Revenge (29 page)

Sneaking a glance at Jenner, she wished she could read his mind. Without expression, he leaned forward and squinted at the boy under the faded blue blanket.

 

Jenner was determined to prove her a fake. One look at the kid and he was certain he'd know the boy didn't belong to him. But standing in the hallway, he'd begun to second-guess himself.

Could she be telling the truth? Could that little bit of a human be my son, for God's sake?
For the first time since Beth had charged into his father's den at the ranch, Jenner began to doubt his own convictions. Not that there was any resemblance that he could determine—the fact that the kid was white and had pale hair didn't mean a thing—but there was something about the woman, her aura of determination and hostility, that bothered him.

Unwillingly he admitted that he admired her grit. He'd insulted her, tried to reject her, and she'd given as well as she got. But to think that this two-year-old... He glanced at her. While gazing at her son, her expression had softened. It was obvious she adored the child, so why would she put him at risk and claim he was Jenner's?

For money?

Because she still harbored some feelings for him?

For revenge?

She had to know that the McKee wealth could bring her—along with her child—to her knees. She risked being exposed as a fraud, an unwed mother trying to scam a rich man, a woman with no moral standards who didn't deserve the child she'd borne. The McKee team of lawyers were merciless and would tear her story and reputation to shreds if they were ever unleashed. She wasn't stupid; surely she must realize how tenuous her position was.

Disgusted at the turn of his thoughts, Jenner stepped aside as she quietly closed the door. He didn't move from the hallway. “You know, you never answered my question earlier.”

“What question?”

“I asked you what you wanted from me.”

Her gaze, which had been rock steady, slid away. “I came back because your grandmother thought you'd want to meet your son. Now that it's done—”

“It's not done. I haven't met him yet.” He rubbed a hand impatiently around the back of his neck. “I want you to bring him to see me tomorrow.”

“I don't know—”

He couldn't stop himself from reaching forward and gripping her arm. He felt the involuntary tightening of her muscles and saw a spark in her gray-green eyes. “You started this,” he reminded her in a harsh whisper.

“Did I?” She tossed her hair away from her face. “It started three years ago, Jenner. And I wasn't alone.”

“Well, it's time to finish it then, isn't it?”

“Finish it?”

Was it his imagination or did she tremble a little? “Bring the boy to my apartment.”

“I thought you were living at the ranch.”

“Not anymore. I've got an apartment in Doc Fletcher's old clinic on Pine and—”

“I know where it is,” Beth said. “And I remember the doctor. He took out my tonsils right before I entered kindergarten and set my broken arm after I fell off my friend Mary's old horse when I was twelve. And, if I'm not mistaken, he's probably the one who informed your father that he was about to become a granddaddy.”

Again the fire in her eyes, and Jenner wondered how it was possible that he'd made love to this woman and barely remembered her. “Just come around, okay?” he asked, his voice more gentle than it had been. “I should meet him.”

“And then what?”

“I wish I knew,” he admitted as the shape of his future seemed to change before his eyes. Not only was he a cripple, but he might have fathered a child... or had he? What if this woman, this seemingly sincere woman, was just a common con artist, a user who fed off men and their mistakes?

Or, God forbid, what if she was telling the truth?

 

Sagging against the front door, Beth waited until she heard the sound of Jenner's truck fade into the night. She'd seen the change come over him and realized that finally he might believe her.

And then what?

Shuddering at the thought that he might change his mind, might decide he wanted to be more than a blank space on a birth certificate, she slowly forced her legs to move back to the living room where her mother was shaking a long cigarette out of a nearly empty pack.

“He's not father material,” Harriet said as she found her lighter on the table. “Not that many men are. From my experience, it seems that most of 'em would rather be little boys themselves than help raise a child right.” She clicked her lighter to the end of her cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I guess I can understand how you were attracted to him. Like all the McKees, he's a handsome devil. But he's so damned irresponsible....” She glanced through the window and watched as a car crawled down the street. “Same with your father, you know. Probably the best-looking of all the men I ever dated and oh, what a charmer he was. I knew I'd marry him the first time I laid eyes on him, but I didn't expect that he would leave at the first hint of trouble. He sure wasn't father material, but I guess you know that.”

Beth couldn't disagree. Growing up, she'd seen little of her father. He always made a half-hearted attempt to visit her around her birthday, though the demands of his job and new family often interrupted his plans. And Charlie Crandall had been content to let Harriet's string of husbands help raise his firstborn daughter.

A little pang of doubt entered her heart. Cody, too, would grow up not really knowing his father.

“You're better off marrying Stan,” Harriet said, gazing thoughtfully at her daughter through the smoke curling from her cigarette. “He's stable and trustworthy, won't be running around on you chasing other women or elusive dreams. You should count yourself lucky.”

“I wish I could be sure about that,” Beth said, feeling that ever since coming face-to-face with Jenner again, her luck wasn't getting any better.

 

Cursing under his breath, Jenner slowly climbed the front steps to the apartment house where he'd once planned to live in a unit on the second floor. Since the fire and his accident, the owner of the house, Skye Donahue, had hastened to make some efforts to fix up the basement apartment for him. It had a ramp as well as a short flight of exterior concrete stairs. Skye was a doctor in the clinic next door; she'd bought out Ralph Fletcher when he'd retired. Skye was also engaged to Jenner's brother, Max.

Sweating by the time he'd negotiated the five steps, Jenner plowed through the open door to the foyer and rapped loudly on the door to Skye's apartment. “Come on, come on,” he growled under his breath.

An upstairs door opened at the racket he was making, and Mrs. Newby, a short, elderly woman with apricot-tinged hair poking out from a nightcap, peeked through the opening. “Oh, Mr. McKee, it's you,” she said, obviously relieved as she bustled into the upper hallway and leaned over the rail. “My goodness, I thought you were supposed to be recuperating.”

“I am.” Jenner was in no mood for small talk.

“You're a hero around here, you know. Saving Max's daughter and those horses and all.”

Funny, he didn't feel like a hero. In fact, in light of the past few hours after meeting Beth and that kid of hers, he was beginning to feel like a first-class jerk.

“I'm looking for Skye.”

Behind thick, rimless glasses, Mrs. Newby's eyebrows lifted. “And good luck finding her. Between the clinic and your brother, Dr. Donahue doesn't have much time for this place, let me tell you. Why, half the things I requested to be done to my apartment haven't even been started! Just last week I spoke to her about the carpet—”

The door on the opposite side of the landing opened and Tina Evans, Skye's other tenant, stepped onto the landing. Her smile stretched wide at the sight of him. “Well, look who's come home,” she said.

Jenner gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “I'm trying to track down Skye so I can get into the basement.”

“It's not finished yet.”

“No? I bet it's close enough.”

Tina's smile faltered a little. “She's probably with your brother, but I've got a key so that I can show prospective tenants the vacant apartments.”

Mrs. Newby snorted. “I don't know why she'd want more occupants seein' as she can't take care of the ones she has.”

Tina tried and failed to suppress a grin. “Give me a minute to get the keys and I'll meet you downstairs.”

Tina disappeared into her apartment, and Mrs. Newby, still leaning over the rail, said, “Be careful you don't trip over the cat. It's always up to no good, slinking around, carrying fleas and shedding everywhere ... never giving my allergies a rest, let me tell you! I've talked to Skye. But does she listen? Of course not—”

Jenner didn't hear the rest of her complaint. He headed out the front door and down the steps to the concrete path leading to the side entrance that once had led to Doc Fletcher's clinic. There was enough light from a security lamp so that he didn't stumble, and true to her word, Tina used the interior staircase, cut through the basement, and opened the door for him.

“See,” she said, snapping on the overhead lights, “it's a long way from being finished.”

“It'll do,” Jenner said as he crossed the threshold and looked around. Fresh Sheetrock had been nailed to the walls, taped together and mudded, but only half the apartment had been painted. The cabinets were up, but the doors hadn't yet been hung and the tile floor was bare. Appliances were still packed in boxes, but he turned on the kitchen sink and was relieved to find that the plumbing was working.

“The painters are due to finish up this week and the carpet's coming next Wednesday. Skye didn't expect you to be moving in so soon.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted as he crossed the room to a closet where all of his worldly possessions—a bedroll, duffel bag and a few odds and ends—had been stashed.

“If there's anything you need...?” she said, offering him the keys, and Jenner flashed her a smile he didn't feel.

“I'll let you know.”

She glanced at his crutches and bit the corner of her lip before shrugging and waving goodbye. He listened as her footsteps clomped up the interior stairs, then he shut the door and threw the bolt.

“Home sweet home,” he said to himself as he tossed down the bedroll. The apartment didn't have the comforts of the ranch, but at least here he was his own man. It had been a long time since he'd felt this free.

Slowly easing himself onto the faded sleeping bag, he thought of Beth and her son. A pain shot up his leg, reminding him that he was no longer a complete man, that he might forever be chained to crutches or a wheelchair. He could no longer support a family by riding the rodeo circuit or training horses or hiring on as a hand at one of the neighboring ranches.

But he wasn't foolish enough to think that he was poor.

Max would probably let him run the Rocking M. Jenner could handle the paperwork and supervise the work in the fields from a truck. Chester, the ranch foreman, could run interference with the rest of the hands.

Max had already given him three hundred acres that old Jonah hadn't included in his will. Wildcat Creek slashed through one corner and the old cabin built by a great-grandfather needed some work, but was sound. A little bit of elbow grease and it would do just fine. For one.

But could he really just give up the life he'd known?

He wondered what kind of a father he would be. He'd never be able to play baseball, shoot baskets or teach the kid how to rope a calf. Swimming would be tricky and...oh, hell, what was the matter with him? He wasn't cut out to be a father or a husband. Seeing Beth and her kid had played havoc with his mind. Not that it mattered. He probably wasn't the kid's father, anyway.

M
ax wanted to strangle his brother. Of all the low-life, stupid, selfish stunts Jenner had ever pulled, this was the worst. He leaned against the wall of his farmhouse, cradling the phone to his ear, imagining his mother wringing her hands.

“...so he didn't come home and heaven knows he shouldn't be driving,” Virginia. was saying. “I hate to bother you, Max, but I... Oh, Lord, I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to him.”

Max shoved a hand through his hair and stared through the window as the first rays of sun began to spill over the horizon. His dog, Atlas, a half-grown Border collie, flushed a flock of quail from the brush bordering a thicket of pine trees. “If Jenner had been in an accident, he would have been taken to Dawson Memorial,” Max said, glancing at the clock and scowling. It was only ten after six—way too early to be dealing with Jenner and his bad moods. “Skye's working in the emergency room. She would've called.”

“Maybe he was life-flighted somewhere else.” Virginia's voice quavered and Max silently cursed his brother again.

“Why did he leave?” Max asked as he propped the receiver between his shoulder and ear and began measuring coffee into the maker. Hell, what was Jenner up to now?

“He...he got into an argument with me. And Mavis.”

“With Grandma?” That surprised Max. Jenner and the old woman had always been close. “Why?”

There was a hesitation on the other end, and Max experienced the first hazy sensation that there was more going on than Virginia was willing to say.

“Why'd he leave?” he repeated.

“You...you'll have to ask him. He just lost his temper—you know what a short fuse he has—and stormed out, claimed he might not be back. I'm afraid... well, I'm afraid he's gone for good.”

“Gone where?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn't be calling you now, would I?” she snapped, then, as if hearing the anger in her tone, let out a long worried sigh. “I just don't know what to do. He... he said something about going back to his apartment.”

“That's crazy.”

“Tell him. I tried to call, but the phone was disconnected, and I couldn't imagine him negotiating the stairs to the second floor. I did leave a message on Skye's answering machine. Oh, Lord, Max, what if he had an accident and he's trapped in his truck. Or...or what if it wasn't an accident? Your father was forced off the road and the same thing could have happened to Jenner. Oh, God, Max—”

“Don't worry. I'll find him,” Max cut in before Virginia's fertile imagination had Jenner murdered by the same madman who supposedly had killed Jonah and started the blaze in the stables. “Go to bed. Get some sleep.” He hung up knowing she was about to break down into a crying jag and he felt rotten inside. His mother had always been a pillar of strength. For years, she'd held her head high, pretending she hadn't known about Jonah's reckless affairs or his. shady business practices. She'd been his partner for life and had supported him throughout every ordeal, ignoring the calls from women, refusing to believe that the civil lawsuits against him and his company were anything more than sour grapes. Loyal should have been her middle name.

Within fifteen minutes, Max had showered, shaved, dressed and poured himself a cup of coffee. He shook some dry dog food into a dish for Atlas, who greeted him by jumping and barking and leaving dusty pawprints on his jeans.

“Slow down. Eat some breakfast,” Max insisted, but the pup ignored his full dish and loped after him to the garage where his pickup was parked. Atlas hopped into the cab of the truck and Max didn't have the heart to shove him out. “Just this once,” he said as he backed out and drove along the tree-lined lane leading to the edge of the McKee property and the county road.

He turned on the radio, listened to the sports scores and then a report that predicted cooler weather, but his mind was on his stubborn brother. It seemed that Jenner, born restless, had developed a bad case of impatience since nearly being killed in the fire.

Not that Max really blamed him. Though Jenner had improved to the point where he could walk with crutches, the outlook wasn't all that great. Most of Jenner's doctors had confided to Skye that Jenner would probably always walk with a limp, maybe even be forced to use a cane, and that his passion for riding wild rodeo broncs and Brahman bulls was now a pipe dream.

Jenner didn't have to work, of course. He owned about three hundred acres, and if that wasn't enough, there was plenty of money in the old man's estate to go around. Since Max was not only a lawyer but the executor, he could find a way to set up a trust fund for Jenner so that he would be comfortable for life. But he doubted that Jenner would accept the money. Ever since the fire, Jenner had been hell-bent not to accept charity or pity or anything that hinted at compassion for his plight.

“Idiot,” Max growled as he pushed the speed limit. By the time he reached the outskirts of Rimrock, the streetlights had turned off and morning sunlight chased away a tiny hint of fog that lingered near the river. Max barreled over to the rooming house that Skye owned and felt a good measure of relief when he spied his brother's pickup, dent free, parked at the curb in front of the house. Leaving a whining Atlas in the cab, he wondered what the hell Jenner thought he was doing. He opened the front door with his key, climbed up the flight of stairs to the second-floor landing and banged on the door of Jenner's apartment.

There was no answer, but Max wasn't simply going to go away. He didn't care if Jenner was drunk, hung over or just plain dog tired. His brother had a lot of explaining to do. “Open up!” he yelled between bangs.

A door near the staircase opened and Mrs. Newby, in chenille robe and nightcap peered through the crack. “He's not in there,” she said with the authority of a busybody used to checking up on her neighbors.

Max hooked his thumb toward the front door. “His truck is parked outside.”

“He's in the basement.”

“But it's not finished.”

“I know,” Mrs. Newby said, warming to her subject. “And I told Tina she was making a mistake by letting him stay down there, but he wouldn't take no for an answer and Tina, well, she just about melts every time she sees him. Sweet on him, she is and so... he ended up in the basement.”

Max was already halfway down the stairs.

“When you see Skye,” Mrs. Newby called after him, “would you be a dear and remind her about the security system I want installed?”

Max waved and hurried through the front door. In all his life he'd never been nor would he ever become anything closely resembling “a dear.”

He took the outside steps two at a time and, once he was at the bottom of the stairwell, pounded on the door. It opened immediately and Jenner stood blocking the entry. Hair uncombed, jaw dark with stubble, shoulders hunched defensively as if he'd expected this fight, he balanced on his crutches.

“Don't tell me,” Jenner growled with a sarcastic bite, “you've missed me.”

“Mom's worried.”

“I told her I wouldn't be home.”

Max pushed past his bullheaded brother and into the unfinished room. His hands curled into fists of frustration. “She was up half the night worried sick. You know, Jenner, she doesn't need any more grief from you. She's got enough problems dealing with Dad's death and the murder investigation.”

“Did she tell you why I left?”

“We didn't get into that.”

Jenner's blue eyes sparked. “I didn't think so.”

Max was suddenly wary. He sensed that something wasn't quite as it seemed. Just as he had during the telephone conversation with his mother. “Okay, I give up. Why did you drive off in one of your black rages?”

Jenner slammed the door shut. “Because I can't stand being a hypocrite for starters and I don't like anyone waiting on me hand and foot, watching my every move, hovering over me like a mother hen.”

“She is a mother hen and you're supposed to be recuperating. Doctor's orders. ‘No straining yourself, plenty of rest, exercise with a physical therapist, and—”'

“—and it's all a bunch of bull. You know it and I know it. The doctors aren't being straight with me. They don't think I'll ever be the same.”

“No one really knows. A lot depends on you.”

“More bull!” He glowered at his crutches. “Anyway, I've decided to recuperate on my own.” Scowling fiercely, he rubbed his chin, and lines formed across his forehead as if he was thinking hard. Muttering a curse under his breath, he finally looked back at Max. “I don't suppose Mom told you what went on at the ranch last night.”

“Just that you took off in some kind of blind rage.”

“But not why.”

Max couldn't help but smile. “I didn't think you needed a reason.”

“I didn't. But I had one. A helluva reason,” Jenner admitted. He hobbled over to the other side of the room where a hot plate, balanced on an old television tray, was plugged into the wall. An enamel coffeepot was warming on one of the burners, and the scent of brewing coffee overpowered the combined odors of Sheetrock, dust and varnish. Jenner found two chipped mugs, poured coffee, and motioned for Max to help himself. As they drank the bitter brew, Jenner settled into a folding chair and told Max some wild tale about Harriet Forrester's daughter, Beth Crandall, and Beth's contention that she'd borne Jenner a son. He also mentioned that somehow good ol' Jonah had found out about the kid, hushed it up, and managed to keep Beth from telling Jenner about the boy. Jenner didn't have all the details, but he was convinced that Mavis was behind Beth returning. What he didn't seem sure of was the paternity of the kid.

“... so the damned thing of it is, I don't really remember her, and believe me, she's a woman no one would forget in a hurry.”

Max swirled the dregs of his coffee in thought. The story was incredible, but there was enough truth sprinkled into it to keep a person guessing. Max knew from personal experience that Jonah McKee was capable of manipulating his children's lives. Hadn't he forced Skye out of Rimrock years ago? Recently Max had gotten back with the woman he loved, and he and Skye were planning to marry in early December. Still, Beth Crandall's story seemed too pat. “You still think she's trying to scam you?”

“Don't know,” Jenner admitted, his gaze clouding, “but if she is, she's good...damned good.”

“You're buying into it and you don't even remember being with her?” Actually, Max liked the idea of Jenner being a father; it didn't even really matter if he'd sired the boy or not. Jenner needed some roots to tie him down, a reason to keep on living, and a kid would be just the ticket. Considering Jenner's accident, Max had some concern about his brother's ability to father children in the future, though no one had said anything aloud.

Max was lucky enough to have a five-year-old daughter from his first marriage. Hillary with her stubborn jaw and thick curls, was precocious, bullheaded and as cute as a bug's ear. He loved her more than he'd ever thought possible. Jenner could use a little of the joy and heartache that comes with being a parent. The feeling was like none other on earth. Since Skye would be unable to bear him any children, Max understood how precious each and every child was.

“I'm not buying into it,” Jenner protested. “I'm just not sure. But I'll get to the bottom of it.”

“How?” Max asked, setting his cup on the floor. “Are you going to go through blood tests? You know that would mean spending time at the hospital again—something you've stubbornly avoided.”

Jenner snorted. “Before having any tests, I think I'll talk to our old friend, Rex Stone—see what he thinks.”

“You're going to hire a private investigator to check her out?”

“Seems the logical thing to do.” Jenner finished his coffee and set the cup on an old television tray.

“But you hate the guy, don't you?”

“Stone's a sleazeball, but I think he's good at what he does.” Jenner's expression turned dark. “And I don't know anything about Miss Crandall.” He concentrated on the middle distance past Max's shoulder. His jaw hardened defiantly as if he could see the woman in the room. “Before this is over,” he vowed, “I'm going to know her better than she knows herself.”

“What if you find out she's lying?”

“I'll make sure she regrets ever coming back to Rimrock.”

“And if she's telling the truth?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “But I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

 

“You know there's always a need for medical help right here around Rimrock. I'm sure you could find a job if you looked. That way you could stay here, closer to me. And I could watch my grandson grow up.” Harriet picked up the breakfast dishes as Beth wiped Cody's hands and face. Seated in an old high chair that Harriet had used when Beth was a toddler, Cody wriggled and protested, shaking his head vigorously.

“No!” Cody wailed. “Noooo!”

“He doesn't believe in the old connection between cleanliness and godliness,” Beth said as she unsnapped the tray and placed Cody on the floor. Wiping her hands, she added, “I don't think a job this close to Jenner is such a good idea.”

“I know, I know.” Harriet rinsed the plates before putting them into the portable dishwasher. She looked about to say something, but thought better of it, and for the first time, Beth wondered if something was wrong. Before she could ask about it, Harriet said, “I don't trust those McKees, so don't get me wrong. But you can't run away forever, and even if you tried, there's no place on earth far enough away. If Jenner wants to be a father to his son, he will.”