Читать книгу An Ideal Father - Elaine Grant - Страница 13

THE CUSTOM CAMPER shell on the back of Cimarron’s pickup was outfitted with bare-bones necessities assembled to suit Cimarron’s vagabond lifestyle, but there was little space for an extra person—even one as small as Wyatt. His presence in the cramped space made Cimarron almost claustrophobic.

Cimarron settled Wyatt into the camouflage sleeping bag they’d bought after R.J.’s death. Wyatt considered sleeping on the floor of the camper “adventure sleeping.” Cimarron just considered it inconvenient. He had been stepping over and on toys, small articles of clothing and Wyatt for weeks, and he was at his wit’s end to find a minute of privacy in order to regroup and try to figure out a solution. He’d intended to stay in the house just to have a bit of room to move around, but Sarah’s stubborn resistance might make that difficult.

When Wyatt’s even breathing assured him the child was asleep, he slipped outside for some fresh air. The dark night was tempered by a half moon and also the warm glow of Sarah’s security light on a pole in the parking lot. Cimarron paced the lot for a few minutes to work off his tension.

What the hell was he going to do with this child? How could he raise Wyatt and give him a decent life? But there was nobody else to take him. Cimarron had no idea where his noaccount father might be—dead or alive. Even if he was alive, he’d never get his hands on Wyatt, considering the childhood he’d inflicted on Cimarron.

R.J. hadn’t talked much about what had happened with Wyatt’s birth mother, Joy, but Cimarron got the idea that R.J. hadn’t been the only bull in the pasture and Joy hadn’t had the ability or inclination to take proper care of a baby. She signed over her parental rights to R.J. soon after Wyatt was born. Remarried now, she’d made it clear when Cimarron called to tell her about R.J.’s death that she had no intention of claiming her son. Hell, she hadn’t even told her new husband she had an illegitimate child. There was no denying Wyatt’s paternity, however, and that left Cimarron stuck with the total responsibility of a family member—again. He muttered under his breath and kicked the light pole as he passed. Stupid move. He hobbled the rest of the way to the truck, choking back curses. About his foot, his fate, his future. Just wasn’t right. He hadn’t fathered that kid, and he didn’t want any more responsibility for other people. He hadn’t done a good job before, and he had no reason to believe he’d fare any better with Wyatt.

Sitting down on the broad bumper of his truck, he leaned back against the camper and closed his eyes, trying to allay the coil of panic that squirmed in his gut every time the undeniable truth hit him. His life would never be the same again.

Cimarron opened his eyes at the sound of a vehicle turning into the parking lot. He squinted as a blinding spotlight flared to life, pointing directly at him. Red and blue lights reflected off the nearby buildings and his pickup.

“What the hell?” he muttered, throwing a hand up to shield his eyes.

“Don’t move. Keep your hands up where I can see them!”

A sheriff’s deputy eased toward Cimarron with one hand on his sidearm, the other moving a powerful flashlight around.

Cimarron raised his hands, turning his head to the side and grimacing at the bright lights. At least the deputy hadn’t drawn on him—yet. Cimarron glanced up at the window above the café and saw Sarah staring down. Damn it, did she call the cops on me? The deputy caught his attention again, moving enough to one side that Cimarron could turn away from the spotlight to face him.

“What are you doing here this time of night? The café’s been closed for hours,” he said. “Let me see some ID.”

“I’m sleeping in my truck. Sarah knows I’m here.”

“Yeah, sure she does. Now get behind the wheel of that truck and get moving, or I’ll give you a different option for a few nights.”

“Look, Deputy—” Cimarron eyed the deputy’s badge “—Whitman, I don’t want any trouble.” He slowly lowered his hands. “I’ve got a right to be here.”

“That ID?”

“It’s in my wallet.” Cimarron reached for his back pocket.

“Easy now, real slow,” Deputy Whitman said.

Cimarron withdrew his wallet and fished out his driver’s license.

“I bought that house. I have a right to be here.”

The deputy guffawed. “I know who owns this land, mister. And it ain’t you.”

“I’ve got the paperwork. Can I get it to show you?”

“Where is it?”

“Front seat of my truck.”

The deputy moved with Cimarron to the side of the truck. Cimarron opened the door and pointed to the folder lying on the console. He’d intended to show it to Sarah, but he’d never gotten the chance.

“Just have a look at the paperwork. I own the house and the property around it.” He pulled out the title and handed it over.

The deputy shined the light on the paper and checked the signature at the bottom. “Well, that sure looks like Bobby’s signature. Lord knows I’ve seen it enough on traffic tickets. But it might be forged.”

“It’s not forged.”

“Come around to the front of my car while I check this out.”

The deputy took the folder and Cimarron’s license with him and called in the information. Cimarron leaned against the fender of the patrol car, arms crossed, staring up at Sarah’s now-empty window, stewing over the possibility that she was responsible for him being on the brink of going to jail. A light came on downstairs a few moments later. If she’d reported him, there would be no more Mr. Nice Guy—and no more kitchen boy, for sure.

“Well, you checked out okay. But I’m not happy with you hanging around here. Find yourself somewhere else to stay.”

Cimarron rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. Sarah knows I’m here and I don’t see why I have to leave. Especially since—”

“Hey, Griff,” Sarah said, coming across the parking lot in silky long pajamas and a robe. Sexy as hell, with her hair down and brushed to a satin sheen. The pale green color of the pajamas complemented her freshly scrubbed face.

“Hey, Sarah. Sorry to disturb you,” Deputy Whitman said.

“No, that’s okay.” She eyed Cimarron. “I’m glad you’re looking out for me.”

Cimarron lifted an eyebrow and shot her a wry look. Probably everybody in this one-horse town was protective of her.

“He’s got some kinda paperwork here, says he bought out your brother Bobby.”

Sarah glanced at the paper and frowned. “Yes, I know. But I’m contacting my lawyer first thing Monday morning to see if it’s legal.”

“It’s legal,” Cimarron said.

Both of them ignored him.

“Do you want me to take him in?”

“Now, wait a minute…”

“No,” Sarah said quickly. “I told him he could stay here for the night. Bobby sort of tricked him into buying the property. I’m sure I’ll get it straightened out next week.”

Deputy Whitman looked dubious as he handed back the paperwork. “I don’t like it. And I’m going to see that you’re locked in before I leave.”

“Really, Griff, there’s no need for that. Like I said…”

“Either I make sure you’re safe for the night, or I lock him up.”

“On what charge?” Cimarron demanded.

“I’ll think of something,” Deputy Whitman growled.

This was more than professional concern for Sarah. Cimarron sensed a strong undercurrent of male competitiveness in the deputy. Did he have an eye for the lovely Miss James? Cimarron couldn’t blame him, but that wasn’t grounds for arrest.

She held up her hands in appeasement. “Stop this. See me to the door if it makes you feel better, Griff.”

The deputy handed Cimarron his license and paperwork. “You find a better place to camp after tonight. And trust me, I’ll be back by here a few times before morning.” He guided Sarah toward the café.

Cimarron returned to his truck but stopped short of getting in, curious to see what move Deputy Whitman might put on Sarah. She quickly disappeared inside, however, leaving the officer standing on the stoop. He waited a moment longer and Cimarron took that opportunity to climb into the camper and close the door.

THE NEXT MORNING, Cimarron rose early. Wanting to avoid another visit by the overzealous law officer, he moved his truck behind the mansion out of sight of the road. Since Sarah had made it clear she didn’t want any help in the café this morning, he pulled out fishing gear, packed a lunch for two, then got Wyatt up and moving. He’d wait until the café closed to clear out a spot to live in the old house. Maybe Sarah would go visiting this afternoon and he could work in peace.

Finding a map for the house and surrounding property among his paperwork, he located the trout stream that Bobby had mentioned. According to the surveyor’s markings, Cimarron’s two hundred acres adjoined Sarah’s much larger holding halfway between the house and café. The property narrowed to about seven hundred feet of road frontage, more than enough for access to both buildings, and then spread out like a fan across the valley and the lower reaches of the closest mountain. On the map, a broad tributary of the Little Lobo River meandered diagonally through both pieces of property, and Bobby had sworn it was teeming with trout. Bobby’s credibility had taken a dive since he’d given Cimarron that map, but just casting a rod could relieve a world of tension.

Wyatt was a trouper, Cimarron had to give him that. In his worn cowboy boots and the black cowboy hat that his daddy had given him, the boy trudged through the underbrush without complaint, even when Cimarron had to extricate him from the thorny clutches of a bramble bush.

The dense woods suddenly opened onto a sweep of sunbejeweled water rushing by a grassy expanse of bank. Jutting boulders split the pristine current, and the hope of silversided trout in the deep pools lifted Cimarron’s spirits. The soft touch of the rising sun warmed his face. The scent of evergreens hung heavy on the morning air and the murmur of the water was the only sound to be heard. This was as close to heaven as Cimarron ever expected to get.

“Unca Cimron?”

Zap! The euphoria vanished.

“What?”

“Are we going to fish now?”

“I’m going to fish. You’re going to sit on the bank and eat your breakfast.”

Cimarron pulled a sandwich from his gear bag along with a bottled orange juice and handed them both to Wyatt. He’d confiscated the sandwich fixings from Sarah’s kitchen the evening before and stashed them overnight in the ice chest in the camper.

“I can fish,” Wyatt insisted.

“I don’t have another rod. Now sit there and be quiet. You’ll scare the fish off.”

Wyatt took the food and sat on the bank to eat, an unhappy scowl on his face. To access the items in his bag, Cimarron took out the other two sandwiches, tucked them into his jacket pocket and laid the jacket across a low bush, then pulled on a pair of stocking-feet waders and lightweight folding boots. From a hard cylindrical case, he removed a custom Winston fly rod with his name lettered in gold on the side. He’d done a modest reconstruction on a cottage that belonged to one of the managers of the company and had taken part of his fee in fishing equipment. Light and agile, the rod never failed to amaze him.

He rigged the rod and reel under Wyatt’s watchful eye, then fixed a tiny fly with a pinched-down hook to the tippet at the end of the leader and tightened the knot with his teeth. Rather than kicking the bushes himself to see what the trout delicacy of the week might be, he’d checked in Bozeman the day before for the current hatch and bought suitable flies and a fishing license.

Striding into the cold water, he flicked the rod back and forth, letting out line with a smooth, graceful motion. He allowed the fly to settle for a moment on the calm surface of a deep pool behind an outcropping of rocks, hoping for a rise to the bait.

He had spent a lot of hours like this as a youth, fishing a favorite stream near his home, escaping his burdens for a few hours at a time. Nature was better than any therapy.

When the fly floated downstream, he cast again and placed the fly once more. Once in a while, R.J. would fish with him, on the rare and brief occasions when he and their father came home. As much as he resented their inevitable abandonment, Cimarron always enjoyed spending time with his brother. R.J. could usually outfish him, but it didn’t matter by the time they got home and fried the succulent trout. Today Cimarron missed his brother’s camaraderie more than ever. He tried to get his mind off R.J. and everything else that had dragged at his heart lately.

A trout rose to his fly but didn’t bite. Patiently mending his lie closer to the rocks, Cimarron watched the concentric circles disturb the pool’s smooth surface.

Like the ripple effects of his brother’s death. Complications Cimarron didn’t want or need—he’d never know if his tirade at R.J. that morning had caused his brother to rush so much that he was careless and fell off the scaffolding. He’d probably always believe he was responsible. He carried enough guilt around, without adding his brother’s death to the list. And Wyatt. Exhaling heavily, he looked to the endless blue sky above for an answer, a measure of peace from the terrible conflict that tore at him.

The trout rose, then darted away, like Cimarron, not yet brave enough to take the bait. Roll casting, Cimarron set the fly near the boulders again and again, searching for the elusive trout, but he found concentrating difficult today.

He hadn’t fathered that child. Why in hell would R.J. saddle him with a lifelong responsibility? There had to be other avenues. Adoption. Foster care. Something. Anything!

Then he felt the satisfying jolt. His trout was back. The fly disappeared. Line taut, rod bent double, the reel squealed as the trout ran. Cimarron played him, let him run, patiently stripping the struggling fish in. Its scales glinted silver in the sunlight as it leaped for freedom.

Unpleasant memories disappeared from Cimarron’s mind with the thrill of conquest. He could just stay right here in Little Lobo, guard his house from Sarah’s wrecking ball and fish until his problems resolved themselves.

“You got one, Unca Cimron!” Wyatt pranced along the bank. “You got a big one!”

Jolted from his concentration, Cimarron flinched. The trout took advantage of the slack line and escaped. Even had the gall to give a victory leap a few yards away before vanishing. Cimarron swore the damn fish grinned at him.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Cimarron shouted, turning to the child. “You made me lose my fish. Can’t you do anything…”

Wyatt crumbled visibly, his shoulders quivering as he backed away.

Right. Cimarron bit back the word. What was he doing? Saying the same devastating things to his young nephew that had so often sent him scurrying for a hiding place before his father could see the tears and give him still more grief. He was becoming the man his father had been.

“Hell, no!” he muttered. He sloshed to shore. “Look, Wyatt, I’m sorry I yelled.”

But the damage was done. The child retreated to the spot where he’d sat to eat, hugged his knees and hid his face. Cimarron squatted in front of him.

“Wyatt, look at me.”

Wyatt shook his head.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you, it’s just that the fish got…”

Got away. So what? It was a damn fish. He would have released it anyway.

Cimarron reached out to touch Wyatt’s shoulder but stopped short. He shook his head and stood up. What was the point? He didn’t know how to get through to the kid. He was rotten at this daddy charade anyway. He had to find a good, loving home for his nephew—with two parents who knew what they were doing.

From the corner of his eye, Cimarron saw a flash of movement. Adrenaline jolted his system.

“Don’t move, Wyatt,” he commanded softly. The child reacted by lifting his head to look at Cimarron. “Don’t move. Stay real still.”