Page 39 of Point of Mercy

“But I will want my time with him. You’ve had him a long time. Now it’s my turn.”

“I can’t—”

“Shh.” He said, kissing her again and stoking the long-dead fires to life once more. Heather couldn’t stop herself, and saw no reason to. She’d leave a little later, resume her life in San Francisco and deal with the aftermath of making love to Turner then. But for now…she pressed her lips to his.

Chapter Eight

Turner threw achange of clothes into a battered old duffel bag and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He didn’t look any different than he had a week ago, and yet now he was a father…or at least it was beginning to look that way. And he was involved with Heather Tremont—make that Heather Leonetti—again. Even now, at the thought of her lying in his arms, his loins began to ache.

He forced his thoughts away from her lovemaking and concentrated on her tale about him fathering Adam. He couldn’t see any reason Heather would lie, no angle she could play for her own purposes. He still didn’t trust her, but he did believe that she was telling the truth about the boy—and that, yes, he was a father. He also didn’t doubt that she loved the boy very much. He’d recognized the fire in her eyes when she’d talked of saving Adam’s life, seen the fear tighten the corners of her mouth when she’d thought Turner might try to take the boy away.

He’d considered it, of course. For hours on end. His initial shock at having learned he was a father had given way to a quiet rage that swept through his bloodstream and controlled his mind. She’d had no right,no friggin’ right,to keep Adam’s existence from him.

And then to marry Leonetti and pass the kid off as his. He’d thought a lot of things about her in the past, but he hadn’t really blamed her for their breakup. He’d been the one who had taken off, and though he’d been furious to find out that she’d gotten herself married before he returned to Northern California, he’d felt as if he’d asked for it.

He had felt a little like a fool, for he’d half believed her when she’d vowed she loved him six years ago. She’d seemed so sincere, and she’d given herself to him without any regrets, so he’d been confident that he’d been first in her heart.

Then she’d refused to answer his letters or return his calls and within weeks married the boy she’d sworn she didn’t care a lick about. It had seemed, at the time, that she’d only been experimenting with sex, sowing some wild oats with a cowboy before she turned back to the man and the lifestyle she’d always wanted.

But he’d been wrong. Because she’d been pregnant with his kid. Her pregnancy didn’t change the fact that she hadn’t wanted anything more to do with him—hell, she admitted it herself that she would have kept Adam’s parentage a secret for a long time if it hadn’t been for this illness. This damned illness. He’d read up on leukemia and it scared him to his very soul.

It seemed too cruel to believe that he would be given only a short time with the boy and then have him snatched away.

Turner didn’t believe in God. But he didn’t disbelieve, either. He’d been raised a half-baked Protestant by his mother, but had developed his own reverence for the land and nature after her death, blaming God as well as John Brooks for taking his mother from him.In the past few years he hadn’t thought about religion much one way or the other, but now, when his son’s life was nailed on the hope of a team of doctors in San Francisco, Turner wanted very much to believe in God.

Frowning at the turn of his dark thoughts, he grabbed his duffel from the bed and tossed it over his shoulder. He shot a glance to the sturdy oak frame of the double bed he’d slept in for as long as he could remember and tried to picture Heather lying with him on the sagging mattress, beneath the faded old patchwork quilt his grandmother had pieced. Heather with her calfskin shoes, diamond earrings and expensive suits. No, that mirage wouldn’t come to life before his eyes. He was just being foolish.

He walked down a short hallway to the kitchen where Nadine was scrubbing an old kerosene lamp he used when the power went out. She’d tied her hair back into a ponytail and her cheeks were flushed from working on the floor and counters. Seeing his reflection in the brass works of the lamp, she smiled. “Thomas Fitzpatrick called while you were in the barn.”

Turner’s jaw tightened. “Some people just don’t know when to give up.”

She looked at him quickly, then her eyes fell on his duffel bag and her lips turned down a little at the corners. “Sometimes, when people want something desperately, they can’t quit.”

“Fitzpatrick never gives up.”

“So they say. So…you’re all packed?”

“I guess.”

Turning, she attempted to hide a sliver of sadness in her eyes. “You’re going to the city?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“There must be a reason.”

Turner offered her his lazy grin. “Maybe it’s time I got more sophisticated.”

She swallowed a smile. “Well, be sure to tell me all about the opera and the ballet when you get back.”

“I will.”

She set the lamp on the windowsill and snipped off the extra leaves of three roses she’d left in the sink. “Why do I have the feeling that your trip has something to do with all those calls from Heather Leonetti?”

“I don’t know. You tell me,” he teased, then regretted the words when she pricked her finger on a thorn and avoided his eyes as she muttered something under her breath. She placed the roses in a vase and set them on the table—her last chore before she left each week.

“You don’t really have to bother with those,” he said, motioning to the heavy-blossomed flowers. “I’ll be gone—”

“I like to,” she cut in. “You could use more of a woman’s touch around here.”

---