an only child, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t the center of anything.”
Wes let that sink in for a moment. “Tell me about your family,” he said finally in a deep, quiet voice.
“My family?” It had never occurred to her that he would be interested.
One corner of his mouth rose. “You know, you’re not the world’s greatest conversationalist. You repeat everything I say.”
Laney felt the color climbing her cheekbones. “Sorry. Guess I’m just a little nervous.” She took a deep breath and worked at a burned place on one of the pans. “Why do you want to know about my family?”
He set a dry plate in the cabinet and took the wet pan from her hand. “I’ve wondered about Amy’s grandparents. What kind of people were they?”
Ah, yes. They were Amy’s grandparents, weren’t they? Laney thought of her father. What could she tell him? That he was a shrewd, cold, calculating man who hadn’t had a warm emotion in his body? No, she wouldn’t tell him that. She’d tell him about the good things. She’d tell him about her mother.
“My mother was beautiful,” she said softly. “She had that rare, mysterious kind of beauty that put women in awe of her and made men admire her. She was young when she married my father. Full-blooded Caddo Indian. To this day I find it hard to believe that my father would marry a stigma like that, but he did.” She handed Wes a plate and picked up a pan. “She died when I was nine. I never knew her people.” “So it’s true what the records said. Amy is … one-quarter Indian?”
Laney nodded. “Yes.”
“You probably had to do a lot of fast growing up after your mom died, huh? Just like Amy.”
Laney stared down at the pan in her hand. “Yeah, I guess so. Nothing was ever the same after that. I’m so sorry that had to happen to Amy, too. But you seem better than my father. Different.”
Quiet settled between them for a few minutes before Wes asked, “You haven’t told me much about your father. What did he do?”
Laney’s features tightened. She pulled the drain in the sink and watched the sudsy water disappear. “He was a writer. He wrote political thrillers. Adam Fields.”
The drying stopped and Wes’s eyes darted to hers. “Adam Fields was your father? Adam Fields who wrote Pacific Pride ?”
Laney kept her eyes on the drain. “Yes.”
“He was famous.”
“Yes, he was. His last book was on the New York Times bestseller list for forty-two weeks.”
Was it pride in her voice or bitterness? Bitterness, probably, Wes thought, kicking himself mentally. She had already told him how her father had manipulated her. If he had any sensitivity at all, he thought, he wouldn’t have asked.
He set the bowl in its place and turned back to her. She was still staring at the drain, running a weak string of water to rinse out the excess soap. What was she thinking? he wondered. Was she thinking of Amy or her father or him? Or was she considering whether they should tell Amy who she really was?
He reached for the wet colander she had set on the counter. It was too bad she looked so torn, he thought. It was too bad she smelled so sweet …
“Excuse me,” he said softly behind her as he reached over her head to open a cabinet. His arm brushed briefly against her hair, and he withdrew it too quickly. The colander fell out of his grasp. Laney caught it at the same time he did. Too abruptly, she let it go and turned around, planning to slip out of his way.
Their eyes met, soot black ones holding glimmering green ones, and she held her breath. “The kitchen’s too small,” he whispered on an unsteady breath.
They stared at each other for what seemed another eternity, waiting, breath held … for what, neither of them seemed certain.
He looked at her lips and swallowed. “I don’t think it will traumatize Amy to know you’re her mother,” he admitted finally. “Maybe it’ll help her.” After a fraction of a moment he added, “Maybe it’ll
“Yes, but I wasn’t the center of anything.”
Wes let that sink in for a moment. “Tell me about your family,” he said finally in a deep, quiet voice.
“My family?” It had never occurred to her that he would be interested.
One corner of his mouth rose. “You know, you’re not the world’s greatest conversationalist. You repeat everything I say.”
Laney felt the color climbing her cheekbones. “Sorry. Guess I’m just a little nervous.” She took a deep breath and worked at a burned place on one of the pans. “Why do you want to know about my family?”
He set a dry plate in the cabinet and took the wet pan from her hand. “I’ve wondered about Amy’s grandparents. What kind of people were they?”
Ah, yes. They were Amy’s grandparents, weren’t they? Laney thought of her father. What could she tell him? That he was a shrewd, cold, calculating man who hadn’t had a warm emotion in his body? No, she wouldn’t tell him that. She’d tell him about the good things. She’d tell him about her mother.
“My mother was beautiful,” she said softly. “She had that rare, mysterious kind of beauty that put women in awe of her and made men admire her. She was young when she married my father. Full-blooded Caddo Indian. To this day I find it hard to believe that my father would marry a stigma like that, but he did.” She handed Wes a plate and picked up a pan. “She died when I was nine. I never knew her people.” “So it’s true what the records said. Amy is … one-quarter Indian?”
Laney nodded. “Yes.”
“You probably had to do a lot of fast growing up after your mom died, huh? Just like Amy.”
Laney stared down at the pan in her hand. “Yeah, I guess so. Nothing was ever the same after that. I’m so sorry that had to happen to Amy, too. But you seem better than my father. Different.”
Quiet settled between them for a few minutes before Wes asked, “You haven’t told me much about your father. What did he do?”
Laney’s features tightened. She pulled the drain in the sink and watched the sudsy water disappear. “He was a writer. He wrote political thrillers. Adam Fields.”
The drying stopped and Wes’s eyes darted to hers. “Adam Fields was your father? Adam Fields who wrote Pacific Pride ?”
Laney kept her eyes on the drain. “Yes.”
“He was famous.”
“Yes, he was. His last book was on the New York Times bestseller list for forty-two weeks.”
Was it pride in her voice or bitterness? Bitterness, probably, Wes thought, kicking himself mentally. She had already told him how her father had manipulated her. If he had any sensitivity at all, he thought, he wouldn’t have asked.
He set the bowl in its place and turned back to her. She was still staring at the drain, running a weak string of water to rinse out the excess soap. What was she thinking? he wondered. Was she thinking of Amy or her father or him? Or was she considering whether they should tell Amy who she really was?
He reached for the wet colander she had set on the counter. It was too bad she looked so torn, he thought. It was too bad she smelled so sweet …
“Excuse me,” he said softly behind her as he reached over her head to open a cabinet. His arm brushed briefly against her hair, and he withdrew it too quickly. The colander fell out of his grasp. Laney caught it at the same time he did. Too abruptly, she let it go and turned around, planning to slip out of his way.
Their eyes met, soot black ones holding glimmering green ones, and she held her breath. “The kitchen’s too small,” he whispered on an unsteady breath.
They stared at each other for what seemed another eternity, waiting, breath held … for what, neither of them seemed certain.
He looked at her lips and swallowed. “I don’t think it will traumatize Amy to know you’re her mother,” he admitted finally. “Maybe it’ll help her.” After a fraction of a moment he added, “Maybe it’ll
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