The Lost Sheenan's Bride (Taming of the Sheenans Book 6) (6 page)

“I do. But this one is different. It’s essentially a true crime story.”

“Most of my books have been. Some just are man against man, while others are man against nature, but they are all crimes if you think about it. Tragedies, every one.”

“What drew you to
this
story?”

“The same thing that draws me to every story. What really happened? Who were they? And what is true? My job is to piece together not just the story, but the truth.”

She was studying him intently, looking at him as if she could somehow see into him, almost as if looking for his story, his truth. “Have you ever given up on a story?”

What an interesting question. He’d been interviewed many times in his career but he couldn’t remember if he’d ever been asked that question.

“No.” He reached for his menu, and flashed her a reckless smile, a smile he’d mastered as a fourteen-year-old when hauled before a judge to receive a punishment for running away from his ‘home,’ which was nothing more than an institutional care facility for boys with nowhere else to go. “Because that would be like giving up. And I’ll never do that.”

J
et was fascinated
with Shane.

She’d never met anyone like him before, and doubted she’d ever meet anyone like him again. He was an original. And she just wanted to know more. But he wasn’t an open book, deflecting attention from his personal life to safe topics like novels and movies and the places they’d both traveled. She liked all those subjects so it was easy to talk about what she’d been reading and the spots she’d visited during her recent European adventure, but after a half hour of pleasant conversation, she was tired of discussing the best hostels in Ireland and wanted to learn more about him…whether it was Shane or Sean.

“How did you come up with your pen name?” she asked, as their dinner plates were cleared.

He waited for the server to leave. “It’s actually an old family name.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Does the S in Sean S. Finley stand for Swan then?”

“Possibly. But maybe not.” He saw her expression and added, “The name was changed on my birth certificate, so I have my original name given to me at birth, and then the name on the amended birth certificate.”

“Who changed your name?”

“According to Montana records, my parents. Their names and signatures are on the petition.”

“What did they change?”

“My last name.”

“Why?”

His lips curved but there was no warmth in his eyes. “That is the million dollar question.”

“You have no idea?”

“I have an idea, but no supporting evidence.”

“So your pen name, is it the name you had on the original certificate?”

“Not exactly. But it’s a variation. My grandmother did not read or write well. She could do basic math but reading and writing were quite difficult for her, and so when she’d take me to the doctor, she’d give them my name but would never check or correct the spelling. So if you looked at my various medical records you’d see that my name is different on each—Sean. Shane. Swan. Finley.”

“What did your grandmother call you?”

“Shane. Sean. Swan. Finley.” He smiled faintly. “I think I was all of those. But usually Shane Swan or Sean Swan.”

“Who was Swan?”

“That was my grandmother’s maiden name. She was a member of the Salish and Kootenai Tribe. The reservation is near Flathead Lake.”

“I’m not familiar with the tribe.”

“Not many people outside Montana and the Pacific Northwest are.”

“Did she live on the reservation?”

“Yes.”

“But you weren’t born on the reservation?”

“No. I was born in Marietta, at their hospital over by the rodeo and fairgrounds.” His smile turned grim and he turned his spoon over. “But I never went home with my birth parents. There was a complication at birth so my mother and I were both kept at the hospital for a week, and then my mother went home while I remained for another week, and then her mother came for me—supposedly because my mother was too weak to care for me.”

Jet waited for more but he said nothing else. “You’ve clearly learned the art of cliff-hangers.”

He laughed once, deep and low. “My grandmother took me with her back to Flathead Lake. She raised me until I was four years old.”

Jet tried to hide her shock. “And you never saw your parents again?”

“Apparently my mother used to come see me once or twice a year. She had a small cabin at Cherry Lake—” He broke off. “Are you familiar with Cherry Lake?”

She shook her head.

“It’s a little town on Flathead Lake, just south of Big Fork, before you come to Polson. Apparently my mother would come to the cabin with the other children and sneak away to see me.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Barely.”

“What do you remember?”

“I’m not sure if I remember her, or the pictures I’ve seen of her. She was very striking. Long, dark hair, high cheekbones, hazel eyes with these incredible black eyelashes that were so dark and thick, I think they had to be fake.” He paused. “She was supposed to come back for me. That’s the part I remember clearly. I refused to be adopted, would never even consider it, because she was going to come for me.”

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. Jet knew the rest. His mother didn’t return, and he grew up without a home, his childhood spent waiting for this fantasy mother to claim him. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth tightened. Creases fanned from his eyes. “Me, too.”

“And your father?” she asked, not certain she should probe but wanting to know the answer.

“Who knows? He is part of that million dollar question.”

“He wasn’t Native American?”

“No.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead. Both my parents are gone.”

“You said your mother would bring the other children with her to Cherry Lake. That means you have brothers and sisters.”

He was silent so long she didn’t think he was going to answer, and then he looked up, right into her eyes, his expression shadowed. “Brothers, yes.”

She suddenly saw a glimpse of the boy he must have once been—quiet, dark-eyed, introspective, and probably quite sensitive. “Have you tried to find them? Do they know about you?”

“Yes, and no. It’s complicated. But life is full of mysteries. Sometimes we get lucky and find the answers, and sometimes we don’t. Maybe that’s why I write.”

“It makes sense.” Jet paused to take the menu from the waiter but she didn’t even glance at the options, too interested in Shane. “How old were you when you knew you were a good writer?”

He was looking down, his gaze skimming the menu. “I don’t remember,” he answered, sounding almost careless.

She didn’t believe him, not for a minute. “Really? No idea at all?”

His dark head lifted and he gave her a piercing look. “You sound like a teacher again.”

“Good. I am one.”

This earned her a reluctant smile. “Apparently, I learned to read early and seemed to always be writing. I wrote my first story the year after I went into foster care.”

“Do you remember the story?”

“
The Raven and the Swan
.”

His tone was sharp and mocking, as if he was somewhat embarrassed of the boy he’d been. She hated that, as he must have been absolutely lovely…lonely, but lovely. “What was it about?”

His dark eyes met hers and held. “You’re very persistent. Are you always this curious about everyone?”

“If it’s someone I’m interested in. And I am interested in you. Not because you’re Sean S. Finley, but because you’re Sean Shane Swan Finley.” She smiled at him to hide the fact that her chest felt tender and a funny little lump was growing in her throat. He had not had an easy life and yet he’d achieved so much. It really was remarkable.
He
was remarkable. “So tell me about your story,
The Raven and the Swan
. What do you remember about it?”

“It was a story of a little bird taken from his nest and told he could no longer be a raven anymore.”

Oh.
Jet swallowed hard. The lump in her throat grew.

“It was a very simple little story,” he added lightly, the mockery back. He had no patience for the child he’d been. “Not much to it. The raven just wanted to go home.”

His impatience with who he’d been bothered her, almost as much as the aching innocence of his story.

She blinked, eyes hot and gritty. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Don’t. The raven eventually became a swan. It all worked out fine in the end.”

She reached across the table and touched his arm. His skin was so warm she felt a crackle of energy race through her. “You don’t like being a swan?”

His gaze was on her hand where it rested on his wrist and she drew her hand back, fingers balling, still able to feel the sizzle of heat.

“I am who I am,” he said. “I can’t dislike being Shane Swan, just as I can’t dislike the childhood spent as a raven. They are all me…good and bad.”

“I admire you.”

“Not sure I deserve that.”

“I am.” She studied him a moment, seeing past the long, black hair, the dark beard, the hard handsome features, and realizing he was very much a self-made man. “I don’t know if you get asked this all the time, but would you be willing to come talk to my students before you leave Marietta? I think it’d be so inspiring for them to hear you talk.”

“And what would I say?”

Her shoulders shifted. “Whatever you wanted to say. You could talk about your past, your books, your life as a writer…the fact that you were born right here in Marietta at the hospital, just like most of them were.”

He glanced from her hand up into her eyes. “I don’t know that that would be such a good idea, the Marietta part. It’s probably better to leave my convoluted past in the past.”

“But you’d consider coming in to the school?”

“If you don’t think I’d bore the kids too much.”

“Impossible. There’s nothing boring about you. They’ll love you.” She smiled. “They’ll be fascinated by you and will probably have a ton of questions for you. But to be honest, they might ask you more about your tattoos than your writing.”

“I’m happy to come in. I’d love to see you at work. I have a feeling you’re a great teacher.”

“Average—”

“Not average. Not in any way.”

Her heart skipped a beat and her stomach did a little somersault. She could still feel the tingle in her fingers where she’d touched him. Her body seemed to light up around him.

Not true.

It wasn’t just her body. She lit up around him. There was something about him that made her feel very aware…very alive. “Teaching wasn’t my first choice,” she said, drawing a deep breath, trying to slow her rapidly beating pulse, trying to stay levelheaded. Even though she’d tried to keep her guard up, he was getting to her…getting under her skin, and making her feel. Making her care. Not for the author but the man. Shane Swan. Raven.

“I wanted to study film,” she said briskly, thinking a change of subject would be good about now. “It was my passion in school. But my parents wouldn’t hear of it. They’d send me to college, but I needed to study something worthwhile, not something frivolous.”

“Film isn’t frivolous.”

“It’s not going to save the world.”

“And you’re supposed to save the world?”

“Well, I’m supposed to do my part.”

A black eyebrow lifted. “What about your sisters and brothers? Are they missionaries or something?”

Jet grinned. “No. My brothers are dairy farmers. One of my sisters married a dairyman. And, well, you know Harley.”

“What did Harley study in school?”

“Ag-business. And then she married a dairyman, too.”

He grimaced. “So you’re supposed to teach until you marry a dairy farmer and have babies of your own?”

Her nose wrinkled. He’d pretty much nailed it, but she didn’t want him to thinking badly of her parents. They were good people, kind, hard-working, self-sacrificing. They’d passed on their values, and taught her the importance of tenacity and self-reliance. “It’s not a bad life.”

“No.
If
that’s the life you want.” He paused. “Is it?”

She glanced away, looking out across the restaurant, which was beginning to thin out. Many of the tables were empty. Waitstaff was clearing dishes off other tables. It must be getting late. “No.”

“What do you want?”

Her shoulders lifted and fell. It was her million-dollar question. Once upon a time she had an answer—she wanted to marry Ben and have a family and be happy. And then she thought she was pregnant—obviously not a good thing—but Ben’s reaction had shocked her. Instead of calmly discussing options, he’d given her an ultimatum—she could pick him, or the baby, but not both.

She was devastated.

He loved her enough to make love to her, but not enough to stand by her when
his
birth control failed.

When her period came ten days later, she was relieved, but still crushed. Ben was not the man she’d thought he was.

Ben, for his part, didn’t see the problem. He hadn’t wanted a baby, and Jet wasn’t pregnant, so why all the drama?

I told you from the very beginning I didn’t believe in abortion, not for me
. She’d told him, fighting tears, still so hurt and disappointed and angry. Yes, angry. He’d lied to her. He’d agreed with her, he’d told her he’d never ask that of her…

Jet drew a slow breath now, and looked up into Shane’s dark, watchful eyes. “I don’t know what I want anymore. I just know what I don’t want.”

“And what is that?”

“Liars. Cheaters. Scoundrels.” Her lips curved and she ground her back molars to keep the tears at bay. “And dead-end jobs without creativity or adventure.”

His expression turned thoughtful. “And now you’re here in Montana.”

“I’m here in Montana,” she agreed. “And I like my job. I’m glad I’m here. No matter what happens in June, at least I had this adventure.”

“What happens in June?”

“The teacher on maternity leave could return. The school board might decide to close the school. Or… I might be offered an extension of the contract.”

“Would you want an extension? Do you like teaching at a one room schoolhouse that much?”