Dakota Born (29 page)

“Are you going to call her back?” Leta asked when he didn't instantly head toward the phone.

In the past week, Gage had thought about calling her. Would have, if he hadn't run into Brandon Wyatt at Bob's that day, just before New Year's. His neighbor was in a world of pain and Gage realized that if he did seek out Lindsay, he'd be courting the same kind of troubles. Gage had tried to talk Brandon into attending the party at Buffalo Bob's with him, but in the end had gone by himself and left early. Lindsay, it turned out, had dinner with Leta and Hassie. No “Auld Lang Syne” or midnight kisses for Lindsay, then—or for him. Or Brandon, either…

Today, Gage had stopped by the Wyatt farm and been shocked at the condition of the house. Dishes were piled high in the sink, the kitchen countertops were littered with discarded mail and old newspapers. Piles of dirty clothes were heaped on the washer and dryer. Worst of all, Brandon was in a perpetually depressed state. He was managing his farm chores—which were fewer in winter, anyway—but other than that he seemed to be barely functioning.

Gage's visit had done little to assuage his fears about getting involved with Lindsay.

“Did she say what she wanted?” he asked his mother.

That simple question took an inordinate amount of time to answer. “Wouldn't you like to find out for yourself?”

Although he hadn't said anything about Brandon and Joanie's problems, his mother seemed aware of the doubts Gage was experiencing. Without another word, he grabbed his hat again and headed back out the door. Driving into town to see Lindsay was either the smartest move he'd ever made, or the dumbest.

Gage thought about what he'd say when she looked at him with her big blue eyes. He hoped to remain calm and dispassionate. Let her do the talking. But he knew that was too much to expect. He'd missed her, missed their conversations, their kisses.

It was snowing when he arrived on her doorstep. He stood under the porch light, rang the doorbell and waited for the inevitable barking. Lindsay answered almost immediately, dogs at her side, as if she'd been anticipating his arrival. He wouldn't put it past his mother to have called ahead and informed her that he was on his way.

“Gage, come in.” Her eyes told him how pleased she was to see him and he suspected his own expression mirrored hers. She looked good to him, so good…

“I'm glad you're here,” she said simply.

“I am, too.” He wasn't so proud he couldn't admit the truth. Lindsay took a step toward him and at the same moment he moved toward her. It seemed an eternity since he'd last held her, and their kiss was explosive. It always seemed to be like that, this powerful need that erupted every time they touched. If the kissing was this spectacular, he could only imagine how their lovemaking would be. After two or three kisses, Gage had to force himself to stop. It wasn't easy. He brushed his thumb over her moist lips while he struggled to end it there. They had to talk; he sensed that this would be either the beginning or the end for them.

“I debated a long time before calling you,” she said as she led him to the sofa.

He sat down and refused her offer of something warm to drink.

She left the room and returned with what looked like a wooden cigar box. “I found it, Gage—what my grandmother hid inside the fireplace.”

She went on to tell him about finding a hole in the closet wall. Carefully, as if it were of great value, she lifted the lid and removed a gold locket. “It's a picture of your grandfather and my grandmother when they were teenagers,” she said breathlessly. She handed it to him.

Gage laid the locket on his palm and studied it. The oval was plain, unadorned, and had a small clasp on the right side. He opened it. As she'd said, there were two small black-and-white photographs of a man and a woman. He'd never seen a picture of his grandfather at this age, but he knew in an instant that this was Jerome Sinclair. The eyes were honest, without guile, the jaw square and stubborn. Gage had inherited both.

The woman's picture showed a blond woman with a delicate, clear-eyed beauty. Gage saw how much Lindsay resembled her grandmother and knew in his heart that his grandfather had indeed loved Regina Snyder.

“I never knew she was so beautiful,” Lindsay said when he lifted his eyes to meet hers.

Gage smiled; she didn't see the resemblance, but he did. “So you found it,” he said, knowing how gratified she must be.

“There's more,” she said. Opening the box again, she retrieved a small envelope yellow with age. “Read this and tell me what you think.”

Gage carefully took the letter from her, the paper brittle, the ink faded. Careful not to tear the sheet, he unfolded it and read.

“So…what do you think?” Lindsay asked, her eyes pleading with him.

“They were in love.” He'd known that earlier, after talking to Lily Quantrill. He didn't need a letter written nearly sixty years ago to tell him that their grandparents had shared a deep and abiding affection.

“You don't see it?” She seemed to beseech him to notice the same things she did or to interpret them in the same way.

“What am I supposed to see?”

“Gage,” she began, her voice trembling with emotion. “Obviously, I can't read what my grandmother wrote Jerome—the letter he said took three weeks to reach him—but from his response can't you tell how desperate she was? Can't you guess why?”

He frowned, unwilling to speculate. “What do
you
think it said?”

“My grandmother was pregnant.”

“I don't believe that!”

“Read between the lines.”

“You have no proof and even if you did, what difference does it make?”

“What
difference
does it make?” she cried, as though she couldn't understand why he'd ask anything so outlandish.

Gage was sorry he'd come. He didn't want to know this, didn't want to pry into his grandfather's life. “You have no proof of it,” he said again. “Lindsay, listen, sometimes it's better to leave things alone. Whatever happened was a long time ago.”

“You're wrong. I do have proof,” she whispered, and reached inside the cigar box again. “This is a letter from an adoption agency telling my grandmother about the placement of the child she relinquished.”

L
indsay could tell from the stricken look on his face that her discovery had come as a shock to Gage. It had shocked her, too. Frowning, he sat and stared at the letter from the adoption agency for several minutes.

Lindsay had read the letters enclosed within the cigar box so many times she'd practically memorized them. The one from the agency was straightforward, written over fifty years earlier by an empathetic supervisor to a grieving young woman.

“She never told anyone about the baby.” Lindsay was fairly confident of this. Certainly, Lily Quantrill didn't know; neither did Hassie. Granted, she wasn't part of the Buffalo Valley community until after the war, but she and Gina had become friends. If Gina was going to tell anyone, it would probably have been Hassie. No, Lindsay was sure that Gina hadn't divulged her secret, even to her closest friends.

Gage disagreed with a shake of his head. “You have no way of knowing that.”

“You're right, but I don't think she ever did.” Lindsay was convinced her grandmother's silence had little to do with guilt or the shame of being an unwed mother. She was protecting the memory of Jerome Sinclair, the man she'd believed dead. And she was doing as Mrs. Hopfinger had suggested and holding tight to the memory of the daughter whose heartbeat she'd once shared.

“Do you remember what Lily Quantrill said?” Gage asked, as if the thought had suddenly come to him. “She mentioned that your grandmother was sick for a time after she got the news that my grandfather was missing in action.”

“I remember.”

Gage's look was pensive. “I wonder if that was when she went away to have the baby.”

Lindsay knew it must have been. Her grandmother had probably hidden the pregnancy as long as she could. When it was no longer possible, she'd left Buffalo Valley, her heart broken, her very will to live taken from her.

“The baby was born sometime in August,” Lindsay said with certainty.

Gage handed back the agency letter. “What makes you say that? The letter doesn't give any indication of the child's birthday.”

“I know.” In the dead of night, Lindsay had found her grandmother weeping for the child she would never hold, grieving for the child she would never know. That had been in August and Lindsay now believed she'd seen her grandmother reliving the birth of the child she'd given up for adoption, mourning her all over again….

“How do you know?” Gage demanded.

“Camp was the last week of July—I went for years. So my family was here in Buffalo Valley in August. It was definitely August.”

Gage glanced at the cigar box. “This is pretty incredible information, but I don't intend on breaking their secret, do you?”

Lindsay had only recently made her decision. Unsure at first, she'd reviewed the contents of the box a dozen times. Then she'd called Gage. Now she knew what she needed to do.

“I want to find her.”

“Her? The child?” Gage shook his head, resolutely dismissing the suggestion.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “Whoever she is, she has a right to know about her birth parents.”

His mouth thinned and he continued shaking his head. “Lindsay, no.”

“No?”

“First of all, adoption records are closed.”

“I don't need any records. The letter gives me enough information to find her. At least I hope it does.” It probably wouldn't be easy, but it could be done. She'd hoped Gage would be willing to help her, would find the importance of this task as compelling as she did.

He was silent, then stood and walked to the other side of the room, as though to put distance between them. His absolute rejection of her plan disappointed Lindsay more than she'd expected it would.

“I'm not going to pry into her life,” she rushed to explain, responding to his objections before he had a chance to speak then.

“No, you plan to force your way in, uninvited and unwanted. And for what possible reason? What's done is done. All this happened nearly sixty years ago. What possible good could come out of invading her privacy?”

“She has a right to know her parents loved her,” Lindsay said as persuasively as she could.

“Don't do this,” he pleaded softly.

“What about the gold locket and the letters? If you were an adopted child, wouldn't you want those?”

“No, I wouldn't.” The words were flat. Unyielding. His jaw was hard and his eyes cold in a way she hadn't seen before. Shaking his head, he added, “Brandon said it last week—and again today. I took his warning with a grain of salt, knowing he's bitter and miserable over Joanie and the kids being gone.”

Now it was Lindsay's turn to feel confused. “What's Brandon Wyatt got to do with any of this?”

“You don't understand us….”

“
Us?
What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She hated it when he said things like this.

He held her look. “You aren't one of us.”

“Are you saying I'm an outsider?” she asked angrily.

“You mean well, Lindsay, but you don't understand. People here believe that other folks should be allowed to make their own choices and live by them. We're independent. Self-reliant. We don't interfere in other people's lives—or want ours interfered with. That's what you don't understand.” He walked toward the door, pausing to reach for his coat. “Don't do this, Lindsay. Leave the woman alone. She didn't ask for anyone to intrude in her life. She has a right to her privacy.”

“I'm not going to invade her life—I'm giving her a gift.”

He glared at her. “Gift.” He spat out the word. “You talk about a scholarship for Kevin and call that a gift, too. Don't you see? Can't you understand? You insist on giving people gifts they don't need or want.”

Lindsay opened her mouth to argue, but he wouldn't let her.

“Your grandmother
chose
to keep her daughter a secret,” he said earnestly. “If for no other reason, honor her wishes.”

“I'll…think about it,” she promised.

“That's all I can ask.” He moved to open the door.

“Gage,” she said, stopping him. She didn't want him to leave, not like this, not when so much remained unspoken. “I think we should talk some more about Kevin and the scholarship.”

His back was ramrod straight. She felt a sudden fear of losing him. She could feel it, see it. He was pulling away from her, emotionally as well as physically.

“I understand about duty and responsibility, and that Kevin's future is already planned for him—but I also believe strongly that he should apply for the scholarships. If he's rejected, then nothing's lost, and if he's accepted, well, we can all cross that bridge when we get to it. If he
is
accepted, he'll never doubt his talent. He'll know that if circumstances were different, he could have pursued art had he wanted. And still might if the future allows.”

“You encouraged him to fill out the applications?”

She nodded.

“Kevin agreed?”

“He wasn't sure…Yes, he agreed after I talked to him.” Heart sinking, she clasped her hands in front of her. Gage looked past her, but she didn't miss the expression on his face. He thought she'd betrayed him. That had never been her intention, never entered her mind. “I…felt you should know,” she said, rubbing her palms together. “That's all…”

“You do what you feel is best, and so will I.” He turned toward the door.

“Gage!” she cried, stopping him again. “If I were adopted, I'd want to know about my birth parents.”

He said nothing.

“I wouldn't interfere in her life.”

“Are you looking for my approval? Because if you are, I'm not giving it. Like I said, you do what you feel is necessary and so will I.”

“But you won't help me find her?”

“I want nothing to do with this.”

She took a step toward him. “I'm going to do some research this weekend. I figured if I found the name of a physician who practiced during that time—a man who was Catholic and had a brother or brother-in-law who was a priest—then I might be able to locate her. I was hoping we could work together.”

“Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time. I said I want nothing to do with this. Can I make it any plainer than that?”

Lindsay felt numb. “No, I guess you can't,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

Gage opened the door and this time she didn't stop him.

 

Heath Quantrill hadn't talked to Rachel Fischer since the night of their dinner date a month earlier. In retrospect, he realized he'd made a mistake in rushing her.

The women he knew, and there had been plenty over the years, had a more sophisticated and liberal view of life and sex. Often they were the ones who'd aggressively pursued him, eager to take him to their beds. Sometimes he forgot he was back in North Dakota, where the mere suggestion of physical pleasure made women like Rachel blush. She'd lived her entire life in Buffalo Valley, had married right out of high school and settled into a role she'd never questioned. It'd been years since he'd had to charm a woman into his bed—not that he wasn't up to the challenge.

Rachel's sexual experience was probably limited to her marriage. He was sure she had much to learn, and he looked forward to teaching her. He was vaguely aware that his attitude might be a bit arrogant, but it didn't concern him much. Women tended to like confidence in a man—judging by his observations, anyway.

He'd been a fool to believe she was like the other women he'd known. Although it'd been difficult, he'd purposely stayed away and allowed enough time to pass for her wounded sensibilities to heal. Now, with Christmas over and the holidays behind them, he'd try again. He'd advance a little more slowly, though.

Her January payment on the pizza oven was due, and when she brought it to the bank, Heath planned to use the opportunity to make amends. Subtly, of course. He'd be contrite, but not excessively so. He knew what he wanted—and he wanted Rachel, in his bed. Rachel was a woman who needed to be seduced. Persuaded. Courted. If he hadn't been so distracted by her, he would have recognized it.

All day, every time the bank door opened, Heath looked up, hoping it was Rachel.

But the entire day passed and still no Rachel. Before this, she'd always been prompt with her payment. Then, just as the bank was ready to close, a breathless Mark raced inside.

“Hello, Mr. Quantrill.” The ten-year-old's cheeks and nose were rosy red from the cold. His flyaway hair stood straight up with static electricity from his knit cap, which he'd yanked off when he entered the bank. “My mom asked me to give you this.” He removed his glove with his teeth, then reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a crumpled check.

Instead of bringing the payment herself, Rachel had thwarted him and sent the boy.

“It's the money for the pizza oven,” Mark explained when Heath didn't immediately accept the check.

The paper felt cold against his warm fingers. “Thank her for me,” Heath said.

Mark nodded. “I gotta go, Mom needs me to help at the house.” He pushed the knit hat back on his head and pulled on his glove. “See you next month, Mr. Quantrill.”

“Right,” he muttered. So that was the way it would be.

A few minutes later, Heath locked up, but instead of heading straight back to Grand Forks, he wandered over to Buffalo Bob's. He wanted to think and didn't know of a better place than the 3 OF A KIND.

“How're ya doin'?” Bob greeted him.

“Great,” Heath mumbled, “just great.”