Reunited Hearts. Ruth Logan Herne
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love leaned down to accept his new boss’s hug, looking…
Amazing. Beautiful. Wonderful.
His heart ground to a stop, unwilling to believe what his eyes held true. Dark brown hair, clipped back, framed a face no less beautiful at thirty. Probably more so, the mature features offering a true version of what girlish looks had only hinted. Dark brows arched over hazel eyes, tiny spikes of gold lighting the color from within, her profile as dear and familiar now as it had been twelve years past.
But what was she doing in Jamison, New York?
He’d checked before accepting Helen Walker’s offer of military liaison with Walker Electronics. A good soldier always appraised his front line, and Trent had a slew of battlefield commendations testifying to his thoroughness. As of last week, Alyssa had been living in a squirrel’s hole-sized town in eastern Montana.
“How’s your father, dear? The surgery went well, I hear?”
Lyssa nodded, her expression warm, a small smile curving soft, sweet lips he remembered like it was yesterday. “Yes, thank you, although he’s already chomping at the bit. My mother has her hands full.”
Helen clucked womanly empathy. “I’ll bet she does, but at least you were able to come back.” She squeezed Lyssa’s hand in a silent message, her look sympathetic. “That’s a big help right there.”
“I hope so.” Lyssa straightened, her gaze traveling the table full of men with a polite smile of welcome, right until she came to him.
She stopped.
Stared.
So did he.
One hand came to her throat in a convulsive movement. She didn’t look happy to see him. Shocked, yes. Surprised, absolutely.
And scared. No, wait. Make that petrified.
Trent had become an expert in tactical assessment during his long stint in the military, but his current appraisal made little sense.
A second ticked by. Then two. And suddenly a voice interrupted the moment, a familiar voice, yet not one he’d heard in a long time. Twenty years, give or take, because it was his voice, his voice as a child, the speaker obscured by a curved oak support draped in grape vine and clear twinkle lights.
“Excuse me, Mom?”
Lyssa turned, her face ashen. Her gaze darted from Trent to the silhouetted boy, her expression mouse-on-the-glue-board trapped. Her lips moved, but nothing came out.
The boy moved closer.
Trent saw his face, his hair, his shoulders as they’d been twenty years before, the boy’s stance, his smile, his look of question totally Trent Michaels.
He froze, tight and taut, his head unwilling to digest what his gaze held true.
“Jim says I’m all set in the kitchen. Can I go back to Grandma’s now? Practice my throws?”
She nodded, still silent, the beat of her heart evident beneath a ribbed knit top, her breathing tight and forced.
“Yes. I’ll see you later.”
The boy escaped through the nearest exit. Once outside, he ran for the hillside, barreling downward, his movements lithe with natural athleticism.
Trent had no idea when he’d stood, but he was standing now, his brain processing the scene. And disbelieving.
Alyssa swiped hands against her pants, then headed for the office, the only private spot in the place, knowing he’d follow. Knowing he had no choice.
He followed her into the room, closed the door with a decided click, then braced himself against the door, shoulders back, chest out, hoping his posture intimidated her and not caring if it did because he was fairly certain that if his stance didn’t worry her, the unveiled anger in his voice would. “Alyssa, what have you done?”
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t possibly reason how this happened after all those years of being so careful and cautious, tucked away in an obscure corner of brushland Montana.
And now…
Alyssa tried to draw a breath, but the look on Trent’s face, the pain vying with anger, the hurt…
What she’d seen as good and sacrificial twelve years before seemed completely selfish now.
Dear God, please. Please.
So now you pray, an inner voice scoffed. You might have wanted to think of that somewhere along the way, missy. A little late at this point, don’t you think?
Shame cut deeper.
Trent’s gaze knifed through her, his locked-arm position forbidding. When she stayed silent he strode forward, stopping just short of contact. “Why?”
She shrugged, fighting for words, her closed throat prohibiting speech.
He grabbed her upper arms, anger trumping the sorrow in his face. “I wasn’t good enough, was that it? Did Daddy decide I wasn’t worthy enough to know I had a son? So he sent you away to avoid the embarrassment of knowing I fathered his grandchild?”
“No.”
“And you let him?” Trent railed on, ignoring her protest. “You let him send you away, carrying our child, our son, and never told me, Lyssa? Never gave me the chance to do the right thing? How could you? Did I mean that little to you?”
Pain coursed his features again. His grip tightened and she braced herself, experience telling her what came next, feeling the power and strength magnified by the anger and hurt in his face, his eyes.
Oh, his eyes.
Wet with unshed tears, a glimpse of the boy she’d known and loved shone through, the boy who never cried, never gave up, his stoicism on and off the football field renowned. To see what she’d done to him, what she’d brought him to—
Dear God, please…
Please…
He released his hold, stepping back, his face contorted. “Why?”
The hard edge in his voice straightened her backbone. She drew a breath, squared her shoulders and met his gaze, determined to take her just due. Hadn’t she learned that over the years? That life handed out punishments on a regular basis? With the feel of Trent’s vise-like grip a fresh memory to join a host of older ones, she raised her chin. “I gave you choices you wouldn’t have had otherwise, Trent. And that’s all I have to say right now.”
All she had to say?
He stepped forward again.
She cringed, her expression a mix of fear and dread.
Trent stopped cold.
He’d never scared a woman. Ever. The very thought sickened him, but the look on her face, no, scratch that, the look he put on her face, was mortal fear.
He needed time and space to sort this out, to deal with the anger coursing through him, an anger that seemed quite justified under the circumstances.
He turned, put his forehead to the door and breathed deep, realizing that the CEO of Walker Electronics and her team had witnessed the entire spectacle.
The Army had worked to prepare him for surprise attacks, but nothing in their tactical maneuvers readied him for this.
A boy.
A son.
Hidden. Furtive. Kept secret.
Thoughts of his childhood coursed through him, of how hard he worked to become who he was because of who he’d been, the cast-out four-year-old thrown away by vagrant parents passing by on I-86, saved by a pair of hunters who rescued him on a cold, windy, sleet-filled afternoon, hypothermic, hungry and dazed.
A host of emotions wrestled for his heart, his soul. Breathing deep, he