Blackbird Lake (13 page)

Two doors to the right or to the left?

That question was answered when he caught a glimpse of nosy old Willa Martin in high-top sneakers and a pink housedress, sweeping her front porch, two doors down from the McDonalds’. Willa had been a school secretary when he was in junior high and had given him the evil eye every time he was sent to the principal’s office.

Which was a couple of times a week….

He rolled right past her house, then past Denny and Karla’s, braking sharply two houses down at the well-tended white Victorian with a pink-and-yellow-cushioned swing on the front porch.

And a toddler’s swing set in the backyard.

Vaulting from his truck, he took the porch steps two at a time, his heart hammering way more than it did when he swung out of the chute on the back of an angry bull. But though he pressed Carly McKinnon’s doorbell again and again, no one answered.

He couldn’t hear a sound from inside the house.

Quilt shop. Spring Street.

Grim faced, Jake leaped off the porch and sprinted back to the truck.

Ten minutes later he swung into a parking space across the street from Carly’s Quilts, vaulted out of the truck, and hurried toward the door.

In the back room of the quilt shop, Carly set aside the pile of invoices she’d been reviewing for the past half hour. Standing, she stretched for a moment, then walked over to get more coffee. She had just refilled her cup when the bell over the quilt shop door pealed.

In surprise she glanced at her watch. It was nearly closing time.

She didn’t usually get many customers this late in the day, and Laureen had left an hour earlier with a migraine, after apparently enduring the date from hell last night.

According to Laureen, the man she’d been set up with took one glance at her when she arrived at the Lucky Punch Saloon and suddenly looked like someone who’d just been kicked in the kneecaps.

He’d ordered a beer for each of them, and a lone platter of nachos, but had excused himself after only a half hour of conversation, mumbling that he didn’t have time to join her for dinner because he just remembered a work project he had to finish.

“Believe me, he was no prize himself,” Laureen had told her emphatically.

But the jerk had left her feeling mortified and angry. He hadn’t even bothered to go through the motions of having dinner.

“Am I that repulsive? Really? He couldn’t have run away any faster if I’d had horns and a tail,” she’d exclaimed as she paced back and forth along the shelves of fabrics and crafting supplies. There’d been no trace of the red lipstick on her mouth today, only her usual pink lip gloss and a frown.

“Forget about him. He’s a toad. When you meet the right guy—”

But there Laureen had cut her off, insisting there
was
no right guy for her, and that she was never letting anyone set her up with a man again.

After Laureen had sunk into a chair that afternoon, closing her eyes from the pain of the migraine while Dorothy Winston deliberated on fabric for a pinwheel quilt, Carly had quietly ordered Laureen to go home, lie down, and take the rest of the day off.

Now, alone in the shop, Carly hurried out of the back room wondering if she’d returned.

“Laureen, I thought I told you to—” She stopped short.

Jake stood just inside the quilt shop door.

Her heart gave a small jump. He looked every bit as tough, dark, and handsome as he had at the McDonald home last night—but instead of a smile, today his mouth was set in a firm hard line.

“Anyone else here? I need to talk to you. Right now.” He strode toward her, not bothering with any of the conventional niceties.

A flutter of premonition sent her pulse racing.
No, it isn’t possible
.
He can’t know,
she told herself.

“What’s going on? Don’t tell me you lost your dog. I promise you, he’s not here. You’d notice the howling.” She strove for a flippant tone, but it was a struggle to stay calm as she walked past the pattern books, past the shelves
stacked with fabric, past the array of quilts displayed on the walls, even right past Jake until she reached the small sitting area at the front of the shop with its two-seat lavender sofa and a comfy armchair upholstered in a cheerful old-fashioned rose and yellow pattern. If she was going to have to talk to him, they were going to do it on her terms, in her favorite, most relaxing area of the shop.

But instead of following her he moved swiftly to the window blinds and closed them with a quick yank of the cord. Carly’s green eyes widened.

“What’s this all about?” She planted her feet, willing her hands not to clench at her sides.

Jake advanced, halting only three feet away from her. “Is she mine?”

“What…did you say?” Carly’s mouth went dry. Oh, God, no. She must have misunderstood him. He couldn’t have said…

“Emma.” He bit out her daughter’s name
, their
daughter’s name, a dangerous light in his eyes. “Is she my daughter? Tell me the truth, Carly.”

Carly didn’t know what it felt like to faint, but she knew the ground was swaying a little beneath her feet. And she definitely knew the sensation of pressure building in her chest, squeezing out all the air in her lungs…she knew that all too well….

Drawing in the deepest breath she could manage, she braced herself to stand perfectly still, to face the angry glitter in his eyes. They reminded her of blue sky lit with lightning from a storm. The tension in his shoulders and the tautness of his jaw told her he was exerting a fierce effort at self-control.

So, she reminded herself, she must do no less. One resolve threaded through the pounding that had begun in her head.
Don’t tell him, don’t say the words. If he doesn’t know, nothing will change. He can’t know. There’s no way, not unless you tell him.

“What would make you think something so ridicu—”

“Don’t. Don’t bullshit me, Carly.” He spoke even more
quietly now, looking into her eyes with a sort of controlled desperation—and absolute determination. “I did the math. I need the truth. Don’t you think you owe me that much?”

Of course she did. He was right. She’d lied about it for the past two years. Her palms felt damp as she pressed them against the sides of her dark jeans. A spurt of nausea churned through her.

Well, perhaps she hadn’t lied exactly, but she’d hidden the truth. He was asking now, though. Straight-out asking.

He deserves to know,
a tiny voice whispered inside her even as the tight, breathless sensation rolled back again, more intense than before.

This hadn’t happened in over a year. Not since she’d received that nasty phone call out of the blue from her cousin Phil. That day the panic had rushed back, swamping her with a sense of suffocation, of nausea churning like acid through her stomach.

Phil Beaumont, the son of her mother’s half sister, the boy who’d long ago gotten his kicks locking her in a closet, had done a search for her name online and had come upon a link to an article about Carly’s Quilts. The story had been published in Lonesome Way’s daily newspaper back when she first opened the quilt shop. No sooner did Phil read it than he called her at the shop, telling her he needed money.

He’d just been released from prison after doing time for aggravated assault and insisted he needed something to start over with. He said she
owed
him, since his mother had taken her in, given her a roof over her head when Carly had no one and nothing.

He wanted five thousand dollars.

Carly told him no and hung up, shaking. The phone call, the sound of Phil’s rough voice, had triggered a full-blown panic attack. It came on so suddenly it nearly knocked her off her feet. The rush of breathlessness, the faintness, the overwhelming sense of being closed in…

It had lasted for hours—thank heavens Emma had been asleep—but she hadn’t had a single attack since. And she hadn’t heard from Phil again.

So she’d thought her panic attacks were as much in her past as he was.

But now, with Jake standing right before her, demanding to know the truth, she found herself struggling for breath.

Go away,
she told the cramping tightness in her chest, cursing the reaction and her own inability to cope. She fought to breathe, to steel herself. She tried to remember how to draw air into her lungs. She did it every day…why couldn’t she do it now?

Opening her mouth, she gave a little gasp, sucked in a breath, then another.

She wouldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t. It would ruin Emma’s life and his—and her own. He wouldn’t be there for Emma; he’d only hurt her, make her miss him, wonder why he was always gone and not around to help her with homework or carry her around on his shoulders or teach her how to print her name….

Breathe,
she told herself desperately as a warm wave of dizziness washed over her.
You can do it. There’s plenty of air. Just breathe it in
.

“Hey. Carly. Carly, what’s going on? You all right?”

His voice had sharpened. Not with anger, but with concern. Still, it sounded distant…and the nausea circled up in her throat….

“I’m fine,” she managed, but it came out as a gasp. “I just…want you to…leave.”

“You should sit down. Then you can tell me the truth—”

“She’s mine. My daughter.
That’s
the truth.” Carly used every ounce of her concentration to focus on him. She needed to get through this. For Emma. She struggled to ignore the lack of air in her lungs, the erratic racing of her heart. “Emma’s father is none of your business. My
life
is none of your business…. I—oh!”

She broke off as he reached out, caught her hand in his big palm. His fingers felt cool. Strong. His grip was careful, and unexpectedly gentle considering the determination in his eyes. She’d expected him to yank her forward, to try to intimidate her, but he didn’t. He merely enclosed her hand
within his strong one, his expression concerned as he stepped closer.

“You don’t look so good. I’m not going anywhere until you feel better. And then you can tell me—”

“Tell you what…to leave? I’m telling you…right now. Just because we spent one…n-night together you think you have a claim on…m-my daughter. G-get over yourself. I…”

Her voice faded. She felt her chest tightening like a vise from lack of air.

“Whoa!” With lightning reflexes, Jake’s arms swept around her waist as she swayed forward and began to gulp, one desperate shallow breath after the other.

“Come on, you need to sit down,” he said quietly. “Right now. What can I do?”

She was too busy trying to breathe to answer him.

He drew her carefully to the chair, eased her into the seat. The next instant he was kneeling beside her, gently rubbing her palms, the backs of her hands, her fingers, even as his concerned gaze searched her face.

“You eaten anything today?”

“I…yes…” Through the panic clawing at her lungs, her stomach, and filling her head with a swirly sensation, Carly fought her guilt. Miserable, overwhelming guilt.

“This…just…happens sometimes. Well, it hasn’t…h-happened for a long time. I just need to…”

“What? What do you need? Maybe I should take you to the hospital.”

“
No!
No
hospital
…it’s just a p-panic attack. It will…pass. I want you to…to…leave me alone….”

“Not going to happen. You should get checked out by a doctor—”

“Once you leave…I’ll be all right.” She fought for air.

“You don’t look so good. I’m taking you to the ER right now.”

“No!” Frantically she clutched at his arms as he drew her up from the chair. Even through her panic she felt a jolt of heat as her fingers touched rock-hard biceps.

“Are you this upset because I asked you if Emma is my daughter?”

She shook her head.

“It sure seemed that way.”

“I…I just…”

“I know it isn’t fair to ask you when you can barely breathe,” he said softly, “but just keep in mind that I need to know.”

Carly couldn’t tear her gaze from his eyes. Those mesmerizing deep blue eyes. Guilt stabbed at her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really am…sorry.”

Then she froze in horror. What was she saying? The panic was freezing her brain. Or maybe it was only that a part of her was cracking in two, torn between protecting Emma at all costs and telling the truth. She was an honest person. She tried to be honest whenever possible, except when it came to…
this.
To Emma.

But the pressure of keeping the secret sometimes weighed on her—and never more than right now, looking at Jake, lying straight to his face…that strong, handsome, concerned face….

He studied her for a long moment before he eased her back into the armchair and left her sitting there as he strode across the quilt shop to the sink at the back and filled a glass with water. When he returned, he placed the glass in her hand, his fingers closing around hers to make sure it didn’t slip from her grasp. “Drink.”

She obeyed, sipping, letting the cool water trickle down her throat as she told herself to get a grip. The first burst of panic was easing finally…but it could come back…it used to come in waves, rolling in and out, eventually building…