Banish Misfortune (27 page)

She had never fainted in her life, and she wasn't about to start now. The roaring in her ears, the sudden rapid disappearance of the solid porch beneath her, the sickening hollowness in her head and stomach would pass. She reached out and caught the wooden deck in numb hands, letting the banjo slide forward in her lap, and looked up at the apparition with disbelieving eyes. If she blinked, maybe he would go away.

He didn't. He just stood there looking down at her with that bland, threatening smile on a face she once thought devastatingly handsome. She didn't think so now. She thought he was the most horrifying sight she'd ever seen, and she felt her safe, comfortable life slip away from her grasp as the porch seemed to spin away from her.

She had to pull herself together. That thought quickly surfaced through her panic, and with spectacular effort she pulled her backbone straight and even managed to return his smile, albeit stiffly. Her greeting, while lacking in warmth, made up for it in directness.

"What are you doing here, Springer?"
And how soon can I get rid of you,
she added silently.
Dear God in heaven, please let it be before Matthew wakes up.

He moved closer, and for the first time Jessica felt the threat in that tall, sinuous body of his. He still had that lazy smile on his face, but his dark eyes were almost black with something she didn't care to fathom. All her instincts were set for trouble, but she forced herself to relax.

"I thought I'd visit you and Peter's son," he said amiably. 'And see what's happened to the old homestead. Sort of a sentimental pilgrimage. I haven't been here since I was seventeen." This was all said in a mild voice, but Jessica wasn't lulled.

"Were you planning to stay?" Her voice shook slightly, and she cleared her throat in a vain attempt to cover her fright.

His smile only broadened, and she could see tiny gold flecks in his dark, angry eyes. The man was a sadist, she realized belatedly. He must know.

"I thought I might," he drawled. "That is, if I'm not putting you out any."

"You can't," she said abruptly, no longer caring that the panic showed.

"Why not?"

"Because this is a very small community. How would it look if a strange man stayed with me? My reputation would be ruined and I have to live with these people." She was quite pleased with herself for her instant rationale.

"You don't have to live here at all," he replied. "And I wouldn't think anyone would confuse you with Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, given Matthew's indis-putable presence. I think you'll have to come up with a better excuse."

"I don't want you here, Springer. Is that a good enough excuse?" she snapped. "Your father left this house to Matthew, in my trust, and neither of us wants you here."

"Speak for yourself, Jessie. You haven't checked with Matthew," he said lazily, unmoved by her anger. "And probate hasn't gone through yet, and most likely won't for at least six months. Until then, this house is still legally part of Ham's estate."

She could hear it now, the beginning snorts and fusses of a wakening baby, and the panic spread. "Go away, Springer," she said, and there was a thread of desperation in her voice. The baby's cries were getting louder and more constant.

Springer just smiled, that disturbing, almost malevolent smile, and reached out to take the banjo from her lap. "I wouldn't think of it. Don't you think you should go get the baby? He's crying quite loudly now."

Matthew had worked himself up to a full-blooded scream, one that usually betokened extreme rage and a very wet diaper. Jessica hesitated for a moment longer, hoping against hope that there was some way she could salvage the situation. If only there was a slim chance that she could get rid of Springer before he actually set eyes on Matthew. There was still a possibility that he didn't know.

Springer's other hand reached down and caught her numb hand, yanking her up to her feet with just enough roughness to banish the last of her doubts.

"Come on, little mother," he murmured, an edge beneath his drawl. "Introduce me to Peter Kinsey's son."

For a moment she found herself hating him with an intensity that frightened her. He was looming over her, seeming taller than ever with her in bare feet, and his lean, strong body was emanating all sorts of hidden threats. He was toying with her, playing with her like a cat with a succulent mouse. He had her trapped in a corner and was batting at her, giving her just enough room to escape and then yanking her back. And once he finished with her, he'd start in on her young.

It seemed as if he could read the frightened thoughts that sped through her mind. "Are you just going to stand there sniveling?" he queried pleasantly.

At that the last of her panicked indecision left her. Her head snapped up, her back straightened and her eyes flashed up into his. And for the first time she recognized the depths of his rage. But now it wasn't any worse than hers. "No, I'm not," she said in an even voice. "I'm going to get my son."

Matthew greeted her arrival with an abrupt cessation of his weeping and a snuffle of watery gratitude. Paying absolutely no attention to the tall figure just behind her shoulder, she cuddled the damp baby against her, in a vain attempt to prolong the inevitable. But Springer's hands, large enough to comfortably cradle the small baby, reached out and took him from her, and there was nothing she could do to hold on to him without hurting him.

"Let me take a look at you, young man." She almost didn't recognize Springer's voice. It was a low, soothing croon, rumbling from deep in his chest, and she watched in amazement as Matthew's little face, already wrinkled in a howl of protest at the strange hands holding him, smoothed out into an expression of wary interest. Father and son surveyed each other, and then Springer moved over to the old dresser that served as a changing table. "The perfect image of Peter Kinsey," he said dryly, his voice still that amazing low note that mesmerized the infant in front of him. "Your mother's managed to let you get quite wet, my boy." He was dispensing with the diaper with startling expertise, replacing it with a new one with a minimum of wasted moves, and all the while Matthew stared up at him, entranced. A moment later he was comfortably ensconced against Springer's shoulder, looking at his mother out of his dark, somewhat startled eyes.

A thousand disparate emotions were sweeping through Jessica. Jealousy and possessiveness were there, combined with the ever-present feeling of panic. But there was also a tiny clutching deep in her heart at the sight of the two of them—the one so tiny, the other so huge— and she had a sudden, inexplicable memory of her fantasy when she'd first seen this house that she'd fallen in love with. She'd pictured a husband and baby waiting for her, filled with love. And the man had been Springer.

But it wasn't love he was feeling now, she thought numbly. He would hurt her if he could, and she was terribly afraid he was going to try to take Matthew away from her. She could feel the panic begin to rise again, threatening to choke her, and she quickly swallowed it. She had to think calmly, clearly, like Matt Decker faced with one of his hordes of crazed terrorists. Even if the odds were overwhelming, she and Matthew could escape. She just had to keep her head.

"He needs his bottle," she said calmly as Matthew began squirming.

"You're not breast-feeding?" The drawled politeness had vanished, at least temporarily, and the question was an attack.

She found she could attack too. "You already know that. It would have made quite a mess of the sheets when we went to bed together last month if I had been."

He didn't even flinch at the deliberate reminder. "We made quite a mess of the sheets as it was. It's much better for a baby to be breast-fed."

It was an old guilt, one she hadn't completely resolved, and hearing it from Springer shattered the last of her calm. "Then you do it!" she snapped. "Maybe you'll have less trouble than I had."

"You tried?" He sounded disbelieving.

"Of course I did! Through anemia, exhaustion, viral pneumonia, and the Vermont version of dysentery. Matthew was starving and hungry, I was starving and getting weaker, and finally the milk dried up entirely. Not that it's any of your damned business."

Springer looked down at the child wriggling cheerfully enough in his arms, into the dark, curious eyes so very much like his own, and then back to Jessica's defiant ones. "Not that it's any of my damned business," he echoed softly, and once more she felt that menace. "Do you feel like getting me a bottle for him or shall I hunt it up myself?"

"I'll feed him." She reached out for the baby, but Springer didn't budge.

"Get the bottle, little mother," he said, his voice brooking no opposition, and there was nothing she could do, short of trying to wrestle the baby out of his surprisingly capable arms. "I'll feed your son."

Marianne slammed the cast-iron frying pan
down on the old gas stove with a loud clang, fondly picturing Andrew Cameron's head beneath it. She was venting all her anger and uncertainty on the dinner she was hastily pulling together, and she had a sudden, fond wish that their straitened circumstances could have stretched to veal or boned chicken. To something she could pound.

There wasn't much violent satisfaction to be gotten out of tuna-fish casserole. You could be only so hostile opening up the cans without bathing your hands in fish oil, and even chopping onions with a large knife put your fingers at risk. She'd skinned her knuckles grating cheese, scorched the white sauce, and burned herself when she drained the noodles with a trace too much vehemence. Through it all Eric and Shannon sat passively, letting their mother burn off steam while they watched the omnipresent "Family Feud."

She slammed the oven door behind the casserole, then had to go back and check to make sure she hadn't knocked out the flame on the recalcitrant old stove. She remembered the day, not three months after Tom had dragged them up there, when he'd gone off to buy her a new stove. He'd returned late that night with a new stereo system, one he'd taken with him when he vanished back to Connecticut, and she was still risking life and limb cooking on this antique monstrosity.

"Men!" she said in a sneer, roundly condemning the whole species as she glared at the unoffending casserole before slamming the door shut again.

"Hey, Ma." Eric roused himself during a deodorant commercial.

"Hey, what?"

"Billy Goat got into the raspberries today."

"It figures," she replied glumly. "No raspberry jam this year, I guess."

"We can go back to Andrew's and take his," Eric suggested turning back to the television. "He said we could."

"That'll be a cold day in hell," Marianne muttered, pouring herself a tall glass of wine and plopping down at the worn kitchen table. "Damn his little Scottish soul."

The sound of game-show laughter drowned out the rumble of the Valiant. In the back of her mind she heard the car door slam, heard the light footsteps on her sagging porch. She kept her eyes glued to the bleached and scarred top of her kitchen table, not even looking up when she heard the door open.

She ignored the tumult of happy greetings from her children, ignored the sudden pounding of her heart. But she couldn't ignore the slight shadow that fell over her as her children returned to the wonders of Richard Dawson.

"Well, at least the children are glad to see me," he said lightly, his voice quizzical.

"They have no judgment," she mumbled, keeping her head averted, keeping her heart hardened against the sudden treacherous melting.

There was a long pause, and he tried again. "Something smells wonderful," he said soulfully. "Am I invited for dinner?"

"No."

A gentle hand reached down, caught her chin and turned her unwilling face to meet his. His green eyes were rueful as they scanned her stubborn face. "What have I done to make you so mad at me, woman?" he queried softly. "I thought we'd done with fighting for the time being."

"Where the hell were you?"

A look of relief softened his angular features. "Is that all you're fussing about? I was looking after me and mine."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She had to use all her strength of mind to kep from moving her chin around to kiss that strong hand. She kept her voice sharp, but just barely so.

"I was seeing my lawyer about that ex-husband of yours," Cameron said smugly, releasing her chin with a gentle stroke and seating himself beside her. "He says there should be no problem, provided we get married as soon as possible. Trainor might try to pull a fast one with custody if we put it off too long, and—"

"You did what?" Any softening that had threatened Marianne's state of mind had vanished. "How dare you?"

"You're sounding like a Victorian novel, Marianne," he said caustically. "I was just trying to protect you—"

"Don't you think I might be capable of protecting myself?" she shot back, her rage white-hot. "Or even deserving of being consulted in your high-and-mighty plans? I'm not going to marry you or anyone, Andrew Cameron."

"Don't be ridiculous, woman." He was getting mad now, his temper equaling hers. "You know better than anyone how little you can trust your husband—"

"I know better than anyone how little I can trust any damned man," she shot back. "I am not going from the frying pan into the fire. I did not get rid of one husband telling me what to do just to turn around and marry another overbearing man."