Staking His Claim. Karen TempletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“All those gals you’ve dated over the years…how come you never settled down with any of ’em?”
“How the hell should I know? None of ’em…felt right, is all. Not for the long haul, anyway.”
“Uh-huh. As in, none of ’em were…enough for you?”
“You’re not hearing what I’m saying,” Cal said wearily.
“Dawn’s a helluva lot more—” he banged the beer on the arm of the chair, fighting for the right word “—complex than I am.”
Hank laughed. “All women are more complex than men, bozo brain.”
“And who the hell are you to give me advice, anyway?”
Heavy dark brows shot up. “Hey. Nobody told you to come over here. All I’m saying is, don’t sell yourself short. So the two of you are different. Big deal. So’re Jenna and me. And look at our parents, for the love of Mike. A farmer and a classical pianist? Look—at least you’ve got a fighting chance to see your kid grow up. That’s more than I had. And if you don’t try…what’s the alternative?”
From inside, the phone rang. Hank bounded out of the chair, dog scrambling and screen door banging shut as he grabbed the portable off the hall table. “Well, hey there, yourself, honey,” Cal heard his brother say, and his heart did this stupid thumping thing in his chest. He stood, as well, waving so long through the door before heading back to his truck. Once back out on the road, though, Hank’s words hit Cal like a well-aimed spit wad.
Why had Dawn ended up in his bed that night?
And, more important, why had he let her?
The answer whalloped him so hard, he nearly drove off the road: because he figured nothing would come of it, that’s why.
Because he thought he’d be safe. That since there was no danger of her falling in love with him, the opposite was also true.
If he hadn’t’ve been driving, he would’ve banged his head on the steering wheel. God knows his brain could use a little loosening up, anyway. Because now, thanks to the most pitiful excuse for doing something since Adam’s blaming Eve about the whole apple business, he’d fathered a child. If he wanted any chance at all of being part of this child’s life, he’d have to convince the child’s mother to stay in Haven. And if the child’s mother—a woman he’d never allowed himself to work up strong feelings about for any number of reasons—did stay in Haven, what were the odds that Cal’s heart would mind its own business and stay out of trouble?
And maybe he should stop thinking about the what ifs— which was only depressing him—and start thinking about the what nows, a regrettably long list headed up by Figuring Out the Female Mind, with Dawn right there under subheading 1A. Knowing what needed to happen and how to make that happen were two different things. For this he needed an ally.
Preferably a female ally.
Preferably a female ally who knew Dawn pretty well.
Preferably a female ally who was probably no more thrilled than Cal with the idea of having this child—her first grandchild—live nearly two thousand miles away.
As for the rest of it… He supposed his poor heart would just have to muddle through as best it could.
Dawn was still sacked out when Ivy got back from seeing Faith Andrews, who was expecting her and Darryl’s fifth child around Christmas. In one way, Ivy was just as glad, since Dawn needed her rest. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out it wasn’t only the pregnancy that had rendered her daughter virtually comatose for the better part of three days. Uh-uh—this was definitely the old “Oh, God—why me?” syndrome at work here.
With which Ivy was only too familiar.
After hanging the tote bag with all her work paraphernalia on the hook by the back door, she peeked in on Miss Sleepy-head, totally oblivious to the late-morning sun shining smack in her face, then tromped back down the short hall to the kitchen, her Birkenstocks slapping against her bare feet. Ivy’s little bungalow in the center of town wasn’t much to speak of—two small bedrooms, the living room, one bath and an eat-in kitchen—and for sure she was in no danger from being set upon by the House Beautiful people, but it was all hers, and there was a lot to be said for that.
She poured herself a cup of leftover coffee and stuck it in the microwave, smoothing strands of graying hair off her forehead. It killed her, seeing the pain her daughter was in, hearing the hopefulness in Cal’s voice when he’d called, knowing there wasn’t a blessed thing she could do to help either one of them. They’d gotten into this fix by themselves, and they’d have to figure their way out of it on their own, as well. That history should repeat itself with her daughter…well. But then, Dawn had been given to doing things the hard way ever since she was little. Wasn’t like her stubborn daughter would let Ivy take the burden from her shoulders, anyway, even if she could.
And the idea that Ivy could somehow run interference for Cal was downright laughable.
She jumped slightly when the microwave beeped, then retrieved her warmed-over coffee and plopped down at the kitchen table, flipping her long braid over her shoulder and yanking her bunched-up denim skirt out from underneath her whopper of a butt. Maybe things’d be different now for Dawn than they’d been for Ivy thirty years ago, but not a day went by that Ivy didn’t question if her having to sometimes drag Dawn out of bed in the middle of the night, or leaving her to her own devices in a strange house while Ivy saw a client through a protracted labor, hadn’t warped the child in some ways. And then there was that business with Charley when Dawn was eight…. Ivy sighed. Not that the child had ever complained, and she’d seemed remarkably adaptable to most every situation, but still—Ivy took a sip of her coffee—it was cause for worry.
“Whatcha thinking so hard about?”
Ivy’s gaze jerked to Dawn’s at the sound of her daughter’s sleep-graveled voice. And wasn’t she a sorry sight? Her hair was a holy mess, her right cheek was creased, and that nightgown wouldn’t pass muster as a dust rag.
“Wondering if I screwed you up,” Ivy said, flat out.
Dawn grimaced, gingerly lowering herself into the opposite chair. “No, I managed that all by myself. And if you go any further down this road, I may have to shoot you.”
Ivy took another sip of coffee. “Want some breakfast?”
“You must be kidding.”
“I hate to say this, but you look like you’ve been on a bender.”
“If only.” Dawn let her head fall forward onto her folded arms. “At least then I’d have some idea when everything would stop spinning.”
“You know, morning sickness is a good sign. Means the hormones are strong.”
Her head still down, Dawn made a “whoop-de-do” circle with her right forefinger in the air above her head, then slapped her arm back down on the table.
“How about some tea?”
“Trust me. Anything I try to put into this stomach right now is only going to bounce right back out.” One eye squinted open. “Were you this sick with me?”
“’Fraid not.”
“Figures.”
“Cal called,” Ivy said casually. “Again.”
That got a groan, then Dawn shifted to lay her cheek on her arms, staring up at Ivy with her hound-dog eyes. “This is going to sound terrible, but I almost wish I hadn’t told him.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I said ‘almost.’”
“You did the right thing. That’s gotta be some comfort, doesn’t it?”
“No.”