The Single Dad's Redemption. Roxanne Rustand
Читать онлайн книгу.
phone in your pocket every morning and keep it there, you could call for help if you locked yourself out or fell—”
“I’m not an invalid,” he growled as he shuffled across the kitchen to the central hallway and the staircase leading to the second-floor bedrooms. “I’m going up to take a hot shower.”
Frustration welled up in her chest as she watched him disappear down the hall. She stopped by as often as she could and never knew what she might find. “I’ll be back in an hour and make some supper, okay?” she called out to him.
“Suit yourself.” A few minutes later she heard the distant slam of his bedroom door.
Even on his best days he could be short-tempered—especially if anything occurred to highlight his lapses in memory or judgment. She understood that he feared the eventual loss of his independence, she really did.
But still.
Was it too much to expect a bit of kindness from him when she tried to help? He often seemed to think she was an enemy now. She sighed heavily as she looked heavenward and prayed for patience.
I’m trying my best, God. Please—just give me strength and help me keep him safe.
She touched the local weather app on her iPhone, glanced at yet another line of approaching rain on the Doppler radar screen and hurried to her car.
There’d been no responses to her Help Wanted ad in the paper today, so she would try to find Connor, ask him one last time and pray he would agree.
It was probably a waste of time trying to track down someone who didn’t want to work for her. Once again, he was going to refuse.
But with just seven days until the biggest tourist weekend of the year, what were the chances of finding anyone else in time?
* * *
With rain falling yet again, starting a campfire was hopeless. Connor grabbed his shaving kit, a towel and change of clothes, and headed for the two-sided, concrete-block pavilion that offered shade and shelter for a dozen picnic tables, with restrooms and shower facilities in the attached building behind.
He settled on one of the picnic tables under the dim illumination of a hanging lightbulb and pulled out an old Lee Child novel from his kit. But his thoughts kept wandering and he finally tossed the book aside to stare out at the rain as his memories flooded back.
Josh in his fuzzy purple pajamas, laughing as he raced around the house to avoid story time because that meant bedtime. Making motor noises as he played with his tractors, pretending he was plowing the carpet.
The fresh, clean scent of him after bath time, his cheeks rosy and his dark, wet hair standing up in spikes that made him imagine he was a dinosaur.
He’d been four then; would he remember any of those days? Anything at all? Or would he be frightened when he saw Connor again for the first time in years? If I can get you back, you’re going to have a safe, happy life, little cowboy—I promise you that.
The boy’s life sure hadn’t started that way.
The marriage had been troubled from the beginning, starting with the cute buckle bunny who’d swept Connor off his feet. He had never regretted Joshua’s arrival—not for a second. But the shotgun marriage was something he and Marsha had both come to regret.
They’d been just twenty-one. He’d had to follow the rodeo circuit, while she’d resented being trapped at home with an unplanned baby. Their initial mutual infatuation had quickly dimmed.
But Connor hadn’t wanted a divorce. He’d prayed that he and Marsha could find some calm middle ground—maybe even come to love each other—to give their child a stable, peaceful home.
Just more prayers that God hadn’t seen fit to answer.
During his last year in prison, he’d tried attending Bible study for a while, needing something—anything—that could give him answers and a sense of peace about his past in the midst of the desolation he’d felt over his incarceration. He hadn’t found the answers he’d wanted.
Hard-hearted, just like your dad.
The words came out of nowhere—as loud and clear as if the accusation had been spoken inside his head.
And with them came an onslaught of bitter memories.
Chris and Dan had been the hardworking sons, the ones who’d managed to get along with Dad, while Connor had been the rebel who’d bucked authority and refused to bend.
His teen years had been pure misery...except for competing in high-school rodeo. That had been the ticket to send Connor off on the college circuit...then into the pros after graduation.
Dad had been furious, but rodeo was Connor’s life. All he’d ever wanted to do, and he’d never looked back.
Dad’s disgust when Connor had called home to tell him about the baby and his sudden marriage had sealed the deal. There’d been no more phone calls from anyone at the ranch after that. Josh had never even met his uncles and grandfather.
What kind of man showed no interest in his grandson? He hadn’t even bothered to show up at Connor’s murder trial a few states away, either. As far as Connor knew, no one at the ranch had ever checked on the outcome...and Connor had been too proud to write.
Even as his old anger and hurt started to simmer, that same inner voice told Connor exactly what he didn’t want to hear.
It’s not only Dad’s fault. A bigger man would go back and apologize for the pain he’d caused.
Connor turned his cell phone over in his hand, wondering what he’d hear if he called the ranch after all these years.
Probably just the old man slamming the receiver down once more.
Why give him that chance?
Connor shoved his cell into the back pocket of his jeans and headed for the camp shower building...though his inner voice refused to stay quiet.
But what about Josh—doesn’t he deserve to know his grandpa? His uncles? If you wait too long, someday it will be too late.
* * *
A mile out of town Keeley turned off the highway onto the long gravel road leading to the Aspen Creek Campgrounds. She pulled to a stop by the concrete-block picnic pavilion overlooking the creek and surveyed the nearly deserted campsites.
Two pop-up camping trailers were barely visible through the trees. A 1970s motor home stood parked at the far end of the central clearing with no sign of any inhabitants. There were no tents, and no wonder, with the heavy storms that had been sweeping through the county since last night. Even now, raindrops were pattering on the roof of her car and a distant flash of lightning pierced the dense forest to the west.
This was a lovely campground—typical for this part of Wisconsin—but anyone with common sense would opt out of tent camping during weather like this.
She drummed her fingertips on the steering wheel. Had Connor chosen a more isolated spot somewhere else in the heavily wooded, hundred-acre park? If so, the possibility of finding him was almost nil now that ominous clouds hid the early evening sun, turning the landscape to deepening shades of gray.
Shifting her car into Drive, she started forward. Then slammed on the brakes.
She felt a little shiver of awareness even before Connor rounded the back of the building wearing a long, cowboy-style oilskin raincoat, a towel flung over his shoulder and a shaving kit dangling from his fingertips. The overhead security lights gave her a good glimpse of his face before he turned and sauntered toward the campsites along the creek. He didn’t glance in her direction.
Her heart gave an extra thud—yet again—and she inhaled a shaky breath. Oh, my.
Now he was clean-shaven, his wet hair slicked back. But it wasn’t just that he looked like some broad-shouldered, hard-edged heartthrob—she’d learned her lesson long ago about