The Sheriff's Daughter. Tara Taylor Quinn

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СКАЧАТЬ Sara played with her pizza crust, twirling a thin piece back and forth between her fingers. “He thought I should know.”

      Her father didn’t look as if he agreed with her son’s decision and Sara was struck once again with her awareness of something she’d always known. Her father would tell her only what he thought was for her own good, withholding everything else. And his idea of what was good for her wasn’t necessarily hers.

      “What’s he like?”

      Sara smiled and held back the tears that arrived every time she thought about the handsome young man who’d shown up on her doorstep and turned her life upside-down. In so many ways.

      “Taller than you. Broad. Blond, with green eyes. Like any good cop, he seemed to take in the whole room at a glance.”

      And he’d given her things to think about that were compelling enough to take her mind off the fact that life as she’d known it was over—that the man she’d trusted to be loyal to her, hadn’t been.

      “His name’s Ryan. Ryan Mercedes.”

      John sipped his beer slowly, gaze intent, though he didn’t seem to be focusing on anything in front of him.

      “I don’t think it’s just chance that he’s in police work.”

      “What?” Her father asked, turning that gaze on her. “You think it’s hereditary?”

      “I think he’s a young man with an analytical mind like yours, an unbending view of right and wrong and a sense of responsibility to do what he can to fight evil. He’s known since he was fourteen that his grandfather was a sheriff, and I think some emotional need to connect with his biological roots, combined with his traits, has led him to his chosen career.”

      “You got all this from one meeting?”

      “I’ve had a lot of time to think about him.”

      And the things he’d told her.

      “You going to see him again?”

      The sun was setting, though it would be another hour or two before it got dark outside. Evening shadows were creeping into the kitchen.

      “He left his number.”

      “I take it you haven’t called.”

      “I’ve been a little busy.”

      SARA ALMOST CALLED Ryan Saturday night. Now that her father knew, hadn’t tried to deny that she’d ever been pregnant and given up her child or denied that he had a biological grandson, Ryan’s existence seemed all the more real.

      She picked up the phone a couple of times, but always put it down again. She had no idea what she’d say. If he’d be at home on a Saturday night—or what he’d be doing if he was.

      Did one leave a message for one’s child that one had given away? What did she call herself? This is your mother. Her mind played out various messages and rejected them.

      Mrs. Mercedes was Ryan’s mother. Sara was Sara. Nothing more.

      HER FATHER WAS BACK again on Sunday, seemingly undeterred by the seventy-five-minute drive from Maricopa to Columbus, to unpack her half of the tools in her garage. He’d brought along a Peg-Board and broom-holder bar to hang for her.

      And when that was done, he came inside to help, moving boxes, putting together the new daybed in the room that was going to serve as her study and guest room. After which, he installed two new toilet seats in her bathrooms—Sara’s mother had always insisted new toilet seats were mandatory when moving.

      Sitting on the edge of the tub, watching as he lay flat on his back on the tile floor, his head underneath the tank while he worked an ornery lug nut, Sara knew the time had come.

      Ryan’s appearance in her life had prompted many changes. And because she was starting to obsess about some of the things he’d told her—the things left unsaid—she was going to have to do something.

      “Tell me about that night.”

      He didn’t miss a beat. “What night?” The words came out almost as a grunt as he gave the wrench a hard tug.

      “The night I was raped.”

      John Lindsay bumped his head on the bottom of the toilet tank. He didn’t swear. Barely acknowledged having done so. Just went back to the bolt. With one more tug, after ten minutes of struggling, it was free.

      “I need to know, Daddy.”

      “No, you don’t.”

      Twenty years ago that would have been that. Hell, twenty days ago it might have been.

      “I’m thirty-seven years old. Old enough to determine for myself what’s important to me.”

      “You don’t know what you don’t know.”

      She’d known this wasn’t going to be easy. Her insides were shaking. She’d always gotten knots in her stomach at the thought of standing up to him. But this time anxiety wasn’t going to stop her.

      “I’m not going away on this one. I can’t anymore,” she said softly, as much for herself as anything else. “I’ve just spent the past twenty years of my life doing as you wanted, as Brent wanted, and look where it got me. Right back where I was at sixteen, trying to pick up the pieces of my life, with my father there taking care of everything for me. Except, this time, I also have the memory of an ex-husband so dissatisfied with me that he had no hesitation breaking our marriage vows.”

      “He’s a fool—and a man. He’d have gotten over it.”

      “I don’t think so.” And it wouldn’t matter if he had. The trust was gone.

      The second bolt was loose with one twist and soon the new seat was securely in place.

      “You sell yourself short,” he said, gathering up his tools. “You run a nationally recognized organization, one built almost entirely by your efforts. You have the respect of many of this country’s most important movers and shakers.”

      That said, he left the room.

      After unrolling the new purple-and-green bathroom rugs she’d bought to go with the shower curtain, towels and light purple paint that would soon be on the walls, Sara followed him. He was in the laundry room now, hooking up the washer.

      “If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask someone else.”

      She received a long under-the-arm glance for her efforts. But the usual look of steely determination that he used to perfection was not there.

      Sara’s hands started to shake.

      THEY ENDED UP in the kitchen with glasses of iced tea. Sara couldn’t remember a time when she and her parents had had any serious discussion any place other than the kitchen table. If you had to talk, that’s where you went. Period.

      That’s where they’d discussed the results of the pregnancy test and, ultimately, the adoption. СКАЧАТЬ