Worth Fighting For

Lieutenant Brett Tanner had never done anything so stupid.

Not since he joined the U.S. Navy ten years ago.

And he damn sure didn’t know why he did it now, after all this time. Curiosity, he supposed, but for some reason he felt compelled to drive by the house, to peer from a safe distance. To make sure his kid was okay.

He rode his black Harley Softail past the high school, where he’d first met Kelly, his son’s mother, and turned left at the fire station. The old neighborhood appeared the same, but he knew better.

The bike made another left onto Periwinkle Lane, as though it didn’t need a rider, then slowed to a stop.

Brett cut the engine before he reached the cul-de-sac, where the two-story house stood in silent testimony of the things that had remained the same.

And the things that hadn’t.

The outside walls boasted creamy-white stucco. And the wood trim was painted a pale teal—something Kelly had repeatedly told him had needed to be done. Something he’d never gotten around to, since he’d been deployed most of the short time they’d been together.

The grass, obviously fertilized, was a deep shade of green and had been newly mown, the edges cut straight. A rainbow spray of flowers grew along the sidewalk—from the front porch to the drive, where a late-model, white Chevy pickup and a blue minivan rested.

For a moment, he had a masochistic urge to leave the Harley parked at the curb and saunter up the walk like he still owned the place.

But he remained rooted to the spot.

On a couple occasions he’d reconsidered his decision to walk away from his son without a fight. But that was only after having one too many beers. When he was thinking clearly, he knew he’d done the right thing.

His son, a little boy Brett hadn’t seen since he was two, deserved to be happy.

Why confuse the poor kid and screw him up now? Too much time had passed, and David Hopkins was the only dad Justin had ever known.

Besides, with the duty Brett pulled, he’d be in and out of the kid’s life like he was pushing through a revolving door. What good was that?

Brett didn’t know how long he studied the house, the new fence, the bright yellow swing set in the backyard. But he stood there long enough to see that it was just the kind of home every kid ought to have.

One of those purple-flowered trees Kelly had always liked now grew in the front yard. A bright blue flag, adorned with a picture of a birdhouse, hung from the porch overhang, and a wrought iron bench with a floral seat cushion sat by the front door, where a wooden welcome sign hung.

It was vivid proof of all that was right in Kelly’s world—now that Brett was no longer a part of it.

The relationship had been wrong from the get-go, he supposed. They’d squabbled about most everything. But when Kelly got pregnant, he’d insisted they get married for the kid’s sake. And when she’d reconnected with her old boyfriend, he’d wanted an amicable split for the same reason.

So Brett joined the ranks of absent fathers. But at least he wasn’t a deadbeat dad. The Navy deducted an allotment from his pay for child support. And each month he sent Kelly a personal check for an extra two hundred dollars—for incidentals. Stuff his kid might need. Something a dad ought to provide.

It was also a way to keep in touch, to let Kelly know where he was—in case his son needed him. In case she wanted to send him a picture or something.

She hadn’t sent him squat, not even a thank-you. But he hadn’t pressed her, even though something deep inside fought his passive reaction.

Instead, he’d taken out an additional $250,000 life insurance policy—above and beyond what the Navy would provide his son—should something happen to him.

It had been his way of doing right by the kid he’d fathered.

And so had his letting go, staying away and allowing his child to grow up in a loving, peaceful home. Little Justin had two parents to raise him, two people who could be civil to one another. It was bound to be a hell of a lot better childhood than Brett had suffered through.

Just then, a little boy wearing a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt and a red baseball cap came out of the neighbor’s side yard. He ran a short distance down the sidewalk, leaped over a small hedge in the front of the house Brett had been watching, then dashed inside yelling, “Mom, I’m home.”

That was his son. Justin.

Emotion clogged his throat, and his eyes went misty at the thought of what he’d given up.

But Justin was better off this way. Happy and settled in a home where two parents loved him. But that didn’t mean the decision wasn’t tearing Brett up inside.

Justin had been only four months old when Kelly told Brett she wanted to end their marriage, that she’d hooked up with her old boyfriend from college.

Brett’s first thought was to tell her to give Justin to him and get the hell out of his life, but he’d managed a calm tone and used all the tact he could muster.

“What about the baby?” he’d asked her, when she told him over the phone that things weren’t working between them and she wanted a divorce.

“What about the baby?”

“I thought maybe I should raise him, since you and David probably want to have a family of your own.”

“I’m Justin’s mother,” Kelly had cried into the telephone. “I’m not giving him up. He needs me, not a dad who’s never home.”

A sense of anger, frustration and hostility had come over him, making him want to fight her for his son. And he didn’t like it. Didn’t like what it meant, what he knew it would lead to, so he’d shut up, stepped back and let go.

Besides, what would Brett have done with the baby? Take him away from his mother? No way. Kelly loved the child. He knew that.

Visitation had been established through the uncontested divorce, and Brett had seen his son from time to time, but because of his military career, it wasn’t very often.

With Kelly and her new husband always present, things had been awkward. But on the last visit, when Justin was two, the toddler had acted kind of timid. Kelly had said that Brett’s presence was confusing him.

Maybe so, because Brett felt uneasy around his son, too. Hell, with his unstable upbringing, he didn’t feel nearly as qualified to father his son as David was. The guy was a schoolteacher, for God’s sake. So Brett had stepped back.

It hadn’t been easy, and a couple of years ago, when Justin had gotten older, he’d contemplated stepping in and insisting Kelly tell the boy David wasn’t his real dad. But Brett was afraid that would only screw the kid up and make him a hellion, like Brett had once been.

So he’d sucked it up and made the biggest sacrifice he would ever make. And time hadn’t done a damn thing about easing the grief.

The same familiar ache settled deep in his chest, and his eyes began to water. Damn. He felt like bawling. And he hadn’t cried in years. Not after he’d grown battle weary and lashed out at his warring parents in a fit of rebellion that damn near landed him in jail.

Brett started the engine and turned the Harley around. It was time to head back to Bayside. Back to the condo he was house-sitting for a Navy buddy. Back to a big-screen TV, a fridge full of beer and a crotchety old cat named Fred.

But his mind would remain on the vision he’d seen, the perfect life Kelly had created for his son.

His parents’ nasty divorce and vicious custody battle had lasted most of his growing-up years and done a real number on him. For that reason, he’d sworn never to do that to a child of his own.

“I’d walk away first,” he’d told Kelly, “rather than make my son a pawn, make him suffer like I did.”

And Brett had kept his word—even though it nearly killed him not to be a part of Justin’s life.

At the stop sign, he gunned the engine, then headed back to the condominium complex where he would spend his shore duty. But his chest still ached and his eyes stung.

What the hell was the matter with him?