C.J. Hill - Baby Dreams And Wedding Schemes

When his plump little fingers closed around a fire-red engine, she posed one last question. “What’s your dad’s name, Cody? I need to call him and tell him you’re here.”

His big clear eyes stared at her for one long moment, assessing her. Then he shrugged. “His name is Jacob Windsor,” he told her proudly. The child’s brow furrowed. “He don’t like people buggin’ him when he’s workin’ though.”

Sasha held her tongue with difficulty. Of all the insensitive brutes! “Well, I have to tell him where you are, Cody,” she said with some asperity. “He could be worried.”

Doubtful, her mind chided spitefully.

Cody watched her for a moment and then recited his father’s phone number with a happy grin. Pleased with his good memory, he turned back to his perusal of her trains.

Sasha squared her shoulders. Jacob Windsor had to be a cold, insensitive man. He sure didn’t deserve to have a wonderful son like Cody. How else did one explain a father who would leave a child so floundering, so unsure of his place in the world? This boy needed love and support, not guilt about his mother’s death, regardless of what had happened.

She poured herself another glass of milk and considered the situation at hand. It was up to her to rectify the matter, Sasha decided. If the man was so anesthetized to his son’s doubts and questions, it was her duty to set Mr. Jacob Windsor straight. The man needed to know his son was in pain and help him alleviate it.

She wasn’t surprised when the knock came at the side door fifteen minutes later. A stiff and formal telephone voice had curtly informed her that the Reverend Jacob Windsor would be over immediately to collect Cordell.

But when she opened the door, Sasha lost all ability to converse as she gazed at the very tall, very handsome man who stood waiting.

He’s taller than you. Her eyes relayed this unheard-of information with lightning speed to her foggy brain as Sasha tried to ignore the pulse of awareness thudding through her body.

“I believe my son is here,” he said quietly, his voice a low, husky rumble.

“Oh. Uh, yes. Yes, he is. Outside playing.” She nodded, holding the door wider.

Get a grip, she ordered her mushy brain. Think of the boy.

“I, um, I wanted to talk to you first, though. I’m Sasha Lambert.” She thrust her hand out toward him and was surprised to feel the strength in his lean grip.

He was tall, six three or four at least. And gaunt That was the only way to describe the jutting bones that carved the aristocratic planes of his rugged face. His jet-black hair flowed away from his forehead with just a tinge of silver visible on the sides. Solemn and sad, gray eyes met hers, cloudy with his own thoughts.

“Jacob Windsor. I’m the new minister at First Avenue.”

She digested the news with a nod, motioning to the nearest kitchen chair. Stern and sober; the name suited him and his profession.

“I assume that is your craft store in front,” he murmured. “I hope Cody didn’t break something.” His voice had the wistful tone of a man who knew the truth and wished he didn’t.

Sasha glanced down the long, lean length of him, taking note of the old-fashioned trousers and shirt he wore and the shabby jacket with elbow patches. Even so, the man was a hunk.

“I’ve just made coffee,” she offered, forcing herself to smile, hoping to counteract the lack of air in her lungs. “Would you like some?”

“Please don’t bother on my account. I’ll just take Cody home and leave you in peace.”

He turned toward the back door abruptly, causing Sasha to jump in where angels wouldn’t have.

“No, please.” She grasped his sleeve in her fingers, tugging him away from the screen and Cody’s whirring sounds as he ran the engine around the track. “I really do want to talk to you and it would be easier over a cup of coffee, don’t you think?”

Those silver gray eyes stared intently at her hand and Sasha pulled it away immediately, as if burned. Jacob Windsor resumed his seat slowly, studying her through narrowed eyes.

“What, exactly, is this about?” he asked, a thread of iron evident in the low rumbling timbre of his voice.

Sasha took another breath and charged in.

“Cody,” she told him clearly, setting a steaming mug of coffee and a huge slice of fresh apple pie in front of him. “I want to talk to you about your son.”

One black eyebrow lifted as he contemplated the pie and the steaming coffee, but he said not a word. Instead, he picked up a fork and cut off a piece, placing it between his lips like a connoisseur of baking.

“This is delicious,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to feed me. Widowers get used to fending for themselves.” His cool gaze studied her. “That is what this is about, isn’t it, Miss Lambert?”

There was something in his tone that rasped across her nerves. Some hidden meaning behind those innocent words that was meant to stop her from further questions.

Sasha watched the craggy lines of his face harden into a rigid mask.

“You want to help me out by being a mother to my poor, orphaned son.” His smile was not friendly. “You want to share some of the load that single parenthood presents. You want to relieve Cody of a father who has abnegated his responsibilities whe—”

“What was that word?”

Sasha grabbed a pad and began to print.

“What word?” His gray eyes glared at her, angry at the interruption.

She ignored the anger. “Ab-something.” She glanced up at him. “You said you had ab-something your responsibilities.”

“No, Miss Lambert, I did not. I said you thought I had abnegated my respon—”

“Could you spell that?”

She heard the sigh. Anyone would have. It was long and drawn out, as if to show the listener what extreme patience he exercised. When her eyes studied his face, she saw a look of disgust there. Loathing, almost.

“Miss Lambert. If we could return to the matter at hand?”

“In a minute.” She shook her head. “This is important. Could you please spell that abneg...whatever it was.”

He spelled it, slowly and carefully, as if she were mentally deficient and would never be able to print the letters if he spoke in a normal tone.

“Thank you.” Sasha grinned and slapped the sticky note against her fridge.

He frowned, glancing from her to the fridge. “What are you doing?”

“Collecting a word for the day,” she told him airily, pouring fresh coffee into his empty cup. “I try to get a really good one that I can use all day long.” She moved toward the counter to replace the decanter.

“Abnegate.” She rolled the word over her tongue to test its flavor. “It means to give up something, right?”

He nodded, dazed by the sudden turn of events.

“Thought so.” Sasha grinned. “I can usually tell from the context. Would you like some pie? I don’t want to abnegate my responsibilities as hostess.” Her dark head tipped back to study his annoyed features. “Now, what were you saying?”

Jacob frowned. “I can’t remember,” he admitted dryly. “Do you always go off on these tangents?”

“Yes.” She grinned.

But Jacob Windsor wasn’t watching her. He was glancing around her home. She could easily read the curious thoughts flitting across his expressive face. His wide mouth tipped downward on one side as his eyes remained fixed on the overstuffed purple wing chair she’d recovered herself. Finally they swiveled away from the matching sofa.

“’That’s a rather, uh, unusual piece of furniture.”

Sasha burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. People in Allen’s Springs had been thinking that for years but to date no one had told her outright, to her face.