A Weaver Holiday Homecoming. Allison Leigh
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present if you have to, because I’m not taking it back.”
She sighed hugely. “For crying in the sink,” she muttered.
At the phrase, something inside Ryan’s head clicked into place.
“You do want your way, don’t you,” Mallory was still muttering as she slipped past him into the hall.
“Cassie,” he realized aloud. “That’s who you remind me of. Cassie Keegan. Hell. You’re related to her, aren’t you? No wonder you seemed familiar.”
Mallory went still at his words.
She’d come to Weaver for the express purpose of meeting Ryan Clay. She’d continually debated the decision until she’d convinced herself she was doing the right thing.
So why was she practically shaking in her boots now?
She’d never expected to meet him and feel anything…well…like what she was feeling.
The wrinkle in his forehead that had been there every time he looked at her was gone. “We worked together for a while. She didn’t talk much about her family, though.”
Ryan couldn’t know that he’d just confirmed another piece of the puzzle that had been her sister’s life. “Cassie was my sister.”
The wrinkle returned. In spades. “Was?”
She hesitated. The sound of the leaking water dripping into the bucket under the sink seemed loud. From downstairs, she could hear her grandmother and Chloe talking in the kitchen, along with the clatter of pots and the squeak of Kathleen’s sturdy shoes on the creaking hardwood floor.
She also could hear in her head Ryan’s mother’s voice. And the pleas as well as the caution when it came to her son’s state of mind. Rebecca Clay was desperate to help her son and believed that Mallory could help him find his path again. Rebecca had also gone to great lengths to assure Mallory that no matter what, her position as Chloe’s mother would not be threatened in any way.
“Mallory,” Ryan prompted.
She swallowed again. “I didn’t expect this to be so hard,” she admitted, as much to herself as to him. “Cassie…died.”
He frowned. Muttered a soft oath. “On a case?”
“You mean work?” She shook her head, thinking of the strange company that her sister had worked for. And how difficult it had been to glean information from HW Industries about her sister and her coworkers. “No. She died in, um, in childbirth.” Her mouth felt dry as she gave him the barest of explanations. “With Chloe.”
His eyes were already a sharp blue. But his gaze went even sharper. “I thought you were her mother.”
“I am.” She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Legally.” Emotionally, too, which was something Mallory truly hadn’t expected when everything she’d planned for her life had taken a ninety-degree turn courtesy of a four-pound, twelve-ounce infant. “But she’s my niece by birth. She…well, Chloe knows Cassie was her birth mother. I’ve never kept that a secret from her.”
“Her birthday is soon.”
“Next Saturday,” she confirmed.
“She’s going to be seven?”
Her throat tightened even more. She nodded silently. Willing him to get to the finish line before she did, but afraid in a way, too, that he would.
“I worked with Cass nearly eight years go.”
“I know.” Her sleeve was beginning to unravel. She shoved the long thread up inside the knit and folded her hands together, only to pull them apart again. “She mentioned it.” Only his first name, though, which had added to her challenge considerably.
He was watching her closely, his face oddly pale. “What else did she mention?”
The muscles in her abdomen were so tight they ached. “She said you…that you worked together once. That you were friends. And that you were a good man.”
But his lips twisted at that. And his eyes were suddenly consumed by a hollowness that was painful to witness. “And did she tell you that we slept together, too?”
Lying was out of the question. “Yes.”
Even beneath the dark, unshaven haze blurring his jaw, she could see a muscle flex there as he absorbed that. “Why, exactly, are you here in Weaver, Dr. Keegan?”
Mallory pulled in a steadying breath. He already knew. She could see it in his face.
But it had been a long haul for Mallory to reach this point. A journey that had taken years and more turns than she could have dreamed of.
She had to say the words.
She looked up at him. Meeting that shocked, hollow gaze with her own. “So that my daughter can meet her father.”
Chapter Three
Even braced as Ryan thought he was, hearing Mallory’s husky words was like taking a blow straight to the solar plexus. “No,” he said flatly. “Can’t be.”
He and Cassie had slept together—what? A handful of times? His brain searched through memories. Sifting. Discarding.
Even less than a handful, he thought.
Twice.
The first time when she’d gotten his tail out of a sling by maintaining his cover that had been about to blow during an identity-theft sting, and the second time a few weeks later after they’d shared a few drinks following a debriefing they’d both attended.
“Obviously, without Cassie, I’ve had to speculate some,” Mallory allowed. “But a test would confirm—”
“No,” he said again. He stretched out his arm. Some portion of his mind recognized that he was backing away from her, as if to keep her and her impossible claim at bay. “I don’t need any tests. I’m not—you don’t want me to be her—” Christ. He couldn’t even say it.
Her eyebrows were pulling together but the only thing he could see in her amber eyes was concern. And—oh, hell. Compassion.
He didn’t want it. Didn’t deserve it. “I’ve got to go.” He turned on his heel and was halfway down the stairs before she could react.
“Ryan, wait. I’m not expecting anything. But please stay.” Her shoes sounded on the stairs behind him. “Let’s at least discuss it.”
He passed Kathleen, who was holding a round tray filled with mugs, and Chloe, who was carrying a plate of Christmas-tree-green frosted cookies. He took in the details as he reached the door, even though their faces were almost a blur.
A second later he was outside. On the porch. Down the snow-covered walkway that bore dozens of footprints heading both to and from the house. This time, his were spaced more widely apart.
He knew he’d left his coat inside but he didn’t hesitate. Just yanked open the squeaking door of the pickup truck and twisted the key that he’d left in the ignition. He gunned the engine and shot down the narrow street.
Yeah, he was running.
So what?
If the women in that house knew what he was—who he was—they’d thank him for it.
With only a bare regard for the stop sign at the corner, he turned at the end of the street. The Sleep Tite parking lot was half-full when he passed it. The parking lot lights that were draped with metal Christmas tree figures were just flicking on to glow against the lengthening afternoon.
He had no destination in mind, other than away, but when he passed the hardware store, an oath blistered his tongue and he swung the truck around and parked it.
The Christmas shoppers were out in force. Even the aisles of