conversation one afternoon and heard the
words unfortunate, lonely and trouble. He’d thought they’d been discussing him and he’d felt bad
about the black eyes, bloody lips, suspensions and whatever else he’d done to
worry his grandmother. Then Estella had brought home a girl she’d met while
volunteering at the library and the girl’s uncle who was a cowboy and refused
to take off his ten-gallon hat in the house. Peyton had wanted to punch the
cowboy even then, but he’d thought the kid was okay—even if she was a Steelers
fan. She’d known how to swing a bat, and she was kind of funny with messy
pigtails and a goofy smile that made him smile even when he hadn’t wanted to.
After that first day Estella had started bringing her
over nearly every weekend, and when she and his grandmother weren’t jabbering
about astronomy or books or girly stuff, Valerie Jordan was shadowing him like
the annoying kid sister he’d never had.
Over the years, the girl his grandmother had befriended
out of charity had become less like a kid sister and more like a woman. Just
like that, Peyton had wanted her beyond the boundaries of friendship.
But he’d never acted on it … not until that night his
mother skipped out on him for the last time—taking with her a cool three grand
in cash—and he’d found his way into Valerie’s car and into her arms, where he
could forget everything but the thrill-ride passion she’d triggered inside him.
Peyton peered through the telescope’s lens, seeing
nothing but murky darkness in the stormy sky. Somehow he, Valerie and their
daughter would have to move forward, and that wasn’t likely to happen if
Valerie kept Lucy out of his reach.
That’s why he had shown up at Battle Creek Ranch an hour
earlier than she had suggested. He couldn’t make out much of the premises
beyond the main house and miles of split rail fence, but if memory served him
right there was a helluva lot of land, livestock and potential—but virtually no
know-how or give-a-damn.
He recalled Valerie describing it as some sort of
paradise as a kid, and when he’d visited for the first time and said the ranch
looked like shit, she’d punched his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise.
“You always did fight for this place, didn’t you, Val?”
he muttered, pulling into the driveway.
Pagoda lights on either side of the driveway led to a
brick-façade house on a landscaped slope. Even in the pitch of a rainy night,
he could appreciate the nice design as he got out of the SUV. A two-story
stone arch framed the walnut front door, and white pillars outlined the covered
porch. The numerous multi-panel windows were framed by black shutters, and he
could guess that Valerie wanted as much natural light—and access to the
stars—as possible.
On the porch beneath an oiled bronze fan was a bench with
a hardcover lying on it. A glance at the cover told him the book, about teen
celebrities, belonged to Lucy.
He gave the doorbell two jabs and waited, almost smiling
at the crookedly carved jack-o’-lanterns arranged in groups of three on either
side of the door.
“You’re early,” Valerie said without preamble, tugging
the door open. She turned and strode into the foyer in an invitation for him to
either follow or leave.
“Didn’t want to risk not seeing Lucy tonight. No
twelve-year-old goes to bed at seven-thirty.” The place was evidently newly
built, but it had a lived-in aura to it. He took in the new-house smell of
fresh hardwood and paint, and the crown moulding, noted the soaring foyer and
curved staircase that straddled classic and contemporary. They passed a
warm-toned formal living area and the kitchen before ending up in a two-storey
family room with a coffered ceiling, tall stone fireplace and a wall of
bookshelves.
Every shelf was crammed with books.
“Lucy and I like to read,” she said, and he realized he’d
been staring a nanosecond too long. “Anna did, too, though she was just
learning
words unfortunate, lonely and trouble. He’d thought they’d been discussing him and he’d felt bad
about the black eyes, bloody lips, suspensions and whatever else he’d done to
worry his grandmother. Then Estella had brought home a girl she’d met while
volunteering at the library and the girl’s uncle who was a cowboy and refused
to take off his ten-gallon hat in the house. Peyton had wanted to punch the
cowboy even then, but he’d thought the kid was okay—even if she was a Steelers
fan. She’d known how to swing a bat, and she was kind of funny with messy
pigtails and a goofy smile that made him smile even when he hadn’t wanted to.
After that first day Estella had started bringing her
over nearly every weekend, and when she and his grandmother weren’t jabbering
about astronomy or books or girly stuff, Valerie Jordan was shadowing him like
the annoying kid sister he’d never had.
Over the years, the girl his grandmother had befriended
out of charity had become less like a kid sister and more like a woman. Just
like that, Peyton had wanted her beyond the boundaries of friendship.
But he’d never acted on it … not until that night his
mother skipped out on him for the last time—taking with her a cool three grand
in cash—and he’d found his way into Valerie’s car and into her arms, where he
could forget everything but the thrill-ride passion she’d triggered inside him.
Peyton peered through the telescope’s lens, seeing
nothing but murky darkness in the stormy sky. Somehow he, Valerie and their
daughter would have to move forward, and that wasn’t likely to happen if
Valerie kept Lucy out of his reach.
That’s why he had shown up at Battle Creek Ranch an hour
earlier than she had suggested. He couldn’t make out much of the premises
beyond the main house and miles of split rail fence, but if memory served him
right there was a helluva lot of land, livestock and potential—but virtually no
know-how or give-a-damn.
He recalled Valerie describing it as some sort of
paradise as a kid, and when he’d visited for the first time and said the ranch
looked like shit, she’d punched his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise.
“You always did fight for this place, didn’t you, Val?”
he muttered, pulling into the driveway.
Pagoda lights on either side of the driveway led to a
brick-façade house on a landscaped slope. Even in the pitch of a rainy night,
he could appreciate the nice design as he got out of the SUV. A two-story
stone arch framed the walnut front door, and white pillars outlined the covered
porch. The numerous multi-panel windows were framed by black shutters, and he
could guess that Valerie wanted as much natural light—and access to the
stars—as possible.
On the porch beneath an oiled bronze fan was a bench with
a hardcover lying on it. A glance at the cover told him the book, about teen
celebrities, belonged to Lucy.
He gave the doorbell two jabs and waited, almost smiling
at the crookedly carved jack-o’-lanterns arranged in groups of three on either
side of the door.
“You’re early,” Valerie said without preamble, tugging
the door open. She turned and strode into the foyer in an invitation for him to
either follow or leave.
“Didn’t want to risk not seeing Lucy tonight. No
twelve-year-old goes to bed at seven-thirty.” The place was evidently newly
built, but it had a lived-in aura to it. He took in the new-house smell of
fresh hardwood and paint, and the crown moulding, noted the soaring foyer and
curved staircase that straddled classic and contemporary. They passed a
warm-toned formal living area and the kitchen before ending up in a two-storey
family room with a coffered ceiling, tall stone fireplace and a wall of
bookshelves.
Every shelf was crammed with books.
“Lucy and I like to read,” she said, and he realized he’d
been staring a nanosecond too long. “Anna did, too, though she was just
learning
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