Читать книгу Reunited Hearts - Ruth Logan Herne - Страница 13

Trent pounded up O’Rourke’s Hill, pushing more than usual, the thick grass beneath his feet God’s carpet, nature’s bounty.

But no matter how fast or far he ran, thoughts of Alyssa and the boy refused to be laid to rest.

His son. Half-grown. Looking more like him than he’d have thought humanly possible.

His heart clenched, or maybe it was his gut. At this pace it was hard to tell, but as he rounded the curve leading down to the motel, he saw Lyssa standing there, the evening breeze pushing her hair back, away from a face he knew as well as he knew his own.

What a pity that knowledge hadn’t gone more than skin deep.

Another clench hit, mid-stride. Stronger. Tighter. This time there was no doubt his heart was involved. He slowed his pace as she watched him approach, using the time to rein in his emotions.

She studied him, eyes narrowed, jaw tight, worry drawing her brow.

He studied her right back, masking his turmoil. The Army had trained him to show nerves of steel, flat-faced, taciturn. He had no problem employing those tactics now. Drawing near, he noticed little things without shifting his gaze.

Her hands clutched a worn purse held by a frayed strap across her shoulder. Her shoes matched the purse’s condition, a coat of polish not enough to mask the dull scuffs beneath. She wore thin blue jeans that fit loosely, not as a fashion statement, more like they were the wrong size. Her short-sleeved top wasn’t quite enough for the dropping temperatures, especially in the shadowed overhang. Goose pimples dotted her arms from the elbows down. Right now, after an eight-mile run through the hills, the shadowed cement terrace felt real good to him. He stopped just short of her, eyes locked, noting her rise of apprehension as they came face to face.

At the last minute she shifted her gaze, avoiding the intensity, a quick breath telegraphing her uneasiness.

Or guilt.

Or both.

She had good reason to feel both and he was disinclined to lighten the moment. “What do you want?”

She inhaled deeply, then brought her eyes back to his. A fresh round of goose pimples rose on her forearms, a chill coursing her.

He refused to care. He stood firm, feet braced, shoulders back, chest out. “Well?”

She mulled him a moment, her expression unreadable, her eyes pensive. “I need to know what you’re going to do.”

Trent snorted disgust and started to turn. She put a hand to his arm, her fingers soft, the grip tight. “Trent. Please.”

“Don’t ‘please’ me, Lyssa.” He swung back, shrugged her hand away and leaned forward. “You ran off twelve years ago carrying my child, then hid my son from me for over a decade. There is no excuse for what you’ve done.” He enunciated the last words slowly, pumping their intensity with pointed deliberation, then ran a hand through his hair and tried to rationalize her choices. But he couldn’t. Nothing excused that behavior. Nothing.

“I know.”

Her soft voice paused him. His heart clenched again, this time a combination of feelings and memories waging war for top billing.

He’d loved that voice once. Soft and deep, a little breathless, the raspiness making it stand out. How many times over the years had he turned, hearing a similar voice, his ears drawn to that unique combination of sweet and sensual, memories spiked by the sound of that voice? It was never her.

Now it was, but the anger and disappointment inside him made the old longing a mockery. He’d loved Lyssa, the sweet-faced, gentle girl who always listened, always smiled, always made time for the lost boy within him.

The woman standing behind him might have Lyssa’s looks and Lyssa’s voice, but the girl he knew would never have done what this one did. And that only meant one thing.

He’d never really known her at all.

He swallowed a sigh, scrubbed a hand to his face and turned back. The cool shade had offered initial respite from his run, but now his sweaty T-shirt chilled him. Or maybe it wasn’t the physical conditions making him colder. He’d been a strong-but-gentle young man, a boy who worked hard but made mistakes. He knew that. For a short while after graduating the academy, he’d made a host of them until his conscience smacked him upside the head. He’d tried to own that over the years.

Seeing Alyssa, knowing what one night had done, nipped at the heels of the man he’d become. Older. Wiser. Stronger. Right now that strength felt more like hardness.

God, I have no idea what to say, what to do right now. Anger consumes me, the thought that I gave my heart and soul years ago only to be deceived. My son, my child…

The thought of those missing years bit deeply.

Alyssa was the one person who understood the burden he’d carried, the hole in his heart over Clay’s death. She alone knew of the nightmares he had, images of Clay calling for help while Trent tried in vain to reach him. She knew what fatherhood would mean to him. While he loved and appreciated Jamison’s investment in him, their pride in his accomplishments, inwardly he longed to be just another normal kid with a mom and a dad.

She’d pushed all that aside and fled with his son. It was an unforgivable act, unbelievable in its audacity. And now she wanted to talk?

“Trent. Please.”

Again the hand. The voice.

He shrugged her off and paced away, ignoring the cold bathing his damp skin.

Suddenly he turned, realization pushing him to face her. “What’s his name?”

She looked startled, then ashamed. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d know, that you’d have checked things out today.”

He arched a brow, waiting.

“Jaden. His name is Jaden. Jaden Michael Langley.”

Jaden Michael.

Warmth curled in his belly, somewhere beneath the cold exterior.

“He’s like you, Trent. Sensitive. Good. Kind. If we don’t handle this with care, we could ruin him.”

“If by ‘we’ you mean ‘me’, then take a walk, Lyss.” Trent shook his head, meeting her gaze, keeping his expression stern. “Despite any guilt-laying trip you might want to put on me, I’m the wronged party here. Now, anyway.”

She angled her head, studying him, her appraisal disconcerting. “What would have happened if I told you, Trent? What would you have done?”

“The right thing.” He shifted forward, encroaching on her space. “Married you. Supported you. Loved you and him.”

His words pained her, he saw that right off, the shadow of sorrow making him wonder what her choices had cost. But he was too angry to delve into that. Didn’t know, didn’t care.

But you do, the inner voice chided, unbidden.

He shut it down with a quick rebuttal. Trust me. I don’t.

“And missed the academy?”

“It was a school. Nothing more. Nothing less. There are schools everywhere.”

She faced him straight now, chin raised, her gaze steady. “It was your dream, Trent. And you and I both know that cadets can’t be married or have a child. I knew you well enough to know you’d never turn your back on your baby.”

“And so you chose to keep him from me. Convenient reasoning, Lyss.”

A bitter smile twisted her mouth, pained her eyes. “I was wrong, Trent. I see that now. And saying I’m sorry can’t fix it.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“But what’s done is done.” She drew herself straighter, taller, meeting him eye to eye. “Right now we need to focus on Jaden. What’s best for him.”

“What’s best for him is a chance to know his father. His real father,” Trent ground out, unyielding. “You’ve cheated me out of eleven years. I refuse to let you get another day.”

“Trent.” She moved forward, beseeching. “I can’t begin to imagine how angry you are…and I realize you have every right to be.”

He met her gaze, expressionless, refusing to be drawn into her mollifying tactics. She’d cheated him, she needed to pay. Easy concept.

“But we can’t destroy him with this. We have to think first and go slowly. Step by step.”

“You’re worried what he’ll think of you,” Trent observed, standing firm. “Honey, that’s the least of my worries right now. Best-case scenario? He realizes his mother is a liar and asks to stay with me. At his age judges are willing to consider the child’s wishes.”

His words hurt her. He saw that and didn’t care. No, scratch that, he tried not to care, but her look of pain hit him hard and low.

Because that’s how you attacked, his conscience prodded. And that whole thing about judges? Not very Solomonesque. Try Kings, chapter three, verse one. Solomon offered to divide the child to appease the quarreling women. The true mother stood back, refusing her rights to save the child’s life. You might want to rethink your options.

He didn’t want to.

But the inner voice cast doubt on his absolutism. He stared into space, seconds ticking like minutes, until he finally shifted his gaze back to hers. “What’s he doing right now?”

She hesitated. “Practicing football. With Chris Russo.”

“He likes it?” Thinking of that, a tiny piece of Trent’s heart went out to the boy, a speck of realization that a part of him lived on in someone else. A hint of hope stretched upward.

Lyssa’s expression softened, a ghost of the girl coming through the woman. “He loves it.”

“Where are they practicing?”

“Behind the middle school. Chris saw his talent right off and asked if he could work with him before the season gets under way.”

“I’ll work with him.”

She looked startled, then frowned. “But—”

“No buts.” He leaned in again, refusing to notice the pale points of light in her hazel eyes, how the hint of green to gray sparked amber fire when she laughed. The memory stabbed. He ignored it. “When are they practicing again?”

“Tomorrow, but…”

He shook his head and moved toward his motel room door. “I’ll be there. Evening?”

Lyssa stared, gnawed her lip, then nodded. “Yes.” She stepped forward, her expression pleading. “You won’t tell him, right? Not yet?”

Like he was about to make a promise like that. He’d already been cheated out of a dozen years, give or take. She had no right to set the rules, none at all.

She’s his mother, his conscience tweaked once more. You’d have given anything to have a mother who loved you, remember?

Oh, he remembered. Too well. A kid doesn’t forget when his very own mother equated him with disposable trash, something to cast out, toss by the wayside. Eyeing Lyssa, he saw the difference and wanted to ignore it. Needed to ignore it.

But something in the winsome look of her gaze, a mother pleading for her child, touched him, despite his disdain. He hesitated, worked his jaw and gave a curt nod. “I won’t tell him. Yet.”

Her look of gratitude evoked guilt within him, and that just made him angry. Why should he feel guilty about anything?

But when she nodded and whispered, “Thank you,” it was all he could do to keep from stepping toward her, the voice and expression recapturing times long past, memories of the girl he loved.

Instead he moved backward, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. “Good night.”