Egan Cassidy's Kid. BEVERLY BARTON

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      “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” Janice asked as she stood on the front porch with Maggie. “I can spend the night.”

      “No, Egan said to clear the house. He doesn’t want anyone here when he arrives.” Maggie hugged her arms around her as she waited for her friend to leave.

      “Why do you trust him? He’s the man who ran out on you and left you pregnant.”

      “Egan never made me any promises.”

      “No, but he didn’t have a problem taking advantage of you, did he? He sweet-talked his way into your bed, made you fall in love with him and then told you that he wasn’t interested in a committed relationship.”

      “None of that matters now,” Maggie said. “All that’s important is that he knows what’s happened to Bent and he’s promised to bring my son home to me.”

      “And you believe him?”

      “Yes, I do.”

      “Aren’t you the least bit suspicious? You haven’t heard from the guy in fifteen years and suddenly, on the very day Bent disappears, he calls to tell you he knows Bent is his son.”

      “Yes, of course I’m suspicious. But I know—I know!—that Egan is as concerned about Bent as I am. I could hear it in his voice. He was in pain.” Maggie looked out over the front yard. Streetlights on either end of the block illuminated the manicured lawn and flower beds. She and Bent did all the yard work themselves—a mother and son project.

      Janice gave Maggie a tight hug, then released her and walked down the porch steps. “I’m a phone call away. I can be back here in five minutes.”

      “Go on home and get some rest. Call me in the morning, if you haven’t heard from me before then.”

      “Okay. And don’t worry about the bookstore. I’ll take care of things there.”

      Maggie remained on the porch until Janice backed her car out of the driveway, then she turned and went inside the house. In the foyer, the tick of the grandfather clock’s pendulum kept time with her heartbeat. As she made her way through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen, she found herself wishing Janice and the others hadn’t cleaned up after themselves. If they had left dirty glasses and nasty ashtrays, at least she’d have something to do, something to occupy her mind while she waited.

      She had thought of nothing else for the past two hours except the fact that Egan Cassidy knew what had happened to Bent. She had gone over at least a dozen possibilities, but not even one plot line was based in reality. Her mind had run the gamut from Bent having left home to find his biological father to someone from Egan’s mercenary world having kidnapped Bent to hold him for ransom.

      Maggie found herself alone in the kitchen, her favorite room of the house. All her life, since early childhood when she had hovered at her grandmother’s side and watched her beloved MaMa create mouthwatering meals, Maggie had found her greatest solace in this room.

      She had redecorated the kitchen and the master bedroom shortly after her divorce, needing to wipe away any memories of Gil. Forgetting her five-year-marriage to her childhood friend had been easy enough, especially when he had remarried so quickly. In less than six months after their divorce was final. Even then, realizing that he’d probably been unfaithful to her for quite some time, she still couldn’t blame him for the demise of the marriage. How could she hold him at fault when he had always known that he was her second choice, that Bent’s father was the one man she had truly loved?

      Rummaging in the cabinets for the ingredients to MaMa’s tea cakes—Bent’s favorite—Maggie let her mind drift back to the first time she ever saw Egan Cassidy. Oh, she’d heard about Egan for years. Bentley had talked about his old war buddy, when he was sober as well as when he was drinking. Her brother had admired and respected Egan in a way he had no other man. Several times over the years, Bentley had gone to Memphis to visit Egan, to share a few days of wine, women and song. But Egan had never come to Parsons City. Not until Bentley died.

      Three weeks after Bentley’s funeral she’d gone to the cemetery to put fresh flowers on the grave. Just as she rose from her knees, she noticed someone behind her. The stranger stood by the willow tree at the edge of the Tyson plot. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a move to come toward her. But when she passed him, she looked into his intense dark eyes and saw the pain.

      “Did you know my brother?” she asked.

      “You’re Maggie, aren’t you?”

      “Yes.” She felt drawn to this man, as if he existed solely to comfort her.

      “I’m Egan Cassidy. I didn’t find out about Bentley until yesterday,” he explained. “I’ve been out of the country on business.”

      “I called and left several messages. And when I didn’t hear from you, I wrote.”

      “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for the funeral.”

      “He killed himself.” She heard her voice, heard her state the undeniable fact and yet she felt as if someone else were speaking. “He took his pistol, put it in his mouth and pulled—” She burst into tears.

      Egan wrapped his arms around her and eased her up against his body, encompassing her in a tender, comforting embrace. “I should have been here for you. Bentley was the best friend I ever had. I owed him my life.”

      Maggie had clung to Egan, feeling safe and secure. And knowing that this man shared her grief. Bentley’s Vietnam comrade understood as no one else did what it had been like for her brother. How he had used alcohol as a crutch to get him through each new day.

      She had taken Egan Cassidy home with her and he had stayed for seven days. That had been almost fifteen years ago and she hadn’t seen him since.

      Maggie mixed the ingredients together with expert precision. She needed no recipe. Indeed, she could prepare these little cakes with her eyes closed. Eggs. Butter—real butter. Flour. Milk. And vanilla. She would make fresh coffee when Egan arrived and serve him tea cakes and coffee in the living room, just as she’d done that day, long ago, when she had opened her home and her heart to Bentley’s friend.

      At eleven o’clock, Maggie put away her cooking utensils, stored the tea cakes and the raisin-nut bread she had prepared and tidied up the kitchen. Just as she untied the strings on her apron, the doorbell rang. She jumped as if she’d been shot.

      Calm down, she cautioned herself. It took every ounce of her willpower not to fall completely apart, not to scream and cry until she was totally insane. But she couldn’t come unglued. She had to remain strong and in control. For her own sake and for Bent’s sake.

      Maggie hung the yellow gingham apron on the back of the Windsor chair at the table, squared her shoulders and marched hurriedly through the house. Before she reached the front door, the bell rang again. He was impatient, she thought. But then, he always had been.

      Peering through the glass panes, she saw Egan Cassidy standing on her porch. Big. Tall. Lean. Just as he’d been fifteen years ago. She opened the door.

      “Maggie.” He studied her face as if he were trying to memorize it, as if he had forgotten how she looked and never wanted to forget again.

      “Come СКАЧАТЬ