Читать книгу To Claim His Own - Mary Lynn Baxter - Страница 6

What a lovely early spring day.

Emma paused and peered at a blue Texas sky that didn’t have one cloud marring its beauty. She could not have asked for better weather, especially for a person who made her living working outdoors with plants. In all honesty, though, she rarely did any of the manual labor. She owned the nursery and the business side of it kept her tied to the desk.

However, there were days, like this one, when she made the opportunity to wander through her domain and smell the roses—so to speak—and tweak plants, wallowing in self-satisfaction over what she had accomplished.

Of course, her father had had a lot to do with the success of Emma’s Nursery. He had given her the capital to get started several years ago—capital that she’d already paid back. But it had been her hard work that had built the business to its present success. Once she made up her mind about anything that was important to her, she wouldn’t give up or give in.

“You’re stubborn and hard-headed to a fault, girl,” her daddy was always telling her, though she knew he admired her tenacity because he was the same way.

“Yeah, girl, you’re a chip off the old block.”

Thinking of her dad, Patrick, brought a wobbly smile to Emma’s lips. While she certainly hadn’t been the fair-haired daughter—Connie had held that honor—at least she, Emma, had always had Patrick’s respect.

He’d made millions in his construction company and was three years past retirement age, but he wouldn’t have any part of retirement. That word wasn’t even in his vocabulary. Work and his grandson were what Patrick lived for.

Thinking about Logan strengthened Emma’s smile. More than any career, that baby was what she lived for, as well. He was everything to her, made her life complete.

At thirty-five she was still single and saw no reason to change that, especially now that she had legal guardianship of her sister’s child. Oh, there had been a few men in her life, even one special man whom she could have probably married if circumstances had been different. They hadn’t been, but she had no remorse or regrets.

If she never had anything else but her work and her sister’s child, she would be content forever.

Yeah, life was good and she saw nothing in her future to change that.

“Hey, girl, how’s your morning going?”

Emma turned and smiled, but not before stripping off her gloves and giving her daddy a big, sunny smile. “Great. How ’bout you?”

“I’m okay.”

Patrick didn’t sound or look it, which put a tight squeeze on Emma’s heart. Ever since Connie had been killed in a motorcycle accident, she’d become fearful of the unexpected. When Patrick Jenkins was anything other than his calm and collected self, then something was amiss.

This morning she sensed something was definitely amiss. For a few seconds, fear rendered her immobile. However, she tried not to let her anxiety show as she stood on her tiptoes and greeted Patrick with a kiss on his leathery-skinned cheek.

Continuing to hold her council, Emma stood back and looked up at him. At sixty-eight, he was a tall, strapping fellow with a spring in his step.

For years he’d worked alongside his men in the hot boiling sun on the construction sites. Hence, his skin bore the mark of the harsh East Texas sun. Wrinkles were grooved deeply in his face and around his eyes; he always seemed to squint as though still trying to block out the sun. His dark mane was thick and without any gray.

Patrick was a good-looking man and had had more than one opportunity to remarry, but he hadn’t. When Emma’s mother had died of cancer several years back, Patrick hadn’t been interested in remarrying, though Emma hoped that might change. Now that Logan had come into their lives, she seriously doubted it.

The baby was Connie’s son and that made him even more special. Patrick had adored his baby daughter and was convinced she could do no wrong, even though she went against his wishes and married a man from the wrong side of the tracks whom he had severely disapproved of. Connie’s untimely death had affected him more severely than her mother’s.

“Got any coffee made?” Patrick asked into the growing silence.

“Sure.” Emma pitched her gloves aside and headed toward the small brick building that housed her office and gift shop.

After entering the large, airy room that smelled of fresh-cut flowers, Patrick pulled up short as a broad smile covered his face. “What’s he doing here?”

Emma’s gaze followed his to the pallet on the floor where her eighteen-month-old nephew lay sleeping, the ear of his worn teddy bear, Mr. Wiggly, tucked in the baby’s mouth.

“He was running a little temp this morning and didn’t want me to leave him.” Emma broke off with a shrug.

“So you and Janet are taking turns seeing about him.” Patrick hadn’t asked a question, but rather made a statement.

“Right, although I really don’t like bringing him to the shop.”

“Once in a while doesn’t hurt anything.” Patrick continued to peer at his grandson, a worshipful look on his face.

“Except give him the idea he can wrap me around his finger and make a habit of it,” Emma countered, also giving Logan an indulgent grin.

Patrick snorted. “That’s a given.”

Emma gave her father a look. “I know I’ve spoiled him rotten, but you’re a fine one to be talking.”

“Hey, you don’t hear me arguing. It’s like the pot calling the kettle black, I know.”

Emma flipped him a grin as she got two cups and filled them with coffee. Once they were seated, they sipped in silence and watched the sleeping child.

Finally, over the rim of her cup, Emma stared at her father. “I sense this isn’t just a social call.”

“It isn’t,” Patrick admitted with gruff bluntness.

Emma was a bit taken aback, feeling another surge of fear. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. At least I hope not.”

“Then what’s got that look on your face?” Emma pressed.

“Cal Webster.”

Emma’s hands began to tremble. Before she spilled the contents of the cup, or, better yet, dropped it on the floor, she set the cup down and stared at Patrick through wide, horrified eyes. “What about him?”

“He’s back in town.”

Patrick said the word he as though it were contaminated.

Emma’s hand flew to her heart at the same time her gaze bounced back to the baby who remained sound asleep. “Oh, my God,” she finally wheezed.

Patrick rose, then sat back down.

It had been a long time since she’d seen her father so agitated—not since the day of Connie’s senseless death. He really hadn’t been agitated then. Devastated was a better word. And furious, too—the same fury she saw twist his features now.

“Dad—” The saliva dried up in her mouth, making further speech impossible.

“I don’t think there’s cause for panic,” Patrick said in that same gruff tone. “Not yet, anyway.”

“How can you say that?” Emma’s voice rose several decibels.

“I heard the news from a friend who actually saw him about town.” Patrick paused and gave Emma a direct stare. “I don’t think he knows about Logan.”

“You don’t think?” Emma stood and began pacing the floor, feeling as if jumping beans were having a field day inside her. “Think is not definitive enough for me.”

“I’m working on it, Emma. Just give me time. But from what I know of Cal Webster, if he had the slightest suspicion I had his son, he would’ve already knocked on my door.”

“Oh, Daddy, I don’t mean to panic. It’s just that when I think of losing—”

Patrick held up his hand, aborting the rest of her sentence, then patted her on the arm. “Don’t go there. At least not now. But rest assured, even if he does find out, that bastard won’t get to first base. He’s already taken one person I love away from me, and I can damn well promise you he’s not going to take another one.”

Since Patrick had delivered his news, Emma felt her body relax. One rarely crossed her daddy and got by with it. He had clout in this town and wasn’t afraid to use it. Sometimes she wondered if he played dirty pool in order to get his way or to make a deal, but since she had no proof, she refused to dwell on the negative.

It was fruitless, anyway. She had enough intuitiveness to realize she couldn’t change him or his way of operating. Nor did she want to. In this case, she definitely didn’t. She’d make any sacrifice, or do most anything to keep Logan, which she guessed put her in the same class with her father.

“What do we do?” she finally asked, trapping Patrick’s dark eyes.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s right. It’s up to Webster to make the first move. Why alert him to the fact he has a child? I’m betting a kid is the last thing he’d want to be saddled with. When he was married to your sister, he was wild as a March hare and not afraid of the devil himself.”

“That’s why I can’t believe she married someone like him.” Emma shivered. “A kid off the streets.”

“A hoodlum is what I called him,” Patrick responded grimly. “His dad was a no-good layabout who finally drank himself to death. I think his mother later died from sheer laziness.”

“No wonder he was wild,” Emma said in a sad tone.

“That’s no excuse,” Patrick flared back, a muscle in his jaw working overtime.

“Still, that’s probably what attracted him to Uncle Sam.” Emma shivered again. “No telling what he did for them.”

“We’ll never know,” Patrick said. “But then, I don’t give a damn. I just don’t want to ever lay eyes on the s.o.b. again.”

Emma sighed deeply. “It’s a good thing I never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

When her sister had hooked up with Cal Webster, Emma had been in Europe studying. By the time she’d returned, the marriage was over and Webster had disappeared.

“The first time your sister brought him home,” Patrick was saying, “I knew he was bad news. He was cocky and arrogant even when he didn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of.”

Knowing this conversation had dredged up painful memories, Emma crossed the room and placed a hand on her dad’s arm. “It’s okay. Like you said, he’s probably just passing through, then he’ll be gone on another assignment, no telling where.”

“That had better be the case,” Patrick said with twisted features and venom in his voice.

Before Emma could say anything else, Logan cried out. Turning, she ran to the pallet and dropped to her knees beside him. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said with a smile. “Mommy’s here. And so is Papa.”

“Hey, fellow,” Patrick said, making his way to his grandson where he placed a hand on the child’s head and tousled his dark hair. “Be a good boy for Mommy today, and I’ll take you to get an ice cream cone tonight.”

“Ice cream,” Logan repeated, a grin on his face.

Facing Emma, Patrick said, “I’ll see you two later. I have a meeting in about five minutes.”

She nodded. “Keep me posted.”

Patrick’s features remained twisted. “That goes without saying.”

Once he was gone, Emma clutched Logan so tightly to her breast that he began to whimper. “Sorry, son, didn’t mean to hurt you.” She tweaked him on the chin, then placed a hand on his forehead, which felt cool and free of any fever.

“Mama,” he said with his toothy grin.

“Oh,” she said wide-eyed. “I hear Mickey’s truck.”

“Truck,” Logan mimicked, his grin increasing.

“That’s right, which means Mama has to go. You stay with Janet, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

As if on cue, her helper came around the corner and took the baby, whose lower lip began to tremble. “Oh, honey, it’s okay. Janet will play with you.”

Logan kicked his legs, then looped his arms around Emma’s neck and gave her a gooey kiss on the cheek. Emma laughed with joy as she walked outside.

Cal wasn’t sure this was a good idea at all. In fact, it was probably insanity at its highest level. Still, he’d made up his mind to go through with this bizarre plan, and he wasn’t about to change it now. Besides, it was too late. He was already parked in front of his ex sister-in-law’s nursery, his truck loaded with plants.

He was sweating as though he’d been chopping wood, to his chagrin. Albeit the spring day was hotter than usual, but he shouldn’t have been wet with sweat. Dammit, he was nervous. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation. He’d been in the worst hellholes one could imagine, and here he was about to face an innocent woman and he couldn’t function.

Only he knew she wasn’t just any woman. She was his son’s guardian.

Dammit, he had to get hold of himself or he couldn’t even get out of the truck, much less rein in his splattered emotions. Losing control was not something he had patience with. That could get him dead.

That sudden trek back into the past brought on a curse as Cal lunged out of the truck, making him aware that while he might be out of the jungle physically, he had a long way to go before he was out mentally.

He’d hold that thought and dissect it another time.

Right now, he had other fish to fry. Grabbing his clipboard, Cal made his way around the front of the vehicle. When he saw Emma coming toward him, he pulled up short.

While she was not nearly as attractive as Connie had been, it was obvious they were sisters. Both had the same shaped face and eyes, though their eyes were different colors. And the mouth—there was a resemblance there, too.

But that was where the likeness ended. The closer Emma came, the closer he stared with far more interest than necessary, especially since he had sworn off women.

Most Southern women he knew would never be caught dead without makeup. Emma Jenkins was the exception, and it served her well. Her skin appeared soft and radiant and wrinkle-free, though he knew she was in her mid-thirties. You go girl, he thought; buck the status quo.

But it was the way she was dressed that really captivated his attention. She had on a pair of bright-purple overalls with loose-fitting straps. Underneath was a skimpily-cut T-shirt that hugged her well-endowed breasts and left a smidgen of her ribs bare. He’d bet his last red cent that she was braless. On closer observation, she didn’t need one.

Those breasts were upright and perky….

Whoa, cowboy! It had been a long time since he’d noticed a woman’s breasts with any interest whatsoever. And he wasn’t about to start with her—his ex-wife’s sister. God forbid.

Cal dragged his eyes off her chest and back to her face. Unlike Connie, she wasn’t beautiful in the true sense of the word, nor was she as blatantly sexy. Yet in her own right, she was lovely. And classy.

She was tall—he’d guess five feet eight—with dark hair worn in a short, bobbed style, which accented her creamy skin and full lips. But it was her eyes that held him spellbound. They were a unique color—Windex-blue—and surrounded by an abundance of sooty lashes.

“Mickey, it’s about time you got here.” She paused, a frown marring her brows. “You’re not Mickey,” she added inanely.

“No, ma’am,” Cal drawled, “I’m not.”

“Where’s Mickey?” she asked bluntly, her eyes giving him the once-over.

He wondered what she was thinking. If he were to hazard a guess, he probably wouldn’t like it. In no way would he come near measuring up to her expectations, remembering his reflection in his mirror this morning.

His hair was too long and his jeans and T-shirt both had holes in them. And his face—well, that was another story altogether. He knew he looked drawn and disheveled—not at all pleasing to the eyesight. But give him time, he told himself. When he had to, he cleaned up real well. He just hadn’t had the time or the inclination to do so.

“I understand he’s now on another route. I read about the vacancy in the paper.”

She leaned her head to one side and gave him a suspicious look, like she wanted to say more. She didn’t, though, at least not about Mickey. “So who are you?”

Cal hesitated for a moment, then shot out his hand, a hearty smile on his lips. “Bart McBride. But my friends call me Bubba.”