Hart's Baby

“To get you and your sister to drop the unfounded accusation.” He reached for the checkbook in his back pocket.

Her mouth fell open. For a moment they stared at each other, adversary to adversary.

“You think this is about money?”

“Isn’t it?” He crouched, placing the checkbook on the coffee table and flipping open the leather cover. Then, looking up at her, he asked, “Isn’t that what all women want?” Clicking his pen, he scrawled her name and the date on the blue check.

“Put that away,” she said, the words carefully clipped. “And, please, extend me the courtesy you haven’t shown so far.”

Zach’s back teeth locked together as he stood and faced her. No one, not ever, had accused him of a lack of common courtesy. Until now. Until Cassandra. His temper ratcheted up another notch. It took all his infamous control to keep the blaze locked away.

“This isn’t about money, Mr. Hart.”

“No?”

“It’s about—”She took a deep breath and tipped up her chin.

Zach had always admired guts. And Cassandra had them, in commanding amounts. And for a brief second he wondered what it might be like if they were on the same side of an issue.

“It’s about love and belonging.”

“Love and belonging?” he repeated. Surely his ears deceived him.

She exhaled deeply, as if frustrated by his singular lack of understanding.

“Yes,” she said softly, primly.

Zach wondered what it would take to shake that primness from her. A bold statement? A rash promise? A soul-deep kiss? Maybe running his fingers through the rich brunette strands of her hair? Immediately he dismissed his thoughts. He didn’t give a damn what it took to loosen her up. She’d be out of his life—permanently—within minutes.

“Have you ever known what it’s like not to belong?” she asked.

The darkness of his past descended on Zach.

He knew what it was like not to belong, knew what it was to scrape and struggle, knew how it felt to wear handme-down shirts and jeans with holes in them. He knew what it was like to exist on the same fare night after night, to have no presents on his birthday and to use a tumbleweed in place of a Christmas tree. More, he knew what it was like to have no respect or friends, to stand alone on the playground, watching, as others tossed a baseball or football.

Oh, yeah, he knew better than most what it was like not to belong.

Time thundered with expectancy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, folding her arms in front of her.

Her eyes met his, and he noticed their color had lightened, as if she read his pain and, more, understood its intensity.

“I had no right...”

He nodded tightly.

“But you’ve got a family...so much. You can’t possibly know—”

“I can and I do,” he corrected, knowing his words were spiked by the anger he’d used more than once to cover the hurt. “I’ve been on both sides of the fence, Ms. Morrison. I’ve been poor enough to know what it’s like to have no fire in the hearth and certainly no chicken in the pot.” He paused. “And now we’re comfortable enough that some people will do anything to get a piece of it.”

Her mouth dropped. “And you truly think I’m the kind of woman who’s only here for a piece of your fortune?” she whispered.

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

“You don’t know anything about me...don’t know what kind of woman I am.”

“So why don’t you tell me,” he challenged. “What kind of woman are you?”

“I’m one who wants to see the right thing done by our nephew.”

Zach frowned.

She didn’t back down. Her apology didn’t mean she would back off. “I want Billy to belong, to have a family to call his own.”

The frown deepened to a scowl.

“I want Billy to know his father.”

“If Chad is his father.”

“Look, Mr. Hart, can you let go of the distrust long enough to even consider the possibility that—”

“No, Ms. Morrison, I can’t.”

She feathered her fingers through her hair, leaving a riotous disarray framing her face. It wasn’t prim any longer; it was wild and free—and heaven help him, tempting as the tease of sin.

Right now, though, he needed to fight for sainthood, pretending that wasn’t as far away as reality told him it was. “Put yourself in my shoes for a moment,” he said. “I walk through the door after driving all night. I’m tired and want nothing more than to climb between the sheets.”

She looked away momentarily.

“But instead of a bed, I find a woman I don’t know from Eve standing in my living room. Not only that, but she has a baby with her, a baby she claims was fathered by my youngest brother. A man, I might add, who isn’t here to defend himself.”

“I understand your concern.”

“Does my mother know your story?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“And I suppose you have her believing the baby is her grandson.”

“Billy is her grandson.”

He drew a breath, then with restrained frustration said, “You have to understand, ma’am, when we were growing up, family was all we had—and I mean that quite literally.”

A quiet threat whipping through his voice with the sting of a crop, he added, “I’d cut off my branding arm before I’d allow anyone, anyone, to harm any member of my family, especially my mother.”

She inclined her head to the side, as if heeding his words of caution. When she spoke, it was with the same careful control he was using. She was an adversary, yes. A worthy one. He’d do well to remember that.