A Time to Forgive and Promise Forever (17 page)

Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.

—
Colossians
3:12

This story is dedicated to my wonderful editor, Ann Leslie Tuttle, with gratitude. And, as always, to Brian.

T
yler Winchester ripped open the pale blue envelope that had arrived in the morning mail. A photograph fluttered onto the polished mahogany desktop. No letter, just a photograph of a young boy, standing in the shade of a sprawling live oak.

He flipped it over. Two words had been scrawled on the back—two words that made his world shudder.

Your son.

For a moment he couldn't react at all. He shot a glance toward the office doorway, where his younger brother was trying to talk his way past Tyler's assistant. Turning his back on them, Tyler studied the envelope. Caldwell Cove. The envelope was postmarked Caldwell Cove, South Carolina.

Something deep inside him began to crack painfully open. The child's face in the picture was partly shadowed by the tree, but that didn't really matter.
He saw the resemblance anyway—the heart-shaped face, the pointed chin. Miranda.

The boy was Miranda's child, certainly. But his? How could that be? He'd have known. She'd have told him, wouldn't she?

The voices behind him faded into the dull murmur of ocean waves. A seabird called, and a slim figure came toward him from the water, green eyes laughing, bronze hair rippling over her shoulders.

His jaw clenched. No. He'd closed off that part of himself a long time ago, sealing it securely. He wouldn't let it break open.

The truth was, he didn't know what Miranda might do. It had been—what, eight years? He stared at the photo. The boy could be the right age.

He spun around, the movement startling both his brother and his assistant into silence. Josh took advantage of the moment to move past Henry Carmichael's bulk. He looked from Tyler's face to the photo in his hand, gaze curious. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” Nothing that he wanted to confide in Josh, in any event. He slid the photograph into his pocket.

“In that case…”

“Not now.” He suspected he already knew what Josh wanted to talk about. Money. It was always money with Josh, just as it was with their mother and with the array of step and half siblings and relatives she'd brought into his life. The whole family saw Tyler as an inexhaustible account to fund their expensive tastes.

You can't count on anyone but yourself.
His father's harsh voice echoed in his mind.
They all want something.

“But Tyler,” Josh began.

He shook his head, then looked at Henry. He could at least trust Henry to do what he was told without asking questions that Tyler had no intention of answering. “Have the jet ready for me in two hours. I'm flying to Savannah.”

“Savannah?” Josh's voice suggested it might as well be the moon. “What about the Warren situation? I thought you were too involved in that contract negotiation to think about anything else.”

He spared a thought for the multimillion-dollar deal he'd been chasing for months. “I'll be a phone call or a fax away. Henry will keep me posted on anything I need to know.”

“Whatever you say.” Henry's broad face was impassive as always. Henry was as unemotional as Tyler, which was probably why they worked so well together.

Tyler crossed the room quickly, pausing to pull his camel-hair coat from the mahogany coatrack. It had been a raw, chilly March day in Baltimore, although Caldwell Cove would be something else.

Again the image shimmered in his mind like a mirage. Surf. Sand. A laughing, sun-kissed face. His wife.

They all want something. What did Miranda want?

He shoved the thought away and strode to the door. He'd deal with this, just as he dealt with any
project that went wrong. Then he'd bury the memory of his first love so deeply that it would never intrude again.

 

The bell on the registration desk jingled impatiently. Miranda Caldwell dusted flour from her hands as she hurried from the inn's kitchen toward the front hallway. The Dolphin Inn wasn't expecting any new guests today, and the rest of the family had taken advantage of that fact to scatter in various directions.

She'd thought she'd have an uninterrupted half-hour to bake some molasses cookies before Sammy got home from school. It looked as if she'd been wrong.

She shoved through the swinging door to the wide hallway that housed the inn's registration desk, along with whatever clutter of fishing poles and baseball bats her brothers had left on the wide-planked floor.

“May I help you?”

The tall stranger turned slowly. Afternoon sunlight through the front screen door lit broad shoulders, dark hair, an expensive suit that was far too formal for the island. Then he faced her, and her heart stopped entirely.

Tyler Winchester, the man she'd never expected to see again. The man who'd broken her eighteen-year-old heart when their marriage dissolved. The man who'd never known he'd fathered a son.

“Hello, Miranda. It's been a long time.”

His voice was deeper than she remembered. More confident. Through a haze of dismay came the
knowledge that Tyler didn't sound surprised. He'd known he was going to find her here.

“Tyler.” Pain ripped through the numbness of shock when she said his name. She hadn't said it aloud in years. How could two syllables have such power to hurt?

He lifted his brows, eyes the color of rich chocolate expressing nothing at all. “Aren't you going to say you're surprised to see me?”

“I…yes, of course I'm surprised.”

Tyler made no move to close the gap between them, thank goodness. If he attempted to shake hands with her, she'd probably turn to stone.

“What brings you to the island?” She managed to get the words out.

He seemed to move farther away from her, even though he didn't actually move at all. Maybe it was just the effect of the chill in his strong-boned face.

“Not a pleasure trip,” he said crisply.

No, it wouldn't be that. Tyler probably vacationed in the south of France. He certainly wouldn't choose to come to Caldwell Cove after what had happened between them.

Maybe that didn't matter to him. After all, he'd had eight years to forget his youthful indiscretion. While she'd been looking at a reminder every day in Sammy—

Sammy. She sent a frantic, fearful glance at the clock. Her son would be walking in the door from school any minute now. As soon as he heard the name, he'd know who Tyler was.

But Tyler didn't know Sammy existed, and she had to keep it that way.

Oh, Lord, please.
She sent up a fervent, desperate prayer.
Help me get rid of him before Sammy gets home.

“You're here on business, then.” She tried to sound as cool as he did, as if it were an everyday occurrence for the man who'd been her husband for one short month to walk back into her life. She moved behind the desk, putting an expanse of scarred oak between them. It wasn't enough of a barrier, but it was all she had.

“You might say that.” Tyler leaned on the desk, the movement bringing him close enough that she caught the expensive aroma of his aftershave. “Maybe you'd better give me a room. I'll be here at least for one night.”

Panic surged through her like a riptide. He couldn't stay here. “No. I mean, I'm sorry.” She put both hands on the register to hide the pages. “We're all booked up.”

His brows lifted again. “This early in the season? Try again, Miranda. I don't buy it.”

When had Tyler become so sarcastic? That hadn't been part of the boy she'd married.

Her heart ripped a little. She didn't know him any longer. The boy who'd held her in his arms and promised to love her forever had turned into a man she didn't understand at all.

He was rich, of course. Winchesters had always been rich and successful. They were filled with the arrogance that came with always getting everything they wanted just by lifting a hand.

Once what Tyler wanted was her—shy little Miranda Caldwell, an island girl who hadn't had the least notion of the world he lived in. But that wanting hadn't lasted long. Just long enough to make the baby he'd never known about.

She swallowed hard, trying to come up with the words that would make him go away.

“I'm sorry, Tyler.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I'm afraid we don't have room for you. I think you should leave now.”

Some emotion she couldn't identify chased across his face, and the skin around his eyes seemed to tighten. “Leave? After you've gone to so much trouble to get me here? That doesn't make any sense.”

“Get you here?” That was the last thing she'd ever do. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Tyler planted both fists on the desk, leaning so close their faces were scant inches apart. She felt the heat radiating from him—no, it was anger, so hot it threatened to singe her skin. His lips were a hard, bitter line.

“I'm talking about the little surprise package you sent me. Didn't you think I'd come down here as soon as I received it?”

She stared at him, baffled. “I didn't send you a package.”

With a swift movement he took something from his pocket and tossed it to the desk between them. It fluttered onto the faded red blotter. She forced frozen fingers to pick it up.

Sammy. Her stomach twisted, making her feel as she had during those months of morning sickness. Tyler had a picture of Sammy.

No. He couldn't. Her mind moved slowly, struggling against the unthinkable reality.

With a quick, angry movement he turned it over in her hand. “Don't forget the inscription.”

Your son.

The printed words struck her in the heart. They rang in her ears, mocking her. All these years of protecting her secret from him, only to have it blown apart by two simple words.

“Where did you get this?”

“You sent it to me.”

“No!” The word nearly leaped from her mouth. “I didn't.”

He made a quick, chopping motion with one hand, as if cutting her away from him. “Who else? I have to warn you, Miranda. If you want child support, you'd better be prepared to prove that boy is mine.”

It took a moment for his words to penetrate, another for her brain to actually make sense of them. Then anger shot up, hot and bracing. How dare he imply she'd had someone else's child?

Common sense intervened. They hadn't seen each other in years. For all Tyler knew, she might have remarried, might have…

He doesn't know for sure Sammy is his.

Beneath the anger, beneath the pain, relief flowered. If Tyler wasn't sure Sammy was his son, she
might still avert disaster. She wouldn't have to fear the nightmare of Tyler snatching Sammy away from her.

She stood up straight, trying to find the strength Gran always insisted was bred into generations of Caldwell women. “My son has nothing to do with you.” She picked her words carefully. “I think it best if you leave now.”

Furrows dug between his brows, and his angry gaze seemed to grasp her with the power that had swept her eighteen-year-old self along with whatever Tyler wanted. “I'll leave as soon as I'm satisfied, Miranda. I want to know why you sent this to me.”

His words rattled around her brain. Who had sent it? None of this made any sense at all. She tried not to glance at the implacable round face of the clock, warning her Sammy could walk in on them.

Nothing else matters. Just get him out of here before Sammy comes in.

“I don't know who sent it. I didn't. I don't want anything from you.” It took a fierce effort to look at him as coolly as if he were a stranger.

He is a stranger, a tiny voice sobbed in her ear. He's not the man you loved.

Tyler straightened, his shoulders stiff, his face a mask. “In that case, I'll—”

The creak of the screen door cut off the sentence, and fear obliterated her momentary relief.

“Hey, Momma, I'm home.” Sammy's quick footsteps slowed when he saw that his mother wasn't alone. He glanced curiously at Tyler, then tossed a green spelling book on the desk. “Can I get a snack?”

“May I,” she corrected automatically. Cool, careful. She could still get out of this in one piece. As long as Sammy didn't hear Tyler's name, she was all right. “Go on into the kitchen. I have some cookies started.”

Sammy nodded, turned. She held her breath. Almost out of danger. There'd be time enough later to sort it all out. Get Sammy out, and…

“Just a minute.” Tyler's voice had roughened. It carried a raw note of command.

She forced herself to move around the desk, grasp Sammy's shoulders, look at Tyler. The expression on his face chilled her to the bone.

He knew. He'd taken one look at Sammy, and her son's beautiful eyes, so like his father's, had given them away. Tyler knew Sammy was his son.

 

Tyler couldn't stop staring. At first he'd seen a child with Miranda's heart-shaped face, her pointed chin.

Then the boy looked at him, and Tyler had seen the child's eyes. Deep brown, with the slightest gold flecks in them when the light hit as it did in that moment, slanting through the wavy panes of the hall window. Eyes deeply fringed with curling lashes.

Winchester eyes—they were the same eyes he saw every time he looked at his brother and every morning in the mirror.

Stop, take a breath, think about this.

He didn't really need to think about it. Maybe the truth had been there all along, beneath his initial assumption that he couldn't have a child. He'd known,
at some level, that if Miranda had a son, that boy was his.

She hadn't told him. Anger roared through his thoughts like a jet. Miranda had borne his child, and she hadn't told him.

The three of them stood, frozen in place, the old house quiet around them. From somewhere outside came the raucous squawk of a seagull, seeming to punctuate his anger. She hadn't told him.

He shifted his gaze to Miranda, furious words forming on his tongue. He'd tell her just what he thought—