Swept Away. Gwynne Forster

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      Veronica closed her eyes as though in fervent prayer. “Are you related to Richard Henderson?”

      Schyler backed up a few steps, symbolically distancing himself from her. “Related?” he asked, shaking his head as though denying the possibility. “By blood, you mean?”

      She nodded, afraid of his answer, vaguely aware of a sense of foreboding. She didn’t want a relationship with Schyler Henderson, did she? So why was she afraid he’d say yes? And even if her heart skipped and hopped at the sight of him, even if her blood boiled thinking of him, wasn’t he the man who had self-righteously jimmied her world?

      “Well?” she pressed him.

      “Not to my knowledge,” he finally said. “He took me in when I needed him, and I’d give my life for him.” He closed the front door and began walking with her toward the rear of the house, but suddenly he stopped. “Why are you searching for him after all these years?”

      His aura warmed her, but she didn’t want to respond to Schyler’s gentle but disconcerting charm and braced herself against it. “I promised my mother. The last words she said to me were ‘Find your father.’ Is he here?”

      “Yes. But shouldn’t you have called to let him know you’d be here this afternoon? I doubt a man’s heart will stay a steady beat if he lays his gaze on a daughter he hasn’t seen in thirty years—suddenly and without warning.” His manner was gentle, but his voice stern, giving notice that he’d protect Richard Henderson from everything and everyone, including her.

      He was right, but she’d acted partly on impulse. She’d also gotten the courage to do it and she didn’t believe in procrastination. Besides, if she’d asked for an appointment and waited for his reply, she could have gotten cold feet. Or, she’d reasoned, he could have refused to see her.

      “I had no guarantee that he’d agree to see me,” she said, answering Schyler’s mild reprimand. “After all, he deserted us.”

      His body stiffened, and the gray of his irises seemed to lighten as though glazed over with a coating of ice. She saw his jaw working and knew she’d angered him.

      “I don’t believe it!” he spat out. “If you came here to cause my father distress, don’t fool yourself into thinking I’ll stand for it. I won’t!” He walked ahead of her. “My father’s back here.”

      As they passed the dining room, her gaze took in the contemporary walnut furnishings and the crystal chandelier that dangled from the ceiling. She imagined that the beautiful carved breakfront contained fine linens, crystal, porcelain and silverware, and resentment of Richard Henderson threatened to choke off her breathing. She’d bet that chandelier cost more than her beloved stepfather made in months of grueling, back-breaking work.

      She reflected on Schyler’s admonishment of minutes earlier. “I’ve seen the lion close up when he roared loudest; he can no longer frighten me, Mr. Henderson.”

      She couldn’t let the pain she saw in his eyes soften her attitude. He’d had her father’s love; she hadn’t. Yet, something in her hurt for him, and because of him. He put a half-smile on his face, but it never reached his eyes, and she had to grasp her shoulder bag with both hands to prevent herself from reaching out to him. He opened the door to what appeared to be a small solarium. Sunny and homey with white rattan furniture and numerous green plants.

      “Who was that at the door, Son?”

      Son, indeed! For the first time in thirty years, she heard the voice of the man who’d sired her. And in spite of herself, excitement and anticipation shot through her.

      How gentle his voice, she thought, when Schyler answered his father, and how solicitous. “Brace yourself, Dad,” he said, blocking her entrance to the room. “We knew she’d come sooner or later, and she’s here.” He stepped aside. “Come on in, Veronica.”

      “Veronica? Veronica!” As she walked in, Richard Henderson bounded up from his desk and started toward her. “Veronica!” He pronounced the name as if it were sacred to him. “I despaired of ever setting my eyes on you again.”

      He opened his arms to her, but she couldn’t walk into them, couldn’t make herself act the lie. She gave him as much as she could, extending her hand to him. After seconds during which tension crackled in the room and her blood pounded in her ears, he took her hand and held it, though only for a second.

      He stepped back then, and she saw him as he was. Tall. Proud. Self-possessed. If she’d hurt him, he didn’t show it. “If you’re not glad to see me, Veronica, why have you come?”

      She tried to shove aside the connection she’d instantly felt to him. An indefinable something that drew and held her, repositioning her center of gravity.

      “I came because it was my mother’s last request of me. I promised her I’d find you.”

      He gasped, held his head up and his flat belly seemed to jam itself against his backbone. He closed his eyes, large and almond shaped like hers. “Esther is dead? Your investigator didn’t mention it. She’s dead?”

      She nodded, unwilling to believe the news would mean anything to him. “Just before my investigator located you.”

      From the corner of her eye, she saw Schyler move toward his father, but Richard walked over to the window, turned his back and gazed out. From the bend of his shoulders, she knew he’d gone there for privacy, to shield his emotions and to get a grip on them. She glanced at Schyler, but the dark expression that clouded his face as he gazed in the direction of his father gave her no comfort. She walked halfway to the window and paused, uncertain as to what to do. She thought she detected a quick, jerky movement of his shoulders as though a shudder had torn through him. But the man possessed dignity.

      He turned and smiled at her. “At least you’ve come. I’d like us to get acquainted. Would you…would you…spend the night?”

      She wasn’t prepared for a love-in, not after years of resenting this man who had rejected her, only to welcome another man’s child into his home and his heart.

      “Thanks, but I’m staying at that little white, two-story hotel on Front Street. It doesn’t seem to have a name,” she told him, “and I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

      Richard made a pyramid of his long fingers, propped up his СКАЧАТЬ