Baby, I'm Yours

Confusion cramped Kevin’s face as Julianne’s presence seemed to finally register. Dimly, it occurred to her how she must look, the epitome of the haggard young widow who doesn’t give a damn anymore.

“You know who I am,” Kevin said.

“You bet your ass I know who you are,” her father said. Not budging. Not forgiving. “And you are not welcome in my house.”

“Dad. It wasn’t his fault.”

That much Julianne knew, even if her father still couldn’t accept the truth: that Kevin’s leaving Robyn, while not doing her any favors, had played little part in her inability to shake a substance-abuse problem that had been in place long before his involvement with her. Julianne also knew she’d win this battle. Although whether because Dad wasn’t as adamant about his plan as he’d have her believe, or because he wouldn’t deny her anything reasonably within his power to give her, she couldn’t say. Nor did she care. At the moment she’d play whatever hand had been dealt her and deal with the consequences later.

“Can I get you something?” Julianne asked inanely, as she led Kevin past the quivering, gray-muzzled dog, the family photos lined up against a taupe wall—the Gallery of Illusions, Robyn had called it—into the brightly lit living room cluttered with corpulent leather furniture, local artwork, Southwestern native crafts. “Coffee? Water?”

“A beer?” her father said behind them, deliberately provoking.

Irritation flashed in toffee-colored eyes. Kevin was younger than she, she knew. Not by much, a few years. Enough to make a difference, though, to someone who felt old as Methuselah. His shirt was a little too loose, his pants rode a trifle too low, the hallmark of a guy who hadn’t yet figured out that size mattered. Still, she thought—hoped?—she saw the signs of someone playing a hard, fast game of catch-up.

“I’m a recovering addict, Mr. Booth,” Kevin said softly, reaching down to scratch a panting, grinning Gus between his ears before meeting her father’s lockjawed expression. “I’ve been clean for more than a year.” He turned to Julianne, wearing the slightly blank look of someone unsure of his next line. At the moment, the dog was probably registering more on his radar than she was. “And thanks,” he said, “but I’m good.”

Then he dropped onto the sofa’s edge, his hands clasped between his knees as he stared at the floor, clearly trying to absorb the news. Finally he lifted his eyes to Julianne’s father. “What happened?”

Victor’s gaze bounced off Julianne’s, scrupulously avoiding the baby monitor on the coffee table not two feet from where Kevin was sitting. Not that it was likely he’d make the connection, but still. “I don’t have to—”

“I came here for answers,” Kevin said, his voice surprisingly strong. Unintimidated. “No, actually I came to apologize to Robyn, but now that I’m here…” His hands clenched. “Now that I know…”

“This is private family business. We’re not obligated to tell you—”

“My sister was killed in a swimming accident,” Julianne said quietly. “While we were on vacation in Mexico.”

Kevin swore, softly and bluntly, his reaction genuine enough for Julianne to feel a spurt of sympathy. Robyn hadn’t loved him, she knew that much. Oh, she’d been pissed when he’d left, but that had been more the wounded pride of an emotionally scarred, and very young, woman outraged at being the dumpee. What Kevin’s feelings had been for her sister, she had no way of knowing, of course. Not that she blamed him for leaving. Few people would have nominated her sister for a congeniality award.

Her father’s eyes cut to hers, pleading. Unflinching, she returned his gaze, shaking her head.

Even though she knew what her act of defiance would cost her.

“Was she using?” Kevin asked, shattering Julianne’s thoughts.

“Yes,” she said over her father’s “What concern is that of yours?”

“Of course it’s his concern!” Julianne said, startled at her own vehemence. It had been a long time since she’d felt vehement. Since she’d felt much of anything. “It’s always been his concern! He has a right to know! He’s—”

“Julie!”

The cane jabbed into the carpet as her father advanced on her, his anguish colliding with hers. Her only excuse, perhaps, for not having fought him harder before this about ending the lie. But, oh, dear God—how incredibly out of whack their lives had been these past few months, focusing on loss instead of gain, on separation instead of connection. A crippling confederacy of negatives Julianne was now determined to overthrow—

“Don’t do this, Julie-bird. Don’t tell him.”

—whether her father was on the same page or not.

“Don’t tell me what, for God’s sake?” Kevin was on his feet, his bewilderment clawing at her sense of decency. “Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on—”

Kevin’s gaze jerked to the monitor, crackling with the distinct sounds of a baby waking up from her nap.

“Robyn was pregnant when you left,” Julianne said quietly, her heart splitting in two as she watched her words slowly register in toffee-colored eyes.

When, all those months ago, good sense—and an awakening survival instinct—had finally shoved Kevin off the track to nowhere, he’d naively believed the temptation to backslide would never be an issue. At least, after those first few days. Weeks. Then it would get easier, right? Only he hadn’t counted on fate lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to send him to his knees.

Because to be completely honest, he thought, as he gripped the rails of his baby daughter’s crib, at that moment the sickly sweet promise of escape sounded pretty damn good. Except he knew there was no such thing as just one drink, just one toke, to dull the edge. Not for him. No more than he could take one step off a cliff and not end up smashed at the bottom. Literally.

The crazy thing was, he’d never really understood what had driven him off that cliff to begin with. His family was nuts, sure, but no worse than anybody else’s. A lot better than most, actually. Why he’d hurt them, hurt himself, he had no idea. But even through the fog of shock, as his baby—oh, dear God: his baby!—fixed her calm, blue-gray gaze on his and smiled, pumping her chubby bare legs as she lay on her back, Kevin knew he would never, ever, do anything to hurt her.

Pippa, they called her. Short for Phillipa. Where Robyn had come up with that name, God only knew. Still, weirdly, it seemed to fit, he thought as he lowered one hand into the crib, his own smile far shakier than the baby’s. Five chubby fingers curled around his index finger, snaring it in a death grip. Rosebud lips pursed, eyes went huge, chunky little legs ratcheted up the pumping to the next level. Despite Robyn’s sister and father being right out in the hall, arguing—about him, no doubt—a soft chuckle broke the vise constricting his lungs.

He almost couldn’t blame Robyn’s father for not telling him. Hell, in his place Kevin wasn’t sure he wouldn’t’ve done the same thing, if somebody’d knocked up his daughter and then fled the scene of the crime. But it wasn’t like that, and you damn wellknow it, a faint, barely comforting voice put in.

Yeah, well…

His finger still locked in his baby’s hand, Kevin propped his other elbow on the crib rail to cradle his overstuffed head in his palm, as bitterness, disbelief and helplessness threatened to undo more than a year’s worth of hard work.

Yet another tick-mark in the Kevin-screws-up-again column, he thought, heartsick. What the hell was he going to do? He barely felt confident enough to take care of himself, let alone anybody else. Yeah, he was beginning to think about settling down, focusing on the foreseeable future, but he wasn’t there yet. At the moment he had no job, no home of his own and no funds, except for a small stash left over from what he’d earned helping his brother Rudy fix up his newly purchased inn in New Hampshire. How in the name of all that was holy was he supposed to take care of a baby?

Not that, if the heated discussion outside the door was any indication, Pippa’s grandfather was about to let him.

Kevin shoved the heel of his hand into his forehead, trying to push out the dizziness. Talk about your one-two punches. First, Robyn’s death, then—

“Are you all right?”

He hadn’t heard Julianne come into the room. Or noticed when the arguing had stopped. Still, he definitely caught the slightly off-key note of judgment in her voice. Obviously, since she’d bucked her father about letting Kevin know about Pippa, she’d felt compelled to set the record straight. Didn’t mean she was happy about it. Happy about him.

On a shuddering sigh, Kevin dropped his hand. “Not really, no,” he said, his eyes still on his daughter.

“Sorry. Stupid question.”

He almost smiled. “Where’s your father?”

“Downstairs. Regrouping.” She paused. “But don’t get any ideas about grabbing the baby and making a run for it. He’d be all over you in a New York minute.”

He shifted enough to catch Julianne’s gaze, riveted to the baby. And so would you, he thought. But all he said was, “Yeah, I bet that cane could inflict some serious damage. Not to mention Killer, there.”

Wagging his tail—after a fashion—the barrel-shaped dog hobbled over to lick Kevin’s fingers, then collapsed at his feet with a sigh. Which Julianne echoed. “Okay, so Gus probably isn’t much of a threat. But never underestimate a man who can still bench-press two hundred and fifty pounds. On his better days, at least.”

“I take it he’s pissed at you for going over his head?”

“He’ll get over it,” she said, unexpected steel underneath the softness. Another pause. “I know what you’re thinking. But believe it or not, Dad’s not a bad man. Just a hurting one. And I don’t mean his back.”

Kevin let the words settle into his brain, one at a time, before he said, “Believe me, you have no idea what I’m thinking.”

“No,” she said after a moment. “I don’t suppose I do.” Outside, a couple of doves hoo-hooed, off-sync. “She’s a miracle, you know.”

Kevin finally tore his attention away from the baby to really look at her aunt, still by the door. Sticklike arms pretzled across a white, shapeless top, over a pair of those pants that looked like brown paper bags with legs. Behind steel-rimmed glasses, pale blue eyes regarded him warily from deeply shadowed sockets. Cripes, the woman was so fair you could practically see straight through her, her shoulder-length hair as blond and fine as a little girl’s. Even at her most wasted, Robyn hadn’t looked that bad. A few brain cells wondered what her story was, even as he said, “A miracle, how?”