The Marriage Profile. Metsy Hingle

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СКАЧАТЬ tongue as he’d insisted that her being unable to have a baby didn’t matter to him. And when his attempts to reason with her had failed, his passionate pleas had turned into a white-hot anger that bordered on disgust and had left her chilled to the bone. She pressed a fist to her heart at the ache that came as she remembered the frigid way he’d looked at her and the coldness in his voice when he’d warned her that if she walked out that door, their marriage was over and he never wanted to see her again. Two weeks later she’d saved him the trouble and had filed for divorce.

      “Then you know you’re not welcome here. Go back to San Antonio, Mason. You don’t belong here.”

      Angela tipped her chin up a notch higher, met his cool gaze. “You don’t own Mission Creek, Justin. And you certainly don’t own the hospital. I have as much right to be here as you do.”

      He narrowed his eyes. “Since when do you give a damn about Mission Creek? You wanted the bright lights of the big city, remember?”

      “That’s not why I left, and you know it,” she told him, irritated with herself for letting him goad her. “We both know why I left Mission Creek.”

      “Yeah. You left to get away from me,” he said, his voice bitter, his expression hard. “So I’ll ask you again, Mason, what are you doing here? Better yet, when are you leaving?”

      His words stung, hurting her more than she’d ever thought they would. But after growing up in a household where her visions had made her a frequent target for her father’s verbal and physical lashings, she’d learned long ago that it was better not to show pain or fear. So she lifted her gaze and met Justin’s chilling green eyes. And with an aplomb she thought worthy of an acting award, she said, “In answer to your first question, I’m here as a guest. As to when I intend to leave, I’ll go when I’m ready. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

      He blocked her path. “No. I won’t excuse you. I don’t want you here.”

      He was so close, Angela caught the woodsy scent of his aftershave and spied the muscle ticking in his jaw. “You’ve already made that clear. Unfortunately, we don’t always get what we want.”

      Johnny Mercado clamped a hand down on his son’s shoulder. “Ricky, quit badgering Sal here and go see to your lady friend. Looks to me like the sheriff is giving her a rough time.”

      Ricky shifted his gaze to where the woman in question was in what appeared to be a heated discussion with Sheriff Justin Wainwright. “Angela can handle herself,” Ricky informed him.

      “What kind of talk is that?” Johnny countered. “The lady came with you, didn’t she?”

      “Angela Mason’s no schoolgirl, Pop. She knows what she’s doing. Give it a rest.”

      When Ricky started to turn back to Sal, Johnny cuffed the back of his son’s head—something he had done many times when Ricky had been a teenager, hell-bent on getting into trouble. “You show some respect for me, and for that girl.”

      Ricky smoothed a hand at his nape, eyed his father warily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

      Johnny sighed. “I know you didn’t,” he said, softening toward this dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger that was his son. It had always amazed him that such a handsome and fierce young man had actually come from him and Isadora. Ricky had always been so much braver, so much stronger than he had been, Johnny thought. He still didn’t know what the hush-hush military mission was his son had just returned from, but he had no doubts that it had been dangerous. Ricky had never shied away from danger. And whatever this mission was his former commander sent Ricky on, it hadn’t frightened his son. Ricky hadn’t hesitated to go. Since his return, the boy had seemed different, more serious. But Ricky had said little about what had happened. Perhaps if he himself had been half the man his son was, Johnny thought, his Isadora would still be alive.

      “Pop, you okay?”

      Johnny shook off thoughts of his many failures. “I’m fine. Now, quit fussing over me like an old woman and go see about your lady friend.”

      Ricky hesitated a moment, his gaze shifting from Johnny to Angela and back again. “All right. But you and I are going to talk, Pop. And I need you to be straight with me. I want to know what Del Brio said that’s got you upset.”

      “Who says I’m upset? Do I look upset to you?”

      “Cut the act, Pop. Sal told me you and Del Brio had words. I want to know what it was about.”

      Johnny eyed his friend. “Salvatore doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Now, go see about little Angela and quit fussing over me. I can take care of myself.”

      “Pop—”

      “La Madre di Dio! Basta! Leave it alone, Ricky. Just leave it alone,” Johnny commanded, and stalked away from his son toward the bar.

      By the time the bartender handed him the glass of red wine, Johnny’s hands were no longer trembling from the rage that had been burning inside him for weeks now, ever since he’d put two and two together and had realized the truth—that Frank Del Brio had played a hand in Isadora’s death. Mixed in with the rage was shame. Shame at his own cowardice. He stared at the glass of red wine, remembered the sight of his Isadora lying in the hospital bed all battered and bruised. What kind of man was he to have gone along with Isadora’s claim that she’d been mugged when in his heart he’d known the truth? She’d been beaten as a warning because he had not followed Del Brio’s orders.

      He hadn’t been a man at all, Johnny conceded. He’d been a coward, a yellow-bellied coward and a weakling. And because of him, Isadora was dead. He took a swallow of the merlot and squeezed his eyes shut as he thought of his sweet, tiny wife who had never had an unkind word for anyone.

      Forgive me, Isadora. Forgive me.

      How could he have been so blind? Johnny wondered as he left the festivities and wandered outdoors, away from the noise, away from the lights, away from the memories. He stared up at the sky, noted the dusting of stars, the half-moon. Yet his thoughts remained on Del Brio. How could he have failed to see before now how truly evil the man was? And to think at one time he had even condoned the man’s offer and allowed him to become engaged to his daughter, Haley.

      Haley. My pretty, smart Haley. You knew what he was, didn’t you? That’s why you disappeared. It’s why you pretended to drown and let us believe you were dead. But all these years, all these years, your mama knew. She knew you were alive. And that baby girl, the little one called Lena that was kidnapped, she’s your baby, isn’t she? My granddaughter. My flesh and blood.

      “I’m going to get her back for you,” Johnny murmured. And once Haley’s baby was safe, he would make Del Brio pay. He would pay for destroying his family. For forcing his daughter into hiding. For what he’d done to Isadora. Johnny clutched the now-empty wineglass between his palms as anger festered inside him. And when the pig was pleading for his life, when he was begging that he not be killed, Johnny would show the dog the same mercy that he had shown Isadora. None.

      “Johnny, I’m sorry,” Sal said as he came up behind him. “That boy of yours, he tricked me. He said you’d told him you and Del Brio had had an argument. So I thought he knew.”

      Johnny held up a hand to stem his friend’s apology. “It doesn’t matter. Ricky’s a smart boy. Both he and his sister have always been smarter than their old man.”

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