Page 34 of Point of Mercy

But if it means Adam’s life? And why not have another baby to love? Adam needs a sister or brother and you need another child.

“Another child without a husband. No way,” she told herself as she approached Gold Creek. She followed the road past the dip beneath the old railroad trestle and through the sprawling suburbs that were growing eastward into the foothills of the mountains. Several homes were for sale, white-and-red signs for Fitzpatrick Realty posted on the front lawns. She drove past the park where children played in the playground and concrete paths crossed the green, converging in the center where a white gazebo had become a shrine to Roy Fitzpatrick, eldest legitimate son of Thomas Fitzpatrick and the boy Jackson Moore had once been accused of killing.

But that was a long time ago, and now Heather’s sister, Rachelle, was planning to marry Jackson. His name had been cleared and some of the scandal of the past had been erased.

She slowed for a stoplight, then turned onto Main Street, past the Rexall Drugstore where, sometimes after school, she and Rachelle and Rachelle’s friend, Carlie, had bought sodas at the fountain in the back. Rachelle hadn’t much liked Heather tagging along, but Carlie, whose mother had worked at the fountain for years, hadn’t seemed to mind that Rachelle’s younger sister was always hanging around.

A few blocks farther and she passed the Buckeye Restaurant and Lounge. Her stomach tightened as she heard the country music filtering through the open doors. More than once she’d had to wait at the back door while a busboy or kitchen helper had searched out her father, who, smelling of cigarette smoke and liquor,had stumbled into the parking lot and walked the few blocks back to their house with her.

She pulled up in front of the little cottage where she’d grown up. One story, two bedrooms, cozy but in need of repair, the bungalow had been home, but Heather had only wanted out. Away from a mother and father who bickered continually, and later, away from the scandal that had tainted her family.

Her mother didn’t live here now. In fact, Heather owned half the cottage, so all that running hadn’t done anything. This still could be her home. She shuddered at the thought. Could she bring Adam here, to grow up riding his bike along the same cracked pavement where she’d cruised along on her old hand-me-down ten-speed?

She didn’t stop to think about it for too long. There was a lot to do. Her insides were still in knots because of her having seen Turner again and presenting him with the truth; now she had to do the same with her mother.

“God help me,” she whispered as she turned around in the driveway and drove the two miles to her mother’s small house on the other side of town. Recently separated from her second husband, Ellen Tremont Little would be in no mood to hear about her youngest daughter’s problems.

* * *

“I don’t believe you!” Heather’s mother reached into the drawer where she kept a carton of cigarettes. “This…this story you’ve concocted is some crazy fantasy.” She clicked her lighter over the end of her cigarette and took a long drag.

“It’s the truth, Mom.”

Ellen wrapped one arm around her thickening middle and squinted through the smoke. “But Dennis—”

“Dennis isn’t Adam’s father.”

“Heknewabout this?”

“Yes. From the beginning. Remember the night he left here so angry with me. It was right after I got home from working at the Lazy K. I told him about Turner—”

“Turner?” Ellen’s head snapped up. “Not—”

“Turner Brooks.”

“Oh, God.” She sank into a chair at the table and cradled her head, her cigarette burning neglected in her fingers. “John Brooks’s son.”

“Yes.”

Her mother let out a long, weary sigh, then drew on her cigarette. Smoke drifted from her nostrils. “How will I ever hold my head up in church?” she asked, staring out the window to the bird feeder swinging from the branch of a locust tree. Several yellow-breasted birds were perched on the feeder. “Cora Nelson will have a field day with this. And Raydene McDonald… Dear Lord, it will probably be printed in theClarion!”

“I don’t think so,” Heather said, and saw her mother attempt a trembling smile.

“Why would you ever want a boy like Turner Brooks when you had Dennis?”

“Don’t start with me, Mom,” Heather said with a smile, though she meant every word.

“He’s never done anything but ride horses and get himself busted up.”

“He took care of his father.”

Ellen stubbed out her cigarette. “I suppose he did.”

“He’s not a bad man, Mom.”

“So where was he when you were pregnant? He didn’t marry you, did he? No… Dennis did.” Shoving herself upright, she turned to the dishwasher and started taking out the clean dishes. “We Tremont women have a great track record with men, don’t we?” she said, her words laced with sarcasm. “Well, without us, what would the gossips in town do?”

“I’m not ashamed that Turner is Adam’s father.”

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