Читать книгу Dylan's Daddy Dilemma - Tracy Madison - Страница 8
ОглавлениеNow what? Defeated and drained, Chelsea Bell tugged on her four-year-old son’s hand and led them toward the battered, almost-out-of-gas Chevy Malibu that had brought them the 260-plus miles from Pueblo to Steamboat Springs, Colorado.
Henry didn’t ask why they were returning to the car, just shuffled alongside her, his spare body bowed against the chilly wind. Surprising, really, when just minutes ago she’d promised that they were done driving for a while, and that this beautiful A-frame house with its amazing mountain views was their new—albeit, temporary—home.
The house-sitting job had been exactly what she needed for a fresh start. A roof over their heads and decent pay for close to five months meant she’d have plenty of time to locate permanent employment and a small, affordable place to live when the seasonal gig ended in September. Unfortunately, seconds after knocking on the front door, she’d learned that they’d come all this way for nothing. The job was gone, given to someone else.
A solid portion of bad luck, timing and her own poor judgment were to blame.
First, her car had malfunctioned, requiring last-minute repairs the mechanic had deemed nothing more than Band-Aids. He’d strongly suggested she junk the car and put her money toward something newer. Of course, she couldn’t afford newer, so she’d gone with the short-term fix and used a chunk of her not-so-healthy savings in the process.
Then Henry had awakened with the flu on the day they were supposed to leave, delaying them further. She’d called her would-be employers twice before her pay-as-you-go phone had run out of minutes, had left messages but hadn’t actually spoken with them. And seeing how she’d spent so much to fix her car and didn’t trust it wouldn’t break down again, she’d decided to conserve her drastically dwindling funds rather than adding more minutes.
She should have bought the minutes, because when the home owners attempted to reach her and found her phone out of service, they’d assumed she’d bailed. A logical assumption under the circumstances, and one she likely would have made in a similar situation. Understanding the whys, however, didn’t change her current predicament one iota.
There were no two ways about it. She was good and stuck.
Shivering as much from her jagged emotions as the cold, late-winter weather, Chelsea opened the door to the backseat. “Hop in, kid,” she said in as cheery a voice as she could muster. “Seems our plans have changed. How does dinner sound? I bet you’re hungry.”
“I thought we were staying here.” Henry crawled into the safety booster seat and tiredly rubbed his eyes. Unlike most kids, he never slept well in the car, so the long drive had worn him out. Her, too, but she’d grown accustomed to exhaustion. “I don’t wanna drive anymore.”
“We’re not going far,” she promised. “I saw several restaurants in the center of town. I was thinking we could stop for burgers and fries.” After buckling him in, she tousled the top of his sandy-brown-covered head. “Unless you’d rather have another peanut-butter sandwich?”
In an effort to save for this trip, their menu for the past many weeks had largely consisted of peanut-butter sandwiches. She had little doubt her son would jump at the chance to eat his favorite dinner in a real restaurant. An extravagance she absolutely couldn’t afford, but the kid had to eat and she needed the break to decide what they should do next.
“Burgers!” Henry’s face lit up in a megawatt smile. “And a root beer!”
“Milk,” she countered. “You had a soda when we stopped for gas.”
“Juice?”
“Milk,” she repeated before closing his door. Always the negotiator, that was her son. She slid into her seat and with a silent prayer put the key into the ignition. The engine balked, hacking and coughing itself awake before settling into its normal state of aggravated compliance. She backed out of the driveway with a sigh of relief.
Henry remained quiet as they drove, likely due to a combination of fatigue and contemplation over the milk debate. Breathing deeply, Chelsea tried to ignore the heavy pressure on her chest. This was bad. Really bad. Other than Henry—who counted on her to make his world safe—she was alone in a strange city with little cash and nowhere to go.
Tears stung her eyes as the reality of her dilemma sank in.
Should they turn around and return to Pueblo? She didn’t have to look in her wallet to know it held one crumpled five-dollar bill and two twenties. There were a couple of ones in her coat pocket and probably a handful of change lurking in the bottom of her purse. All told, she had less than fifty dollars to her name. Enough, maybe, to get them back to Pueblo. If she drove straight through and her car didn’t gasp its last breath en route. But why?
She’d spend most—if not all—of her cash in the process, and frankly, there wasn’t much of anything left for them in Pueblo. No home. No job. No true friendships. Henry’s father—if anyone dared call Joel Marin that—had walked into the sunset shortly after learning she was pregnant. For most of Henry’s life, she hadn’t heard one peep from him, but six months ago, she’d received a postcard—a damn postcard, mailed from California—with a scrawled “Was thinking of you and wanted to say hi!”
Really? Close to five years, zero communication, zero support, zero interest in Henry, and he sent her that? And how had he gotten her address?
She didn’t know, but she’d thrown the postcard into the trash and had put him and it out of her mind. Then, two months ago, she’d heard he was back in Pueblo. He hadn’t shown up on her doorstep, so she’d assumed he didn’t want to see Henry, but just knowing they were in the same city was enough for her to decide to pick up stakes and move on.
Plainly speaking, she wanted nothing to do with Joel Marin. Ever again. And she felt more emphatically about keeping Joel away from Henry. Her son deserved better than a fly-by-night, immature man who had bolted from his responsibilities as a father. The fact Joel was now in Pueblo only added a check mark to the con side of her what-to-do-next list.
And what remained of Chelsea’s family—save her sister, but Lindsay had her own set of problems—would just as soon hang up on her than offer their help.
So. She could be broke, alone and homeless in Pueblo and deal with the remote possibility of Joel popping into her life, or almost broke, alone and homeless in Steamboat Springs, but without the worry of Joel hanging over her head.
Inappropriate laughter bubbled in her chest. When thought of like that, the choice was pretty damn simple. Sad and scary, but simple. She’d rather save the money she had and take her chances here than head back to a place she couldn’t wait to leave.
Okay, then. One decision made. Now she just had to find a new fresh start. She’d done it before and she could do so again.
“You win, Mommy,” Henry said from the backseat. “I’ll drink the milk.”
“You will, huh? That’s good to hear.”
“Yup! Chocolate milk!”
She almost argued, but decided to give in on this front. “I think we can make that happen.” Amused despite the weight of her fears, Chelsea braked at a stop sign. Her son’s tenacious, never-give-up attitude always reminded her of what was important. Even when the world seemed bent on crumbling around them. So, yeah, he’d get his chocolate milk, and she’d keep them safe. Somehow. “Thank you, Henry.”
“For what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just for being you.”
Henry laughed, and the normalcy—the joy—of that sound wove into her heart and rekindled her hope. “I like being me,” he said, “so it’s easy. And fun!”
And that, Chelsea thought as she pulled into the parking lot of a place called Foster’s Pub and Grill, was a motto everyone should live by.
* * *
Dylan Foster winked at the curvaceous blonde who’d flirted mercilessly with him ever since sitting down at the bar an hour earlier. She’d started off with a beer before moving on to a rum and Diet Coke, and had just ordered a Snowshoe shooter, which consisted of bourbon whiskey and peppermint schnapps. Three drinks in an hour didn’t cause him concern—he’d obviously seen far quicker consumption rates—nor did the relatively quick uptick in the alcohol percentage in each successive drink bother him all that much.
What worried Dylan was the look in the blonde’s eyes. He’d tended bar at his family’s establishment long enough to recognize when someone was on a mission, and unless he was completely off base, this woman was bent on retaliation. Probably due to some man doing something stupid and ticking her off. Or breaking her heart. Or, he supposed, both.
And he drew these conclusions based on the mix of sorrow and heat in her gaze, her relentless come-ons toward him and the guy sitting next to her—hedging her bets, he assumed—and finally, the way she kept looking over her shoulder toward the pub’s entrance. Waiting for the husband or boyfriend to show up and find her drunk-happy with some other guy.
Not him. He wasn’t interested in a one-night, two-night or any-number-of-nights stand. But the man seated on the bar stool to the left of the blonde had responded eagerly to her not-so-subtle advances. Which could then mean a potential fight if and when Mr. Heartbreaker chose to make an appearance. So, yep, Dylan was concerned.
Foster’s Pub and Grill was, more than anything else, a restaurant that housed a bar. Sure, they’d had their share of rowdy gatherings, and they would again. Typically, though, they were a casual place for the tourists and locals alike to grab a meal, a few drinks and kick back after a day on the slopes. Or after hours of hiking or white-water rafting during the summer season.
He never relished the idea of trouble, but seeing how tonight was one of the last before the winter season ended, he was damn tired. He just didn’t have the energy for trouble. So he winked at the blonde to draw her attention from her other prey, hoping she’d focus on him and forget about Mr. Miller Lite long enough for the guy to seek out greener pastures.
Or just give up and leave. Either would suit Dylan. His plan beyond that was sketchy, but he figured he’d be able to contain the situation, assuming one presented itself, if he removed as many unpredictable factors as possible.
He winked again for good measure and slid the shooter across the surface of the bar. “There you go,” he said. “Might want to slow down a bit after this one.”
“I have no intentions of slowing down,” the blonde said, accepting the shooter and downing it in one long gulp. “And I don’t have to drive tonight, so...another, please.”
Dylan considered cutting her off, but he didn’t really have a legit reason. Her words were clear and she wasn’t swaying in her seat, and she’d just stated that she wasn’t planning on driving. So he went about making her another Snowshoe.
“Anyone ever tell you how sexy your eyes are?” she asked when he set the drink in front of her. “What color are they, exactly? Green...brown...hazel?”
“Depends on the day,” he said, answering her second question. Both he and his younger sister, Haley, shared their Irish mother’s coloring, including her chameleon eyes and brown hair with, in the summer, glints of red. Haley called the color auburn. Dylan preferred the simpler description of plain old brown. His older brother, Reid, and younger brother, Cole, took after their father, sporting almost-black eyes and hair. “And, I’ve been told, my mood.”
“Ooh,” the woman said. “And what might your mood be right now?”
Before an appropriate response—one that couldn’t be taken as too flirtatious—presented itself, the door to the pub opened, snagging his and the blonde’s attention. Not the heartbreaker, Dylan was relieved to see, but a young boy who all but tumbled into the restaurant, followed closely by, presumably, his mother. Even from across the room, both appeared windblown and out of sorts. Tired, too, if the woman’s hunched shoulders were anything to go by.
Grasping her son’s hand, the woman pulled him farther into the restaurant and, after searching the area for an empty table, headed toward their solitary choice: a tiny two-seater near the bar. They removed their coats and sat down, and the woman—a tall, too-thin brunette—closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Not just tired, Dylan amended, but exhausted.
Far more curious than he should be, he grabbed a couple of menus from under the bar and, with an easy grin directed at the blonde, said, “Duty calls.”
“Hurry back,” she said, batting her mascara-coated lashes at top speed. “I’m almost ready for another drink, and you haven’t answered my question yet.”
Question? Oh, about his mood. Seeing how his solitary goal was to go home—alone—and sleep until ten tomorrow morning, he doubted she’d like his response. Rather than saying anything, he nodded and made his escape. As he approached the table where the brunette and the child were, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t interested in the least.
He was just lending a hand. Foster’s was short staffed tonight, and Haley—who normally worked behind the scenes in the office—was working double duty by waiting tables. At the moment, she had a tray balanced on each arm and was maneuvering a path around the packed tables toward an extralarge group of customers.
Nothing wrong with easing his sister’s load a little.
Believable enough, Dylan supposed, except for the fact that Haley was a damn fine waitress. She’d see and attend to the new arrivals soon enough. Why, then, did he feel compelled to deliver the menus himself? Especially when he had a full bar to contend with and his worrisome premonition that the flirty blonde was trouble? Didn’t matter.
He’d drop off the menus, tell the brunette and the boy about the evening’s specials, and that would be that. Haley could take over from there.
“Evening,” he said when he reached their table and had handed them their menus. “We have several specials going on tonight, including—”
“I want a hamburger and root beer, but Mommy says I have to have milk,” the boy interrupted, his excitement obvious. “So chocolate milk and French fries. With dip!”
“Ranch dressing,” his mother supplied. “And the burger should be well-done, with nothing on it except for cheese and mustard. Do you... Is there a kid-size burger?”
“Yup, there is,” Dylan answered, fighting the urge to grin at the child’s exuberance. Heck, the rascal was so jazzed, he kept bouncing in his seat. It was cute. Pulling the order pad from the pocket of his apron, Dylan focused on the mother. She was cute, too. “What about you? Do you need a minute to look over the menu, or would you like to hear the specials?”
The question seemed, oddly, to fluster the woman. She dipped her chin so she was looking at the table rather than at Dylan. “Oh. I...already ate. Maybe a cup of coffee?”
“That’s not true,” the boy said with a curious glance toward his mother. “Not since before we left for the brand-new fresh start this morning. I remember. You had a peanut-butter sandwich and a glass of water and you didn’t even eat when I did at lunch.”
“Henry, I’m...” She trailed off, lifted her head and shrugged at her son. “I guess you’re right, but I’m not that hungry, so—” she returned her gaze to Dylan “—just the coffee, please.”
“Sure,” Dylan said, jotting down the order. The action gave him a second to consider the give-and-take he’d just witnessed. That, along with the dark circles under the brunette’s eyes and the exhaustion he’d already recognized, made him think she was in some sort of a jam. Not that he should care one way or the other. Not his business. “Coffee it is, then. How do you take it?”
“Cream, no sugar.”
“Kitchen is busy, so the wait might be slightly longer than normal,” he said. “I’ll have someone bring a bread basket, free of charge, to compensate.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“Nope, it isn’t. But it’s what we do.” And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away before he could offer her a free meal to boot. Because dammit, that was what he wanted to do, and the want made no sense. He did not swoop in to save damsels in distress. Not anymore. Not for a long, long time. Besides which, maybe she really wasn’t that hungry or in a jam.
Maybe, for once, he’d completely misinterpreted the signals.
* * *
“This is so good,” Henry said, dipping the very last French fry into a shallow bowl of ranch dressing. “I like our fresh start so far.” Squinting his eyes, he quickly revised his statement by saying “Now that we’re done driving, I mean.”
“We are definitely done driving, sweetheart.” Chelsea tore off a piece of bread and chewed it slowly. She had been hungry, but Henry’s meal, her coffee, plus the tip was already more than she could afford. So despite her earlier refusal, she was grateful for the bread.
Oh, they still had half a jar of peanut bar and a loaf of bread in the car, along with packages of crackers and cereal bars and a few juice boxes. She wouldn’t have actually starved without the bread basket, but she likely wouldn’t have allowed herself to dip into their food supply again until the morning. After all, she didn’t know how long it would have to last.
While Henry had eaten his burger, she’d gathered the stray dollars from her coat pocket and the loose change from the bottom of her purse. Now, at least, she had a total. They had forty-seven dollars and seventy-two cents to work with. That was it. And when she paid their bill here, she’d have thirty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents left.
She might have to swallow her pride and reach out for help. Her choices were few. Lindsay, maybe, if Chelsea could contact her sister without her husband’s knowledge. Risky, though. Kirk was a carbon copy of their father—a guy who believed women existed for the sole purpose of doing a man’s bidding—and he controlled nearly every aspect of Lindsay’s life. Because Chelsea recognized this about Kirk and had attempted to talk her sister out of marrying him, Kirk did everything possible to keep the sisters apart.
Mostly, he’d managed to do so. For whatever reason, her sister refused to see the truth. Even so, she loved Chelsea. She’d send whatever money she could, but Chelsea did not want to cause more problems. Better for everyone involved if she kept her sister out of this mess.
That left Melissa. A friend, but not a close one. Chelsea’s fault, as she never allowed anyone to get too close, but Melissa had always been kind. They’d both worked as waitresses, usually on the same shift at an all-night diner, and less than two weeks ago, Melissa had hugged Chelsea and asked her to keep in touch. A kind woman, yes, but how could she ask for assistance from another single mother who was already fighting to make ends meet?
Melissa would likely try to help, but knowing her circumstances meant that Chelsea shouldn’t ask. Sighing, she shook her head. No, it meant she wouldn’t. The decision had zip to do with pride. She’d gotten herself into this situation; she’d have to find a path through to the other side. Without calling on her sister or Melissa.
And that put her exactly where she’d started, where she’d purposely put herself time and again: alone. Without a safety net or a solitary person to lean on, or even a plan B.
For the first time in a long while, Chelsea wished she hadn’t built such a solid, impenetrable wall around herself and that she’d let one trustworthy person into her life. The problem, she knew, was in order to determine if a person was trustworthy, you first had to risk that they weren’t. Which then allowed them close enough access to cause some serious damage.
In her experience, the risk had never paid off. But if she’d been luckier, and if such a person existed in her life, maybe she wouldn’t feel so inadequate and alone right now.
Desperation clawed in Chelsea’s stomach. Her only true priority for the past four and a half years had been Henry. Every decision she made had his best interests at heart and now...well, she’d failed at keeping her son safe. And unless she could find a motel in Steamboat Springs that only charged ten dollars for a night’s stay, they’d be sleeping in the car.
Oh, God. No. Just...no.
Instructing herself to breathe, to calm the churning panic so she could think without emotion, she focused straight ahead and saw the man who’d brought them their menus.
Tall and lithely muscular, he worked the bar with an ease that spoke of years of experience. Somehow, watching his quick, seemingly effortless movements softened the tightness in her chest. It was a reprieve of sorts, so she continued to watch as he prepared and delivered drinks, as he smiled and chatted and sometimes laughed to those he served. She envied him and his obvious comfort in his surroundings. In his life.
When had she last felt such a sense of security and acceptance?
Not since her grandmother Sophia had passed when she was thirteen. Before then, Sophia had been Chelsea’s refuge, her home and her haven. From her parents, her sadness, her...well, just about everything else back then. But Sophia couldn’t help her now.
In that second, Chelsea came to the conclusion that she would never be in this position again. No matter what it took. No matter what she had to do. And the first order of business was securing a safe, warm place for her and Henry to sleep for the night. Tomorrow, when the sun rose, she would scour the entire city until she found a job.
Any job, really. Anything that would get her from this point to the next.
“I’ll be right back,” she said to Henry. “Just sit tight.”
“Where are you going?” He stopped playing with his straw and sat up straight, worry dotting his expression. “I want to come with you.”
“I know, but if you wait here, we won’t lose our table.” True, perhaps, but that wasn’t Chelsea’s concern. She didn’t want her son to know how desperate a position they were in. “I’m going up there,” she said, pointing in the direction of the bar. “We’ll be able to see each other the entire time. I won’t be long, and if you get nervous, you can come to me. Okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed after a momentary pause.
Leaning over, she gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head. Then, with hopes of a miracle, she approached the well-polished vintage oak bar. Again, she focused on the bartender, on his relaxed smile and his easy, almost graceful, movements. If a cheap—okay, almost free—motel existed in Steamboat Springs, he’d surely know of it, and if she were very lucky, he might have some ideas about possible job openings in the area.
Humiliating to ask for any type of help whatsoever—even basic advice—from a stranger. She’d have to tell him some version of the truth, maybe even admit she’d failed, otherwise he wouldn’t understand her dilemma. And if he didn’t understand, why would he bother himself with giving her anything more than pat answers?
All of this seemed too much, too overwhelming, and she almost retreated. Almost. But her earlier promise to do whatever it took strengthened her resolve. She marched forward and readied the words she’d have to say.
Because really, what else was she to do?
