Page 50 of Point of Mercy

Turner stared deep into her eyes and some of his hard edges faded a bit. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, trying to control himself. He flexed his hands, then shoved them impatiently through his hair. “Look, the last few days, we’ve both been worried—on edge and we…well, we fell into a pattern of trusting each other and playing house.”

Stung, his words cutting deep, she couldn’t respond, just swallowed at the swelling in her throat.

“But now we know that Adam’s safe. You don’t need me anymore. Or at least not right away. It would be easy to step back into our old lives—you go your way, I go mine.”

Oh, Turner, you’re so wrong. So very wrong,she thought desperately.Perhaps he could forget her easily, but she’d never forget him. Never! She’d already spent six years with his memory; she was destined to love him, if just a little, for the rest of her life.

“But that’s not going to happen. Now that I know about Adam, my way—my path—is wound with his. That can’t change.”

Fear took a stranglehold of her heart. “What’re you saying, Turner, that you want custody?” Her knees threatened to crumple, and she leaned hard against the rail in her back.

He slapped the button again and, with a groan of old gears, the elevator continued on its descent. “Not yet. I’m not stupid enough to try to take him from you, but from this point onward, I’m going to have some influence over him.” He sent her a look that cut clear to her bones.

“How much ‘influence’?”

“That’s up to you, Heather.”

“Meaning?”

“As long as I see him often, and I’m not talking one weekend a month, I won’t challenge you in court. But…” His eyes glittered ominously, with the same gleam she’d seen whenever he was trying to break a particularly stubborn colt. “… If you come up against me, or try any funny stuff, you’ll be in for the fight of your life.”

The elevator landed and the doors whispered open to a crowd of onlookers. One man was frantically pushing the call button; other people whispered about the wisdom of getting onto a temperamental car.

Turner cupped her elbow and guided her through the crowd.

“You really are a bastard,” she whispered under her breath.

“Why thank you, darlin’. I’ll take that as a compliment.” With a smile as cold as a copperhead’s skin, he shoved open the doors.

Outside, fog had settled over the city, bringing with its opaque presence the feel of nightfall. Heather, shivering, slid behind the wheel of her Mercedes. Turner hauled his long body into the passenger seat, propped his back against the door and stared at her.

“If you moved to Gold Creek, I wouldn’t feel any need to demand partial custody,” he said.

She shot him a look of pure venom and switched on the ignition. “Me move back to Gold Creek? I’d rather die first.”

“Are you willing to take a chance on a custody hearing?”

Her hands tightened over the wheel.Please, Turner, just leave it alone!“This wasn’t part of the deal. You asked me to bring Adam to your ranch for a week or two and I intend to, but I’m not moving. Just because you’re Adam’s father, doesn’t give you the right to bully me.” Muttering under her breath, she eased the car into the flow of traffic traveling through the city.

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“From the first time I stepped into your barn.”

He turned his attention to the roadway. In the fog, brake lights glowed eerily and crowds of pedestrians crossed the streets at the stoplights.

“You’ve got a week,” he said as the light changed. “I’ll expect to see Adam then.”

“But I have work—”

“So do I.” He rubbed a big hand over the faded spot of denim covering his knee. “I’ve been gone long enough already. Fred can’t watch my place forever. Work out whatever you have to, but bring Adam to the ranch.”

She wanted to argue, to find a way out of the deal because she knew that if she took Adam to Badlands Ranch, it wouldn’t be long before she lost her son as well as her heart to Turner Brooks.

Chapter Eleven

“I think you’remaking a big mistake.” Rachelle eyed her sister in the mirror of her bedroom, grimaced, then adjusted one of the shoulder pads in Heather’s gown. Layers of raspberry-colored chiffon and silk, the dress was to be worn at Rachelle’s wedding. “You can’t let him have the upper hand.”

“What choice do I have?” Heather asked, holding her hair up and frowning at the sight she made. Modeling the elegant dress only reminded her of weddings and just how far apart she and Turner had grown. The city girl and the cowboy. An unlikely combination. An unlikelyexplosivecombination. “He’s holding all the cards.”

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