Tallchief: The Homecoming (2 page)

One year later—

L
iam Tallchief wasn’t in the mood for the classy woman on his doorstep. The commanding tone to her slightly husky voice reminded him of Reuben’s bullish demands.

A year ago, Liam had torn Reuben Cartwright’s name from him; he’d taken his rightful name—Tallchief—for himself and his three-year-old son, and no one was ordering him around again…especially not a woman a foot shorter than his six-foot four-height.

She looked at her gold wristwatch, an expensive bangle style that slid on her slender wrist, and the myriad flash of her diamond ring hit his face. She glanced meaningfully up at him, impatient to have him tend her needs. Appearing to be in her early thirties, the woman was used to giving orders—and Liam didn’t like taking them. She
hadn’t liked that his service station was closed, but then, at seven o’clock in the evening, the residents of Amen Flats, Wyoming were settling into their homes, escaping the late-July heat. Liam recognized the expression of a person used to commanding others, and he didn’t like it.

At thirty-five, Liam knew his priorities: The green-eyed woman with a heart-shaped face could wait; his son’s needs came first.

“My son is eating now. When he’s finished we’ll go and get your car. Or you can use my phone to call anyone you like,” Liam said coolly. He’d grown up with people knocking on his door, asking for towing help with that hot, frustrated look. Back then, Reuben didn’t care if the son he had stolen was fed and warm.

Son.
A momentary darkness shrouded Liam, the recent discovery of his birthright still raw. As a two-week-old infant, he’d taken a dead baby’s place in Mary’s loving arms. His name was Tallchief now, not Cartwright.

The woman’s restless stance, her hand brushing her hair back from her face, nettled Liam. Perhaps the summer thunderstorm brewing high on Tallchief Mountain that caused him to brood…perhaps it was the woman, looking as if she had everything and wanting more.

“I saw your note on the station door, to come here—the house behind the station. I’m trying to surprise a friend, not ask them to come fetch me. I suppose you have the only towing service in town,” the woman said as she stood in the doorway of his rented house. She scanned the main street of Amen Flats, Wyoming, the sunlight glistening on her blond hair and highlighting the dark-brown of her brows and her lashes. “I’d rather no one saw me like this.”

He caught the expensive flash of tiny, bold earrings and the phrase
no one,
and tossed the term aside; the
wealthy often dismissed those who served their needs into the “no one” bin. The tiny town nestled at the foot of the mountains wouldn’t call to her, a city woman, as it did to Liam.

For it was in Amen Flats that he sensed he would find peace, where he had to make peace for his son’s sake. A man who had been raised in one identity only to discover his life had been a lie, Liam had done his share of brooding. He’d changed his name to Tallchief and he’d moved here, to try to do his best. He’d missed a heritage, and for Jacob Thomas, “J.T.,” Liam would try to learn about his family.

“You don’t say much, do you?” Standing in the doorway of his rented house, the woman shifted impatiently from the foot clad in torn hose to the one in an expensive gray heel. The rap-rap of her hand against her costly, overstuffed shoulder tote said she wasn’t used to waiting, her diamonds glittering in the late July sunset. Heat had flushed her face, darkening the strands of blond hair on her cheek. The waves rippled tightly, impatiently propped onto the top of her head with an office rubber band. The plain rubber band contrasted the long, lean expensive line of her gray pinstripe suit jacket and skirt. The diamond solitaire nestled at her throat cost more than his tow truck, but J.T.’s evening meal was more important than a rich woman’s impatience.

“Daddy?” At Liam’s side, J.T. wrapped his arm around his father’s leg; his other hand caught the loop fashioned on his father’s loose denim pants. Dressed in a T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts, J.T.’s gray eyes widened fearfully up at the woman. J.T. had seen enough of suit-clad women who had come to take him away from his father, “for better care.”

No one was taking Liam’s son from him. He’d had
enough of people prying into his business when his wife died and J.T. was just a baby.

The woman glanced quickly from father to son. “You look just alike. Scowlers, both of you.”

“You’re not exactly smiling yourself. It’s okay, Son. Finish your supper,” Liam said, rubbing the top of his son’s glossy black hair. J.T. often needed reassurance, and Liam knew how it felt to be young and frightened—only Reuben had been short on tender, loving care.

Liam pushed back that quiver of hatred snaking through him. He glanced at the dark clouds topping Tallchief Mountain.
Less than a year before, Liam had learned that he wasn’t Reuben’s son, but that his rightful name was Tallchief—that he was the missing baby of the deceased Tallchief couple swept away in the river, after their car wreck. His entire life had been a lie…his son would have the truth.

“It’s a little late for him to be eating, isn’t it?” the woman asked, and blew a long rippling strand away from her face. Sunset caught sparks in blond hair and formed a halo of rippling wisps around her head; the woman’s hair was naturally curly and most likely unable to be tamed.

“Could be,” Liam answered, in the way that he knew avoided more questions. Earlier J.T. had been napping so peacefully on his little cot at the station that Liam was able to finish a tune-up job. He set his most intricate work around the boy’s sleep and play patterns. “You’re welcome to come in.”

“Do you have air-conditioning?” she asked, as if setting contract terms, and pushed up her suit’s long sleeve to study her watch. Her nose wrinkled distastefully as she glanced down to her torn hose and wiggled her toes. “I hate being dirty and sweaty,” she stated adamantly.
“You look like a Tallchief. My friend Silver Tallchief Palladin sent a picture of the family to me…they’re quite impressive all decked out in kilts and tartans. It’s easy to see you’re related somehow. Silver is a cousin. Her husband is a Palladin and a brother to the man who married Fiona.”

She’d come to his doorstep, demanding help, and without knowing it, had slapped him with his problems. With shaggy black hair and smoky-gray eyes, Liam was a perfect reflection of the Amen Flats Tallchiefs, but he preferred to keep to himself. Reuben had taught him that—that a shroud of cool distance was safer than family. The extensive Tallchief family hadn’t pushed, but Liam hadn’t offered, either. He wasn’t certain how he fit into the Tallchief bloodline, but he knew after one look at Duncan, Calum, Birk, Fiona and Elspeth that he was related.

He intended J.T. to know who he was, where he came from, and to have a family. The problem was that Liam didn’t know how to enter a family—

After Reuben died, Liam was left with medical bills and the job of cleaning up old papers. There, in Mary Cartwright’s Bible, had been a small perfect letter for “My Son Liam.”
And then he had learned how Reuben had substituted an orphaned baby for his own stillborn son.

Thunder rumbled on Tallchief Mountain, and the waves on Tallchief Lake would be lashed with whitecaps, the wind damp with rain. Mary, Liam’s foster mother, had been kind, but had passed away soon after Liam’s sixth birthday. Next, sweet Karen, Liam’s wife, had passed silently away after bearing J.T. And then old Reuben—Liam swallowed the tight hatred in his throat—the man who had picked him up from the river bank was
tight with money, bitter with words and fast to use his hands on a child. But not on J.T.; Reuben had known better than to touch Liam’s son as he had hurt Liam.

Liam nodded, picking up J.T. in his arms and opening the door for the woman to enter his house. His son hooked an arm tightly around Liam’s neck, and Liam held him closer. “It’s all right, J.T.,” he said quietly, and closed the door of his plain, clean house behind the woman.

She entered with quick assessing glances, taking in the bare furnishings, the toys and trucks strewn across the floor, the shabby desk piled high with papers and bills. She frowned at the clutter of a disassembled carburetor on a side table—Liam’s work while J.T. slept. “I’ll wait here,” she said, sitting very straight in a battered chair. She clasped her huge leather, business bag on her lap as she glanced at her watch yet again.

Liam tossed aside the deliberate, impatient nudge. “If you want, you can use the bathroom to freshen up.”

Her body tightened within the fluid expensive suit, and he almost smiled at her distaste. While his towels and bathroom were meticulous—a contrast to the filth in which he’d grown up—there were no hand creams or special tissues available. “No, thank you. I’m just fine,” she said.

She stirred restlessly, and while he sat with J.T., he noted her obvious reluctance to change her mind. “Well, maybe I should just freshen up while you finish,” she said, holding her heavy shoulder bag tightly as she entered the bathroom. Her wary expression said she didn’t trust him.

Liam ate quietly, helping J.T. with his spoon and using a paper napkin to set an example. He knew little about trust, except his son’s.

When she came out, J.T. sniffed at the delicate flower scent, an oddity in the all male house. The little boy’s eyes widened as she produced a tube of hand cream and began working it into her hands. He sniffed again, unfamiliar with the feminine action. J.T. finished his chicken take-out meal, his gray eyes wary on the woman. Her eyes were as green as summer grass when Liam served her ice water. “Thank you very much,” she said very properly, and sipped the water. Then she was up on her feet, pacing in an odd, one-heeled way, a restless woman ready to be off and tearing through life. Liam recognized the type, well dressed, raised in a life of money, eager for more money, and little time for anything in between.

Breeding and money, Liam thought, as she handed the glass back to him. The diamond studs in those dainty ears cost enough to clothe J.T. for years. When J.T. was finished, Liam told him to get ready, and the boy solemnly went to the bathroom. He appeared moments later with his favorite red ball cap and toy truck, standing close to Liam.

After handing J.T. into the wrecker and buckling him into his car seat, Liam turned to help the woman up into the seat. Several feet off the ground, the high cab required the use of a handgrip and a running board. She hitched up her skirt with one hand and stepped onto the metal running board with her unshod foot. It was dainty, Liam noticed absently, small and narrow and perfect within the ruined, dirty hose. From the severe way she dressed, he wasn’t expecting the neatly lacquered dark-red toenails. She gripped the pipe handle on the side of the truck, and pulled herself up to the running board, balancing precariously.

In the next moment her high heel caught, and she twisted, tumbling back into Liam’s arms.

He hadn’t had a woman in his arms for years.
The stunning softness of her hips and the softness of her breasts beneath his fingers shocked him. One glance down to her slightly parted suit jacket and the glimpse of quivering golden flesh took away his breath.

“Sorry,” she said, scowling up at him as the sensual vibrations held him trapped.

“Maybe you’d better take off your shoe—so it won’t cause you to fall again,” he offered roughly when he could catch his breath.

“Just look at my hose,” she said accusingly, as if he were the cause. She stretched out a neatly curved leg and pointed her toe. “If you think I’m going to let that happen, think again,” she stated, clearly offended.

Liam nodded and tried to focus on what he was supposed to be doing, but all he could think about was the soft, sweet-smelling woman in his arms and those stormy green eyes.
Witch’s eyes filled with secrets and brewing enough heat to scorch him….

Expensive. Spoiled. High-class. The thoughts rapped at him as he managed to place her back on the running board. She tottered precariously, and Liam shook his head and closed his eyes momentarily. Then he placed a broad hand on her backside and pushed her upward. She lifted her skirt again, and from below Liam was presented with a mind-blowing view of long legs up to her thighs, and a neatly curved bottom. He blinked, trying to force away the image of a beige-pink lacy slip.

He blinked again, for the beige-pink lace matched the lace that had been exposed by her gaping suit jacket.

Liam suddenly realized that it was very hot in the late
July sunset, and that he was feeling unstable and meltable.

“I’m ready,” she said imperially from feet above him, the queen to the servant. She met his look evenly. “You can stop scowling now.”

He slammed the door on her snooty tone and the intriguing view of her slender, curved legs.

He was just recovering, shifting gears and driving down the highway when she looked at him over J.T.’s head. “He doesn’t say much, and neither do you.”

She’d torn through his attempt at reclaiming silence and peace. The woman irritated and pushed, Liam thought doggedly. He didn’t like feeling nettled. “He’s fine.”

But J.T. was frightened, his little hand reaching out to grip Liam’s T-shirt. That small, tight fist sent a bolt of pain to Liam’s heart. As a boy, he’d known about fear, and he didn’t want J.T. frightened. Liam didn’t know how to share the boy, how to make him feel safe with others. He hoped that eventually J.T. would learn to trust others, because if anything happened to Liam, J.T. would be alone—

“You shouldn’t have brought him. He could get hurt. Couldn’t you have called a baby-sitter?”

“No.” Liam knew his answer was too harsh. But until J.T. settled in better—

“I would have thought any of the Tallchiefs—”

“We don’t mix much.” Liam watched a doe and fawn cross the highway, pointing to the animals for J.T.’s pleasure. Until six months ago, J.T. had grown up in Moss, a small Wyoming mountain town. Deer were plentiful near Moss and had always fascinated J.T.

“His mother, then.” The woman’s slanted green eyes
flashed in the shadows; she was a fighter, determined to make her point.