BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) (13 page)

~ Lexi ~

“Your daughter?” I asked.

I was surprised that I was able to speak coherently, given what I’d just discovered.

There were no words in the English language—or any language, for that matter—that could accurately describe how I felt after I saw the photograph of “Sonja” that Butcher held up to the security door only moments earlier.

I was caught off guard, hit by a tidal wave, floored, derailed, and flabbergasted. My world was turned upside down; I was taken for a loop; and, I nearly shit my pants.

I couldn’t believe it. Sonja was a
kid
. A really young, really adorable little kid, who looked a lot like Butcher. She had the same skin tone, the same scruffy mop of brown hair, the same…

When it occurred to me that Sonja was Butcher’s daughter, I was overcome by another round of indescribable emotions. The night before, when I’d kicked Butcher out of my place, I’d assumed that Sonja was his wife, girlfriend, or lover. Oh man, how wrong I was! I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself, and I felt very, very foolish.

And, dear God! On top of all that, I’d called Sonja a “groupie” and a “whore” and said other disparaging things about her. Granted, I didn’t know who she was at the time, but, still, oh, I felt
horrible
about it. And I felt horrible about assuming the worst about Butcher and not giving him the chance to explain himself. I felt horrible about kicking him out, about breaking up with him, about saying all those awful things to him, about—

I felt horrible about everything.

“She’s three years old,” Butcher said, calling my scattered mind to attention. He walked over to the couch, took a seat on it, and set a Manilla envelope down on the coffee table.

“I’m raising her alone,” he went on. “Well, not
alone
—I’ve got my brothers helping me out. But, I mean, I’m raising her as a single parent. Her mother is out of the picture.”

Butcher sat up and grabbed the Manilla envelope he’d just set down. “Actually,” he said, opening it, “she was never really even in the picture.”

I thought about going over and joining Butcher on the couch, but I decided to stay where I was, by the doorway, for just a bit longer. I wanted, or needed, a little distance between us at that moment, and I was trying my best to look at things from a new perspective.

“I don’t even know who she is,” he added a few seconds later, pulling a stack of photos out of the envelope.

Hm. There ya go! That sure was another shocker! Usually, when you hear someone griping about not knowing whom the baby’s other parent is, it isn’t the father talking. My interest was piqued, to say the least, and I let my face convey as much to Butcher.

“I was sound asleep in bed one night, ‘bout two years ago,” Butcher said, looking from me to the pictures, “when all of a sudden, a loud crash woke me. I ran downstairs to see what it was and saw that someone had thrown a brick through my front window.

“I ran to the door to see if the person who’d thrown it was still out there, and as soon as I stepped onto my porch, I heard a car screech off. I couldn’t see what kind of car it was, or make out a license plate. All I saw was a blur of headlights, and nothing else.

“So I was just about to go back into my house, when I heard another high-pitched noise. It was a lot quieter, and a lot closer. I looked to my left—and I couldn’t believe what I saw. There was baby carrier—containing a
baby
—on my porch, not even four feet away.”

I felt goosebumps pop up all over my skin, and shivers went down my spine. I was speechless.

“Needless to say, I was really freaked out,” Butcher continued. “I didn’t know whose baby it was, or why they’d left it there… and I had no idea what to do about it. So I stepped into the house and flicked on the porch light to see if I could make any sense of it all.

“With the light on, I noticed that there was a diaper bag behind the carrier, and there was a piece of paper pinned to it. I reached over the carrier—and over the baby—grabbed the paper, and read it.

“It was a note. It said: ‘Butcher, I started using again. I can’t do it anymore. I’m not ready to be a mom. Please take care of your daughter until I am.’ It was signed ‘D,’ and at the bottom, it said, ‘P.S., Her name is Sonja.’

“I folded the paper and looked down at the baby. For the life of me, I didn’t know ‘D’ was, but I could tell—I could just
tell
—that this baby was mine.”

Butcher stopped looking at the photos and looked at me again. He held the stack out, offering them to me for viewing. I felt drawn to him, and to them, despite my earlier stance on distance and perspective, and I innately began moving toward him.

I sat down next to Butcher and took the stack of photos from his hand. I held them carefully, mindful not to smudge them, and stared down at the top print. I couldn’t help but laugh. Sonja was sitting in a high chair, making a “yucky” face at the mashed-up green goop on the spoon in front of her.

“I won’t bother you with all the complicated details right now,” Butcher went on. “But I did what I had to do. I took Sonja in that night and made a few calls. Within an hour, I had friends at my house helping me take care of her—and within a week, I had DNA test results indicating I was, in fact, her father.

“But who the hell was her mother? Who the hell was ‘D’?  I guess I’ve never really been good with names.”

Naturally, I was reminded of the whole Lexi/Alexis/A. Windsor snafu Butcher and I had had, and in light of what I’d just heard, I concluded that it wasn’t really so bad after all, although it was indicative of a major character flaw or bad pattern.

“At first,” Butcher explained, “my brothers and I tried really hard to figure out who D was and track her down. But we couldn’t find anything, anywhere—and after a few months passed, we stopped trying.

“Sonja was wonderful. She was fabulous. And I liked having her around. I loved her. I didn’t care who D was anymore. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want Sonja anyway. But I did. And
that
was all that mattered.”

I flipped through the stack of photos and saw image after image of the beautiful child who had captivated Butcher’s heart. She was riding on a swing; opening Christmas presents; and offering her ice cream cone to a puppy. There was one of her curled up with a teddy bear, asleep on a blanket; one of her wearing sunglasses, strumming away at a tiny toy guitar; and several more of her looking very happy, very lovable, and very loved.

I was moved, and touched, by the pictures, as well as by Butcher’s story. And for the first time since I’d let Butcher into the building, I felt the confidence and courage to say something that actually expressed what I was feeling.

“Wow, Butcher,” I said, speaking softly. “I’m amazed to hear all of this—and I’m glad you told me, but you could’ve told me sooner. You didn’t have to hide Sonja from me. I would’ve understood. I
do
understand.”

“Well, it’s nothing against
you
,” Butcher replied, “but ya gotta understand, when you have a kid, you have to be extra careful. Children are more sensitive than we are. They have sharper feelings. You can’t bring people into their lives who are gonna just come and go—especially not when the kid already has preexisting abandonment issues, like Sonja does.

“I couldn’t tell you about her because I was afraid you’d want to meet her. And I couldn’t let that happen—not yet. I didn’t know enough about you. I didn’t know if you were gonna just come and go, or if I’d even want you around. So it was easier to lie to you about Sonja than to explain to you that I had a daughter who you couldn’t meet until you proved your mettle.”

Of course I felt a little slighted that Butcher had been testing me, and I still wasn’t completely okay with the fact that he’d lied to me, for any reason, but I could totally understand his protective instinct, and I admired him for it.

“Plus,” Butcher said, leaning forward, over his knees, “there’s more to the story.”

I set the stack of photos down on the coffee table, next to the Manilla envelope, and prepared for whatever Butcher would say next. I was eager to hear, yet concerned and a little frightened.

“Sonja isn’t like most kids,” Butcher went on. “And I’m not just saying that because she’s
my
daughter. I’m saying that because she’s sick. She’s dying.”

~ Lexi ~

“WHAT?” I exclaimed. I couldn’t believe the volume of my own voice and was surprised that Butcher wasn’t startled by it.

“Sonja has a disease called ARPKD,” Butcher explained, unaffected by my loudness. “I only found out about it about six months ago, after she started having some problems. She said her belly hurt all the time, and she kept accidentally peeing her pants, even though she’s potty-trained—and the urine that came out was really, really dark.

“So I took her to the hospital, and they ran some tests. And…”

Butcher trailed off for a moment, and I noticed that he was staring at the stack of photos. The one of Sonja making the “yucky” face was on top again, but now, no one was laughing.

“And they told me she has ARPKD,” Butcher picked up, obviously forcing himself to look away from the coffee table. “It’s a kidney disease, and there’s no cure.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. It wasn’t so much that I was confused by what Butcher said; I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t jumping to the wrong conclusions.

And, unfortunately, I was not.

“Right now, it means that Sonja’s kidneys aren’t working properly,” Butcher answered. “They aren’t filtering her blood they way that they should, and her body isn’t getting rid of the waste and excess fluid it needs to get rid of—and that’s a very bad thing.

“The doctors said that given Sonja’s particular presentation of the disease and the rate at which her kidney function is currently declining, her kidneys only have a few more years left in them before they fail. And when they fail…”

Butcher trailed off again, but he didn’t look back at the photos this time. He just stared off in the other direction and didn’t move his head. I wanted to do something to comfort him, but didn’t know what. Surely there was nothing that I—or anyone but God—could do to ease his agony.

“She needs a new kidney,” Butcher said, slapping his knee and turning to look at me. His eyes were red and his lower lids were swollen a bit. “That’s what it all boils down to… She needs a new kidney.”

My jaw had dropped at some point, and it was still dangling open. I felt it jiggle as I shook my head from side to side. “I, I, I… I,” I stuttered, trying to find the right words to say.

“She’s already on the transplant list,” Butcher said, steering the conversation again. “They put her on it as soon as they realized the severity of her case.”

“So there’s still hope?” I asked. The question kind of just poured from my mouth.

“The average wait time for a kidney is a little over three and a half years,” Butcher replied. “But Sonja’s case isn’t your average case. She has rare blood. Her blood
type
isn’t rare, but it has a rare trait. It carries what are called ‘warm antibodies,’ and
those
are what’s rare. Sonja’s new kidney has to come from someone who has those antibodies, too—and that throws a real big wrench into the equation.

“There’s no way of predicting, or anticipating, how long Sonja will have to wait on the transplant list. A match could turn up tomorrow, or it could never turn up at all.”

Butcher ran his hand over his face and through his hair.

“Of course, I had my blood tested,” he continued. “And so did every single Wolf in good health. But no match.”

My heart ached. I literally felt pain in my chest. The little “yucky” face was staring up at me from the photo, and it made the little voice in my head yell, “WHY?” over and over again.

“We started reinvestigating D,” Butcher said. “We’re trying to figure out who she is, and where she is, so that we can see if she’s a match, or if she has a family member who is. But we haven’t been having any luck with that either.

“So to answer your question… Yes, there
is
still hope. In fact, that’s
all
there is.”

My body uncontrollably, automatically moved toward Butcher, and I leaned over him, wrapped my arms around his neck, and drew his head to my chest. I squeezed him tightly and closed my eyes, and just as I felt his tears pool on my breasts, I, too, began to cry.

Like most people, I cringed at the mere
thought
of a dying child. And now, met with the reality of one, I felt absolutely devastated, broken, and mad. Even though I’d never met Sonja, I saw her face—“yucky,” smiling, and taking in the wonders of the world—and I couldn’t imagine how, or why, something so young, innocent, and beautiful could be plucked from this life before it had the chance to bloom. It seemed unfair, unjust, and just “not right.”

As I held Butcher close to me and wept with him, I thought again of how I’d acted the night before regarding his phone call with Sonja. That embarrassment, shame, and foolishness that overwhelmed me earlier rushed over me once more, and it bred with my sorrow and pain. The “horribleness” I’d felt not even twenty minutes ago was nothing compared to the horribleness I felt now.

Again, I wanted to do something—anything—to comfort Butcher, but didn’t know what. Only a miracle from God could ease his agony—and I, obviously, was not God. So what could
I
do?

I wasn’t a doctor, so I couldn’t prescribe a remedy or cure for Sonja.

I wasn’t a psychiatrist or therapist, so I couldn’t tell Butcher how to deal with his feelings, or hers.

I wasn’t a parent, so I couldn’t give him any parenting tips or advice, and I couldn’t even relate to the connection he felt to his child.

I wasn’t a lot of things—and there was a lot I simply could not do.

All I was, was a reporter, a journalist. All I knew how to do was get the scoop.

Really? What could
I
do?

I squeezed Butcher even tighter and rested my head against his—then it hit me. The moment our heads came together, I had a thought…

There
was
something I could do to help.