Stroke of Fortune. Christine Rimmer
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gave her only silence, she started in on him again, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, let’s see. I already told you about my life in Hurst. So, about my mama… Well, Flynt, my mama is sick. She will never be well again. But she is better than she was three weeks ago. The doctor says she’s improved enough to live on her own now, for a while. I’ll be getting my own place soon. But if you really came here tonight to tell me you want me out of town, you’re flat out of luck. My mama needs someone nearby that she can count on. Since my father’s no longer among the living and I’m their only child, no one else fits that description but me.” She left off and just glared at him for a minute, those eyes of hers daring him to speak. He didn’t.
She let out a hard huff of air. “So then, satisfied? Did you find out what you wanted to know? I don’t want your ten thousand dollars and my mama is not well. And if that’s all, I’m getting out of here.” She leaned on the latch and the door opened a crack.
He reached across her, grabbed the armrest and yanked it shut, his arm brushing her breasts in the process.
Both of them gasped. He jerked his arm back to his own side of the cab.
There was a silence—one with way too much heat in it. He stared at her profile some more, and then his gaze traveled downward.
Too bad he couldn’t see much in the shadows. He didn’t think she looked heavier or much different at all from the way he remembered her.
And damn. It was nothing short of bizarre to sit here, less than three feet from her, and wonder if she had borne his child.
He couldn’t tell. Shouldn’t there be something, some clue? Wouldn’t she have put on weight, the way Monica did?
He frowned. Not necessarily. Not all women were like Monica. Josie could be the kind who breezed through a pregnancy, hardly showing a sign, back to her former weight shortly after delivery.
She turned to him at last, her pale, thick hair catching the light, glimmering like moonbeams. He thought about burying his face in it, about the warmth of it, the warmth of her.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Josie, we’ve got to talk.”
She gave him another long, angry stare. “Well, all right. Why don’t you say it, then? Whatever it is.”
He studied her face, unsure. Her behavior and everything she’d said so far indicated that she had no clue why he’d sought her out.
But did those eyes say otherwise?
He just couldn’t say with any certainty.
And he still didn’t know where the hell to begin.
She let out a small, hard sound of impatience. “Flynt. I am not gonna sit here all night waiting for you to figure out what you want to say to me.”
There was probably no good place to start, so he gave up on trying to do it gracefully. He just told her, said what had happened that day, from the foursome on the ninth tee all the way to how Lena was now safe at the ranch.
By the time he finished, he was the one staring out the windshield. He didn’t have to turn to know she was watching him.
He made himself face her. “Look, Lena’s safe now, that’s what matters. And whatever—however—this happened, it can all be worked out. No one has to be to blame. Do you understand?”
She only looked at him.
He said, slowly and carefully, “I want you to tell me the truth. Is Lena ours?”
Her eyes were huge and dark as she slowly shook her head.
No.
By God, she was telling him no, that Lena wasn’t hers…wasn’t his. Wasn’t theirs…
She might as well have poleaxed him, popped him right between the eyes with a steel pipe.
He’d expected her to admit it.
But she hadn’t.
And now that she’d denied it, did he believe her?
He wasn’t sure. Josie Lavender was an honest woman, he knew that in his heart. And yet…
She was so young. Maybe the prospect of taking care of Lena alone had been too much for her. Maybe she’d made the desperate mistake of leaving their baby for him to find and now she didn’t know how to admit what she’d done.
Those huge eyes had gone soft and deep. “Oh, Flynt.” She barely mouthed the words. “I’m so sorry…”
What the hell did she mean by that?
He couldn’t stop himself. He leaned across the seat and grabbed her. “Tell me, Josie.” He gave her a hard shake. “Tell me the truth.”
“Let go of me,” she commanded in a low voice. “I mean it, Flynt. Let me go now.”
He looked down at his own hands, at his fingers digging into the smooth skin of her arms. And he hated himself.
“God.” He released her, retreating to his own side of the cab. “I’m sorry.” He fisted a hand, hit the steering wheel with it. “It’s just… It’s no good, Josie. You can’t hide the truth from me forever. I’m going to find out.”
“I gave you the truth.” She met his gaze dead-on. “I didn’t get pregnant from that night we spent together. I didn’t have your baby. I didn’t have any baby. Ever. I don’t know where that baby came from, but she is not mine.”
He felt compelled to warn her what would happen next. “I’m taking a test tomorrow. We’ll know in two weeks or so if that baby is mine. If she’s mine, then she’s yours. There’s been no one else but you. Do you understand? The truth will come out, one way or the other.”
She was leaning on the door again. “I have to go.”
“Josie—”
“Just leave me alone, Flynt Carson. Just stay out of my life.” She pushed the door wide and jumped to the ground. Then she headed off down the street, walking fast, not looking back.
It took all the willpower he had in him, but he didn’t go after her.
Four
Flynt should have gone home and he knew it.
But he couldn’t face the questions in his mother’s eyes right then—let alone the ones his father kept asking outright.
Ford Carson had come in from checking some downed fences with Flynt’s younger brother, Matt, around four that afternoon. He’d gone looking for his wife and found her tending a baby.
He’d had a lot of questions, and he’d wanted answers on the spot. Ford was a fair and reasonable man, but he liked things clear and he liked them in order. Either Flynt had a daughter or he didn’t. And if he did, who was the mother—and why the hell wasn’t she taking care of her baby the way a mother should?
Flynt refused to give the old man the answers he demanded. So things were a little tense in the Carson house right then. Flynt wouldn’t put it past his dad to come after him again that night. Ford would get nowhere, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying.
After the grim and unsatisfying confrontation with Josie, Flynt just didn’t feel up to fielding more questions from his father. So when he came to the turnoff that led to the club, he took it. He found himself a nice, dim corner in the temporary structure they’d set up to house the bombed-out Men’s Grill until the big-time architect they’d hired could finish building them a new one.
A young waitress, one he’d seen a lot around the club, Ginger Walton, came trotting up to take his order. “Your usual, right?”
He nodded.
“Then I can serve it to you.” It took him a moment to catch her meaning. She must be under twenty-one, which meant she’d be required to