“This isn’t about money, Mr. Hart.”
“No?”
“It’s about—”She took a deep breath and tipped up her chin.
Zach had always admired guts. And Cassandra had them, in commanding amounts. And for a brief second he wondered what it might be like if they were on the same side of an issue.
“It’s about love and belonging.”
“Love and belonging?” he repeated. Surely his ears deceived him.
She exhaled deeply, as if frustrated by his singular lack of understanding.
“Yes,” she said softly, primly.
Zach wondered what it would take to shake that primness from her. A bold statement? A rash promise? A soul-deep kiss? Maybe running his fingers through the rich brunette strands of her hair? Immediately he dismissed his thoughts. He didn’t give a damn what it took to loosen her up. She’d be out of his life—permanently—within minutes.
“Have you ever known what it’s like not to belong?” she asked.
The darkness of his past descended on Zach.
He knew what it was like not to belong, knew what it was to scrape and struggle, knew how it felt to wear handme-down shirts and jeans with holes in them. He knew what it was like to exist on the same fare night after night, to have no presents on his birthday and to use a tumbleweed in place of a Christmas tree. More, he knew what it was like to have no respect or friends, to stand alone on the playground, watching, as others tossed a baseball or football.
Oh, yeah, he knew better than most what it was like not to belong.
Time thundered with expectancy.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, folding her arms in front of her.
Her eyes met his, and he noticed their color had lightened, as if she read his pain and, more, understood its intensity.
“I had no right...”
He nodded tightly.
“But you’ve got a family...so much. You can’t possibly know—”
“I can and I do,” he corrected, knowing his words were spiked by the anger he’d used more than once to cover the hurt. “I’ve been on both sides of the fence, Ms. Morrison. I’ve been poor enough to know what it’s like to have no fire in the hearth and certainly no chicken in the pot.” He paused. “And now we’re comfortable enough that some people will do anything to get a piece of it.”
Her mouth dropped. “And you truly think I’m the kind of woman who’s only here for a piece of your fortune?” she whispered.
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“You don’t know anything about me...don’t know what kind of woman I am.”
“So why don’t you tell me,” he challenged. “What kind of woman are you?”
“I’m one who wants to see the right thing done by our nephew.”
Zach frowned.
She didn’t back down. Her apology didn’t mean she would back off. “I want Billy to belong, to have a family to call his own.”
The frown deepened to a scowl.
“I want Billy to know his father.”
“If Chad is his father.”
“Look, Mr. Hart, can you let go of the distrust long enough to even consider the possibility that—”
“No, Ms. Morrison, I can’t.”
She feathered her fingers through her hair, leaving a riotous disarray framing her face. It wasn’t prim any longer; it was wild and free—and heaven help him, tempting as the tease of sin.
Right now, though, he needed to fight for sainthood, pretending that wasn’t as far away as reality told him it was. “Put yourself in my shoes for a moment,” he said. “I walk through the door after driving all night. I’m tired and want nothing more than to climb between the sheets.”
She looked away momentarily.
“But instead of a bed, I find a woman I don’t know from Eve standing in my living room. Not only that, but she has a baby with her, a baby she claims was fathered by my youngest brother. A man, I might add, who isn’t here to defend himself.”
“I understand your concern.”
“Does my mother know your story?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“And I suppose you have her believing the baby is her grandson.”
“Billy is her grandson.”
He drew a breath, then with restrained frustration said, “You have to understand, ma’am, when we were growing up, family was all we had—and I mean that quite literally.”
A quiet threat whipping through his voice with the sting of a crop, he added, “I’d cut off my branding arm before I’d allow anyone, anyone, to harm any member of my family, especially my mother.”
She inclined her head to the side, as if heeding his words of caution. When she spoke, it was with the same careful control he was using. She was an adversary, yes. A worthy one. He’d do well to remember that.
“It’s not my intent to harm anyone, Mr. Hart, least of all Margaret.”
Margaret? Margaret? In the short time she’d been here, Cassandra had managed to move from Mrs. Hart to Margaret, forming a relationship with his mother? The danger doubled. He needed Cassandra gone before she caused any more damage. “In that case, name your price. I’ll meet it.”
Shaking her head, she said, “I won’t go away quietly. I can’t. Not for any amount of money. As I said, I don’t want anyone hurt.” She looked toward the carrier, and her expression softened, all traces of the warrior who’d faced him vanishing. “Especially not Billy.”
Zach’s sigh was bone deep. A confrontation with a stubborn female wasn’t his idea of a good time.
“You should know that I hired a private investigator,” she added.
Weariness clashed with wariness, then disappeared, leaving warning in its wake.
“I have the file in my car.”
“Get it.”
Obviously hesitating near the door, she stopped, her hand curled around the brass doorknob. After looking at Zach, she cut a quick glance toward the sleeping child. Zach struggled to tamp down a torrent of irritation.
“Don’t worry,” he said, no trace of mirth in his tone. “I don’t hurt innocents.”
The remaining, unspoken words hung in the air, resounding with importance equal to the ones he had said. He could and would use any means at his disposal to destroy anyone who threatened his family.
He walked as she slowly opened the door and left it that way. Wanting to make sure she could hear if he didn’t keep his promise?
Zach dropped onto the couch, the stiff cushions suiting his mood perfectly.
He stretched out his legs and crossed well-worn boots at the ankles. Then, leaning forward, he drummed his fingers on the coffee table, impatience swelling, tiredness all but forgotten.
The thought of the woman bringing in a file containing personal information and details about Zach’s family, about his family for God’s sake, chased away any attempt at relaxation. He surged to his feet and paced, stopping, inevitably, in front of the car seat.
It wasn’t possible the child belonged to the Harts.
- Or was it?
And