Читать книгу: «Hart's Baby»

One

Under any other circumstances, Zach Hart would have allowed his gaze to travel down the length of her, noticing her as a woman. As it was, her eyes lassoed his attention.

Green as the summer grass, honest as a first snow, but shaded by a hint of weariness that showed past hurt. For a second Zach wondered what...or who...had put that expression there.

He had an urge to reach out and stroke it away. Just as quickly though, he dismissed the ridiculous thought. The Wind Song Ranch wouldn’t run itself. Zach didn’t have time for women, no matter how tempting.

Standing, she folded her hands in front of her. Was it to keep from showing more of the nerves she’d already betrayed by licking her lower lip?

“Your mother said it was okay for me to wait in here.”

Zach nodded. It wasn’t the woman’s fault he’d arrived home exhausted after spending a long and lonely night on the road. The only things he wanted were a cold beer, a cool shower and crisp sheets. Specifically, he wanted them in that order. Maybe if she managed to get straight to the point, he’d be up the stairs in less than fifteen minutes, asleep in thirty. “I’m Zach Hart.”

“Your mother told me.”

He arched a brow when she didn’t immediately supply her own name. “And you are?”

She offered a tentative smile, one that cracked and fell before fully forming. “Cassandra Morrison.”

Cassandra. Nice name. Soft, feminine, dignified. More than likely Cassandra Morrison was another of his mother’s causes. Widows and orphans were her latest. The car seat with a baby sleeping in it lent credibility to that thought.

Zach had always possessed a weak spot for his mother’s charities—after all, Margaret didn’t want any of her boys to forget where they had come from and how fortunate they were now. The fact that Cassandra was a beautiful woman would only entice him to open his wallet a little wider.

Because it was the polite thing to do, he offered his hand. Cassandra accepted, slipping her much smaller, delicate palm against his hardened, callused one. Smooth, he mused, imagining the slide of her hand against the knots of tension bunched in his shoulders.

Slowly he released her. The road must have been longer and lonelier than he realized. He’d been without a woman for months, but that wasn’t long enough to make him fantasize about a woman who was likely a widow with her own orphan. Carving a living from Wyoming’s reluctant land provided trouble enough. “What can I do for you, Cassandra Morrison?”

She stalled a couple of seconds before saying, “I am...was...Jeanie Morrison’s sister.”

She’d supplied the information breathlessly, a husk of hurt in her words. Her brows drew together when she looked at him with those powerfully green eyes, as if she expected him to recognize the name. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

Cassandra moved back a couple of steps. When she looked at him squarely again, her arms were folded across her chest, a self-protective gesture if ever he’d seen one.

“You’ve never heard my sister’s name?”

He shook his head.

Even though she’d moved back a couple of steps, she still stood near enough for him to catch the scent of wildflowers interwoven with determination.

“I was hoping that you would already have heard, that this wouldn’t be so difficult,” she said.

Zach frowned. “Go on.”

She dropped one arm, curving her hand around the top of the child seat. A protective mother. His gaze flickered to the bundle beneath a blue blanket. Instantly his throat dried.

He knew with sudden clarity that Cassandra Morrison wasn’t here as a representative of any charity.

“Then this must come as a terrible surprise to you...” Her voice trailed off into a clammy, uncomfortable silence.

Surprise was a hand women dealt well, and the remaining cards in the deck were a dance of deception. It had been his unpleasant experience that a lot of women pulled their aces straight from the bottom of the pack.

Zach did nothing to relieve the tension. Instead, he reached behind him and drummed his fingers on the mantel, allowing the pressure to stretch and grow, becoming elastic. He wondered, would it snap?

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to break this to you, but...” She touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip, a second betrayal of that tension she struggled to suppress.

The one-two combination of her eyes and her voice nearly did him in. A haunting lilt rippled through her words, reminding him of the whisper of the wind, the seduction of a moonlit night.

Yet this woman, a stranger, stood in his family’s living room, hesitation in her tone and defiance in the tilt of her chin. The wind wasn’t whispering and the sun had obliterated the moon along with the romance of night. He wasn’t going to like what she had to say.

He stopped drumming his fingers, forcing the silence to roar.

“My sister...” She took a deep breath. “My sister was involved with a Hart.”

“Excuse me?” The words fell with the iciness of a Wyoming winter. How dare she stand in his home...the home he’d fought for, protected...and fling accusations?

She squared her shoulders as if for battle, her naked lips pressed together.

Hands clenched at his sides, he clipped, “Are you accusing me of fathering this child?”

“Jeanie apparently slept with—”

“Good day, Ms. Morrison. If you have anything further to say, call my attorney.”

“Wait!”

His family had fallen victim to a woman’s deceit twice. He’d be damned if it would happen a third time. Pivoting, he moved past her and reached for the door handle.

“Please, wait. Hear me out.”

He stopped. Her quiet desperation got to him. It shouldn’t, and just as surely, it did.

“Jeanie was dating your brother.”

“My brother?”

“Chad. He is your brother, isn’t he?”

Zach turned and nodded curtly. Of the three brothers, Chad was the youngest, the wildest, the most reckless.

An unnatural pause pulsed in the air.

Cassandra tucked her hair behind her ear, then dropped her hand in front of her. Not flinching as she looked him in the eye, she stated, “Jeanie had Chad’s baby.”

Zach’s immediate and earthy response earned him a wince.

“Are you trying to tell me that child is my nephew?” he demanded, struggling to rein in his temper.

Her expression fell at his reaction, but Zach was beyond caring.

“Our nephew, yes,” she managed to say.

“You’re insinuating my brother fathered a baby and turned his back, walking away?”

“It’s not an insinuation—” she struggled for a breath “—it’s a fact.”

“A fact. I see. And the child’s mother, your sister, where is she, why isn’t she here?”

Cassandra’s eyebrows had drawn together, and the depths of her eyes had turned stormy with anguish, a layer of tears teasing at her eyelashes. He refused to be swayed by the intensity of her emotion; too much was at stake.

When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Why did she send you? Are you perhaps the better liar of the two?” His angry words hummed in the air.

Cassandra sucked in a shallow breath and stared at him intently. “A liar?” she asked, her voice cracking on the second word.

Fortifying himself with the heat of her accusation, Zach answered her. “Yes, Ms. Morrison. I’m calling you a liar.”

Hurt radiated from her eyes, nearly turning his internal winter into spring.

Slowly she shook her head. “I am not a liar.”

“Then perhaps you misunderstood the situation.”

“How could I have misunderstood?”

Seeing the genuine layer of anguish his words had caused, he formed his hands into fists. Leashing his own frustration, he searched for a position somewhere between calm and controlled. “Then maybe your sister lied to you.”

“How dare you?” Cassandra’s lips thinned as he watched the hurt vanish. Her spine stiffened and she became a warrior, a defender. “My sister wasn’t—”

“If your sister is a saint, then you’re implying my brother has no moral values?”

“I don’t know what to think,” she said quietly.

“How much?” he asked, growing weary of her game. He’d do anything it took to protect his family from Cassandra’s false allegations, even if it cost half his bank account.

Eyes wide, she echoed, “How much?”

“To get you and your sister to drop the unfounded accusation.” He reached for the checkbook in his back pocket.

Her mouth fell open. For a moment they stared at each other, adversary to adversary.

“You think this is about money?”

“Isn’t it?” He crouched, placing the checkbook on the coffee table and flipping open the leather cover. Then, looking up at her, he asked, “Isn’t that what all women want?” Clicking his pen, he scrawled her name and the date on the blue check.

“Put that away,” she said, the words carefully clipped. “And, please, extend me the courtesy you haven’t shown so far.”

Zach’s back teeth locked together as he stood and faced her. No one, not ever, had accused him of a lack of common courtesy. Until now. Until Cassandra. His temper ratcheted up another notch. It took all his infamous control to keep the blaze locked away.

“This isn’t about money, Mr. Hart.”

“No?”

“It’s about—”She took a deep breath and tipped up her chin.

Zach had always admired guts. And Cassandra had them, in commanding amounts. And for a brief second he wondered what it might be like if they were on the same side of an issue.

“It’s about love and belonging.”

“Love and belonging?” he repeated. Surely his ears deceived him.

She exhaled deeply, as if frustrated by his singular lack of understanding.

“Yes,” she said softly, primly.

Zach wondered what it would take to shake that primness from her. A bold statement? A rash promise? A soul-deep kiss? Maybe running his fingers through the rich brunette strands of her hair? Immediately he dismissed his thoughts. He didn’t give a damn what it took to loosen her up. She’d be out of his life—permanently—within minutes.

“Have you ever known what it’s like not to belong?” she asked.

The darkness of his past descended on Zach.

He knew what it was like not to belong, knew what it was to scrape and struggle, knew how it felt to wear handme-down shirts and jeans with holes in them. He knew what it was like to exist on the same fare night after night, to have no presents on his birthday and to use a tumbleweed in place of a Christmas tree. More, he knew what it was like to have no respect or friends, to stand alone on the playground, watching, as others tossed a baseball or football.

Oh, yeah, he knew better than most what it was like not to belong.

Time thundered with expectancy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, folding her arms in front of her.

Her eyes met his, and he noticed their color had lightened, as if she read his pain and, more, understood its intensity.

“I had no right...”

He nodded tightly.

“But you’ve got a family...so much. You can’t possibly know—”

“I can and I do,” he corrected, knowing his words were spiked by the anger he’d used more than once to cover the hurt. “I’ve been on both sides of the fence, Ms. Morrison. I’ve been poor enough to know what it’s like to have no fire in the hearth and certainly no chicken in the pot.” He paused. “And now we’re comfortable enough that some people will do anything to get a piece of it.”

Her mouth dropped. “And you truly think I’m the kind of woman who’s only here for a piece of your fortune?” she whispered.

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

“You don’t know anything about me...don’t know what kind of woman I am.”

“So why don’t you tell me,” he challenged. “What kind of woman are you?”

“I’m one who wants to see the right thing done by our nephew.”

Zach frowned.

She didn’t back down. Her apology didn’t mean she would back off. “I want Billy to belong, to have a family to call his own.”

The frown deepened to a scowl.

“I want Billy to know his father.”

“If Chad is his father.”

“Look, Mr. Hart, can you let go of the distrust long enough to even consider the possibility that—”

“No, Ms. Morrison, I can’t.”

She feathered her fingers through her hair, leaving a riotous disarray framing her face. It wasn’t prim any longer; it was wild and free—and heaven help him, tempting as the tease of sin.

Right now, though, he needed to fight for sainthood, pretending that wasn’t as far away as reality told him it was. “Put yourself in my shoes for a moment,” he said. “I walk through the door after driving all night. I’m tired and want nothing more than to climb between the sheets.”

She looked away momentarily.

“But instead of a bed, I find a woman I don’t know from Eve standing in my living room. Not only that, but she has a baby with her, a baby she claims was fathered by my youngest brother. A man, I might add, who isn’t here to defend himself.”

“I understand your concern.”

“Does my mother know your story?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“And I suppose you have her believing the baby is her grandson.”

“Billy is her grandson.”

He drew a breath, then with restrained frustration said, “You have to understand, ma’am, when we were growing up, family was all we had—and I mean that quite literally.”

A quiet threat whipping through his voice with the sting of a crop, he added, “I’d cut off my branding arm before I’d allow anyone, anyone, to harm any member of my family, especially my mother.”

She inclined her head to the side, as if heeding his words of caution. When she spoke, it was with the same careful control he was using. She was an adversary, yes. A worthy one. He’d do well to remember that.

“It’s not my intent to harm anyone, Mr. Hart, least of all Margaret.”

Margaret? Margaret? In the short time she’d been here, Cassandra had managed to move from Mrs. Hart to Margaret, forming a relationship with his mother? The danger doubled. He needed Cassandra gone before she caused any more damage. “In that case, name your price. I’ll meet it.”

Shaking her head, she said, “I won’t go away quietly. I can’t. Not for any amount of money. As I said, I don’t want anyone hurt.” She looked toward the carrier, and her expression softened, all traces of the warrior who’d faced him vanishing. “Especially not Billy.”

Zach’s sigh was bone deep. A confrontation with a stubborn female wasn’t his idea of a good time.

“You should know that I hired a private investigator,” she added.

Weariness clashed with wariness, then disappeared, leaving warning in its wake.

“I have the file in my car.”

“Get it.”

Obviously hesitating near the door, she stopped, her hand curled around the brass doorknob. After looking at Zach, she cut a quick glance toward the sleeping child. Zach struggled to tamp down a torrent of irritation.

“Don’t worry,” he said, no trace of mirth in his tone. “I don’t hurt innocents.”

The remaining, unspoken words hung in the air, resounding with importance equal to the ones he had said. He could and would use any means at his disposal to destroy anyone who threatened his family.

He walked as she slowly opened the door and left it that way. Wanting to make sure she could hear if he didn’t keep his promise?

Zach dropped onto the couch, the stiff cushions suiting his mood perfectly.

He stretched out his legs and crossed well-worn boots at the ankles. Then, leaning forward, he drummed his fingers on the coffee table, impatience swelling, tiredness all but forgotten.

The thought of the woman bringing in a file containing personal information and details about Zach’s family, about his family for God’s sake, chased away any attempt at relaxation. He surged to his feet and paced, stopping, inevitably, in front of the car seat.

It wasn’t possible the child belonged to the Harts.

- Or was it?

And what if Billy truly was a Hart? What, then, were the ramifications? A dozen thoughts crowded into his mind, each struggling for supremacy.

No matter what, a fight loomed, maybe even a court battle. Because if facts revealed Billy was their flesh and blood, the child automatically fell under Zach’s protection, too. He’d make sure Chad fought for custody. Family was the only thing of real importance. It didn’t much matter who stood in the way.

It’d be easier for everyone if she was lying, if she was the fortune hunter his instincts insisted she wasn’t.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Zach frowned. When he opened them, she stood there, a vision of femininity.

He hadn’t heard her approach.

She was silhouetted by the morning sun streaming through the window. Her eyes were wide, focused on him and Billy. Her breaths came in short, uneven bursts, and a file was clutched against her chest, her fingers nearly white from the pressure she exerted.

Despite his earlier promise of not hurting innocents, Zach saw the darkness of distrust in her verdant eyes.

Suited him fine. It worked both ways.

Like a gauntlet, she placed the folder on the table. The manila was well-worn, he noticed, as if it had been handled hundreds of times. And what was in there that made her so certain the Harts owed her something? Words. Maybe pictures. Weapons to hurt, maybe destroy?

The baby stirred and Cassandra moved quickly. Her eyes narrowed a bit, reminding him of a mother protecting her young.

Realization hit Zach square in the heart.

He was determined to defend his family from a third attack. But Cassandra possessed powerful resolve to fight for her family, too.

The baby whimpered, and Cassandra unlatched the safety straps, scooping the infant from beneath his blankets, crooning as she studied the baby’s small features.

For a moment Zach stood there, transfixed. He had little experience with children, next to none with babies. But as tiny fingers closed around a long, slender one, an odd feeling, one he had no intention of naming or claiming, assailed him.

Just then a knock sounded on the door and Margaret entered, a smile for her son and another for Cassandra and the child.

“Welcome home, son,” Margaret said.

He wished he could say it was good to be here.

Cassandra looked at his mother, and Zach’s sixth sense raised yet another warning flag. A soft, apparently sincere smile crossed Cassandra’s features. Lord help her if it was fake, though—a front ultimately meant to harm. If that was the case, she’d need all the protection she could find. Because she sure wouldn’t be able to run, and he sure as hell wouldn’t allow her to hide from the swift wrath of his retribution.

“Oh my, is the little one finally awake?”

Cassandra nodded and asked Margaret, “Would you like to hold him?”

“May I?”

In his mother’s two words, Zach heard hope...hope and excitement.

Damn Cassandra Morrison’s hide, anyway, for doing this to him, to Chad, and worse, to their mother.

Margaret Hart had a soft spot inside for any cause, for any stray. Attachment to this new baby would spell emotional tragedy. A tragedy that pride bound him to avert.

Needing action, he grabbed the folder.

He wasn’t going to like what he saw, not if the tightening in his gut served as any indication.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Margaret lower herself into a high-backed wing chair. Cassandra lovingly placed the bundle of blankets and baby in Margaret’s arms.

Focusing his attention away from the all-too-domestic scene, he thumbed back the corner of the file. Then he scowled. On the top, strategically clipped to the secured papers, was a picture of a woman smiling up at Chad. His arm was slung around her shoulder and he grinned at the camera. A cowboy hat rode low over his eyes and a championship rodeo belt buckle hung around his middle, along with the woman’s arm.

Zach’s jaw tightened. “Jeanie?” he asked unnecessarily.

Cassandra moved to stand near him, and he noticed the sheen of tears clouding her eyes. “Yes.”

“Except for the eyes, you don’t look alike.” He wondered if the difference extended to morals, as well.

He flipped the picture, found another beneath. Jeanie and Chad were out to dinner this time, a carafe of wine on the table, a long-neck bottle of beer in front of Chad—his favorite brand. This time their faces were close together and so were their lips.

He was aware of Cassandra’s perfume and another, more subtle scent—her anxiety.

“You’re not going to like everything in there,” she told him in a whisper, repeating the words he’d already told himself. Then she added, “I didn’t.”

He knew Chad wasn’t perfect. Hell, thankfully none of the Hart brothers had that heavy burden to bear. But they did know their obligations.

He skimmed the first report. Pertinent details leaped out, details that incriminated Chad.

Chad had been dating Jeanie. She’d been seen leaving his hotel room, a seedy little place off the highway in Montana, at seven o’clock in the morning. Chad’s team-roping partner called Chad’s room one night and the phone had been answered by a sleepy-sounding Jeanie.

“Well?”

Zach’s hope that Chad, and the Harts, would be completely cleared had vanished. Zach felt backed into a corner.

He despised corners.

Still, there was no proof. Circumstantial evidence didn’t hold much weight. And he clung to that.

Zach looked at Cassandra, his nostrils pinched. She appeared so expectant, so damn hopeful, it stuck in his craw. Everything and everyone seemed to recede, except them and their problem. “This report proves nothing.”

“Proves—” her hands fisted “—nothing?”

“Chad may have had some involvement with your sister, but apparently he wasn’t the only man she showed an interest in.”

Cassandra’s eyes lost some of their spark, and he hated himself for being the one to extinguish it. Still, if she caused any pain to his mother, he’d hate himself even worse. He wouldn’t back down, would do what he had to do. “The report states she was a rodeo groupie, that—”

“I’m well aware of every word in there.”

“In that case...” Zach saw his checkbook where he’d left it on the table, already open and waiting.

“You’re disturbing the baby,” Margaret reprimanded. “Go into your office, Zachary. I’ll baby-sit.”

The tone of his mother’s voice brooked no argument. With a tight nod, he said, “My office, Ms. Morrison.”

“But...”

“Young William will be all right with his granny,” Margaret assured Cassie.

Zach’s hold on his temper frayed at the edges. “My office. Now.”

“Maybe we can just—”

“Now.”

“Go on,” Margaret said. “His bark is worse than his bite. He’s harmless.” Looking at her son, she warned, “Zachary, behave yourself, young man.”

He held open the door for Cassandra, indicating she should leave the room. He led the way through the entryway and down the hall and she followed, her reluctance seeming to disappear as they drew closer to his office. When she brushed by him, her shoulders were squared in confrontation and not a single ounce of capitulation.

His pulse quickened. He looked forward to the challenge... and especially the triumph.