Elaine Grant - An Ideal Father

She rolled the cleanup cart to the doorway. “You can go now. I’ll finish up.”

“Most everything’s done in here, anyway.”

The pans sat on the drainboard, shining clean, the counters had all been wiped down. Damp dishcloths waited in the laundry basket in the corner. Unused food had been put away. All Sarah had to do was load the dishwasher and start the linens washing.

“Wow…thanks,” she said, wishing she liked him better. He’d saved her a ton of work. “I…I can handle breakfast myself in the morning. That’s the only meal I serve on Sundays.”

He nodded. “All right.”

“There’s a little motel a few miles down the road.” She hoped he’d take the hint.

“I know. I saw it on the way to Bozeman.”

“So, you can stay there.”

“I think not. I don’t have to pay to stay in my own house.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts.” She jerked open the door to load the dishwasher, then straightened and looked around. “Where’s Wyatt?”

Cimarron turned to a corner of the kitchen, started to speak, then paled when he saw the cubbyhole was empty. “He was right there.”

“Maybe he slipped out the back door.”

“I would have heard him. He’s here somewhere. Wyatt?” Cimarron moved to the area where Wyatt’s toys were still strewn about. He squatted and let out a breath of relief. “Here he is.”

Sarah followed Cimarron’s gaze. The child was curled into a ball on an open shelf under the counter, all but hidden from view. Cimarron stuffed the toys into the bag and gently slid Wyatt out. He hoisted the bag by its strap over one shoulder and lifted the boy over the opposite.

Sarah studied the two of them. Neither was at ease and she wondered why. Newsreels of kidnapped children ran through her mind. True these two looked just alike, but family abductions happened all the time.

“You’re not very good at looking after him, are you?” she said bluntly.

“I knew where he was.”

Sarah shook her head. “I saw that look of panic. You’d forgotten about him. Didn’t have a clue if he was still in the room.”

To her surprise, he didn’t argue. “I’m going to put him to bed now.”

“In that dirty old house?”

“We’ll sleep another night in the back of the camper.” Cimarron lowered his voice as Wyatt shifted and mumbled something. “You and I will talk tomorrow about the house.”

The screen door slammed after him and Sarah was left alone and thoroughly dispirited. When all the closing chores were done, she did a final circuit of the café, double-checked the locked doors and climbed the stairs to her apartment. She loved living above the café for convenience, but she was looking forward to having more space when she moved into the bed-and-breakfast—a prospect now put on hold because of her double-crossing brother.

Although the café was decorated in pink, she’d chosen an array of other colors for her personal quarters—sunny yellow for the spacious living room and kitchen, and peaceful celadon green for the bedroom. Casual furnishings and a minimum of clutter made the apartment a perfect retreat after long hours in the café.

She opened a window and let the cool air and soothing night noises calm her nerves as she looked down on the parking lot. Cimarron’s truck, dark inside, was parked at the back. Hoping it would be gone in the morning, she began to get ready for bed. But she was pretty sure her worst nightmare would still be around when the sun came up.

THE CUSTOM CAMPER shell on the back of Cimarron’s pickup was outfitted with bare-bones necessities assembled to suit Cimarron’s vagabond lifestyle, but there was little space for an extra person—even one as small as Wyatt. His presence in the cramped space made Cimarron almost claustrophobic.

Cimarron settled Wyatt into the camouflage sleeping bag they’d bought after R.J.’s death. Wyatt considered sleeping on the floor of the camper “adventure sleeping.” Cimarron just considered it inconvenient. He had been stepping over and on toys, small articles of clothing and Wyatt for weeks, and he was at his wit’s end to find a minute of privacy in order to regroup and try to figure out a solution. He’d intended to stay in the house just to have a bit of room to move around, but Sarah’s stubborn resistance might make that difficult.

When Wyatt’s even breathing assured him the child was asleep, he slipped outside for some fresh air. The dark night was tempered by a half moon and also the warm glow of Sarah’s security light on a pole in the parking lot. Cimarron paced the lot for a few minutes to work off his tension.

What the hell was he going to do with this child? How could he raise Wyatt and give him a decent life? But there was nobody else to take him. Cimarron had no idea where his noaccount father might be—dead or alive. Even if he was alive, he’d never get his hands on Wyatt, considering the childhood he’d inflicted on Cimarron.

R.J. hadn’t talked much about what had happened with Wyatt’s birth mother, Joy, but Cimarron got the idea that R.J. hadn’t been the only bull in the pasture and Joy hadn’t had the ability or inclination to take proper care of a baby. She signed over her parental rights to R.J. soon after Wyatt was born. Remarried now, she’d made it clear when Cimarron called to tell her about R.J.’s death that she had no intention of claiming her son. Hell, she hadn’t even told her new husband she had an illegitimate child. There was no denying Wyatt’s paternity, however, and that left Cimarron stuck with the total responsibility of a family member—again. He muttered under his breath and kicked the light pole as he passed. Stupid move. He hobbled the rest of the way to the truck, choking back curses. About his foot, his fate, his future. Just wasn’t right. He hadn’t fathered that kid, and he didn’t want any more responsibility for other people. He hadn’t done a good job before, and he had no reason to believe he’d fare any better with Wyatt.

Sitting down on the broad bumper of his truck, he leaned back against the camper and closed his eyes, trying to allay the coil of panic that squirmed in his gut every time the undeniable truth hit him. His life would never be the same again.

Cimarron opened his eyes at the sound of a vehicle turning into the parking lot. He squinted as a blinding spotlight flared to life, pointing directly at him. Red and blue lights reflected off the nearby buildings and his pickup.

“What the hell?” he muttered, throwing a hand up to shield his eyes.

“Don’t move. Keep your hands up where I can see them!”

A sheriff’s deputy eased toward Cimarron with one hand on his sidearm, the other moving a powerful flashlight around.

Cimarron raised his hands, turning his head to the side and grimacing at the bright lights. At least the deputy hadn’t drawn on him—yet. Cimarron glanced up at the window above the café and saw Sarah staring down. Damn it, did she call the cops on me? The deputy caught his attention again, moving enough to one side that Cimarron could turn away from the spotlight to face him.

“What are you doing here this time of night? The café’s been closed for hours,” he said. “Let me see some ID.”

“I’m sleeping in my truck. Sarah knows I’m here.”

“Yeah, sure she does. Now get behind the wheel of that truck and get moving, or I’ll give you a different option for a few nights.”

“Look, Deputy—” Cimarron eyed the deputy’s badge “—Whitman, I don’t want any trouble.” He slowly lowered his hands. “I’ve got a right to be here.”

“That ID?”

“It’s in my wallet.” Cimarron reached for his back pocket.