A Man to Hold on to (A Tallgrass Novel) (5 page)

When they reached the minivan, she beeped the doors, and Abby climbed into the backseat, per usual. Jacob hesitated, then, once again, slid into the front passenger seat. “Can we have Mexican for lunch?”

Therese stilled in the act of putting on her seat belt. A flicker at the rearview mirror showed Abby was surprised, too, and peripherally Therese saw the hint of a flush darkening Jacob’s cheeks. She forced herself to go on as if nothing unusual had happened, clicking the belt, starting the engine. “Sure. You want Three Amigos, Bueno, or something else?”

“Three Amigos.” Jacob shrugged. “You go there every week, so we hardly ever do.”

It was true. They ate at home practically every night, even if it was just frozen pizza and a quick-tossed salad. Considering how uncomfortable their family meals were, she preferred to hold them in private. “You have any problem with that, Abby?”

Her only answer was silence. Therese backed out of the parking space, joined the line of cars waiting to exit the parking lot, then smiled at Jacob. “Three Amigos it is.”

The restaurant, a bright dose of primary colors in the middle of a strip parking center, was popular, and Sunday post-church was no exception. Therese gave her name to the hostess, then joined the kids near the blue-tiled fountain in the middle of the lobby. Abby was already texting, and Jacob was staring into the water, his hands shoved into his pockets.

He glanced at Therese when she stopped near him. “Why do people throw money in fountains?”

“It’s tradition. Throw in a coin, make a wish.” Since it didn’t seem a reasonable response to him, she went on. “Some ancient cultures believed water was sacred. If you sacrificed something you held dear to the deity that lived there, you’d get something in return. What do people hold more dear than money?”

“Throwing a penny into water is a stupid way to make wishes come true.” His shoulders hunched forward, in a subconsciously defensive gesture that she’d seen in him since they’d met. A little boy who didn’t understand why Daddy moved away, why he was living with another woman; a frightened child who’d been taken from the only home he’d ever known and sent halfway across the country; a boy who’d stood stoic but heartbroken at his father’s graveside.

Therese didn’t know what to say. She laid her hand on his shoulder, half afraid he’d shrug it off, and squeezed. “I know. But sometimes it’s fun to do things that are stupid or silly.” A pause, and she withdrew her hand. “You threw pennies in there the first time your dad and I brought you here. You wished for a new bike and a new game.”

He tilted his head so he could see her without quite looking at her. “Did I get them?”

“Not then, but for Christmas. Though, by that time, you wanted a different game.”

After considering it a minute, he shrugged. “But those are things. Things aren’t real wishes.”

No. Things could be bought, borrowed, traded, and sold. Real wishes were rarer, more precious, lasting longer…or not nearly long enough.

“Matheson, party of three,” the hostess called, saving Therese from having to respond to Jacob’s last words. She smiled at him, and together they circled the fountain to reach the young woman, Abby trailing silently behind.

I
t had been a long time since Keegan had had an entire morning to himself with nothing to do. He slept in late—a clock down the street was chiming eleven when he woke—then ran a few miles, bought a protein bar and a Red Bull from the convenience store on the corner, and made it lunch out on the stoop. The old metal chair was rusted, the paint sun-faded, and it creaked when he shifted just like the ones in his mom’s yard.

The house where he’d grown up was nothing special: maybe fifteen hundred square feet, three bedrooms, a living room, dining room, and kitchen that had seen a lot of hard use. The front porch was broad with mismatched chairs, screens to keep out the bugs, and a paddle fan to help cool the heat. Around back was a large yard where grass never grew, thanks to all the playing that went on there, another assortment of odd chairs and tables, a clothesline Ercella still used, and toys: a swing set as rusted as this chair, old bikes, a sandbox, a wading pool.

She’d worked hard to raise him, his brothers, and his sisters. Keegan didn’t remember a lot about their father even though he was the oldest of the five. A wandering man, she’d called Max Logan. A no-good waste of air, their Granny Dupree said. Ercella must have agreed with her mother eventually, because after baby number five, she’d given up hope of him ever coming home to stay. She’d never divorced him, though, and she still thought of him fondly, at least from time to time.

And she’d never, ever made Keegan or any of the others feel unwanted. Hell, she couldn’t even imagine not wanting a kid.

So what was he going to say to the major? And what if the major didn’t want Mariah? Didn’t remember Sabrina? Didn’t want his wife finding out he’d been unfaithful?

What if he refused to take her? Even the courts wouldn’t force a child on an unwilling parent. The Army would make him provide for her, and she’d get all the benefits any other dependent got. But benefits wouldn’t make up for not having a family.

Wearily, he gathered his trash, went inside, and stripped for a shower. If he didn’t come up with a way to break the news to Mariah’s father before he left the motel, he’d do it on the drive over. He always worked best under pressure.

He shaved, dressed in jeans and an old gray-and-black PT shirt, put on running shoes. After staring at himself in the mirror a minute or two, he set his jaw and turned away. It was time to go. No point in putting off the inevitable. Time to fulfill his sole duty to Mariah.

It was harder than he’d expected to walk out the door, lock up, and get in his car. The farther he drove, the slower he drove. It
was
inevitable, right? He didn’t want to be a father. He
wasn’t
a father. And this could turn out to be the best thing in Mariah’s life. Her father and his wife might welcome her into their family. They might be the parents she deserved. They might love her and pamper her and treat her like a princess.

And then Keegan could go on with his life. Best outcome for everyone.

The minivan was in the driveway again. He pulled to the curb, this time in front of the house, and shut off the engine. Took a deep breath. Swiped his hands on his jeans. Took his keys. Got out.

The yard was green, and flowers were blooming in the beds. Some of them smelled sweet as he walked past. Others didn’t smell at all. The flag was flying this afternoon—or, more appropriately, hanging. Not even a breath of wind stirred the air. The flowers on the porch glistened with water that pooled around the bottoms of the pots from a recent watering. Music sounded faintly from inside.

He stood in front of the door, raised his finger to the doorbell and, wishing he was back home in Louisiana, pushed it. The chimes echoed distantly. He’d gone past second thoughts and was on to fourth and fifth ones when the door was jerked open.

“
What?
” Standing across the threshold was a girl, somewhere between twelve and twenty, blond and petite and pretty. She had the same coloring, the same pouty lip, as Mariah. Her hip was cocked out, one hand resting on it, and she wore an expression of boredom and annoyance and seething. His sisters had seethed a lot when they were her age.

“Is Major Matheson here?”

Her brown eyes narrowed to slits, and she squinted at him like Mariah did, as if she’d summed him up and found him lacking. God, was Mariah’s ear-piercing shriek going to come from this girl’s mouth next?

It did, but not directed at him. She tilted her head toward the rear of the house and screeched, “Tuh-
reese!
” Without waiting for a response, she spun and stomped up the stairs.

So Mariah had a half-sister who was either having a really bad day or really needed her butt swatted. Great. Every little girl needed a big sister, right? A moody, bratty big sister, in this case, but still a sister.

The door opened into a long hallway that led to the kitchen. A double-wide door on the left opened into the living room, and another doorway showed a bit of the dining room. The floors were hardwood with area rugs, the furniture was good, and the family portraits were plentiful. The major, his wife, one girl, one boy. Both kids looked like their dad.

So did Mariah.

His gaze swept the living room again, jerking to a stop on the mantel. Another photograph, the major in his dress uniform, looking stern, and beside it a display case with a flag and a bunch of medals and ribbons. A photo of him in ACUs, sunglasses shoved up on his head, grinning. Next to that—

“Can I help you?”

His jaw clenched, he forced his gaze to the woman who was approaching down the hall. She was tall, slender, with brown hair swept back from her face. She wore faded jeans that fitted snugly and a T-shirt identical to his own. Her husband’s, he thought, judging by the size, then he looked at the mantel again. “I…I, uh…”

As she waited for an answer, her brows arched over hazel eyes. She was pretty, not like her pouty daughter but in a rounder, more womanly way. And she was starting to look wary.

“I was hoping to see Major Matheson,” he said. The next natural thing was to ask if he was home, but he couldn’t force the words out. Not when he already knew the answer.

Emotion flashed through her eyes, and she swallowed visibly before forcing a sad smile. “You don’t know.” She said it as fact; then, with the faintest tremble in her voice, she went on. “Paul was killed in Afghanistan.”

Killed.
Aw, jeez. Of course, Keegan had known it the instant he’d seen the Gold Star flag on the mantel. Blue Star flags were for the families of service members—his mom had one hanging in the front window—and Gold Star flags were for the families whose loved ones didn’t come back.

He’d never considered the possibility that Major Matheson was dead, that that was why he’d never contacted Sabrina, why he’d never acknowledged Mariah. He’d just assumed the major was like any other bastard who’d run around on his wife: ignoring the consequences of his infidelity.

Dead. That was a hell of an excuse for ignoring his daughter.

The major’s wife—widow—was waiting for a response from him. It took him a moment to find the proper words. “I’m sorry.” Even as he said them, even as she nodded as if she’d heard them a thousand times, he felt guilty for them. He was sorry. He was even sorry the major had been killed. Too damn many people had died in the war, and every single one of them was a loss to the country.

But mostly he was sorry for himself. Sorry that his plans had just been shot to hell. Sorry that he couldn’t say, “Here’s your daughter; her name’s Mariah; take care of her.” It might have gone over all right with the major. He seriously doubted it would fly with his widow.

“Thank you,” she said politely. She hesitated a moment, then took a step back, gesturing toward the living room. “Would you like to come in?”

“Sure, thanks,” he answered mindlessly when what he really needed was someplace quiet to think and figure out what to do now. He’d been counting on this trip working out successfully. He’d thought Matheson might balk, but he’d been convinced that in the end, Mariah would have a new home.

So much for hopes. There was no father for Mariah. No easy way out. Maybe he should spend the rest of his leave trying to find Sabrina, but she’d abandoned her daughter once before. How could he know she wouldn’t do it again?

Besides, Sabrina had spent half her life running and hiding. The four years she’d lived in Leesville were the longest she’d spent in one place since she was fifteen. She had no family to speak of, and she’d had a million dream places to live: Los Angeles, San Diego, New York, Chicago, Miami, Las Vegas, Honolulu, Acapulco.

“I’m Therese Matheson,” the major’s widow said as she led the way into the living room. She put a slight emphasis on her first name,
Tuh-race,
correcting the seething teenager’s mispronunciation. She offered her hand.

“Sergeant Keegan Logan.” He kept his handshake brief, the way he’d hoped to keep all his contact with the Matheson family brief. Even in those few seconds, though, he noticed that her hand wasn’t as soft as he’d expected. The skin was warm, a little callused, her nails pale pink tipped with white. She wore a ring on her right hand, gold with a fiery orange stone, and a bracelet with the same stones linked end to end.

And a wedding ring on her left hand? He checked as he stepped back and saw, yes, a gold band, along with a second band bearing a chunky square cut diamond. It was impressive, but it didn’t suit her. A delicate hand like that needed a more delicate stone.

And he needed to focus on the problem at hand. No distractions caused by any pretty woman but especially the widow.

Releasing her hand, he felt the need to swipe his palm on his jeans. Huh. He couldn’t remember the last time a handshake had made him sweat.

She sat in a chair near the fireplace, the comfortable sort that his mother cuddled all the kids in, and crossed her legs. He chose the opposite chair, not nearly as comfortable, and sat stiffly. “Can I ask when…?”

Sadness crept into her hazel eyes. “Three years ago. An IED.”

“Sorry,” he said again.

“You knew him through the Army?”

He didn’t like to lie, but what was the point of the truth?
Actually, no, I know of him because he slept with my girlfriend. He betrayed your marriage vows, he betrayed you, and he has a baby girl who needs a home.
The truth would serve no purpose but to hurt her, and she’d already lost her husband. Hadn’t she been hurt enough? “I was in Iraq and Afghanistan. It must have been tough for you and your children.” He gestured toward a family photo, the girl happier than she’d been today but not by much, the boy looking grim, too.

Therese looked at the picture for a moment or two before smiling faintly. “It was very difficult for Paul’s children. They miss him very much.”

Paul’s children.
Not
our
or
my.
She was raising her husband’s kids from another relationship. Not lucky enough to have any of her own, assuming she wanted them, but surrounded by her husband’s kids.

“Are you stationed here at Fort Murphy?”

“No. I had some leave and thought I would look him up. I’m at Fort Polk now.”

She smiled faintly. “He went down there several times for training. He didn’t like the place, but I always thought being that close to New Orleans would make up for anything lacking in the town and the post.”

Keegan swallowed back irritation. He might not love Leesville, either, but he was entitled. It was his state. Let Matheson find fault with his own home state before he started on someone else’s.

“What do you do there?”

“My MOS is Sixty-Eight Whiskey.” Military Occupational Specialty was the Department of Defense’s way of saying job specialty. Why speak in full words when acronyms and numbers would do?

When she raised a brow, he added, “A combat medic.”

A flash of sympathy crossed her face, and he knew what she was thinking. A medic, combat tours, the things he’d seen, the lives he’d saved and the ones he couldn’t do anything for but send on down the line or be with them while they died. Other than the danger, that was the thing that worried his mom most: how he dealt with the inability to save everyone.

“Tough job.”

“They all are.”

She studied him a moment, tilting her head to one side, before asking, “Is that why you wanted to see Paul? About something that happened while you were deployed?”

So Matheson wasn’t the sort to be friendly with a noncommissioned officer. That didn’t surprise Keegan. A lot of officers mistook subordinate for inferior. They gave orders to the enlisted people under their commands; they risked those people’s lives; but they didn’t become friends with them.

“Yeah.” It wasn’t a lie. He had been deployed when Matheson had done his last training at Fort Polk, and something had damn well happened. But if she believed he’d wanted to discuss some combat incident, let her. He was fine with misdirection.

Pushing forward, he stood, and she automatically rose, too, a fluid movement that reminded him not of a dancer’s grace but a dancer’s strength. Therese Matheson was a strong woman. Some wives found their strength when their husbands deployed, some when they died, but his guess was that she’d nailed hers long before she’d even met her husband. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” His mom’s manners forced him to go on. “I’m sorry about your loss.”

“So am I.” She walked to the door with him, arms folded over her stomach as he stepped out onto the porch. “Have a safe trip back to Fort Polk.”

“Thanks.”

But it wasn’t the trip back that concerned him.

It was what to do about Mariah.

Therese closed the door behind the visitor, then stepped to the side to watch him through the sheer curtains over the narrow window there. More than three years, and telling someone Paul was dead never got easier, whether it was an old friend of hers, an old friend of his, or a total stranger.

Keegan Logan. Nice name. It suited him. If he wasn’t thirty, he was close. His sandy brown hair was a high-and-tight in need of a trim, his skin deeply tanned, his eyes surprisingly blue. Even in casual clothes, he had that Army Strong look—erect posture, chiseled muscles, square jaw, a compact body to do a uniform proud. He wasn’t overly tall, maybe five ten, and under normal circumstances he probably exuded confidence, assurance, and charm.