A Weaver Baby

“With Bill and Jennifer still.”

Adam’s parents.

“Obviously they’re not up to keeping them for any length of time,” his aunt continued, looking worried. “But I just can’t see sending Zach and Connor back to boarding school under these circumstances. They were very close to Adam.”

Jake’s gaze fell on J.D. She’d reached the door. “We can finish this later,” she said softly. “You have more important things right now.”

He grimaced and wanted to insist that she stay. He wanted her to stay at Forrest’s Crossing. Period. And just acknowledging the thought was enough to remind him that he was the selfish bastard Tiffany had called him.

He’d barely given a short nod before J.D. slipped out the door.

It felt like she took all of the fresh air there was right along with her.

He looked back at Susan. “You talked with the boys?”

She nodded. “They’re upset, naturally.”

He didn’t ask the next obvious question. There was no need.

If he’d been a better father, his boys would have wanted to speak to him.

He rubbed his hand down his face. “I’ll have to go to California. You’ll come, of course.”

The boys were always more comfortable with her than they were with Jake.

“I can’t.” Susan’s face was torn. “The gallery showing is Friday, and then I’m hosting the charity ball on Saturday in Charlotte’s place since she had to go to that conference in Florence in your place.”

He’d forgotten his aunt’s photography showing. “Sidney can host the ball.”

“Sidney is in Germany trying to buy that horse she’s got her heart set on.” Susan paced. His mother’s sister was in her mid-50’s, but there wasn’t a gray hair to be found in her soft blond hair. The only real hint of her age was in the soft lines that had begun forming alongside her dark brown eyes. “There are times when I wish y’all would just settle on textiles or on horses.”

“Textiles help pay for the horses,” he reminded needlessly. Raising and running thoroughbreds wasn’t a poor man’s game. It hadn’t been for his grandfather or his father before him. “The boys’ll have to make do with me.”

“Oh, Jake. Don’t talk that way. Naturally, the boys will want you.”

She was trying to protect his feelings, as if he had some. But that was his aunt. The eternal optimist.

He, however, was about the exact opposite. He didn’t have faith in the positive outcomes of life. He couldn’t see the bright side of every situation.

He saw things exactly the way they were and when something needed doing, he did it. Right or wrong.

Bill and Jennifer were the only grandparent “figures” his sons possessed. Tiffany’s parents had died when she and Jake were still married. Jake’s father was dead, too. And he didn’t know, or care, where his mother Olivia was, much less whether she was still alive. After she’d profitably washed her hands of them all, they’d never seen nor heard from her again.

Susan was twisting her hands together again. “I can join you after the charity ball is over.”

He knew his aunt would turn cartwheels if it meant helping someone else. And he also knew he would take complete advantage of that fact, just like he always had.

Just like his father had before him.

Jake was exactly like his old man. They didn’t just share the same name. They shared everything else. From looks to temperament to talents. Jacob Forrest, Sr., had been a selfish bastard, and Jake Forrest was carrying on the tradition in the best of old-South ways.

“Tell Mabel what’s going on. I’ll fly out this afternoon.”

Susan looked relieved as she quickly left his study. Which made him wonder if even his devoted aunt had doubted his ability to do the decent thing where his sons were concerned.

He pushed out of his chair, looking out the bay windows behind his desk. From his vantage point, he could see only the steeply pitched roof of the main barn well off in the distance.

His bedroom upstairs afforded a better view. Not only of the barn, but of the rest of the stables, and the training track.

He’d spent a lot of mornings standing at the window of his room waiting for a glimpse of J.D. to arrive.

She always appeared shortly after dawn, when the first glimmer of sunlight would catch her slender, leggy form that was so easily eclipsed by the massive horses she tended. Often, he’d see her riding Latitude, her long curls flying out behind her as she leaned low and close over the horse’s back.

Even before Jake had gone to the barn that unforgettable night, those mornings spent watching J.D. even from afar had been the best part of his day. A slice of private and pure sanity in an otherwise insanely pressured life.

But now, unless he could talk her out of quitting, he was going to lose even those simple moments.

He shoved his hand through his hair and left by the French doors that opened to a spacious deck.

It would have been easier to drive one of the plentiful farm vehicles down to the stables. Instead, he walked across the acres of richly groomed lawn, taking the time to file away his feelings about the situation awaiting him in California.

It was the middle of the morning, and the track—when he reached it—was a beehive of activity.

He immediately spotted J.D. hosing down Latitude while Jake’s wizened head trainer stood alongside her. Miguel stood a full head shorter than she did. Hell, the diminutive former jockey stood a head shorter than everyone.

Jake walked closer until they noticed him and the hose in J.D.’s hand jerked a little, though she said nothing.

“Jake,” Miguel greeted him in his thickly accented voice. “I’m glad you come down today. I wan’ you to sign off on some—”

“Actually, I need to speak with J.D.,” he interrupted. If he let Miguel get his hooks in, it’d be hours before Jake would break free. And right now, that was time Jake couldn’t afford. “Now.”

Miguel’s graying eyebrows pulled together in a fierce frown. He snatched the hose from J.D., his displeasure evident.

For that matter, J.D. didn’t look any more enthusiastic, but she accompanied him into the sprawling building nearby that housed Miguel’s office. He waited until she was inside the untidy room before closing the door.

She glanced from the door to his face. “I’d rather leave that open.”

“I’m not going to jump you.”

Her lips tightened. “I didn’t think you would.”

Problem was, he was always thinking about touching her. It had only gotten worse since he’d found out exactly how addicting that particular delight was. “I have to go to San Francisco,” he said, corralling his thoughts. “Tiffany needs—”

“Of course,” she cut in quickly. Dismay darkened her eyes from brilliant green to a soft moss. “I’m sorry to hear your wife—”

“Ex-wife.”

Her head dipped a notch. “Well, I’m sorry about the accident. I’m sure your children will be relieved when you get there.”