Loe raamatut: «The Pregnant Bride»
His childhood friend in the arms of the enemy?
A black look crossed Nick’s face at Meggie’s news of her pregnancy.
“Don’t worry, Meggie. We’re going to make things right,” he growled.
She shook her head. “When the father gets back to town, I’m afraid he’ll want my baby, drag me through a custody battle.” And she’d lose her child forever. “You know he can do it, Nick. His family has so much money and power.”
Nick ran a hand through his hair, looking angrily around the town that hated him. “There’s one solution, Meggie….”
There was no solution as far as she was concerned. “Thanks for the optimism, but I have no idea what to do.”
Nick took a deep breath. “You can marry me. You can give your child my name.”
Dear Reader,
’Tis the season to ask yourself “What makes Christmas special?” (other than a Silhouette Special Edition novel in your stocking, that is). For Susan Mallery, it’s “sharing in established traditions and starting new ones.” And what could be more of a tradition than reading Susan’s adorable holiday MONTANA MAVERICKS story, Christmas in Whitehorn?
Peggy Webb’s statement of the season, “The only enduring gift is love” resonates in us all as she produces an enduring gift with The Smile of an Angel from her series THE WESTMORELAND DIARIES. Along with love, author Patricia Kay feels that Christmas “is all about joy—the joy of being with family and loved ones.” And we are overjoyed to bring you the latest in her CALLAHANS & KIN miniseries, Just a Small-Town Girl.
Sylvie Kurtz shows us the “magical quality” of the holidays in A Little Christmas Magic, a charming opposites-attract love story. And we are delighted by Patricia McLinn’s My Heart Remembers from her WYOMING WILDFLOWERS miniseries. For Patricia, “Christmas is family. Revisiting memories, but also focusing on today.” Crystal Green echoes this thought. “The word family is synonymous with Christmas.” So curl up with her latest, The Pregnant Bride, from her new miniseries, KANE’S CROSSING!
As you can see, we have many talented writers to celebrate this holiday season in Special Edition.
Happy Holidays!
Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor
The Pregnant Bride
Crystal Green
To Mom and Aunt Mary, the hardest working supporters in the world; and in memory of Regina Emig Ronk, whose courage and advice still inspire me.
CRYSTAL GREEN
lives in San Diego, California, where she has survived three years as an eighth-grade teacher of humanities. She’s especially proud of her college-bound AVID (Advancement Via Individual Determination) students who have inspired her to persevere.
When Crystal isn’t writing romance, she enjoys reading, creative poetry, overanalyzing movies, risking her life during police ride-alongs, petting her parents’ Maltese dogs and fantasizing about being a really good cook.
During school breaks, Crystal spends her time becoming readdicted to her favorite soap operas and traveling to places far and wide. Her favorite souvenirs include travel journals—the pages reflecting everything from taking tea in London’s Leicester Square to backpacking up endless mountain roads leading to the castles of Sintra, Portugal.
THE KANE’S CROSSING GAZETTE
August 18, 1985
Delinquent Bombs Chaney’s Drugstore!
No injuries, but store is destroyed, along with town’s faith in foster care system.
Chad Spencer, great-grandson of the town’s founding father, Kane Spencer, told police last night that he and his friends never expected Nicholas Cassidy to set off a bomb during their night of fun.
“I swear on my great-granddaddy’s grave, we never saw it coming,” said the Spencer High School Junior Varsity quarterback. “All we were doing was hanging out, when old Nicholas whips out this space-age looking doodad. I’m telling you, that kid was no good from the get-go.”
Cassidy, a resident of Kane’s Crossing for merely one year, refrained from commenting as he was escorted from town. His foster parents were also unavailable for comment, but….
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Prologue
August, sixteen years earlier
“D o you love me, Nick?” Meg Thornton asked, batting her eyelashes up at him as she leaned against his chest.
Fourteen-year-old Nick Cassidy felt his throat close up. They were hiding from the vile Chad Spencer behind a bank of rocks, wedged into the cool crevices, shaded from the Kentucky summer sun. In the distance, a riot of adolescent voices cut the air.
There he was. Chad, the pretty boy.
They were both breathing hard, and Nick could feel Meggie’s twelve-year-old heart tripping against his arm. He moved his face away from the strawberry-tart scent of her hair. This felt weird, shielded from everyone else, huddled alone with Meggie.
As the voices drew nearer, she looked up at him with those big green eyes. Eyes like the center of a marble, clear and cool. Something to keep from the other kids after you tucked it into your pocket.
Nick had no idea what to say to Meggie. He didn’t want to hurt the only kid in Kane’s Crossing who treated him like a human being. And as if the youngsters weren’t bad enough, the adults here—except for his new foster family and Meggie’s aunt—also treated him like yesterday’s trash. As if they could judge him after he’d lived here for only a year. Bunch of jerks.
Meggie sighed as she sat up, brushing at her fairy-wing-colored skirt, probably so she wouldn’t have to look at him.
Man, he hoped he hadn’t made Meggie mad. With the way her eyes had gone all puppy-dog sad, Nick knew he’d said something wrong.
He tore a piece of grass from the ground and stuck it between his teeth. “Don’t get all mushy on me, okay?”
“It’s all right.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Meggie tilt her red head into the waning sunlight, the fading colors warming her face under a caramel-hued mask.
Town legend had it that when she visited her aunt in Kane’s Crossing every summer, she looked more and more like a Gypsy, with her flared skirts and corkscrew-wild hair. No wonder some kids called Meggie a “witch.” Not that she cared. She and her aunt Valentine, living in that creepy house on the hill, just laughed at the townsfolk.
“I hope Chad Spencer doesn’t find us. I’m sick of his nasty talk,” Meggie said.
Nick’s hands fisted against his secondhand jeans. “No worries, Meggie,” he said. Footsteps stampeded on the bank above their heads, making his body tense.
A sharp laugh cut the air. Nick peered up, seeing a shadow crouched on the ridge above their rocks.
Chad Spencer’s words flew at them like stinging stones. “Aren’t you guys gonna French or something? Or doesn’t the foster-trash kid even know how to open his mouth?” A chorus of mean-spirited giggles followed.
Meggie narrowed her eyes, dying to burn Chad with a comeback, no doubt. But Nick shot her a silencing glance. Spencer’s beef was with him; the bully just wanted to make himself look good in front of her.
“Bug off,” he said, using a glare he’d been practicing just for a moment like this.
“Oo-oh, so he can manage to form a word or two.” Chad moved slightly, granting a slice of sunlight access to his golden hair. His royal-blue eyes glowed from the shade of his gelled bangs, and his turned-up alligator shirt collar lent him the plastic air of a Pez dispenser. “Are you tough enough to play Double Dare?”
Nick rose to his feet, holding out his hand to help up Meggie. She accepted the gesture, and the two of them stood, united, against their common nemesis. He hoped his silence was answer enough for King of the Creeps.
Chad stood, too. “If you want to prove how tough you are, meet me at Chaney’s Drugstore tonight at nine o’clock. We’ll see if your attitude matches my left hook.”
He turned and tossed a smug smile over his shoulder at Meggie.
After the group left, Meggie touched his arm, her eyes holding all the concern in the world. “You’re not going tonight. Come over to watch videos with me.”
Nick appreciated her easy-way-out alternative. Not many girls her age would understand a guy’s need to save face.
But deep in Nick’s heart, he knew where he’d have to be tonight. Facing Chad Spencer. Proving he wasn’t just some poor little foster kid who had no business in Kane’s Crossing.
Chapter One
October, present day
M eg Thornton stared at the man who’d just sauntered into her bakery. Six-feet-plus of leather jacket, cowboy boots and a frown.
“You chased off all my customers,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She clutched the counter, wishing that the families who’d been snacking on coffee, lemonade and pie merely moments ago hadn’t deserted her.
The stranger just watched Meg from behind a pair of sunglasses. She could almost feel his gaze running over her body—at least the part that wasn’t covered by the counter. The sweet little secret growing within her belly was hidden by the Formica countertop and tiled wood, safe for now.
Meg shifted, wondering if her gray sweater had grown too tight during the last month, if he was looking at her slightly swollen chest, judging her as harshly as the rest of Kane’s Crossing did.
When the stranger didn’t answer, Meg narrowed her eyes at him. “May I help you with something?”
She eyed his worn jeans, the hole in one pant leg revealing a glimpse of knee. Her heart stuttered.
What if he wanted to rob her? Not that the cash register was full enough to even buy a new pair of pants, but she had house payments, a baby on the way. Any loss of money would hurt.
A faint smile lingered at the tips of his mouth, probably in reaction to her obvious confusion, but she couldn’t be sure. At any rate, the specter of a grin disappeared, the tension in the room increasing tenfold.
Bitter aroma from a burned cake hung in the air, heavy as gunsmoke. Meg forced her chin up a notch, unwilling to be a victim of his intimidation.
Her voice was louder this time. “I’m not sure if it was you or the burned chocolate that killed the festive atmosphere.”
The stranger took a step forward, scanning the room while his boots scraped against her floor. “Maybe it was your good mood that did the chasing.”
His voice was low and gravely, the kind of voice that scratched down her skin in all the right places.
What was with this guy? In any other town but Kane’s Crossing, she’d be afraid. Here, against the scape of her already tumultuous life, he was nothing more than a dark storm cloud. Her bravery increased in proportion to her anger. “Jeez, you cleared the place. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
He took another step, so close that Meg could see the cleft in his chin, buried beneath a light dusting of stubble. A feeling of familiarity assailed her. Slowly, he took off his glasses, stealing Meg’s breath away.
Eyes as hot as the blue tip of a lightening bolt. Pale, fathomless in their clarity. But why did she feel as if he hadn’t doffed those shutter-like shades at all? He was no easier to read.
He just stood there, as if anticipating a reaction of some sort. Well, what did he expect? Maybe women all over the country sighed and collapsed at his feet when he ta-dahed and removed his glasses, but she’d never been one of the crowd anyway.
She used her words like a balled fist. “May. I. Help. You?”
This time there was a smile—a pensive tilt that lowered his gaze to his hands. Hands strong enough to break her heart in two if she was fool enough to allow him access. And that would never happen again, she promised herself. Not with any man, no matter how swoon-worthy the subject.
From a black-vinyl booth tucked into the bakery’s corner, Deacon Chaney, the so-called town “loser,” popped out his head. Great. At least some entertainment was being provided for her remaining customer.
The old man looked ready to shuffle through the stranger’s ID and wallet. “Well, kiss my pink places,” he bellowed. “You’d think this was the O.K. Corral here.”
The thought of this stranger just strolling into her place of business and emptying the room with his gunfighter stance irked Meg. “Listen. Maybe you’re that heavy breather who takes great pride in giving me prank phone calls twice a week. Maybe you’re just in here for a titillating little scare. Either way, you’re setting me on edge, and I’m about to call the sheriff.”
Yeah, as if Sheriff Carson would come running to her aid. He despised her about as much as the rest of this morally superior town did.
The stranger’s gaze lingered over her every feature, leaving a trail of heat. The resulting blush swallowed the rest of her body in one languid flame. Meg’s instincts told her to run to the back room and never come out again.
But she’d never run away. Not from this town, not from this man.
“You obviously didn’t hear me when I said I’m calling the sheriff,” she said, hoping he’d do the running.
The man actually laughed. Sort of. It was more like a chuff than an expression of mirth. “The sheriff in this place isn’t worth fool’s gold.” He started to put his shades back on, then reconsidered and shoved them into his flannel-shirted pocket. As Meg stared in disbelief, he perched on one of the bar stools, leaned on the counter and ran a thumb and forefinger over his stubble. After a second, he laughed again and shook his head.
His identity balanced on the tip of her tongue, but she still couldn’t place his face. She thought she knew this man.
She caught his glance once more and, after something jabbed her heart, just as quickly found a spot on the counter to stare at. Had she somehow caused the pain she saw in those startling blue eyes?
He looked so darned run-down Meg couldn’t stop a rush of pity from overwhelming her. She wasn’t sure how to apologize for misjudging him, so she poured a cup of coffee and set it on the counter. A peace offering.
Something was bothering this man, and the soft part of her wanted to comfort him.
Who was he? Maybe his familiarity came from the way he moved like a stream of mercury in motion. Maybe it was those eyes, the hurt. Hurt she knew all too well.
The stranger accepted the coffee, drinking it black and bitter. Meg backed away from the counter, crossing her arms over her chest, biting her lip. What could she say to this guy? Usually, she didn’t have much trouble with small talk. She’d perfected it with the tourists who frequented her struggling bakery. The regular citizens of this town hardly bothered with her—not unless they wanted to poke some fun at the “town witch,” the unwed mother-to-be who wouldn’t give out the identity of her baby’s father.
Much to her surprise, the stranger broke the tension between them. “Seen Chad Spencer around?”
The name jolted her. “Not lately.”
When Deacon Chaney spoke up, Meg whipped her head toward the sound, almost having forgotten the elderly man was still in the room.
“Who’s asking?” He sat on the edge of the booth’s seat, his clothes hanging from his frame like rags draped over a scarecrow’s cross.
The stranger hesitated. “An old…friend.”
That voice ran over her body like a physical sensation. When had mere words ever been so sexy?
She shook herself mentally and tried to chase away the intimate air he brought to the room. “Are you from Kane’s Crossing?”
“I don’t claim this town.” His jaw, cut like the edges of a steel trap, tensed. Snapped shut.
That was enough information for Mr. Chaney. “Chad’s off cavorting in Europe, can-canning with the cream of the crop, I gather. Town’s better off without him, I suppose.”
“Don’t say things like that.” Meg didn’t mean to scold, but you just didn’t talk like that about the all-powerful Chad Spencer, high school quarterback hero of Kane’s Crossing. All-state college player. King of the family’s myriad of businesses. Pride of the town. Golden boy supreme.
Mr. Chaney pursed his lips and disappeared into the gaping black hole of the booth.
“Any idea when Spencer will be back?” asked the stranger.
Meg started busying herself, afraid to stand still, to give away the shaking that had started in the pit of her stomach and had coursed to the tips of her quaking fingers. She rattled around the dishes, not intending to answer the stranger’s question.
She hated that she was so nervous. Nervous because she hoped her secret would stay hidden when Chad returned to town.
A blur of colorful clothing fogged the bakery doorway, causing the bells to sound like giggling children poking fun at the town unfortunate. Four men entered.
Sonny Jenks was the first to bare a tobacco-stained grin. “Woo-hoo! What do we have behind door number one?”
Junior Crabbe poked his grubby baseball-hatted head out from behind Sonny and his dirt-caked T-shirt. “We have us the town whore! Say, Witchy Poo, where ya hidin’ that bundle of joy?”
Meg felt the stranger stiffen beside her. She hoped he wouldn’t do anything rash; after all, she put up with this garbage all the time. She’d learned to live with it since grade-school summers, when these boys had followed Chad around the town like fungi on a heel.
“Junior, you’re letting in the cold air,” she answered, struggling for calm. “In or out. And if it’s in, you’d better buy something.”
Two more men leaned against the wall. Meg could tell by the way they weaved that they’d had a tipple or two in the bar down the street. One of the guys, Gary Joanson, stared at the floor the whole time.
Sonny scratched his armpit. “What do you boys think? Do ya feel like buyin’ a magical cupcake from Chad’s castoff?”
Meg couldn’t stop the stranger as he bolted from his seat to loom in front of the good old boys. Sonny backed up. The stranger followed, causing the other man to cower against the wall.
Great. A rumble in the bakery. Kane’s Crossing had hit the big time. “Now, don’t do that, Mister—”
At the sound of her voice, the dark man peered over his shoulder and held up a finger, an emotional storm rolling over his features.
“Nobody talks to you like this, Meggie. Not now, not ever.”
Meg was so worried about a fight starting that she almost overlooked one fact.
Only one person had ever called her “Meggie.”
Aw, hell. Five minutes back in Meggie Thornton’s company and he’d already said too much. That’s the reason Nick Cassidy valued minimal conversation—you were bound to give out an excess of information at some point. And he liked to keep his agendas private. Very private.
The gutless wonder he’d pinned against the wall looked in need of a good cuff or two, but Nick wasn’t about to start a row in the town that had labeled him a criminal so many years ago. He wasn’t here to start fights with minions of Chad Spencer. He wanted the big boy himself.
Nick hovered closer to his new pal. “I don’t hear you apologizing to the lady.”
The man squeaked. Right. All talk and no action. Spencer’s buddies were bravest when their fearless leader was around.
“Hey,” Nick said, making sure a growl lingered just below his words, “I don’t speak chicken. Did you say something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry’?”
Meggie’s voice called him away from his immediate anger. “Sonny, Junior, just leave, okay?”
Sonny and Junior. Nick remembered them well. Two brain-dead little teenagers who’d helped Chad Spencer in making Nick’s life hell.
He clenched a fist.
Nick knew his temper was upsetting Meggie, and that’s the last thing he wanted. Idiot. Why had he even come in the bakery? He should’ve just strolled into Spencer’s Bank and gotten his information there. Meggie would never approve of what he wanted to do to Spencer. At least, not the Meggie he used to know, the butterfly who preferred skimming the high grass of distant meadows to giving Spencer the justice he deserved.
The cronies hesitated, then, with a nod from Sonny, they left with threatening glances. All but one, that is. The smallest guy lingered, then followed his friends.
Now that the trash had been taken out, Nick turned around to watch Meggie again. Hell, he couldn’t get enough of her. Same stubborn chin, same ribbon-curled red hair, same marble-green eyes. Yet now, with the passage of years, her chin seemed lowered, her hair a less vibrant shade, her eyes clouded with a pain he wanted to brush away. And her willowy body, once so free and spirited, wasn’t the same. The Meggie he knew had never worn baggy gray sweaters. Her evident loss of childlike wonder clutched at his heart, but he was experiencing a totally different, unexpected feeling at the same time. A pull, a pounding in his belly. More than the innocent companionship a summer friend had felt.
He averted his gaze from her, thinking he had no right to feel anything for Meggie. She no doubt remembered a fourteen-year-old boy who’d been thrown out of town for bombing Chaney’s Drugstore. Why would she possibly welcome him back to Kane’s Crossing?
And, most important of all, he wondered what those cronies had meant by calling her “Chad’s castoff.”
Nick hoped to God it didn’t mean what he thought it did. He wasn’t sure he could stand the thought of his childhood friend in the arms of the enemy.
When he turned back to her, Meggie was shaking her head, fists propped on her hips. Nick felt a powerful heat steal through his body at this glimpse of her returning feistiness.
She said, “I can’t believe this.”
He ducked his head, feeling like a dog being reprimanded for chasing skunks. “Sorry, ma’am.” Maybe he could play this down, just leave, pretend as though he’d never stood outside the bakery, staring at the sign, wishing he could see Meggie again.
“Nick Cassidy?”
Her voice broke on the end of his last name. It wasn’t the one he’d been born with, but who the hell cared. He’d located his real parents years ago, and the disappointment of their reality still ripped his self-respect to shreds every time he thought about it.
A haunted shade cooled Meggie’s gaze. He’d give anything—the millions of dollars he’d made from his ridiculously successful business ventures, even the shirt off his back—to still her sadness. Usually, words rammed against his lips, anxious to escape from the prison of his mind. But, right now, he was truly speechless, and the silence weighing over their heads felt even more oppressive.
He wanted to walk to her, run his thumb over her soft-looking skin, trace the light freckles he remembered. He wondered if she still had those playful flecks of color on her cheeks. If he could just get close enough to smell the strawberry-tart scent he remembered so well, he’d be able to see for himself. But he didn’t dare. Best to just leave.
Nick started to turn around, to exit the bakery and make Meggie a distant memory, but the elderly man from the corner booth blocked his way. He seemed so familiar…
“Cassidy?” the man asked, watery eyes intense with a purpose Nick didn’t understand.
Nick fit his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. It was habit. An I-don’t-give-a-hoot gesture he’d perfected through the journey of too many foster homes.
The old man’s mouth twitched, then he grunted and left the building. The bells echoed through the air, mocking Nick with their laughter.
“That was Mr. Chaney,” said Meggie. “You probably remember him.”
Was that accusation in her voice? Of course. When they’d hauled him out of town, with Spencer and his buddies snickering behind the sight of red-and-blue cop car lights, Nick had never gotten the chance to talk to anyone—not his foster mom or dad…not even their son, Sam.
Or Meggie.
He’d never been able to explain that Spencer had invited him to Chaney’s Drugstore to fight, but, instead, had set off a homemade bomb. Everyone in Kane’s Crossing had believed Spencer when he accused Nick of exploding the device. Nick had been there, he’d seen it destroy the building, and who was going to believe the rantings of the town hard-luck case when the town golden boy was accusing him of a crime?
His foster parents had been so sick with disappointment, they’d refused to see him; they’d even called off their plans to adopt him into their family. Even Sam, whom Nick had just about worshiped with a younger foster brother’s devotion, had refrained from contacting him. The state of Kentucky had moved Nick to another home after he’d served some time in a juvenile delinquent facility.
But now he was back in town to right some wrongs. The car crash he’d lived through mere months ago had given him some perspective, had made him realize that there was a little town in the middle of America that still thought the worst of him. He couldn’t live with himself knowing that he’d never erased this falsehood. Clearing his name and serving justice to Spencer on one of his own silver spoons became top priority.
He gritted his teeth. What the hell, Meggie deserved at least some explanation. “I see this place hasn’t forgotten my name.”
“How could they? You’re an urban legend in a provincial town. Almost a celebrity.”
Her tone teetered on the edge of sarcasm, and his crusade against Spencer increased twofold. Even Meggie had been infected by Spencer’s lies. Nick felt something in the area of his heart crack, but he stiffened his jaw and narrowed his eyes to fight the feeling. “You’ve made up your mind.”
Meggie’s eyes flashed, and she stepped to the end of the counter. For the first time, Nick saw the slight roundness of her stomach. He felt the wind get knocked out of him.
Do ya feel like buyin’ a magical cupcake from Chad’s castoff?
Say, Witchy Poo, where ya hidin’ that bundle of joy?
Dear, God, please have him be wrong.
She said, “It’s pretty easy to form an opinion over the course of years. Have you finally come back to explain yourself, Nick?”
Explain himself? He didn’t play the explaining game. “Whatever I have to say would fall on deaf ears.” He couldn’t stop his gaze from straying to her belly.
A short laugh cut the air when she noticed his scrutiny. “Oh, great. You’re curious, too. Don’t even ask.”
He kept his mouth shut. It’s what he knew how to do best, and it frequently kept him out of more trouble than he was worth.
“So?” She reached up to skim a red curl away from the corner of an eye, but she couldn’t hide the tremble of her finger. “Why did you come back?”
Why? Because he wanted to see justice done. Because he wanted to find his foster family, to see if they’d come to forgive him for a crime he didn’t commit in the first place.
Yes, he was guilty of never trying to contact them—their rejection had stung too much the first time to give them another chance to hurt him again—but surely the passage of years had lent them some sense of leniency.
He clenched his jaw, unwilling to answer her simple question. Simple. He almost laughed at the word. Nothing was ever simple.
Meggie chuckled, but the accompanying smile was far from happy. “I assume your return has something to do with your childhood buddy. Why are you looking for Chad?”
She’d whispered the name, but somehow it seemed to crash through the room like a wrecking ball. “No reason.”
“Right.”
He didn’t want it to be like this with Meggie. He wanted summer rains experienced from the shelter of a small cave. He wanted cool dips in the local swimming hole and long talks about the future as the sun braided the sky into a bluish-orange sunset. He wanted the girl who laughed in the face of anyone who dared call her “Witchy Poo.” But that girl was gone.
Meggie sighed, and he related to her frustration. He’d never suffered a tied tongue around her because she’d always understood him.
“Have you gone by your old home?”
Evidently, she’d given up her attempt to wheedle information out of him. “No one was there.”
“It’s too bad, you know. It used to be such a neat house, all comfy with those flower beds and the huge lawn. Now it’s just…”
Her eyes had gone all dark, almost like water from a Venetian canal, littered with so much beneath the surface. In all his travels, weighed by a rucksack and too many painful memories, he’d never seen a green like Meggie’s eyes. He’d done his damnedest to erase his memories after he’d earned his way through college, crossing Europe in second-class train cars, crashing night after night in youth hostels. But instead of filling his head with the beauty of new experiences, his adventures had only succeeded in feeding his hate for Spencer. After all, he’d never have run away from his real world if he hadn’t been thrown out in the first place.
All those roads he’d walked only led to one place— Kane’s Crossing. Back to a tiny, loving home he’d lived in for one shining year, enough time to know he was capable of having a chance to be loved by foster parents and a brother who would’ve hung the moon for his younger sibling.
He rehooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “What do you mean my house ‘used to be’ so cozy?”
“You don’t know?” Her eyes widened, teared up.
Nick shook his head, steeling himself for bad news.
“I thought somehow someone would’ve told you. Your foster parents died about five years ago.”
It felt as if an invisible force had jump-kicked him square in the chest. Stunned, he could only think to look away, to hide the pain he knew was marking his face like a bloody wound. Gone? He’d always meant to come back someday, to thank his foster parents for their glimmer of hope and acceptance. And now it was too late.
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
