His blood chilled. “What are you saying, Mom? Cassidy McClare is the love of my life.”
“No, son,” she whispered, her voice a rasp as tears trailed her cheeks. “Cassidy McClare is your cousin.”
Jamie rammed a finger to the elevator button, the groan and grind of gears and pulleys rivaling the taut strain of his nerves and the angst in his gut. His eyes burned in their sockets while anger burned in his chest, the searing jolt of his mother’s revelation paralyzing him to all rational thinking. Chest heaving, his lungs pumped harsh air like a bellows igniting a blaze of hate.
Logan McClare was his father.
Fury swelled anew as rage coursed through his veins. A father who had not only abandoned him and his mother, but had denied him the rights of a son. A man he had admired and revered, now no more than a coward who turned his back on his own. The thought of Logan touching his mother made him sick, bile rising at what she’d endured at the hands of a wealthy law student who promised her the moon and gave her a child instead. Fifteen-year-old Jean Kerr, barely making a living as a dance-hall girl on the Barbary Coast, had fallen hard for a man with a silver spoon in his mouth that matched a silver tongue. Desperately in love, she’d succumbed to the deadly charms of a social aristocrat with whom she had a six-month affair. But Logan had broken it off, anxious to avoid scandal on the eve of his engagement to socialite Caitlyn Stewart, only to discover Jean Kerr was pregnant with a child Logan conveniently denied. To ensure her silence, he offered a monthly stipend that ended when his mother married Brian MacKenna, the man she’d allowed him to believe was his father. Jamie’s jaw ground till it ached.
Better a sorry sot than a lily-livered liar.
The doors of the elevator squealed open, and Jamie shoved past several well-dressed gentlemen, bumping the shoulder of one, but too enraged to utter a pardon. Fists clenched, he strode toward a frosted glass door emblazoned with gold lettering. McClare, Rupert and Byington—yesterday a future he’d aspired to, today a past he’d avenge. Flinging the door wide, he ignored the saucer stare of the receptionist to storm down the hall, gaze fixed on Logan McClare’s door, closed as always to distractions he didn’t want.
Like his illegitimate son.
“Mr. MacKenna, please—wait! Mr. McClare asked not to be disturbed . . .” Miss Peabody’s voice trailed him down the hall, alarm evident in the crack of her voice, but he paid no mind. Every nerve in his body itched for revenge, to extract a pound of flesh and give the devil his due. Oh, he’d “disturb” him all right—with a hard-knuckled fist and some well-placed guilt.
He hurled the polished cherrywood door open with a loud crack to the wall, fresh hate gurgling in his stomach at the sight of the man who had used his mother and cast her aside.
“What the—” Pen in hand, Logan peered over wire-rim reading glasses with a scowl.
Miss Peabody’s babbling echoed behind. “I’m sorry, Mr. McClare, I tried to stop—”
Jamie slammed the door in her face, his muscles quivering with rage.
Logan took off his glasses, lips ground in a tight line. “Something on your mind, Jamie?”
“Yeah, Mr. McClare, there is.” He strolled forward, a tic pulsing in his jaw. He singed him with a look. “How about you, sir, anything on your mind . . . or maybe your conscience?”
Eyes narrowing, Logan tossed his pen on the desk and sat back, arms braced casually on the chair. “Look, son, I don’t have time to play games . . .”
Jamie stepped forward, fists knotted at his sides. “Don’t you dare call me ‘son,’ ” he hissed, “you haven’t earned the right. And no time for games? You sure had plenty twenty-five years ago, didn’t you?”
All blood drained from Logan’s face, his skin as pale as the papers stacked on his desk.
“What, cat got your tongue, Pop?” The razor edge of Jamie’s tone sliced through Logan’s typical calm, bloodying his face with a ruddy shade of shock.
With ragged breaths, Logan carefully rose like a man twice his age, the truth of Jamie’s outburst apparently sapping his energy. Head bowed, he steadied himself with a palm to his desk, broad shoulders slumped as if in a stupor. His face finally lifted to meet Jamie’s, regarding him with a sorrowful gaze he’d seldom seen in a man he’d all but idolized. “Jamie, I—”
Jamie leaned in, eyes on fire. “You gonna say you’re sorry you took advantage of my mother, is that it? Sorry she tossed a glitch into your perfect life with an unwanted brat?”
“No, it wasn’t like that—” His voice, hoarse with repentance, cracked as he quickly made his way around the desk.
“No? Well how was it, Mr. McClare? Just exactly what makes a man turn his back on his own flesh and blood?”
“Give me a chance to explain—”
Logan reached for his arm, but Jamie slung it away, bile eating away at his words like acid. “Give you a chance? You mean like you gave my mother and me?”
“For pity’s sake, Jamie, I was nineteen years old,” he said, gouging blunt fingers through perfectly groomed hair. “A kid sowing wild oats and too stupid to count the cost. And then I met someone else . . .” A spasm jerked in his throat. “When your mother told me she was pregnant, I was scared, desperate, and to be honest, not even sure you were mine.”
A curse hissed from Jamie’s lips as he lunged, fist flying.
Logan deflected the blow with surprising skill, shoving Jamie back. “But I supported her anyway,” he shouted, his breath coming out harsh and hot. Shoulders square, he steeled his jaw while fire sparked in his eyes and for the first time ever, Jamie saw the resemblance as if in a mirror. He had his mother’s hazel eyes, certainly, rather than Logan’s gray, and thick black hair to Logan’s brown, but in the height, the build, and the jaw, he was a McClare through and through, evident in the temper that now pulsed in both of their cheeks. “I sent money every single month, I swear, even though I didn’t believe you were mine. Even though you looked nothing like me when you were born.” He paused, the only sound the thick wheeze of his breath as his chest rose and fell. His gaze wandered into an aimless stare as if he were somewhere far away. Or wanted to be. “In my mind’s eye,” he whispered, “I always denied it, unwilling to believe it was true. But when I saw you again . . .” He slowly looked up, a rare sheen of moisture coating his eyes as his voice trailed off. “I knew you were mine. And as God is my witness, Jamie, I vowed to do everything in my power to give you all you deserved.”
“Except your name.” Jamie spit the words like venom.
Sorrow welled in Logan’s eyes despite the lift of his jaw. “It’s too late for your mother and me, Jamie, but it’s not too late for us. To become father and son, in heart if not in name.”
Jamie’s lip curled in contempt. “No thanks, Pop, I don’t want anything you have to offer—not your sorry apology, not a relationship, and not this job.”
Logan moved in, a command in his tone. “Don’t be a fool and throw this all away—”
“Sorry, Pop, guess it just comes naturally.” He glared. “You know, like father, like son?”
“We’re blood,” Logan rasped. He clutched Jamie’s arm, the press of his jaw as tight as his grip. “You have to know, I would do anything for you.”
“No, Mr. McClare,” Jamie said, voice deadly. “You’re a liar. You wouldn’t do anything for me—you wouldn’t marry my mother.” He thrust Logan back, causing him to stumble. “That’s from me, Pop,” he said, then landed a blow to Logan’s gut. “And that’s for my mother.”
And without the slightest bit of remorse, he turned on his heel and strode to the door, slamming it closed on both his father and his future. Because this was the man who’d stolen everything from him—his name, his inheritance, and now the only woman he ever really loved.
His cousin.
30
So . . . are you going?” Cassie’s friend, White Deer, seemed to wait with baited breath as she sat on Cassie’s bed, arms circling her knees while bare toes peeked beneath the hem of her b
uckskin dress. Gus lay beside her curled up in a sleepy ball.
“Of course she’s going,” Morning Dove said in a clipped tone that suggested White Deer had husks between her ears instead of brains from a morning of making cornhusk dolls at the reservation school. She played with the long, wispy curls of a doll she’d made for her sister, pink lips crooked in a dry smile as she sprawled across Cassie’s colorful quilt. “The Bluebonnet Ball is the social event of the season and Cassie needs to show up on the arm of a beau.” Her dark eyes thinned into a gloat. “Because Mark Chancellor needs to feel the pain.”
Pulling a chambray shirt and fresh pair of jeans from her bureau drawer, Cassie smiled over her shoulder, grateful for her two best friends. “Not unless I can wear blue jeans,” she quipped. Clothes bundled in hand, she hurried over to White Deer and turned, desperate to shed the serviceable gray silk dress her mother insisted she wear to the school. “Because heaven knows I’m not putting a corset on for another man for a long time to come. Will you unhook these infernal buttons and please set me free?” She sighed while White Deer went to work. “Although I must admit, I’m sorely tempted just to see the look on Mark’s face now that Father is close to striking oil again.”
“He’s been asking about you all over town, you know,” White Deer said coyly.
“Not to mention he broke it off with snooty Olivia Balzer once he heard you were back.” Morning Dove’s dark brows dipped low in a face of deep bronze. “It’d serve him right to see the likes of Zane Carter fawning over you. Especially since every woman in town seems to be fawning over the eligible engineer who,” she said with a sly wink, “sleeps right down the hall.”
“Stop!” Cassie tugged her dress over her head, cheeks flaming from Morning Dove’s remark. She hurried to hang it and her petticoat up before donning the chambray shirt, quickly buttoning it over her chemise. “Zane Carter is a respectable and honorable man whose keen mind and wealth of drilling knowledge is literally saving my father’s life.”
“And his daughter’s?” White Deer tilted her head, brown eyes sparkling.
“Absolutely not.” Cassie slipped a bare foot into one leg of her boy’s jeans and then the other, making quick work of the button fly as she thought of the man who made it perfectly clear he wanted to know her better. “Look, I already told Mr. Carter, my parents, and now I’m telling both of you—again. I have no desire to tangle with another man anytime soon.” She tucked her shirt in, then wove a leather belt through the loops before plopping on the bed to tug her boots on with a grunt. “When it comes to hunting for romance, I am completely and unequivocally off-season.” She stood up and slapped hands to her hips. “Understood?”
White Deer gently pulled her back to the bed. “You’re not still hurting over that low-down skunk from Frisco, are you, Cass?” she said quietly, kneading Cassie’s arm.
Moisture stung at the mention of the polecat Cassie longed to forget. But two and a half months and a schedule chock-full of teaching, family, and friends hadn’t put a dent in the ache inside whenever she thought of Jamie. Not to mention the longing to see her cousins and aunt and uncle again. Head bowed, she swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, tired of the malaise that always resettled whenever she received a letter from Al. Her cousin generally avoided all reference to Jamie except for mention of his sister’s successful operation several weeks ago, which brought a sad smile to her lips. Although his faith had been tentative during their friendship, they’d prayed many a night for this very outcome, and for that Cassie was grateful. Heaving a sigh, she squeezed White Deer’s hand. “A little bit,” Cassie fibbed, unwilling to burden her friends with the true depth of her sorrow. “But I’ll get over it like I got over Mark.”
“Zane Carter might be the answer, you know.” Morning Dove squatted before Cassie.
Cassie’s smile crooked. “Tried that last time, remember? Didn’t work out so well.”
“But Zane is different, you said so yourself,” White Deer reminded.
A wispy breath drifted from Cassie’s lips. “I know.”
But he’s not Jamie.
White Deer bumped shoulders with Cassie. “So, if I were you, Cassidy McClare, I’d reconsider. If nothing else, for the sheer joy of stomping on Mr. Chancellor’s toes and spitting in his eye.” She leaned forward with a dance of her brows. “Now come on, wouldn’t that be fun?”
Cassie peeked up, a faint semblance of a smile edging her lips. “Maybe,” she said with a teasing pout. “But if I had my druthers, I’d much rather spit in Jamie MacKenna’s eye.”
“Well, look at it this way—you can practice on Mark at the ball so you’ll be ready for Jamie come Christmas, right?” Morning Dove’s grin was wicked.
Christmas. Cassie’s humor faded at the thought. That’s right, they would be in San Francisco for Christmas. With him. Her hands went clammy. Her. Jamie. And another round of heartbreak.
Her lips compressed in a grim smile. Great balls of fire, not if I can help it. She narrowed her eyes. And this time she’d pack the cattle prod just to make sure.
Jamie held his breath while Jess took tentative steps with the crutches, the chew of her lip indicating she was focusing hard. Almost immediately, a grin worked its way across her face, clogging the air in Jamie’s throat. “So, how does it feel?” he asked, voice raspy with hope.
She glanced up with a joyous smile that brought tears to his eyes. “Like I could win a two-mile race against my big brother on the heels of winning at chess.”
His laughter echoed off the walls of the small hospital room as he studied her, hands parked low on his hips. “A wee bit cocky for someone who just spent the last two weeks in bed.”
She wrinkled her nose and hobbled back to sit, plopping down. “Sorry—bad habit I got from my brother.” A noisy sigh parted from her lips as she smiled, her eyes tired but happy. “Are we ready to go? Mom promised warm apple pie as soon as I came home.”
Glancing at his watch, Jamie leaned to give her a peck on the cheek, rubbing her back with the palm of his hand. “Almost, kiddo. I have a few papers to sign, then I’ll be back pronto with a wheelchair and a nurse to give you a proper send-off.” He tugged on a springy black curl before heading for the door. “Don’t move—I don’t want you overdoing it before we go, okay?”
She gave him a firm salute. “Yes, sir, but I hope you won’t be this bossy at home.”
He grinned over his shoulder. “Worse, ’cause you’re gonna have two of us breathing down your neck, make no mistake.” Hands in his pockets, he strolled toward the nurses’ station with a grin on his lips, guilt-free for the first time since Jess had been two. His heart swelled with gratitude. “Thank you, God,” he whispered, “for healing my sister.”
“Ready, Mr. MacKenna?” A pretty brunette flashed a smile that Jamie easily matched.
“You bet, as soon as I sign the release and give my thanks to your boss.” He nodded to an office where several nurses were laughing. “Is Nurse Stadler here?”
“I’m afraid she was called away on an emergency, but she left a release for you to sign and said if you have any questions, to call her personally.” She handed him the papers and pen.
Two orderlies wheeled a gurney followed by a troop of medics and nurses, and Jamie shook his head. “I’ll tell you what, you people run a tight ship here, and I plan to personally commend Nurse Stadler and her staff to the Board of Directors.” He scrawled his name across the bottom of the first sheet, then tackled the others with a broad smile, nodding at several doctors who walked by. “All I have to say is Senator Hamilton must wield a lot of power for a pro bono patient to receive such care and attention and a private room to boot.”
“Pro bono?” A wrinkle pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Jamie glanced up, pen poised mid-scrawl. “You know, the unanimous vote earlier this month on the docket of surgeries Cooper Medical performs at no cost?”
She blinked. “Well, I may be new on the floor, Mr.
MacKenna, but I do know your sister wasn’t on the pro bono docket. Goodness, pro bono patients share a ward on the second floor, not a private room and around-the-clock attention on the fourth.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if she had a secret to share. “No, siree,” she said with a knowing smile, “I’d say you’re a definite VIP. Now if you’ll just wait right here, I’ll get the care instructions Mrs. Stadler left and call an orderly to transport your sister downstairs.” She turned to go.
“Wait.” Jamie stopped her with a hand to her arm. “Jess’s surgery wasn’t free?”
Color flooded her cheeks. “Of course, but not because it was on the pro bono docket.”
Jamie whistled, shocked over what Patricia and her father had obviously done. He exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “Holy thunder, Senator Hamilton sure carries some weight.”
“Well, I don’t know about Senator Hamilton, but I’d say you definitely do.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t say I told you, but rumor has it you’re responsible for a brand-new wing.”
His heart stalled in his chest. “What? What are you talking about?”
Her eyes sparkled as she nodded. “Yes, sir, the largest donation Cooper Medical and Lane Hospital have ever received.”
The air thickened in his throat, making it hard for him to breathe. “I don’t understand,” he whispered, his words hoarse. “From Senator Hamilton?”
She glanced both ways down the hall before cupping a hand to her mouth. “No, sir, but you didn’t hear it from me.” Leaning close, she gave him a wink. “The name was McClare . . . Logan McClare.”
“May I cut in?”
No! Cassie’s lips clamped down on the word she wanted to spit in Mark Chancellor’s face as he gave a slight bow, nearly a head taller than every other man dancing at the Bluebonnet Ball. He was dressed in a stylish gray sack suit that deepened the blue of his eyes. His gaze flitted from her to her partner. She hadn’t wanted to come to the ball in the first place, but her parents had badgered until she’d accepted Zane’s invitation, not to mention White Deer and Morning Dove insisting she needed to give Mark some of his own. But at this particular moment, she didn’t want to give Mark Chancellor anything except distance. Staring hard at Zane Carter, she forced a tight smile she hoped would convey her thoughts loud and clear. No, no, no!