His Secret Child (9 page)

When Danny went to sleep leaning against his mother in the bucket seat of Caleb's Porsche, Caleb thought about how inconvenient a sports car was for a family man. Then he reminded himself that he wasn't a family man, just a lonely guy playing Dad for one night. If a year ago someone had told him that he'd be living back in his hometown, courting a widow with a kid and wishing that kid was his, he'd have laughed in that person's face. Hell, he hadn't given Sheila Hanley—Sheila Hanley
Vance
—more than a passing thought in twelve years. And the last thing he'd wanted was a child. A family wouldn't have fit into his life-style before the accident.
And it still doesn't,
he told himself.

When Caleb pulled the Porsche up into the Vance driveway, Sheila shook her son gently. "Wake up, sleepyhead."

"Huh?" Danny's eyelids fluttered, but he didn't open his eyes.

"I could carry him, if it wasn't for this bad arm," Caleb said as he opened the driver's door.

"He can walk." Sheila grabbed Danny's chin and softly shook his face. "Come on, Mr. Baseball. We're home."

"Okay." He yawned, opened his eyes and smiled sleepily at his mother. "Caleb's a great guy, isn't he? Sure wish he was my dad."

Sheila glanced at Caleb, who had just opened the passenger door, and her heart caught in her throat.
Oh, dear God, why did you let this happen? Everything was just fine until Caleb came back into our lives.

Suppressing her chaotic thoughts, she eased out of the car, then tugged on Danny's hands until he crawled out behind her. He slid his long, skinny arm around his mother's waist and then reached out and took Caleb's left hand. When the three of them reached the front door, Sheila unlocked it, reached inside to flip on the overhead light in the living room and gently guided Danny inside before turning to Caleb.

"Thanks for the ride home," she said.

"I thought I'd been invited in to stay for a while."

"That was when Danny was still awake. He's asleep on his feet. I'll do good to get him out of his clothes before he passes out."

"Let me come in and put him to bed," Caleb suggested. "You could fix us something to drink—maybe some decaf coffee or—"

"Why don't you just go on home, Caleb?"

"Ah, Mom, let him come in and put me to bed," Danny said.

They turned around and looked at the boy standing just inside the living room. His eyes were half-closed and he was yawning, but his lips were curved into a silly smile.

"Oh, all right," Sheila said. "Help Danny to bed and I'll fix us some coffee." She checked her watch. "It's eleven-thirty. You can stay until midnight."

Sheila went into the house and Caleb followed her, then closed and locked the door behind them. "What happens then?" he asked teasingly. "Do I turn back into a pumpkin or do you lose a glass slipper or—"

"Neither. At midnight you leave and I go to bed."

Caleb grinned, that naughty, irresistible grin that their son had inherited from him. "Okay. I'll leave at midnight, if I have to."

"You have to."

"Come on, sport, let's get you to bed." Caleb followed the sleepy child down the hall to his room—a room filled with baseball paraphernalia. Baseball posters filled the walls, mostly posters of Atlanta Braves' star pitcher, Caleb Bishop.

Danny slumped down on his bed. "Gosh, Caleb, I'm sorry I'm so sleepy. I can't seem to keep my eyes open. I wanted us to talk about the game."

"We can do that later. Right now, you need your rest. You played a great game and wore yourself out. Pitching an entire game the way you did is rough on a guy."

"I did good, didn't I?"

"You did better than good," Caleb told him. "You were a real star tonight."

"Just like you." Danny yawned.

Caleb sat beside Danny on the bed and pulled the child's Bulldogs jersey over his head. "Yeah. Just like me."

Caleb had the strangest urge to reach out and take Sheila's son into his arms. He felt the boy's desperate need to connect to a father figure, to a man he liked and admired. The crazy thing was, he liked the idea of being Danny's father. There was something about this kid—something that got to him.

Just like his mother, Caleb thought. What was it about Sheila that got under his skin, that made him want her to the exclusion of any other woman in Crooked Oak? Sheila was hardly his type. She'd never been his type. But he liked her. He respected her. She was the most honest person he'd ever known. No pretense. No falsehoods. No lies. She was exactly what she seemed. A good woman.

Caleb helped Danny finish undressing, then he pulled the covers down and Danny slipped beneath them. When he gazed up at Caleb with drooping eyelids, Caleb patted him on his cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow. We'll toss the ball around together."

"Promise?"

"Yeah. As long as it's all right with your mother."

Caleb turned off the light, closed the bedroom door and went down the hall toward the kitchen. He found Sheila sitting at the round oak table, a cup of freshly brewed coffee in her hand. When he entered the room, she glanced up and nodded toward the cup sitting on a coaster in front of the chair across from her.

"He went out like a light," Caleb said. "He was worn-out."

"This was a perfect night for Danny, you know." Holding the cup in both hands, she lifted it to her lips.

"It was a pretty good night for me, too. I haven't felt this alive since … Well, not in a long time."

"Sit down, Caleb. We need to talk."

He sat, lifted the cup and sipped the coffee.

"Caleb, I'm grateful for everything you did for the Bulldogs tonight and for helping give Danny an experience he'll never forget, but … I don't know how to say this."

"Just say it."

She set her cup down on the coaster, took a deep breath, laid her hands flat on the tabletop and leaned toward him. "Danny's becoming too fond of you. Before you came to Crooked Oak, you were an idol he worshiped from afar. Now you're a man he admires—up close and personal. And … well, tonight he—he—"

"He said he wished I was his dad, and you think that's a bad thing for him."

"No. Yes. Oh, shoot! It's bad because he's getting too fond of you and he's already wishing you were his dad. And despite what you say to him, or I say to him, if you continue being a part of his life, it's going to kill him when you leave town for good. He's not going to understand how you could walk away and not look back."

"Are we talking about the present, about Danny?" Caleb asked.

"What do you mean? Of course, we're talking about— Oh, I see." Sheila shoved back her chair and stood. Clenching her hands tightly, she glared at Caleb. "You think I'm talking about myself. About twelve years ago when you walked away from me and never looked back."

"Is that what we're talking about?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Yes, partly," she admitted as she slammed her fist down on the table. "Dammit, Caleb. I will not let you hurt my son the way you hurt me. I won't let you play father to him for a few months while you're passing time here in Crooked Oak. I won't let you make him love you and then see his heart broken when you don't have a place in your life for him anymore."

"Whoa! Wait just a minute." Caleb set down his cup, stood and rounded the table, halting directly in front of Sheila. "Where is all this anger coming from, honey?"

Oh, God, she'd done it now. The very thing she'd wanted to avoid. She had made Caleb suspicious. She could hardly tell him the truth.
The anger is coming from the fact that you got me pregnant and never once considered the consequences of our one night together.
She couldn't say,
I
married a good, kind man old enough to be my father because I didn't want your son to be labeled a bastard.

Grabbing her chin, Caleb forced her to face him. "Do you really hate me?"

Clamping her mouth shut tightly, she shook her head. Oh, God, if only she could hate him!

He gazed deeply into her eyes and asked again, "Do you hate me?"

"No." The one word rushed from her lips after an indrawn breath.

Loosening his grip on her chin, he cupped her face in his left hand, then rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip. She sighed, unable to stop herself from responding.

"I don't know what it is about you," he said, his voice low and soft and husky. "In all honesty—and I want to be honest with you, Sheila—I haven't given you much thought over the years. But ever since that first night I came back to town and found you at the farmhouse, I haven't been able to get you off my mind."

"I can't imagine why." Her insides quivered uncontrollably and she prayed she wouldn't start shaking externally, too. "I'm hardly the unforgettable type, am I?"

"If that's true, why do I seem to have you on my mind, night and day? I could have had Gwyn and probably a dozen more women in Crooked Oak, but I don't want Gwyn or anyone else. I want you."

"You want me only because I keep saying no." She laid her hand over his and pulled it away from her face. He threaded their fingers together. "I said yes to you once. Remember? You've had me. I'm already a notch on Caleb Bishop's bedpost."

"You were never that, honey. If you don't believe anything else, believe that."

"Then what was I, Caleb? A charity case?"

"Dammit, woman!" He grabbed her by the back of the neck and jerked her up against him. His lips swooped down and took hers in a hard, hot, ravaging kiss.

She trembled as desire sprung to life inside her, rippled over her nerve endings and set her belly on fire. Then, unexpectedly, he ended the kiss and shoved her away from him.

"Have you ever thought that maybe I'm not the same selfish kid who took you in the back seat of my car? Have you even once considered the fact that back then I might not have been mature enough to appreciate what a very special girl you were, and that now I'm man enough to recognize and to want a real woman when she comes into my life?"

She stood there, her mouth gaping open, her eyes wide as saucers, and watched him turn around and walk out of the kitchen. By the time she could make her legs move, she heard the front door slam.

"Caleb!"

She rushed after him, through the living room and out onto the front porch. He was just about to get into his Porsche when she called out his name again. He turned and looked back at her.

"I don't hate you. I never have."

"Could we start over again?" he asked. "Wipe the slate clean? If I asked you for a date, would you go out with me?"

"I—I might," she said. "Why don't you call and ask me sometime?"

"I just might do that." He got in his car and drove away.

Sheila hugged herself, there on her front porch, with the cool spring breeze chilling her as the mantel clock in the living room struck midnight.

Six