Heartstrings (13 page)

Before he was able to get out of the way, she heaved and spewed everything in her belly all over his jeans and thousand-dollar, genuine ostrich skin, custom-made boots.

When she was finished, she pushed her hair back and looked up at him, eyes huge with embarrassment. She wiped her mouth and whispered, “I-I’m sorry.”

He glanced down at the mess and couldn’t even be mad at her. “Remember that time when we went to the Founder’s Day fair, and rode that carnival ride? What was it called?”

She closed her eyes. “The Whip-a-Whirl. I’d gorged myself on cotton candy and soda-pop right before I let you talk me into riding it.”

Laughing, he helped her back into the truck. “And I paid for it when all that cotton candy and soda-pop ended up all over my lap.”

She groaned and let out a choked chuckle, hiding her face in her hands. “You had to remind me. I was so nervous because you’d kissed me earlier that day back at the Double K. I hoped to impress you and instead ended up puking all over you.”

Is that why you downed four beers in less than an hour? Do I make you nervous?

Yeah, right.

He leaned into the opening and snapped her seatbelt around her again. They were so close he could have kissed her if he wanted to–which he definitely wanted to, but not right now. His belly rolled, and he swallowed.

“You remember that first kiss, don’t you, Seth?”

Oh, he remembered. He was fifteen and she was fourteen, and the memory of it easily gave him a hard-on for a long time afterward. Scared the hell out of him. But he’d never forgotten his first kiss. “I remember.” He brushed her hair out of her face and smiled. “You were so shy.”

“I couldn’t believe you kissed me.”

“Let’s get you home.”

After closing her door, he grabbed a clump of dried grass and used it to get the worst of the vomit off his jeans and boots, all the while swallowing back his own. Thank God, he still had the new clothes he’d bought earlier today in the Escalade. If he had to, he’d run over to the Double K and shower and change before going back to Johanna’s place.

He headed around the front of the rig when headlights damn near blinded him as they came to a stop in front of the truck on the wrong side of the road. The driver of the Tahoe opened the door, and the McAllister County Sheriff’s Department logo flashed him.

He squared his shoulders and shifted his feet apart as Mike got out of the cruiser. He adjusted his gun belt like some Old West outlaw. “Seth? That’s Abby’s Silverado, isn’t it? What’s going on?”

Abby opened her door and stumbled out of the truck. She sidestepped her mess in the ditch and staggered to him. Why the hell didn’t she just stay put?

“I’m taking Abby home.”

A large box truck slowed as it passed by them. Mike waved and watched it as it headed down the road to the intersection. The driver had to be lost. There were only a handful of ranches between here and the end of the line at the Circle R.

Mike shifted his feet and the gun belt again as if uneasy. He looked Seth up and down then gazed at Abby. “You’re drunk?”

She shrugged and grabbed Seth’s arm to keep from tripping over her own feet. “Yep. You know me. No tolerance.”

Mike narrowed his eyes into slits and moved a few steps closer. “You were out together?”

She stiffened and shook her head. “No. He was at Gatlin’s, and I–”

“So what if we were?” Seth cut her off. “She doesn’t answer to you anymore.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t want you near my daughter.”

Jesus, help him. He wanted to knock Mike into next week every time he called Emily his daughter. “And you know I could prove publicly just how much of a sham that is.”

He could, but he wouldn’t.

Mike lost some of the constipated look as his eyes widened ever so slightly.

Looking down into Abby’s upturned face, he said, “You haven’t told him?”

“Told me what?”

He met Mike’s dark gaze and shrugged. “It’s simple. You and Abby let me get to know Emily and I won’t sue you for custody. I think we all know a simple DNA test will prove which one of us is her father.”

Mike’s expression turned from one of surprise to fear in a millisecond. But soon, the constipated look was back worse than before. He bore down on him and got into his face. “You son-of-a-bitch. Do you know what that would do to her?”

Abby started shaking and her eyes got that glossy look to them. She was either going to puke again or cry. Seth didn’t know if he could handle either reaction. He turned her around and headed for her side of the truck. Her eyes pleaded with him as she peered up at him. He could only assume she didn’t want him to knock Mike into next week.

He made his way around to the prick again, fisting his hands to fight the urge to grab him by the shirtfront. “Let’s get something straight. I’m not going anywhere. At least not for a little while, and when I do leave, I’ll be back. I don’t really give a rat’s ass how much you don’t want me around Emily.”

Mike glanced at the truck before turning toward his SUV. “Get Abby home. You both stink.”

He sucked in a breath when a realization as bright as noon on a clear day hit him. He laughed and slapped his hand against his thigh. Mike faced him, and Seth said, “I’ll be damned. Tammy Jo doesn’t know Emily isn’t yours. You never told her the truth that you only married Abby for her money.”

Mike flicked his gaze toward Abby in the truck before he got so close to his face he smelled the stale coffee and something sweet and pepperminty on his breath. “I raised your bastard, Kendall.” His voice was not much more than a growl. “And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure she never learns the truth.”

Seth stood there as Mike got into the cruiser and peeled out so fast the wheels protested with a squeal. The back tires missed running over his toes by mere inches.
What are you really afraid of, Mike? Hurting Emily, or your wife’s wrath?

He got into the truck and cranked the engine. Abby stared out the side window, but he knew from the way her shoulders trembled she was crying.

He wanted to ask her about Mike, but now wasn’t the time. As much as he wanted to know the truth so he could use it as leverage over her and Mike, he wouldn’t stoop low enough to take advantage of her at her most vulnerable.

He helped her out of the truck and up to the front of the single-story ranch house. From her unsteady hands, he took her key and opened her door. He got her inside to the kitchen and sat her in a chair at the big country table.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands. He rummaged around the kitchen cupboards until he found the fixings to brew a pot of strong coffee. Handing her a cup, he said, “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I can’t believe this.” She looked up at him and took the cup between her shaky hands. “You probably think I’m some kind of drunk.”

He snorted and sat at the table. “No. But I am wondering why you drank so much.”

She avoided answering by sipping the coffee then winced. “I hate black coffee.”

“It’s better for your belly that way.”

She took a few more sips, then set the cup on the table and sighed. “Why are you doing this, Seth?”

“Doing what?”

“Being nice to me.”

He sucked in a breath and looked down at his hands. “A part of me wonders what would have happened if you’d have come with me that night.”

She leaned over her arms and stared into the cup. “Don’t.”

He snagged her gaze and held it. “Did you love Mike?”

She tilted her head until her hair slid over her face, and her gaze slipped from his. “Yes.”

A horn blew from the driveway, and he stood. “That’s probably Earle. Will you be okay?”

Nodding, she sipped the black coffee again and grimaced. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

Without another word, he left the house. He thanked Earle for bringing his rig out and assured him Abby was okay. Then the man got into the truck that had followed him and the driver turned around.

He got in the Escalade. The stink from the vomited beer coating his jeans was really starting to make him sick. He would never make it to town. Without another look back, he turned around and headed toward the Double K.

He parked in front of the house and grabbed one of the clothes bags from the passenger seat. Johanna had given him an extra key last week when he came out to the ranch to go riding, but he’d never used it. Now, he opened the kitchen door and let himself in.

The real estate agent was to come by Monday to get the place on the market. According to him, the housing market might suck, but farms and ranches were still selling well. He expected the place to go quickly–especially with Seth’s name connected to the place.

He glanced around the country kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he felt about strangers moving into the house his great-grandfather built for his bride. He might have despised his old man, but he had never hated where he’d come from.

No use dwelling on what he’d planned to do with the house. Flipping off the light, he headed for the stairs and climbed to the second floor to the hall bathroom. He showered and put on the new clothes he’d bought for the show he planned to do at the nursing home Wednesday. He cleaned up his boots as well as possible, then grabbed all the dirty laundry and put it in an empty plastic bag to throw away later.

As he headed out of the bathroom, he couldn’t help but notice the master bedroom door stood open. Johanna had started going through John’s personal things. Piles of clothes were stacked on the bed.

He stopped at his old bedroom door and shifted the bag from one hand to the other. What had the old man done with all of his old stuff? Had he tossed it all? He cracked the door to the room, turned on the overhead light, and stepped back in time.

A quilt his Grandma Harris had made for him still covered the twin bed. His baseball collection and a photograph of him and Mike fishing sat on the dresser. Another of Abby from tenth grade sat on the nightstand.

Swallowing down the lump of memories, he lifted his eyes to a framed, autographed t-shirt hanging on the wall above the bed. Although he’d once been the opening act for George Strait and considered the King of Country Music his friend, he would never forget the concert when he was sixteen and first met his greatest musical influence.

Or the way Abby had held his hand throughout the whole thing.

He turned to leave and staggered back. Over his old desk hung a collection of framed local newspaper clippings about his success, and programs from the concerts he’d done in several Texas and western Oklahoma cities. Had his dad gone to them?

A shadow box held a CD copy of his first album. He gaped at the collection. Why had Dad kept all this stuff?

His gaze touched the photographs he’d sent his father out of spite when he’d won the Horizon Award and Best Male Vocalist for the first time. Another frame held a picture of him accepting Entertainer of the Year for the first time. There was a picture of him receiving his first Grammy. The last one was of him standing barefoot on the beach with his St. Thomas house in the background. He wore Bermuda shorts, an open tropical shirt and a straw hat, and he held a beer in silent toast to the camera. On the bottom of the photo, he’d written
Merry Christmas from St. Thomas
as if it were a postcard.

He sank on the end of the bed and finally took a breath. Every CD he’d recorded was stacked on the desk. A shoebox held the few letters he’d written to his father. Mostly they were to brag about his success. Not once had he asked his dad how he was. He’d never expected the man to even read them, let alone keep them.

He felt numb at first, then confused. In all of his life, he’d never have thought his father would have a shrine dedicated to him. It touched something deep within him where that first flicker of grief had come to life. This time Seth didn’t smother the spark, he let it smolder into an achy fire in his chest.

He left the house and got into his SUV. The letter, which he’d tossed onto the passenger seat three days ago, drew his attention, and he picked it up. He pondered his scrawled name on the front for a long moment before turning it over and opening it.

Dear Son,

If you are reading this, then I’m dead. I know it will be too late for much of what I’m about to say to even affect you, but I feel it has to be said. I suppose I’m also a coward because I’d rather tell you this after it no longer matters than tell you to your face and discover you actually do hate me.