Читать книгу His Baby Dilemma - Catherine Lanigan - Страница 11

CHAPTER ONE

Present day

MICA HEARD IT from his sister-in-law, Maddie, who heard it from Mrs. Beabots, who got it straight from Louise Railton.

Grace Railton was back in town.

He didn’t know which emotion to pick first. Anger came to mind right off the bat, but it was quickly replaced with disappointment, hurt and curiosity.

“What’s she doing here?” Grace had made it pretty clear when she left town last year that Paris was the only universe she’d inhabit on a long-term basis. Indian Lake was too small for Grace, the beauty-pageant queen.

Mica stared at the tractor engine he was fixing, then tossed the wrench onto the tool bench with enough force to make the screwdriver beside it jump. Grace.

For over a year, he’d gone over every detail of his relationship with Grace, if he could even call it that. No matter how many times he rehashed the events of that whirlwind October, he came up with only one assessment: they were as mismatched as a tuxedo and a pair of cowboy boots.

If he was honest with himself, he’d known that since they were teenagers.

Grace and her mother had been obsessed with beauty pageants. Crowns and dresses—that was all she’d talked about back then. Unless she was criticizing everything he wore.

He hadn’t liked the way he reacted to Grace. She’d had some kind of lightning rod stuck to her spine that just made him want to strike. She’d needled him in a way he didn’t understand, always picking at what was wrong with him. Asking why he didn’t want more for himself than his life on the farm. Meanwhile, she’d talked about New York and Paris like they were Mecca, or the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. She’d made perfectly clear her opinions about Indian Lake and the people who chose to make it their home.

Which made it even harder to understand the intense month they’d spent together a year ago October. It had been like a switch had been flipped. She was focused on her career and when she talked about her designs, her eyes lit up like fireworks. There were times he thought he could listen to her and never tire of her enthusiasm. She was the kind of person who would always be vibrant. But Mica doubted if he’d ever know whether she had truly wanted him or had simply pitied him.

He traced the gouged edges of the old pair of pliers his father had used to repair their tractors, generators and trucks. Angelo had built this farm with his hands. Hands that never stopped working, and Angelo had taught all his sons to do the same.

Yet now, Mica only had one hand. He was never going to be the kind of empire builder his father had been. He had to find a new path. Since college graduation, he’d abandoned his engineering goals in order to help on the farm. Now the farm didn’t need him or want him. He had to find a way to translate his dreams from the drafting table and his computer into a working piece of machinery for people with disabilities.

Mica slumped against the workbench and looked across at the machinery shed, where he spent a great deal of his time lately. Tinkering. That was all he’d done in the past year or so. All he’d done since Grace left town.

Grace... He ran his hand through his hair. She’d emailed him once after she landed in Paris, telling him that her design team was further behind than she’d thought. They needed her. She’d be working 24/7 to pull off their spring line. He’d told her he understood. But he hadn’t. Week after week, he’d sent emails and left messages, but she never responded.

He ground his teeth. Her silence was like a brick wall falling on him. She wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe she hadn’t changed as much as he’d thought she might have during the month they spent together.

Her departure—and rejection—still bothered him, but Mica had had more important things to focus on in the past year. With a lot of rehab—and trial and error—he’d learned his way around his new life with only one working arm. He’d had to figure out how to dress with one hand, and even change the way he did chores around the kitchen. Every sandwich bag had to have a slider so he could put the bag on the counter and slide the top closed. No more jars. Pop tops for everything. Pots and pans were simple. He used one at a time. He chopped vegetables in a food processor or used a mandolin to slice them over a bowl. The majority of the time, his mother made plenty of food for him to warm in his microwave.

He couldn’t drive the tractor or change the baler. He was of no help to Rafe, so his brother had been forced to take on another hourly worker. When their father had died, Mica and Rafe had agreed to hire extra help. Now they needed even more.

The only work Mica had now was running errands for his mother.

The reality stung every day of his life, shutting out joy and any hope for happiness.

He ran his hand down his numb and limp left arm.

He wondered if he’d ever get used to the fact that his arm would never work again.

It had been a freakish accident that should never have happened, but it had.

Gina—his mother—had wanted to take her BMW to the shop, but Mica had been bored. He loved tinkering with the farm equipment, old cars, anything with a motor. He felt at one with engines, cogs, pistons and gears. Often, when there was nothing left to do in the shop, he would stay up late messing around with mechanical designs on his computer.

Mica had graduated from Purdue University in mechanical engineering, but for years, he hadn’t done much with his degree. He’d been needed on the farm. Farming was in his blood. He adored the land that grew acres of food every year. It was miraculous to him that after a killing winter blizzard, spring always came fresh and green and full of promise.

At least it had until the accident.

Spring meant planting season and every piece of equipment had to be tuned up and ready to run smoothly.

“It’s not even New Year’s and I’m feeling pressure already,” he growled.

He pushed himself away from the workbench and went over to the pickup he’d recently given an oil change. He closed the hood, then hit the automatic garage-door opener. He got in the truck and started the engine. He’d attached a spinner knob, used by many with physical disabilities, to the steering wheel to give him more leverage when handling the pickup. He’d bought it the day he’d gone to the DMV to have a Restriction C placed on his driver’s license, though he’d forgone the handicapped parking tag he’d been offered. Yes, he’d lost his arm, but he could still walk just fine, and for that, he was grateful.

Driving a tractor was entirely different from a pickup truck, in that it required strength and both hands. Driving over rugged farmland was complex, dodging dips, mud holes, bumps and gullies. It was difficult for him to handle the tractor, though he’d built the muscles in his right arm considerably over the past year to compensate for the loss of his left.

Often he toyed with the idea of voice-activated farm machinery. He could work the land as he had done before the accident if he could speak commands to the old Allis-Chalmers tractor.

Mica backed the truck out of the shed, pausing to look out over the snow-covered farm. New Year’s. Of course. Grace was here to be with her aunt Louise for the holiday. That made sense.

Sometimes, he was a little slow to see the obvious. Just because Grace had left him without any follow-up or follow-through was no reason to mistrust her. She’d told him that her world was Paris, fashion and her career. She’d never deviated from that. She’d been honest. He had to give her that.

Mica spotted Rafe in the flat soybean field, riding the sputtering and hitching old John Deere tractor toward the big barn. He wore a leather-and-sheepskin bomber jacket, a cowboy hat and a wide blue wool scarf around his neck. The brothers waved at each other.

Before the accident, Mica had wanted to purchase a new all-terrain truck for the farm to replace the John Deere. But now that Mica had been injured, he was glad they hadn’t spent the $300,000 on new equipment. The family had struggled through the past year, with Mica unable to pitch in. No one had wanted to hurt his feelings, and he appreciated that, but now it was nearly the new year and Rafe was talking about restructuring—and hiring new employees.

As he drove toward their Italian stucco villa, Mica realized he didn’t like change. He was still grieving his father’s death nearly three years earlier and he wasn’t quite used to the idea that Rafe was married. He and his wife, Olivia, had built their own house on the property. Olivia was a nice enough woman, Mica supposed. She and her mother owned the Indian Lake Deli and Olivia was a good cook, as good a pastry chef as his other sister-in-law, Maddie, and she was a talented photographer.

There actually wasn’t anything wrong with Olivia or Maddie, Nate’s wife, or Liz, who was married to his brother Gabe. Mica had just never been much of a people person.

Mica had always preferred his own company. Rafe had been closest to their father and that had been fine with Mica. Nate and Gabe were very close to their mother. And that was fine as well.

Mica was the loner. Even in high school, Mica had never participated in team sports. He preferred swimming...alone. Running...alone. Working...alone.

Maybe deep down he’d always been the brooding type, and the accident had simply sharpened that trait.

He pulled up to the house and parked the truck. Without thinking, he went to reach for the door handle with his left hand. Natural reflex. But nothing happened.

He smashed the truck’s door with his right hand, as if he could open it with sheer force. He kept banging until he hurt his thumb. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

How could he not have checked the jack when he raised the chassis of his mother’s BMW? Sure, it was the old jack his father had used for decades, but it had never caused any issues before.

The jack slipped. He’d heard the metal rubbing against the grooves of the jack throat. As soon as he registered the sound, he’d started to roll out from under the car, but he hadn’t been fast enough to spare his left arm and shoulder.

The chassis dropped on Mica. He’d tried to yell, but the weight of the car had crushed the air out of his lungs. The pain had caused him to pass out.

He’d woken up when the paramedics were hoisting him onto a gurney. Rafe and his mother were there, leaning over the stretcher.

Rafe, coming in from the fields, had found him unconscious under the car.

The doctor’s prognosis had been devastating.

Inoperable. Paralyzed. Those were the only words Mica had heard. The doctor had pushed rehabilitation to keep the arm from becoming fully atrophied. Mica had agreed with that, and for the first month, he’d actually believed he could will his arm to move again. He’d tried everything—even hypnosis—but nothing worked.

The second month, his depression had slid deeper into anger. He had begrudgingly and sarcastically continued with rehab, but he knew now that all the exercise in the world would never bring his arm back.

And then Grace had come into his life.

It was impossible not to think of kissing Grace and holding her each time her face flashed across his mind. That month she’d spent in Indian Lake had almost made him feel like himself again. She’d looked up at him with those intense blue eyes and he’d felt more alive and invigorated than he had since well before the accident, if he was honest.

Maybe it was a good thing she’d cut him off. He didn’t know exactly where to put all his emotions for Grace.

Mica got out of the truck and hit the remote to lock the doors. He stared at it for a moment. Why don’t they make these to open the door from the inside?

He tossed the remote up in the air and caught it. “Maybe I should do that.”

He walked to the back door that led to the kitchen.

“Mom, I got the truck ready to go for you. The tractor is nearly fin—”

Mica stopped dead in his tracks.

His mother had her arms around Sam Crenshaw’s neck and Sam was holding her close, closer than Mica had ever seen his father hold her. And then...she kissed him as if this was the last kiss of her life. Mica averted his eyes.

“Mom!” he shouted.

Slowly, Gina turned.

“Sam?” Mica spluttered. “Mind telling me what you’re doing to my mother?” Sam was Liz’s grandfather. He was some kind of in-law, but that didn’t give him make-out privileges with Mica’s mother.

“I was kissing her.”

“I see that.” Mica’s gaze shot to his mother.

Gina blushed, but she didn’t step out of Sam’s embrace. Though she politely moved a few inches from his chest. She was smiling. Her face glowed, and...was that a tear falling down her cheek?

“Mom?”

“Sam has just asked me to marry him, and I accepted.” She withdrew her left hand and twiddled her fingers at him. “Ring and all.”

“You’re not serious.”

Gina’s smile withered. In that instant, he realized he’d shot down her joy, killed it. But he didn’t care. A year ago, his world had turned black. It was filled with shadows, fear, doubt and pain. Now his world had shifted again. Rafe wanted to replace Mica, and now their mother was replacing their father. He didn’t like it.

His eyes tracked to Sam. “How long?”

“How long what?” Sam snapped, squaring his shoulders.

“How long have you been in love with her? Have you been planning this since my father was alive?”

“Mica!” Gina started toward him, but Sam took her arm and shook his head.

“You want the truth, Mica?” Sam asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ve loved her since before she married your father. We were young then. She’d made a promise to him back in Italy and she honored that promise for over thirty years. I never came near her until after he died. I’m an old man. I may not have many years left, but she’s agreed to be with me for however long I stick around.”

Mica felt as if he’d been shot through the chest. He’d said he wanted the truth, but this was too much. His mother hadn’t loved his father? And all her life, she’d wanted someone else, but hadn’t done anything about it? What kind of sacrifice was that?

Maybe he’d inherited his penchant for withdrawal from her. Had she brooded over Sam like he brooded over the loss of his old life?

Mica took a step backward.

Gina moved toward him. “Mica, don’t be like this. Be happy for us.”

Mica stopped. “Be happy for you? What is that, Mom? Happy? How can I be happy about you or him or anything ever again?” He looked down at his arm. “No. I can’t be happy. Not for you or for myself.”

He turned on his heel and stormed away, slamming the door behind him.