Love at Any Cost (36 page)

His breath caught at the twine of Jess's fingers in his. “Let go, Jamie, and let God be God,” she whispered, the trace of an imp in her smile. “He does it so much better than you.”

Let God be God.
He closed his eyes and in the whoosh of an exhale, he felt his will crack, a fissure of hope no bigger than a thread in a smothering shroud of disbelief. Relinquishing a weary sigh, he finally nodded, Bram's words echoing in his mind.
“Faith can move mountains, you know—be they granite . . . or pigheaded pride.”

His mouth quirked despite tears burning his lids. Pride he had plenty of, but faith? He drew in a shaky breath and released it, fluttering her ebony ringlets as he pressed a kiss to his sister's head. “Okay, Jess,” he said, finally willing to let go—not the precious sister he cherished in his arms—but the pride that separated him from her God. Delicate arms quickly swallowed him whole.

Her God, yes. His heart skipped a fractured beat. And now, apparently—his.

Stifling a yawn, Caitlyn glanced at the crystal clock on the parlour mantel, wishing Blake had never challenged his uncle to a game of chess. Good grief, it was almost eleven and Maddie, Meg, and Alli had gone up to bed long ago.
Which is where I should be
. Caitlyn vented with a silent sigh. But Logan was finally here for dinner after a week out of town and she needed to speak to
him tonight—alone—to thank him for what he'd done. Since Walter had given her the good news last week, she hadn't been able to sleep a wink, too excited about the victory. Her pulse sped up.
And
too overwhelmed by Logan's change of heart. Why had he done it—sacrificed his pride and his profits?

“I love you, Cait, and the fact is, I always have.”

Her fingers quivered as she turned a page in her book, well aware his actions on her behalf did indeed seem to be a confirmation of his declaration at Napa, something that scared her to no end. But . . . not as much as losing his friendship. Since then, his visits had decreased and his manner toward her had become guarded and polite, focusing more on the children than on her. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she missed his tease and attention and longed to restore the close friendship they'd shared.
But please, Lord, don't let him press for more
 . . .

“Checkmate!” A wide grin split Blake's face as he extended a hand across the table, his jubilant tone an indication of how seldom he bested his uncle. “Good game, Uncle Logan—I don't know if you're slipping or I'm getting better, but I'll take the win any way I can.”

Pushing away from the table, Logan rose and shook Blake's hand, his low chuckle belying the tired slope of his shoulders. “Maybe a little bit of both, Blake, although I wouldn't count on it becoming a habit. Once the Barrows case is over, I'll be getting more sleep.”

Blake stretched and glanced Caitlyn's way, surprise registering on his face. “Speaking of sleep, Mother, what are you still doing up? Lately you usually turn in when Maddie does.”

Heat braised her cheeks as she delivered a smile with a casual turn of the page. “Yes, well it seems Miss Austen is one of the few who can capture my attention well beyond bedtime.”

“And one of the few who could have me asleep in five minutes,” Blake said with a chuckle. He nudged his chair in before striding to give her a hug. “Good night, Mother.” On his way to the door, he gave his uncle a salute. “Good night, Uncle Logan. See you in the morning.”

“Good night, Blake,” Caitlyn called, gaze venturing to Logan while he slipped his jacket on. She rose, hands sweating as she smoothed the lines of her teal silk dress. “You heading out as well, I suppose?” she said and then blushed when she realized how stupid that sounded.

A faint smile shadowed his lips. “Unless you've a hankering to trounce me in chess too?”

“No, not chess . . .” She clutched arms to her waist, offering a bright smile to deflect the burn in her cheeks. “But I would appreciate a few words with you, if you can spare the time?”

He paused, the smile playing on his lips while piercing gray eyes took her measure with a narrow gaze. “I can spare all the time you need, Cait. After all, I'm just going home . . . not carousing with women all hours of the night.”

The jab referencing her hurtful statement in Napa blazed her cheeks hot. “I should have never said that, Logan,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. “I apologize—that was unkind.”

“But true at one time, Cait, so apology accepted
and
totally understood.” He strolled over to the divan by her chair and sat, hands loosely clasped. “So, what's on your mind?”

Eyes still averted, she eased down to perch on the edge of her chair, arms crossed tight as if she were cold. “Walter came by last week to tell me the good news, that our proposal passed.”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a scowl. “Apparently you have friends in high places—congratulations.”

Her gaze rose to meet his. “Yes, one very good friend in particular,” she whispered.

He stared, his face a mask except for a slight twitch in his cheek. “So it would seem.” He stood and tugged on the sleeves of his coat, one of the rare times he appeared ill at ease. “It's late, Cait—is that all you wanted to say?”

“No,” she whispered, rising to face him head-on. “I wanted to thank you, not only for giving me great joy, but for being the one person whose friendship I cherish above all others.”

His eyes softened despite the press of his mouth. “Don't thank me, I had nothing to—”

She halted him with a gentle hand to his arm. “You had everything to do with it, Logan, so don't deny it.” Her arm quivered as she touched tentative fingers to his cheek, the bristle of his late-day beard tickling her palm. “Thank you for your support—I will never forget it.”

His body stilled before he cupped her fingers against his face, eyes suddenly tender. “I'd do anything for you, Cait,” he whispered. “Don't you know that?”

A smile trembled on her lips. “No, actually I didn't . . . not until this.” She slowly tugged her hand free and stepped back, exhaling a shuddery breath.

He folded his arms with a gruff clear of his throat. “Well, don't think this will become a habit, Madame President, because it won't.”

“I understand,” she said softly. She nervously buffed the side of her arms, almost shy as she avoided his eyes. “But I was hoping that maybe . . . well, you know, maybe we could let bygones be bygones and return to . . . ,” a knot dipped in her throat as she peeked up, her vulnerability wavering her words, “being good friends again because the truth is I've . . . ,” she swallowed hard, “well, I've . . . missed you, Logan.”

He paused, his voice husky and low. “I've been right here, Cait,” he said quietly.

She drew in a stabilizing breath, heart stuttering at the intensity in his eyes. “I . . . know, but . . . it wasn't the same. In Napa I said things, you said things, and it ruined what we had, made it stiff and formal and I . . .” Her gaze lifted, begging him to understand. “I miss our friendship.”

He studied her for several moments, the burn of his gaze sputtering her pulse. “I miss our friendship too,” he said softly, “and more.” He extended a hand. “But it's a start, so why not?”

Oh, Logan, I can think of a dozen reasons.
A sigh trembled from her lips as she placed her hand in his, the warmth of his touch traveling clear to her cheeks. “Friends forever, then,” she whispered, giving a firm shake to dispel the trepidation she felt. She tried to pull away.

He held on, gaze fused to hers. “Friends forever, Cait, yes.” Her stomach fluttered at the graze of his thumb to her palm. “For now . . .” Lifting her hand to his mouth, he skimmed her knuckles with his lips. “Good night, Mrs. McClare.” He gave a short bow, then turned and strode from the room, her eyes fixed on his broad back until he disappeared from view.

She heard the click of the front door, and with a shaky whoosh of air, she sank to the edge of her seat, her breathing as ragged as her nerves. Head bent, she put a hand to her eyes.

For now.

Her insides quivered at the memory of his lips on her skin, the caress of his thumb to her palm, and she knew Logan McClare was waging a battle she wasn't sure she could win. But the question that shivered her mind, her body even more than his touch was one single thought.

Did she even want to?

 29 

N
othing short of a miracle.” Jean MacKenna's whisper held a note of awe as she gently tucked a raven strand of hair behind her daughter's ear while Jess lay sleeping in a hospital room as dark as her future was bright.

Jamie couldn't agree more. Forbidden tears swelled as he stood next to his mother, but he didn't even care, arm firmly latched to her waist with a staggering sense of gratitude. Medicinal smells that normally turned a stomach—the sharp odor of carbolic acid and pungent smell of linseed oil—filled both the room and their nostrils with the blessed scent of hope. Hope that the sister and daughter they loved would no longer limp or suffer with pain, but would enjoy a life full of promise and laughter and joy.

Jamie absently caressed Jess's fingers, too overcome to utter a single word lest water stream from his eyes. His little sister had been right. “Let go, Jamie, and let God be God,” she'd whispered that day, conveying to him in her humble and sweet way a lesson many had tried to teach him before: “He does it so much better than you.”

Emotion jerked in his throat.
That he does, Jess, that he does.
For the first time in his life, he had laid down his will for God's, an act of love and sacrifice at the bequest of his sister, and the result
had stunned him to the core. Despite breaking his courtship with Patricia and her tearful threats, the board had voted to approve Jess's pro bono surgery. And as if that were not enough, his sister now resided in a private room on the coveted fourth floor of Lane Hospital following a surgery that the doctors proclaimed a resounding success. Jamie blinked, desperate to stave off the wetness that begged to fall. By all practical means, the vote should have failed, but God intervened, not only softening Patricia and Senator Hamilton's hearts, but Jamie's as well.
God, forgive me,
he thought, head bent to his mother's,
for turning my back on you all of these years, for being so blind, so stubborn
. . . His lids weighted closed as Cassie came to mind, and his heart wrenched in his chest.
And so very, very stupid.

He opened his eyes at his mother's touch. “I think I'll slip out to get us both a coffee.”

“I'll go,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“No, you need to be here if the doctor comes.” She lifted on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, the sheen of wetness in her gaze threatening his own. “I love you, son, with every breath in me.”

Clutching her tightly, he squeezed his eyes shut. “Me too, Mom, more than I can say.”

She patted the scruff of his jaw, eyes brimming with pride. “You've more than said it, son, in your ceaseless devotion to your sister and me. Sit and get some rest. I'll be back soon.”

He nodded and sank into the chair next to his sister's bed. Hand on her arm, he lay his head back and closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the goodness of God. In his pride and anger, he'd struggled all of his life to take care of his mother and sister when help had always been just a prayer away. He'd scaled mountain after mountain, when all it would have taken was a tiny seed of faith. His mouth tipped even as moisture stung beneath his lids.
The smallest of seeds, and yet enough to level mountains of pride and set his sister free.

And me.

Free!
His eyelids popped open as the realization fully developed in his mind.
Free . . . to follow Cassie!
He jolted up in the chair, heart stumbling over the fact that the woman he loved hated him and with good reason. His breathing accelerated as hope sprung in his chest. But God wouldn't bring him this far to leave him high and dry. Would he?

Hope stalling, his gaze lighted on his sister, her chest rising and falling with a calm and steady rhythm so like her faith—peaceful, hopeful—and he suddenly knew God would not forsake him. At the thought, his body relaxed, the barest of smiles lining his lips as he rested his head on the chair, exhaustion and an unfamiliar peace luring him to doze . . .

“Our girl still sleeping?” Startled awake, he glanced up to see his mother enter the room, steam billowing from two cups of coffee she held in her hands.

Jamie jumped up to relieve her of his. “Like a baby. Dr. Morrissey said the more sleep, the better.” He nodded at the chair. “Sit, Mom, you look as tired as Jess.”

A soft chuckle parted from her lips, but it couldn't hide the sag of her shoulders when she dropped in the chair. “Thanks, Jamie—I'm quite certain we could all sleep for days after this. I'll tell you, I've never prayed so much in my life, and that's saying something.”

Perching on the sill, he sipped his coffee, lips in a slant. “Me neither, and that's saying something too.” He grazed the warmth of the cup. “But I plan to remedy that from now on.”

She paused over the rim of hers, surprise flickering across her features. “Seriously?” Her wide gaze glistened with affection.
“Oh, Jamie, do you have any idea how long I've prayed for that?” Mischief laced her tone. “So dragging you to church all these years wasn't for naught?”

He laughed, peering up with a sheepish look. “No, it wasn't, although Jess gets the credit for pushing my back to the wall.”

“How so?” His mother took a taste of coffee, head cocked in question.

His sigh was weary as he stared into the black liquid of his cup, mind wandering to how he'd escaped a future as bitter and dark. Since he'd begun courting Patricia, a gloom had descended, whisperings that he wouldn't be happy with a woman who wanted control of his heart or a father-in-law who wanted control of his life. But he'd convinced himself seeing Jess happy and whole would make
him
happy and whole, and that Cassie's friendship would fill in the gaps. But he hadn't counted on Cassie leaving and he hadn't counted on Jess sensing how miserable he was. He glanced up, heart aching that now he wouldn't be able to give his family all he had hoped. “She refused to have the surgery if it was contingent upon my courting Patricia.”

“What?” Cup paused at her lips, her hands slowly drifted to her lap where she cradled the coffee. “What does that mean?”

He exhaled heavily. “It means I was courting Patricia to secure her father's help in swaying the vote for Jess's surgery.”

“Oh, Jamie, no . . .” His mother rose to sit beside him, setting her coffee aside. “But I thought you liked Patricia . . .”

“I do, but not enough to marry her, and Jess called me on it.” His smile tipped. “Told me to let go and let God, which I did, but it's kind of ironic.” He placed his cup on the sill to scrub his face with his hands. “All I wanted was to save Jess's life, and here she ends up saving mine.”

“Well, for the love of all that is decent and good, James
MacKenna, at least I have a daughter with common sense even if my son does not.” Bracing his shoulder, she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, then clucked her tongue. “Hard head, soft heart,” she whispered.

“I'll say. Patricia was furious. Said her father would never lend his support on the vote, which is why this surgery is such a miracle because apparently he did.”

His mother hugged him, then pulled away, sympathy softening her tone. “I'm sorry it didn't work out, Jamie, but God will bring the perfect woman for you, you'll see.”

He peered up, giving his mother a sideways glance. “Mom?”

She turned to look at him, cup halfway to her lips. “Yes?”

A slow smile traveled his face at thoughts of Cassie. “He already has.”

His mother blinked. “But I thought you said you broke it off with Patricia?”

He grinned. “I did, but I'm not talking about Patricia, I'm talking about Blake's cousin.” His chest expanded with hope. “I'm in love with Cassidy McClare, Mom, and I want to marry her.” He exhaled slowly, offering a sheepish smile. “That is, if she doesn't spit in my eye first.”

The mug slipped from his mother's hand and clunked to the floor, spilling coffee down her brown gabardine skirt, but she didn't seem to notice.

Jamie snatched a cloth napkin from Jess's lunch tray to mop up the floor, grateful the ruckus didn't awaken his sister. Blotting his mother's skirt, he glanced up, concern creasing his brow. “Are you all right?” She didn't answer, and he rose to grip her hand, which was as cold as the needles of ice suddenly prickling his skin. “Mom, tell me what's wrong—are you ill?”

She shook her head, lips parted as if to speak words that would
not come, and he felt his own fingers go cold. She began to shake and tears welled as she searched his face, her eyes issuing a silent plea. “Jamie, no, please . . . not the McClares.”

His blood chilled. “What are you saying, Mom? Cassidy McClare is the love of my life.”

“No, son,” she whispered, her voice a rasp as tears trailed her cheeks. “Cassidy McClare is your cousin.”

Jamie rammed a finger to the elevator button, the groan and grind of gears and pulleys rivaling the taut strain of his nerves and the angst in his gut. His eyes burned in their sockets while anger burned in his chest, the searing jolt of his mother's revelation paralyzing him to all rational thinking. Chest heaving, his lungs pumped harsh air like a bellows igniting a blaze of hate.

Logan McClare was his father.

Fury swelled anew as rage coursed through his veins. A father who had not only abandoned him and his mother, but had denied him the rights of a son. A man he had admired and revered, now no more than a coward who turned his back on his own. The thought of Logan touching his mother made him sick, bile rising at what she'd endured at the hands of a wealthy law student who promised her the moon and gave her a child instead. Fifteen-year-old Jean Kerr, barely making a living as a dance-hall girl on the Barbary Coast, had fallen hard for a man with a silver spoon in his mouth that matched a silver tongue. Desperately in love, she'd succumbed to the deadly charms of a social aristocrat with whom she had a six-month affair. But Logan had broken it off, anxious to avoid scandal on the eve of his engagement to socialite Caitlyn Stewart, only to discover Jean Kerr was pregnant with a child Logan conveniently denied. To ensure her silence, he offered
a monthly stipend that ended when his mother married Brian MacKenna, the man she'd allowed him to believe was his father. Jamie's jaw ground till it ached.

Better a sorry sot than a lily-livered liar.

The doors of the elevator squealed open, and Jamie shoved past several well-dressed gentlemen, bumping the shoulder of one, but too enraged to utter a pardon. Fists clenched, he strode toward a frosted glass door emblazoned with gold lettering. McClare, Rupert and Byington—yesterday a future he'd aspired to, today a past he'd avenge. Flinging the door wide, he ignored the saucer stare of the receptionist to storm down the hall, gaze fixed on Logan McClare's door, closed as always to distractions he didn't want.

Like his illegitimate son.

“Mr. MacKenna, please—wait! Mr. McClare asked not to be disturbed . . .” Miss Peabody's voice trailed him down the hall, alarm evident in the crack of her voice, but he paid no mind. Every nerve in his body itched for revenge, to extract a pound of flesh and give the devil his due. Oh, he'd “disturb” him all right—with a hard-knuckled fist and some well-placed guilt.