea would fuss too much and take over the whole conversation.

She drew in a deep breath. Delaying the inevitable had never been her way. She’d already delayed acknowledging her pregnancy longer than she should have. Besides, if Jon wanted to be part of her baby’s life, then he may as well see his whole, “newly acquired family” in a clear, transparent light, warts and all. She had no idea what her father would say, and a part of her hoped, for Jon’s sake, that her father would show some of that blunt Mitchell candor that Andrea seemed to have smoothed out so effectively.

She stared at her father, steeled her shoulders and said, “Dad, I’m pregnant. I went in to make a doctor’s appointment.”

Allister’s face went blank. “Pregnant? Who’s the father? It can’t be him—” He pointed to Jon. “You only just met, didn’t you?”

With a sigh and a stifled smile, Sylvie shook her head and threw open the refrigerator door. “No, it’s not him.” She realized how foolish she’d been, blurting out her condition. She had no desire to discuss the circumstances of the conception with anyone, especially with Jon avidly eavesdropping. “It happened in Bosnia. I’ll tell you all about it later. We’ve got lots of time for that. Now, why are you here?”

Disoriented for a minute, he took his time answering, “One of the campers got ill. We carried him down on one of the pack horses, till we met the ambulance at the edge of the highway. Oh, he’s going to be fine, just some bug. Andrea stayed up at the site with the rest of them. I was planning to go straight back out, but…”

She caught his speculative stare. “Go! There’s not much to say, at least until I get my first doctor’s appointment. I’m fine.”

“You look like death warmed over, girl.” He shook his head and turned to Jon. “Did you bring her home?”

Jon nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did. Personally, I don’t think she can do too much around here. You may want to stay back.”

She slammed the refrigerator shut. “Wait a minute! I said I’m fine. There’s nothing you can do, Dad, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go straight back up to Andrea. I have Lawrence—”

Allister let out a snort. “Oh, Lawrence is busy enough with the campground. And he’s getting too old. Plus, we lost Tyler last month. He was supposed to help you. Can you haul around fence posts and fix up the house by yourself in your condition?”

Oh, dear. She knew where this conversation was heading, and quickly shook her head. “Of course I can’t, but—”

“No, she can’t,” Jon announced. “But I can.”

Sylvie snatched the swear word before it flew from her lips. Instead she glared at him. “You have another job, remember? You’re a cop in Toronto.”

A hint of regret whisked over his features. Regret? Fear? It had happened so fast, she couldn’t be sure.

“A cop?” her father interjected, making Sylvie wish she’d kept her mouth shut and made him think Jon was nothing but a bum off the street. Yeah, in a fine-looking polo shirt and pants that still bore an arrow-sharp crease. Allister Mitchell lived in his own world, but he wasn’t naive. She could no more make Jon Cahill look like a disreputable drifter than she could undo the horror of this past spring.

“I can easily get the summer off,” Jon said. “There are plenty of auxiliary officers looking for extra hours. Remember what I said, back there in the clinic, don’t you?”

The air, warmed by the sun streaming in the window above the sink, stuck hard in her throat. She could read so very easily the warning in Jon’s expression. He will be a part of her baby’s life. Get used to it, his eyes added.

But also, a suggestion of what he’d not said seemed to linger in the air. Who the father of her baby was.

Time stalled. Was he going to tell her father? She wished, however briefly, she’d told him the truth back there in the clinic. Every last detail that would have seen him storming out of Trail and straight to a good lawyer. The military could use a good lawsuit for all they’d done to Rick. Unless Jon chose to sue her, instead.

Sylvie tore her gaze from Jon, catching her father’s raised eyebrows and questioning smile.

“What do you think, Sylvie? It’s your ranch, now. If he can do the work, there’s no reason why we can’t hire him for the summer.”

There were a thousand reasons why they shouldn’t hire Jon Cahill. He wanted the truth from her about Rick, the details of Rick’s last hours, not a sterilized military version.

All those shameful details.

And he wanted to be a part of her baby’s life.

No. This baby was hers, not his. She would give it life, love it and raise it all by herself. She’d managed a career in the military by herself, and she’d managed to grow up without her father being around when she needed him. She would manage her new career as mother equally fine.

Without Jon Cahill, thank you very much.

“Well, Sylvie?” her father prompted.

Sylvie dared another look at Jon, half-afraid his intensity and tenacity might snare her. Those blue eyes seemed stronger, reflecting the determination he practically exuded from every pore on his strong body.

“Do I have the job, Sylvie?” As if purposely designed to contrast his powerful stare, his tone turned quiet, persuasive.

There was that silky version of her name, too.

This was insane. But to protest too much would be akin to suicide. Jon Cahill’s suspicions would soar through the roof if she kept refusing to hire him when she so obviously needed help.

“All right,” she found herself saying. He wanted the job, well, he could have it. She’d keep him so busy this summer, he’d ache to return to the easy life in Toronto. And every night when his head hit his pillow—out in the bunkhouse with the rest of the men—he’d be out like a light, forgetting, or regretting, that he’d ever told her he wanted to be a part of his brother’s child’s life.

A smile grew slowly on his face. It wasn’t much, but it did reach his eyes.

Her skin warmed and tingled in a subtle primitive answer, and those damn horrid hormones prickled under her skin again. For one stunning moment he did look just like Rick.

What had she got herself into? One night of fear and she’d broken her cardinal rule of never getting involved with another soldier.

She’d admired Rick, liked him, and had wanted him to excel in his career. But she hadn’t wanted an intimate relationship with him.

So why did you? Because of that you got him killed. The words arced across her brain, firing up another horrible wash of memories.

“Excellent.”

Mercifully, Jon’s words cut through her thoughts, and she blinked up at him. The smile, however, had slid from his eyes, leaving only cool, smug resolve.

He’d won, and he knew it, the bastard. He indicated the chair in front of her father. “Let’s get you something to eat. Then while you’re showing me what to do, you can tell me all about Rick.”