Lucky Penny (24 page)

It had been a hard day for Brianna, and she yearned to follow the child into slumber. Instead she kept her eyes wide open, waited a few more minutes, and then carefully slipped from the bed. If she meant to tell Paxton the
real
truth about Daphne’s parentage, she needed to do it while the little girl slept. In time, when Daphne grew old enough to understand what had happened without thinking Moira had been in any way to blame, Brianna would tell her the story, but for now she felt it was best kept a secret.

Arms crossed over his well-padded chest and booted feet hooked at the ankles, Paxton appeared to be sleeping
when Brianna reached him. “Mr. Paxton?” she said softly, so as not to awaken Daphne.

He didn’t jerk with a start, which told her he either had nerves of steel or he’d heard her approach. Nudging up his hat, he fixed her with a penetrating gaze and said, just as softly, “The name’s David. Don’t you think our daughter is going to find it a bit odd if you don’t use it?”

“That’s just the problem. Don’t you see? Daphne truly isn’t your daughter.” Seeing him tense, Brianna threw up a hand. “Please don’t lose your temper. I know you warned me not to say that again.” She was so nervous, she caught herself wringing her hands. “I—um—need to talk to you, Mr. Paxton. Everything I told you yesterday”—Brianna glanced over her shoulder to be sure Daphne hadn’t stirred—“was mostly lies, you see. You guessed right about that. Now, rather than let this situation continue, I feel compelled to tell you the actual truth, a story I’ve never told another living soul.”

Well, now, this sounded interesting. David sat up and righted his hat. He’d seen some nervous women in his time, but Brianna looked ready to shake apart at the seams. His jacket, which swallowed her, quivered around her thighs. She kept interlacing her fingers, digging in hard with her nails, and then giving her wrists a twist to pop her fragile knuckles. His made a loud sound when he did that. Her tiny bones made dainty little clicks.

“Not
here
,” she implored as she sent a glance over her shoulder. “I can’t risk Daphne overhearing. Would you stroll down the stream a ways with me?”

David pushed to his feet and stabbed his fingers under his belt to tuck in his shirttails. If she meant to tell him the absolute truth, why was she so all-fired het up about it? His first thought was that she’d dreamed up another tall tale, hoping he’d believe her this time. Not a chance. He could see a lie coming from a mile off.

Even so, he agreed to walk downstream with her. With every step she grew more fidgety. He wasn’t sure if it came from being alone with him, out of Daphne’s earshot if she screamed, or if she dreaded having to launch into her story.

She stopped at a bend in the waterway where the grassy banks closed in on a spread of pebbles to create a musical trickle. To their right, a large rock jutted up from the earth, its top as smooth and round as a cornmeal muffin. Folding his arms, David waited for her to start talking. She stared into the frothy brook, both hands flattened against her waist, her throat working as she struggled to push out the words.

“Well, Shamrock, are you going to say something or chew on it until tomorrow?”

She glanced up, and David saw with a clench of his guts that her green eyes swam with tears. Her mouth, which had tempted him from the start, quivered and drew down at one corner. If this was an act, she should have pursued a stage career.

“When I was born, I had an identical twin,” she finally blurted.

Okay, David could buy that. He hadn’t met many twins, but he knew they existed.

“Our parents left us on an orphanage doorstep when we were infants.” She closed her eyes, sending a silvery trickle down each pale cheek. “They left only a note to tell the nuns our names, Brianna and Moira O’Keefe.” She pushed at her hair, which had long since escaped the prudish chignon. Her fingers shook. “Most of the nuns were Irish, and they knew our given names and surname were of Irish origin. Moira—” She broke off, as if speaking of her sister pained her. “Moira and I truly were identical physically. Even the nuns had trouble telling us apart. We made a game of it, Moira and I.” She gazed across the prairie, her face twisting even as she smiled wistfully. “It was great fun when we were little, tricking the good sisters. But they always found us out because although we looked exactly alike, Moira and I had different personalities. She was”—she gestured helplessly with a limp hand—“
sweet
and ever so dear, a lady through and through, even as a small child. I don’t believe I ever saw her get angry or sass the sisters. She always did as she was told, and she did it cheerfully. She was the closest thing to an angel on earth that ever walked. But I”—she gulped to steady her voice— “I was just the
opposite, always in trouble, always rebelling, always craving attention the nuns had no time to give me. In short, I was
difficult
.”

David could definitely believe that. She was
still
difficult. The most infuriating female he’d ever dealt with, anyway. And he’d been right about her being Irish.

“It was a cloistered order.” David had been schooled by nuns in San Francisco, so he understood what that meant. “The sisters never left the convent grounds, and only two nuns, Mother Superior and an assigned underling, dealt with tradesmen and other outsiders. We children rarely went beyond the orphanage walls. I was thirsty for knowledge of the world outside, while Moira was content to be isolated from it.”

Okay, it sounded credible so far. But only so far. His experience with this female had been the kind that would make him doubt her word if she told him Christmas fell on December twenty-fifth. And she was awfully tense for someone who was telling the truth. He expected the tale to turn into a whopper at any moment.

He steeled himself against her tears and tremors. He’d seen women who could open the floodgates on a whim and be very convincing. So far, he felt positive this particular female had done nothing but lie to him. He had no reason to take her at face value now.

“And?”

“When we turned eighteen, we were supposed to leave the orphanage. The nuns had tried to prepare us for the outside. They did their best, really they did, but Moira and I were more suited to remain in the cloister, too innocent of worldly ways to survive on the streets. The nuns gave us the duty of doing business with tradesmen and other outsiders in Mother Superior’s stead, unless it involved the induction of a child, in which case she took over. We did routine things like accepting, checking, and paying for deliveries. It allowed us to learn to deal with outsiders, plus we were required to work in the kitchen, helping with food preparation. The nuns did the actual cooking, and afterward we cleaned up. It gave us a way to support ourselves while remaining in the safe confines of the orphanage. Mother Superior
hoped that our exposure to tradesmen and delivery people would gradually prepare us for the real world.”

David was growing impatient.

“Anyway, the kitchen produce and some of our meat was delivered fresh, every other day, by a local farm on the outskirts of Boston. The—the deliveryman was the farmer’s son, a young man named Stanley with blond hair and blue eyes. He came often, bringing huge boxes of vegetables and meat. Being the recalcitrant one who yearned for the
real
world, I found him fascinating. One afternoon we were going over a bill when he took my hand and asked me to meet him in the gardens after he left the kitchen.”

Okay, David sensed where this was going. She was going to tell him she’d gotten pregnant with another guy who had blond hair and blue eyes. Likely, wasn’t it? In the first place the story was too pat, and in the second place he couldn’t imagine Brianna responding to advances with anything but a well-placed kick.

Even so, he listened without reaction, letting her spin her latest yarn.

“Being the unruly one, I said yes.” She bent her head, and David actually saw tears drip to the dirt. “To my eternal regret, I said yes.” Her shoulders jerked. “After that, I met him in the garden several times. Nothing improper happened. Not that he didn’t want it to. I flirted, dodged his advances, and had great fun. To me, it was only a game. He’d try, and I’d keep just out of reach. Sometimes he got angry, but for me that was part of the fun. I knew he had the—the potential to try force, but it never occurred to me, truly it didn’t, that a well-raised young man would ever go that far. But the slight chance of danger was exciting. I teased him out of his pouts and looked forward to sneaking off to meet him again.”

David scuffed at the grass with his bootheel. “Okay, so get on with it. I’m presuming there’s an end to this story and a reason you’re telling it to me.”

Her green eyes looked bruised and hurt. He searched them deeply and refused to let himself believe what he saw there. She’d lied through her teeth yesterday, fighting him tooth and nail before the judge. At this point, he had no
idea what confounded claim she might make next, but punctuating her tale with tears and sniffles wasn’t going to induce him to believe a word of it.

“Go on. I meant for this to be a rest break, not a grand stage production.”

She flinched as if he’d slapped her, and her gaze slid away. Aha. He had her.

“So one day,” he continued for her, “you met the jackass in the garden, and his potential for violence became a reality, right? He threw you down, forced his oafish self upon you, and got you pregnant.” He paused for effect. “How am I doing so far?”

A shudder ripped through her and she sank down on the boulder beside the stream. Clutching her elbows with her hands, she doubled over as if in pain. Slowly, she wagged her head from side to side. David’s eyes narrowed slightly. Either he was underestimating her acting ability, or she was really having a rough time with this. He strongly suspected the former.

“No,” she whispered, so low that he could barely hear her.

He hunkered down beside her and saw the tears hanging on her lashes. She kept her gaze fixed on the ground. He was familiar with that tactic. When people lied, they never wanted to look him in the eye.

“One afternoon, Moira was asked to prune the rosebushes in the garden and collect bouquets for the dining tables. He—he found her out there and mistook her for me. Moira knew I’d been meeting him. She’d never had a beau. She thought it would be fun to trick him into thinking she was me, like we had once done with the nuns. That afternoon—” Brianna put a hand to her throat. “Unlike me, my sweet sister didn’t know how to dance away or tease him out of his sulk, so he dragged her into the conservatory and he—” She gulped. Her knuckles went white with the force of her grip on her skirt.

“He what?”

She shivered again, though the day wasn’t cold. “Oh, God, can’t you guess? He raped her. She fought him. He beat her and choked her and left her for dead.”

Before he could speak, she rushed on. “You have to believe me, Mr. Paxton. I’m telling the truth. Daphne isn’t your child. She isn’t even
mine
.” The words were pouring out of her now. “The nuns pressed charges, but the boy came from a good family. It was his word against Moira’s. He denied any wrongdoing, and his father, who believed him, hired a lawyer and prepared for a fight. The sisters tried to raise money to engage him in court, but they couldn’t get their hands on enough. In the end, that young man got off scot-free.

“The sisters couldn’t have a pregnant girl at the orphanage, not because they didn’t love and want to support Moira, but because it would have made tongues wag. They had to think of the other children and the reputation of the institution. The homes for unwed mothers were full. Moira was sick right from the start, bleeding if she was on her feet for too long, so the nuns did everything they could to keep her with them so they could care for her. They got her on a waiting list at three homes for unmarried mothers, praying that an opening would come available before her condition began to show. It didn’t happen, but still the sisters allowed her to stay, tucking her out of sight when ladies from the parish or other outsiders visited. I thought for a time that Moira might be able to have her baby there, but when she was about six months along, a deliveryman came unannounced, and his eyebrows went up when he saw Moira in the kitchen. He left the orphanage and immediately started blabbing his mouth.

“The sisters had no choice then. Tongues would wag, and they had to get Moira out of there. I understood but I couldn’t let her go alone. I was the
strong
one. I was the
responsible
one. It was my fault. What happened to my sister was
my fault
!” She practically screamed the words, then caught herself, took a shaky breath, and continued in a more controlled voice. “The nuns gave us our things and all the personal money they had. Sadly, they take vows of poverty, and their small monthly stipends often don’t cover their own needs. They promised us more the next month by unanimously voting to cut their food budget by going without breakfasts and lunches. Even so, we left with our clothing
and little else. I was the only one who could work. I found a small room in a tenement building and turned my hand to any toil I could find to keep food in Moira’s mouth.”

David had heard enough. It was a touching story. Under other circumstances, he might have gone for the bait. But as convincing as Brianna had been, Daphne’s physical appearance trumped her mother’s acting ability. Her sweet little face. The birthmark. The slight frowns that pleated her forehead. Dear God, the girl was the very picture of his mother. He couldn’t deny what his own eyes told him, damn it. The child was his.

He shifted his weight onto one bootheel. The emotion that twisted Brianna’s delicate features looked like grief, but it could just as well be guilt for piling lie upon lie.

“Ah,” he said. “So the rest of this story is that poor little Moira died in childbirth. Right? And you have devoted all of your life since to being a saint, fabricating a make-believe husband, finding a position in Colorado, and raising her daughter as your own. That means Daphne isn’t my child. She’s the daughter of some nameless bully who can’t be located to verify the story. Convenient. That lets me off the hook and gives you your out. Gotcha.”