Judy Duarte - Their Secret Son

Like Lot’s wife, Kristin turned around, unable to hold her curiosity at bay.

Was Joe still watching?

He was.

Her feet slowed like blocks of salt, and her heartbeat reverberated in her ears. She could read the suspicion in his eyes, the questions.

Kristin’s days of lying were over. But how could she tell Joe the truth without revealing the secret she’d kept from her dad for years? If her dad found out, the stress might trigger the coming heart attack that would kill him.

Maybe, she tried to convince herself, Joe would thank his lucky stars not to be strapped with child support payments and the responsibilities that came with being a parent. Maybe he’d just let his unanswered questions die a slow and easy death.

She would cling to that hope.

As Joe watched Kristin walk away, he cursed under his breath.

Was he Bobby’s father?

It was definitely possible.

“That’s some woman,” the rookie beside him said. Then he blew out a long, slow whistle. “She sure doesn’t look like any of the mothers I ever knew.”

“She’s pretty, but definitely out of your league, Dustin,” Joe told his younger buddy. “When a guy falls for a woman like that, the future is bound to be rocky and steep.”

And there’d never been a relationship facing a more uphill battle than the youthful affair he and Kristin had innocently embarked upon.

Growing up, Joe had often been referred to as “that Davenport kid,” a reference he’d tried hard to shake. Trying to live down his dad’s reputation hadn’t been easy. And if Harry Logan hadn’t stepped into Joe’s life, God only knew where he might have ended up.

The night of the fire, Harry had found Joe huddled near a Dumpster, scared out of his socks, but ready to defend his action to the death. He’d only meant to start a fire in the old warehouse, not cause a roaring blaze that would threaten other buildings on the block. But Harry had seen through the surly display of anger and zeroed in on the fear in Joe’s eyes, the pain in his heart. And instead of hauling his sorry ass to juvie, as many cops would have done, Harry took Joe aside. Put him in his patrol car, but not as a suspect or criminal.

Harry had sensed that no one had ever given a damn about Joe, no one had ever listened to him. And for the next hour or so, he just sat there, nodding in understanding. Asking questions when appropriate. Listening intently, and then letting a kid who’d tried so damn hard to be tough bawl his eyes out.

And when the tears and sobs had finally stopped, Harry offered Joe something no one had ever offered him before. A sturdy shoulder to lean on. Hope for the future. A friendship with one of the greatest guys in the world. A family that included him in holiday dinners, barbecues and touch football games on the lawn. And a brotherhood of terrific guys who’d once been hell-bent misfits and now had a purpose.

Thanks to Harry, Joe had turned his life around. Still, he supposed there might be some people who couldn’t forget his parentage or his shabby roots, particularly Kristin’s father. But that was too bad.

Early on, Joe Davenport had made up his mind to ignore those people who couldn’t quite forget who his daddy had been. And he damn sure wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life proving that he was good enough for Kristin Reynolds. For one thing, her dad would never be convinced.

But things were different, now.

There was a child involved. A child Joe hadn’t known about. A towheaded boy who might be his son.

If Joe was Bobby’s father, he’d do right by the boy.

No matter what Kristin or her dad had to say about it.

T he next day, after his twenty-four-hour shift ended, Joe stood on the front stoop of the Reynolds house, preparing to knock on the carved oak door that boasted a fancy stained-glass window.

His excuse, which he hoped didn’t sound lame or reveal another, more pressing reason for being here, was to talk to Bobby about fire safety and give him a junior fire marshal badge. From personal experience, Joe knew the extra effort and personal touch would help Bobby be more mindful about playing with fire.

Harry Logan and George Ellison, the fire chief who’d dealt with Joe as a kid, had used the same approach. They’d taken him to the fire station and made him feel like one of the guys. It was an experience that had turned his crappy life around and given him a purpose, not to mention a station house full of friends and, eventually, a job he loved.

Joe would have come by to talk to any other kid who’d started a fire, but the semiofficial visit wasn’t his primary motive. He wanted to see Kristin again, to ask her point-blank whether he was Bobby’s father.

Because if the boy was his son, Joe was prepared to be the kind of dad he’d always wished he had. He might not be able to make up for the lost years, but he could certainly take an active part in the future—no matter what Thomas Reynolds had to say about his involvement.

He rang the bell, then rapped on the door for good measure.

Moments later, Kristin answered, wearing a simple green dress and her hair pulled into a ponytail. She looked young, much like the teenage girl she’d once been. The girl he’d once loved.

When she saw him, her emerald eyes widened and her mouth dropped. Obviously, she hadn’t expected him to follow her home.

He never had before.

Mostly because she hadn’t wanted him to.

But things had changed, now that they’d grown up and gone their separate ways.

“Joe,” was all she said, her voice soft, wispy. She blanched for a moment, then seemed to recover.

“I came to talk to Bobby.” And you.

“Bobby went on a picnic to Oceana Park with the family who lives next door. They won’t be home until later this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry I missed him.” Joe’s words weren’t entirely true. What he and Kristin had to talk about was best done in private, out of Bobby’s hearing range.

“Thank you for stopping by,” she said, as though wanting to send him on his way.

But Joe wasn’t about to be put off. “Like I said before, Kristin, you and I have some things to discuss. And I thought now might be a good time.”

She glanced over her shoulder and, before Joe could broach his main question, she took his arm and led him across the manicured lawn to the silver Chevy Tahoe he’d parked in the drive. “Now’s not the right time.”

Because her father was home, no doubt.

Would Thomas Reynolds always stand between them like an armed sentry? Or a rottweiler with eyes glazed and teeth bared?

Joe crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze snagging hers and demanding the truth—the real reason why now wasn’t a good time to talk. “What’s the matter, Kristin? Afraid your father will see me on his property and come running with his shotgun?”

“No, of course not.”

Joe didn’t believe her. The lie she’d uttered had brought a blush to her cheeks and a splotch to her throat and neck. She was afraid her dad would raise hell.

Well, he would just cut to the chase. “All right, Kristin. I’ll go. For now. But answer one question. Am I Bobby’s father?”

Her lips pursed, and she crossed her arms in a defensive stance. “Bobby isn’t your concern.”

“If he’s my son, he is.”

She stood there, silent and cool as a Grecian statue, yet Joe had the feeling an unexpected gust of wind would blow her over and smash her to smithereens.

For some insane reason, he felt an urge to comfort her, to wrap her in his arms and pull her close. Tell her she could depend on him for support.

But Kristin Reynolds, soft and gentle as she was on the outside, had an inner strength Joe had always admired. So instead of giving in and offering the protective gesture, he held firm. “I want some answers. And I’m not going away until I get them.”