A Man to Hold on to (A Tallgrass Novel) (21 page)

Things were fluttering inside her: not panic, but emotions, pleasure, serious affection. How had that happened in less than a week? Serious affection was supposed to take time, to grow slowly, to be built on shared experiences and goals and a deep understanding of who the other person was.

But within a few hours of meeting Paul, she’d been in bed with him, and by the end of that first meeting, she’d known she was in love. Months of sharing experiences, goals, and understanding had done nothing but strengthen it.

The fluttering intensified. “We’ve got kids. Jacob and Abby don’t even like me most of the time, and their loyalty to their father’s memory is intense. On top of that, I don’t even know if Abby will still be here in a few weeks, and I don’t know whether that would be a good thing or a really bad one.”

Keegan paced a few yards away, then turned back and dragged his hand through his hair. “Look, Therese, about the only answer I have is to the question you asked me. Why am I still here. I’m here because of you. What comes of that, whether anything comes of it, I don’t know. But we’re adults, and acknowledging something has to be better than not acknowledging it.” Then he grinned, the slow, sweet grin she was sure he’d inherited from his charmer of a father. “You wouldn’t want to send me back to Polk without exploring this thing between us, would you? For all you know, this could be fate.”

“Or a disaster.”

His grin broadened. “At worst, we’ll have some fun.”

No, at worst, she could get her heart broken. Falling in love with a soldier who was raising a two-year-old daughter on his own…another child abandoned by her mother…Lord, if things went horribly wrong, she could find herself raising a third child who wasn’t hers, with all the responsibilities of being a mother and none of the pleasures of being a mom.

And never having babies of her own.

As if reading her mind, he shoved his hands in his hip pockets. “At least I can promise you’d never have to be responsible for Mariah. My mom thinks she’s the best gift since her last grandchild. She’s more than willing to raise her.”

A grandparent who loved being a grandparent. That was a novelty in her life lately.

But practicing a relationship with Keegan was one thing. Any mistakes made in practice wouldn’t haunt her forever. All she’d planned to do with him was get herself accustomed to being single and available and looking again. A date, sure. Dinner, some kisses, naturally. Sex? Judging by how much she’d wanted him to kiss her the night before, almost a guarantee.

But a real relationship, risking her heart, risking the already fragile situation in her home…

“It’s kind of scary, isn’t it?” His chuckle was rueful. “Believe me, I didn’t come here intending to get involved with anyone. But things happen when they happen. You accept it and take advantage of it, or you don’t. And if you don’t…”

She would wonder. Always wonder. And regret.

With a shriek of delight, Mariah charged across the sand, curls bobbing, and climbed onto the bench beside Therese. She smelled like a sweaty, happy little puppy. “I’m hungry. Can we eat supper?”

Moving on automatic pilot, Therese picked up the girl’s sandals, brushed her feet, then slid them on. “What are you hungry for?”

“Monkey toes!”

“Monkey toes?” She directed that at Keegan, and he shrugged sheepishly.

“Monkey bread. My nephews used to climb like crazy when they were tiny. As long as their feet were bare, they could grab hold of anything, like monkeys. It became a family nickname for all four of them and somehow became the name of the bread, too.”

“Much better than fish-face or jerk.” Taking Mariah’s hand, Therese helped her from the bench and started toward the gate. Once they cleared it, Keegan moved beside her and, as if he’d done it a hundred times, took her other hand. The flush of warmth that spread through her was almost indecent. “I think we can manage monkey toes for dessert, but you have to eat regular food first, sweetie. Would you eat fried liver?”

Mariah’s nose wrinkled, and she hopefully said, “I like fried chicken.”

“Fried skunk?”

“No, Trace, fried chicken. You know,
er-er-er-ooo!
”

Therese laughed at the free hand tucked into Mariah’s armpit to mimic a wing, the bobbing head, and exaggerated high steps she took. “Okay, fried chicken. What do you want with it? Cauliflower, broccoli, Brussels sprouts?”

The hopefulness remained in the little girl’s face. “Celly makes mashed ’taters and gravy and biscuits, and I eat the drumsticks.
Only
the drumsticks.”

“Okay.” Therese looked at Keegan. “Is fried chicken all right with you?”

“And monkey toes for ’zert,” Mariah reminded her.

“Fried chicken’s fine.”

Fine.
It was an overused, underrated word, but this warm Friday evening, with the fragrance of spring in the air, the kids happily preoccupied elsewhere, and Keegan’s big, strong hand holding hers, Therese thought it just might be the best word possible.

Dinner was over, the dishwasher humming, and a freshly bathed Mariah was kneeling on a tall stool at the kitchen island, watching with a gleam in her brown eyes as Therese laid out the stuff for monkey bread. She wore another T-shirt, this one Therese’s, tied and knotted the same way as the night before, and her hair was still damp from the bath she’d required after spilling gravy from somewhere around her upper lip all the way down to her toes.

Keegan sat on the stool next to her, making a mental note to pack some of her clothes in a bag to keep in the car. He’d never noticed at home that she tended to wear as much food as she ate.

He’d made a point of not noticing.

Therese set two cans of biscuits on the island, put butter in a saucepan to melt, and mixed sugar and cinnamon in a bowl. There was nothing special about the way she did things—quickly, efficiently—but he liked watching her move. She was graceful in the same way his mother was. The kitchen was Ercella’s domain, and like her, Therese hardly seemed to think but simply did.

“Is your mother the only grandparent in Mariah’s life?” Therese peeled the paper from one biscuit can, popped it open, then repeated the process with the second.

“Yeah. Sabrina grew up in the foster-care system. Her father was in prison, her mother had drug problems and lost custody when she was nine. She was in three or four homes, plus a group home, but she never felt like she belonged, like she was wanted. She took off on her own when she was fifteen.”

Therese’s brow wrinkled, and her eyes darkened. Thinking about all the unfortunate kids with parent issues? Or her desire to give up on her stepkids after everyone else had already done the same? Keegan had no doubt she saw it as one more abandonment and probably thought he did, too, after his surprise when she’d told him.

It wasn’t. He understood. She wasn’t the sort to walk away from responsibilities and obligations, and she hated seeing her husband’s kids as either of those things. If she felt she had no choice but to give them up, she really had no choice.

He’d just been…
Disappointed
seemed as good a word as any. Some part of him had still been nursing the hope, however unreasonable and unlikely, that he would be able to pass off Mariah to her father’s family, after all. Stupid, he knew. Why would any woman agree to raise the illegitimate daughter from her dead husband’s affair when she was already saddled with two legitimate children from his previous marriage? Yes, she was maternal; yes, she was responsible; yes, she’d loved Matheson…though maybe not so much if she ever found out about the affair.

But there were limits to what a maternal, responsible woman could do.

And, truthfully, he hadn’t realized things were quite so bad between her and the kids. Sure, he’d seen Abby being snotty, but wasn’t that part of being a teenager? Hadn’t her behavior reminded him of his own sisters at her age? Though, for all their drama, neither Martha nor Daisy had ever been disrespectful to their mother.

There must be a lot going on that he knew nothing about to drive Therese to even consider such a decision.

She laid out the biscuit rounds on a plastic cutting mat, then pulled a rectangular piece of metal from a drawer, offering it by its plastic handle to Mariah. “You want to cut the biscuits?”

Mariah drew back, hands folded together. “No knives. Celly says.”

“It’s called a chop and scoop. It’s not sharp, see? It won’t cut you, but it’ll cut the dough.” She pressed it against her own skin, then used it to neatly quarter one of the biscuits.

Mariah darted a look at Keegan, then gingerly took the tool. After running her finger along the edge, she grinned and made two crooked cuts in a biscuit. With a nod of encouragement from Therese, she attacked the rest.

“I know a tremendous number of wonderful parents,” Therese remarked as she watched, “and some who are so-so. But bad parents…”

He didn’t need to hear the sadness in her voice to know she was including herself, at least a little, in that last group. He was grateful, given what she knew of his relationship with Mariah, she didn’t include him, as well.

The beep of his cell phone signaling a text came as a welcome interruption. He read the screen, then grinned. “Mom’s fixing jambalaya and cornbread for Ford tomorrow. If he’s not already feeling better, he will be after that.”

“Good for what ails you, huh?”

From beside him came a tuneless line. “Jambalaya, crawfish pie-uh…” Apparently those were the only words of the song Mariah knew. She trailed off and sucked her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on her task.

“I bet you make the best jambalaya in the Logan family,” Therese said. “After your mother, of course.”

“Mine’s not even close, but it’s pretty darn good. Give me your kitchen tomorrow or Sunday, and I’ll show you.”

“How about Sunday evening?” Her look was challenging. Doubting his cooking ability?

“It’s a deal.”

For the next few minutes she ignored him while she and Mariah coated the biscuit pieces in cinnamon sugar, then dropped them into a baking dish. She added brown sugar to the melted butter, poured it over the biscuits, put the pan in the oven, and set the timer. “Twenty to twenty-five minutes until the monkey toes are done. Now what do we do?”

Keegan could think of plenty of things, but the question was directed to Mariah, who gave it a lot of thought if her wrinkled forehead was anything to go by. “Where are the toys?”

“Oh, honey, Abby and Jacob don’t have any toys. Not the kind you mean.”

That didn’t faze the kid. “We play in Abby’s room.”

“Um, no. Abby doesn’t like her things disturbed.”

“Read me a story?”

“I don’t think we have any little kids’ books, sweetie.” She glanced at Keegan. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but…You want to watch TV? We have On Demand. I’m sure we can find something you like there.”

“On Demand! Yay!” Mariah grabbed his arm, using it to balance herself as she slid to the floor, then took off for the living room at the only speed she had: fast. Long after she let go, he felt the imprint of her tiny hands.

A bad mother, a dead father, grandparents who didn’t know of—and likely wouldn’t care about—her existence, and no other family to care…The poor kid hadn’t gotten the best shot at life. But it didn’t have to matter. It didn’t have to mean that she’d grow up to be like Sabrina or Matheson’s ex-wife. She could still be happy and loved, and if things worked out between him and Therese, she could know her half sister and half brother, even if she couldn’t know their true relationship. She could have a normal life.

All he had to do was accept her. Stop trying to find a way to unload her on someone else. Stop trying to protect himself.

If he could. If he could keep the secret of her parentage. If he could take the risk of loving her. And losing her.

Wasn’t that a risk everyone faced? There were no guarantees when it came to caring about someone. People died, they went missing, they became complete strangers and never found their way back to the people who loved them.

You’re the adult,
his mother had told him more than once.
You’re the grown-up,
thirteen-year-old Abby had snootily informed him the night they met. He had coping skills, family, and friends to fall back on.

It was up to him to make sure Mariah had the same things.

Cooking breakfast was a Saturday-morning tradition in Therese’s house. The rest of the week, they made do with cold cereal, instant oatmeal, or energy bars, but on Saturdays she made eggs, bacon, pancakes, hash browns, whatever struck their fancy. Okay, so
made
wasn’t entirely accurate. Once a month she mixed the dry ingredients for pancakes and stored them in the pantry, and though she added her own touches, the hash browns started with frozen potato shreds. Still, it was a tradition.

One that held absolutely no appeal when she was the only one in the house. Silence ruled, broken only by the occasional hum of the refrigerator motor or the hot water heater kicking on in the utility closet. No muted sounds of virtual-reality combat drifting from Jacob’s room, no slamming drawers or stomps from Abby’s room. Just quiet that was somehow a little more peaceful than it had been a week ago.

Sliding onto a stool at the island, she picked off a chunk of leftover monkey bread—
monkey toes,
she could hear Mariah insisting—and stuffed it into her mouth. It was a little stale on the outside, but a swallow of coffee helped it go down.

After forty-five minutes of cartoons, the girl had beamed when they returned to the kitchen to fill their plates with warm, sticky bread. Keegan had lifted her onto this same stool—Therese made a mental note to check her clothes for sugar/butter stains when she got up—and after giving him the shyest of smiles, Mariah had gobbled three pieces before proclaiming them the best monkey toes she’d ever eaten.

Then she’d leaned close to Keegan and whispered, “But Celly’s are better.”

Therese smiled now as she’d done then. Sweets baked by a grandmother always tasted better than those made by a woman the child hardly knew. Mariah didn’t have a clue about Therese’s role in her life. She might be momentarily bereft when they went home, though the promise of Celly waiting for her at the end of the trip would negate that, but in two weeks, two months, two years, she would have completely forgotten Therese, Abby, and Jacob.