Allison Leigh - A Weaver Beginning

“Gampa, Gampa, Gampa,” Aidan yelled when he spotted Squire sitting amid a trio of young teenagers.

The old man handed his video-game controller to the only girl in the trio. “Infernal game,” he groused. But considering the way his face was creased with a grin, there wasn’t a lot of bite to it.

Tristan Clay, who was the youngest and wealthiest of Squire’s sons—and as far as Sloan was concerned, the wiliest—roused himself from his napping sprawl nearby. “That infernal game’s putting a new wing on the hospital,” he pointed out without heat.

Squire harrumphed. “Folks have always been willin’ to throw good money away.”

Tristan just smiled faintly, letting the jab pass.

It wasn’t often that Sloan saw Tristan looking so relaxed. He ran his insanely successful video-gaming company, Cee-Vid, but he was also the number two man behind Hollins-Winword, an international firm that dealt in private security and covert intelligence. And it was in that role that Sloan had first dealt with the man and his nephew, Axel. Before he’d gone undercover with the Deuces, he’d asked Hollins-Winword to watch over Tara. She still hadn’t quite forgiven him for not informing her of that particular fact, but since she was as happy as a clam now with Axel, she didn’t beat him up with it too often.

“Give me my great-grandson,” Squire told Sloan, and he was happy enough to push aside the memories as he detached the kid’s fingers from his hair to set him on the floor. The kid immediately bulleted toward the gray-haired man, who scooped him up and blew a raspberry against his neck. Aidan’s laughter filled the spacious room and immediately, young cousins began appearing, clamoring for similar treatment from the old man.

“I thought he was bad with his grandchildren,” Tristan commented, leaving his spot that was no longer peaceful at all to follow Sloan back up the stairs. “He’s twice as bad with his great-grandkids. The man was hell on us when we were growing up, but given the chance, he’ll spoil the daylights out of them.”

Sloan wondered if Abby’s grandfather had been similarly inclined, or if her grandparents had been stricter because they’d taken on a parental role.

They made it to the top of the stairs and turned into the kitchen. The enormous table there was covered with a dozen desserts in varying stages of demolition, sidetracking both of them. Tristan studied his choices while Sloan helped himself to a hefty wedge of the chocolate cake he knew his sister had brought. It was the same cake his mother used to make for their birthdays when they were kids.

The cake was incredible. The memories that came with it weren’t.

“Max sending you to that conference coming up in Cheyenne?”

Max had tried working on him to attend, but he couldn’t see the point. Not when he wasn’t even sure he was going to be around in a few months. “Dawson and Ruiz are going.”

His sister entered the kitchen. “There you are.” She was carrying Hank on her hip.

“Wasn’t exactly hiding,” he pointed out and watched the way his nephew eyed the cake on his fork. He knew better than to give the boy any, though. He’d made that mistake once already and quickly learned that Tara didn’t want him having anything sugary until he was older.

Not that Hank the Tank was looking particularly deprived. The kid wasn’t a year old yet, but he was already showing signs that he’d inherited the Clay genes when it came to size. He sure hadn’t gotten his height from his petite mama. Tara was nearly a foot shorter than Sloan, and he and her husband were pretty much eye to eye.

“This is the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to you,” she returned.

“Could’ve come talk to me earlier instead of sending your husband.”

Tara’s brown eyes flashed. “I didn’t send Axel to do anything! As if the man ever does something he doesn’t choose to do in the first place.” Tristan made a noise and buried his attention in his pecan pie as he escaped. So much for the big-shot secret agent.

Sloan wished he could follow. He pushed his fork into the cake again and ignored the hopeful gleam in Hank’s eyes. “He’d take a bullet for you.”

She rubbed her cheek against Hank’s bald head. “You’re the one who took a bullet,” she reminded him.

A graze. And it had been more than two years ago. She’d been pregnant with Aidan and on the verge of marrying Axel.

“But he has walked through fire for me,” she allowed. “Literally.”

“Which was my fault, too.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never blamed you for what happened at the church that day when Maria’s brother set that fire. He wanted to get back at you for her death by getting to me. He was insane with grief.”

“You have more pity for him than I do.” And more pity than the courts had. The lunatic had been convicted and would be locked away for a good long time.

“It’s all water under the bridge, anyway,” she dismissed. “If you really want a fresh start, don’t you think that should include letting go of the past?”

He wished he could give her the answers she wanted to hear. “I don’t want to promise something I’m not sure I can deliver.”

She studied him for a moment. “Would you go back to the ATF if you could?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Goob, they don’t want me back.” They’d made that plain enough when he’d been fired after the Deuce’s trial had finally ended. They hadn’t taken kindly to him drawing in anyone from Hollins-Winword to protect Maria or Tara. They’d told him it had shown a strong lack of faith in his own agency and conveniently ignored the fact that they hadn’t been willing to provide any sort of protection themselves.

“But if you could?”

Would he? Nearly his entire adult life had been wrapped up in his ATF career. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” she said after a moment, “that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, anyway.” She shifted Hank onto her other hip. “What’s this I hear about you and your new neighbor? She’s the new school nurse, right?”

He stared. “What do you know about her?”

“She was your mysterious plan last night, wasn’t she?”

“She, who?” Max and his wife, Sarah, chose that moment to wander into the kitchen, and her blue gaze bounced from Sloan to Tara and back again. “Pretty little Abby Marcum?”

Sloan eyed his boss, but Max just shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I might be the sheriff, but I don’t know anything.”

Sarah poked him in the side, and he jerked away, grinning. Then he frowned. “No more pecan pie?”

“Tristan finished it off.”

“Figures.” He took the last slice of chocolate cake. “This’ll do just as well.”

“Even after all these years together I do not know how you can eat the way you do and never gain a pound,” Sarah complained. “You had a piece of Gloria’s cheesecake an hour ago.”

Max swatted her lightly on the butt. “My wife keeps me well exercised.”

She rolled her eyes. “Here I thought you were going to help me get started on some of these dishes. Go on, then. Go back to your football game. I know that’s what you really want to do.”

“Always figure it’s smart to get while the gettin’s good.” Max looked at Sloan. “You coming? Half time’s over.”

Sloan finished off his cake in a single bite and tossed the paper plate in the trash. “Just like Mom’s,” he told his twin, and then he did what any smart man would do and escaped while the escaping was good.

* * *

The house was cold again when Abby waked early the next morning. She pulled on a thick sweatshirt over her flannel pajamas and checked on Dillon, who was still sound asleep, before starting a pot of coffee. With the water gurgling and the scent of coffee beginning to fill the kitchen, she pushed her feet into her boots and let herself quietly out the door. She didn’t like having to take more wood from Sloan’s pile, but they’d burned through the last of what she had during the night, and she didn’t want Dillon getting up to such a cold house.