Debra Kastner - Daddy's Home

Sammy—and Jasmine.

Three days later, Jasmine stared over the rim of her coffee cup at the soft-spoken cowboy across from her. The term cowboy used loosely, she thought wryly. Christopher had been born and raised in this mountain town, but he couldn’t ride a horse to save his life. Ranching wasn’t in his blood.

He looked the part, though, with his form-fitting western jeans, snap-down western shirt and a steel gray cowboy hat. Of course, he’d taken off the hat when he’d entered the café, exposing his thatch of windblown brown hair.

Another cowboy trait.

Her mind was being perversely obtuse this afternoon, she thought. How she could find anything humorous to laugh about in her present state of mind was beyond her comprehension. It was as if her subconscious were seeking to avoid the inevitable confrontation.

The determined gleam in Christopher’s eyes and the hard set of his jaw gave him away. Why else would he have asked her to meet him in a small café in Wetmore, a half hour’s drive from their home town and well out of the public eye?

She’d been surprised when he’d called yesterday and asked to meet her, but now she was as prepared as she’d ever be for whatever he would throw at her, though she still couldn’t come up with a single acceptable reason for a man to abandon his wife and unborn child. And then return to claim his son after Jenny was dead. If he didn’t want the boy before…

The familiar swell of anger rushed through her, but she tamped it down. She would listen. She owed him that much, whatever sort of torn and twisted man he’d become. He claimed he wanted Sammy, and today he would attempt to explain why.

Not that his words would make any difference. She already knew what her answer would be, despite anything he told her.

He couldn’t have the baby. Not in a billion, trillion years.

Sammy was her son now. The papers declaring it so were firmly in her possession and valid in a court of law.

She’d fight him tooth and nail in court if she had to, but she prayed it wouldn’t come to that. That was her true objective—to reason with him, to try to touch the man she once knew, the man buried deep inside the monster sitting across from her.

To make him leave quietly. And alone.

“What’ll ya’ll have?” said a waitress, tapping her pencil against her pad of paper. Her cheek near her bottom gum was plump with tobacco. Jasmine had heard of gum-chewing waitresses, but the thought of a tobacco-chewing waitress was more than her stomach could handle.

“A cup of hot tea for me,” she said weakly, shifting her attention from the woman to focus on her queasy insides. “Peppermint, if you’ve got it.”

She wasn’t sure she could swallow even tea, but it occurred to her the peppermint might settle her stomach a little. She’d used it on Sammy’s colic to good effect, so she could only hope it would ease some of her own distress.

“Double cheeseburger with everything, onion rings and a chocolate shake,” Christopher ordered, smiling up at the waitress as if his entire life weren’t hanging in the balance of this conversation.

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he didn’t care. Jasmine didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed.

It was obvious his appetite, at least, wasn’t affected by their meeting. And he wasn’t keeping his hands clenched in his lap to keep them from quivering, either. She pried her fingers apart and put her hands on the table.

Christopher cleared his throat and ran the tip of his index finger around the rim of his mug. “Remember when we used to sneak up here on Friday nights?” he asked, chuckling lightly. His gaze met hers, the familiar twinkle in his light gray eyes making her heart skip a beat.

Jasmine felt her face warm under his scrutiny. She knew what he was thinking, the memories this café evoked. Two carefree youths, so much in love, their lives filled with laughter and happiness. And hope.

“We thought we were being so underhanded, slipping out of town.” His light, tenor voice spread like silk over her. “Remember? We were so sure nobody noticed we were gone. We really thought we were pulling one over on everyone. And all the time, they were probably laughing and shaking their heads at us.”

Jasmine laughed quietly despite herself. “I’m sure Gram knew all along. She had such—” She was going to say high hopes for the two of them, but the thought hit her like a slap in the face, so she left the end of her sentence dangling sharply in the air.

How ironic that he’d picked this location to meet today. She’d been so wrapped up in dealing with her crisis that she hadn’t realized the poetic justice in his choosing this café. She swallowed hard, trying in vain to keep heat from suffusing her face.

It was the place where they’d first said I love you. The night they’d pledged themselves to each other forever. The night he’d asked her to be his wife. Before med school. And before Sammy.

She could see in his eyes that he was sharing her thoughts, reliving the memories right along with her. Her chest flooded with a tangle of emotions. Anger that he had brought her here. Hope because he remembered, too.

Had he brought her here on purpose, she wondered, as a way to have the upper hand? Or was this simply a convenient spot to meet, away from the prying eyes of the world? Did he mean to remind her of their joyful past, to taunt her with what could never be? She pinned him with her gaze, asking the question without speaking.

In answer, he swiped a hand down his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head regretfully. “It was thoughtless of me to bring us here. I should have realized—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “Better here than in Westcliffe, where we might be seen.” She closed her eyes and eased the air from her lungs. At least he wasn’t trying to rub her nose in the past, and for that, she was grateful.

He let out a breath that could have been a chuckle, but clearly wasn’t, from the tortured look on his face. “I prayed about this meeting before I called you,” he admitted in a low voice.

He clenched his napkin in his fist and looked out the window, allowing Jasmine to study his chiseled profile. There were small lines around his eyes, and dark furrows on his forehead. They weren’t laugh lines, she noticed sadly. He looked ten years older than his twenty-eight years.

“Truth be told,” he continued, still avoiding her eyes, “praying is about the only thing I’ve been doing for weeks.”

His admission wasn’t what she expected, and it took her aback. She remained silent for a moment, trying to digest what he was telling her.

She’d assumed from his actions that he’d played his faith false, that he’d given up on God and was taking his own way with things.

Abandoning his family was hardly the act of a man walking with his Maker. But now he was telling her, in so many words, that his faith was still intact. That he believed God was in control. That he believed prayer would help this wretched situation. That God was here.

She barely restrained the bitter laugh that desperately wanted to escape her lips. Irony seethed through her. How had he kept his faith in God when hers so easily disappeared?

He smiled, almost shyly, as if his revelation had taken great effort. It probably had, though there was a time when there had been nothing they couldn’t share between them.

In so many ways, she wanted to close her eyes, embrace his belief, wipe the slate clean and start all over again. To return to the time in her life when she believed, and when her belief had given her hope.

But that was naiveté. She wasn’t a child, to believe in miracles. To believe in a close, personal God who would help her through life’s problems. Her faith was ebbing and flowing like waves on rocks.