Read Online A Fortune's Children's Christmas by Barbara Boswell, Lisa Jackson, Linda Turner - Free Book Online Page B
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himself that Lesley Bastian wasn’t his. Not his wife nor his mistress nor even his damned girlfriend. She was only his neighbor, a woman who’d gotten herself into a little trouble that he’d helped ease. Nothing more. That’s the way it was and, curse it to hell, that’s the way it had to be.
But he found his cabin empty when he returned home. Empty and cold, though a fire burned brightly in the fireplace. He spied the sprig of holly in the tiny pitcher she’d used as a vase, and he picked it up, twirling it between his callused fingers. The cabin smelled of whatever perfume she used, soap and baby powder, and his bed, crisply made, the sheets clean, looked sterile and frigid.
She and that kid of hers had been in his life little more than a week, and he missed them. More than he’d ever thought possible. His thoughts took a dark turn to Emily and Ryan, but he found them farther from him than they had been; the pain had dulled with time, and, he suspected, Lesley.
He did his chores by rote, called Kate and reported in, ate sparingly and, much later, when the moon was high, he showered and told himself he wouldn’t call Lesley, didn’t need to know how she was doing; yet he stared out the window to the darkness beyond. Moonlight cast a silver glow on the snow that blanketed the ground and clung to the branches of the trees. Far in the distance golden patches of warm light shone through the narrow windows of the old farmhouse where he’d grown up, the farmhouse Lesley and Angela now occupied. In his mind’s eye he saw her stand on her tiptoes, tilt her head and, with her eyes wide open, kiss him as she had this afternoon. He’d thought of little else since then.
Loneliness, an emotion he’d forced himself to keep under tight rein, pierced deep into his soul. He’d lost everyone close to him one way or another. His twin, Chet, a reckless youth, had made the mistake of driving the old tractor up a ridge a little too fast. The front wheels had hit a rock and bounced, flipping the rig over and pinning Chet beneath it.
Chase had seen it all, had run to the top of the hill crying and screaming, knowing that his brother was already dead. Chet’s lifeless body had been in his nightmares ever since, and the tragedy had torn the family apart. His father gave up whatever ambition he’d once claimed, his mother had gotten sick and died of cancer, a disease unrelated to her son’s death, or so they were told. Chase had never believed it: Constance Fortune’s will to live, to fight, had been robbed of her when her boy died. That left Delia, always self-absorbed, to turn inward. Delia went through life these days unconnected to her family.
And what about you?
He didn’t want to look too closely into the mirror of his own soul, didn’t need to face his inner demons. He didn’t believe in dwelling on pain, nor discussingit with any Tom, Dick or Harry. Nor would he talk to a psychiatrist or counselor of any sort. Nope. He believed in healing himself, and the best way he could cope with all the pain of the past was to ignore it, to bury himself in his work, to find another purpose in his life.
He’d tried marriage and it had only added to his pain. He gritted his teeth as he thought of Emily. Sweet, sad Emily. And Ryan. His only son. A boy who hadn’t lived long enough to see his first birthday.
The old ache burned through him.
Angry at the turn of his thoughts, he shoved another length of oak into the fire and sat at the kitchen table where he’d been going over the books. He punched figures into a calculator and scratched notes to himself as he pored over the accounting records and tax returns for the previous decade.
The Waterman place had been going downhill for years, it seemed, but Chase discovered ways to cut corners, to sell at higher prices, to reduce his overhead while upping his production of grain and cattle. It looked possible to make good on his bargain with Kate, even though a year was a short
But he found his cabin empty when he returned home. Empty and cold, though a fire burned brightly in the fireplace. He spied the sprig of holly in the tiny pitcher she’d used as a vase, and he picked it up, twirling it between his callused fingers. The cabin smelled of whatever perfume she used, soap and baby powder, and his bed, crisply made, the sheets clean, looked sterile and frigid.
She and that kid of hers had been in his life little more than a week, and he missed them. More than he’d ever thought possible. His thoughts took a dark turn to Emily and Ryan, but he found them farther from him than they had been; the pain had dulled with time, and, he suspected, Lesley.
He did his chores by rote, called Kate and reported in, ate sparingly and, much later, when the moon was high, he showered and told himself he wouldn’t call Lesley, didn’t need to know how she was doing; yet he stared out the window to the darkness beyond. Moonlight cast a silver glow on the snow that blanketed the ground and clung to the branches of the trees. Far in the distance golden patches of warm light shone through the narrow windows of the old farmhouse where he’d grown up, the farmhouse Lesley and Angela now occupied. In his mind’s eye he saw her stand on her tiptoes, tilt her head and, with her eyes wide open, kiss him as she had this afternoon. He’d thought of little else since then.
Loneliness, an emotion he’d forced himself to keep under tight rein, pierced deep into his soul. He’d lost everyone close to him one way or another. His twin, Chet, a reckless youth, had made the mistake of driving the old tractor up a ridge a little too fast. The front wheels had hit a rock and bounced, flipping the rig over and pinning Chet beneath it.
Chase had seen it all, had run to the top of the hill crying and screaming, knowing that his brother was already dead. Chet’s lifeless body had been in his nightmares ever since, and the tragedy had torn the family apart. His father gave up whatever ambition he’d once claimed, his mother had gotten sick and died of cancer, a disease unrelated to her son’s death, or so they were told. Chase had never believed it: Constance Fortune’s will to live, to fight, had been robbed of her when her boy died. That left Delia, always self-absorbed, to turn inward. Delia went through life these days unconnected to her family.
And what about you?
He didn’t want to look too closely into the mirror of his own soul, didn’t need to face his inner demons. He didn’t believe in dwelling on pain, nor discussingit with any Tom, Dick or Harry. Nor would he talk to a psychiatrist or counselor of any sort. Nope. He believed in healing himself, and the best way he could cope with all the pain of the past was to ignore it, to bury himself in his work, to find another purpose in his life.
He’d tried marriage and it had only added to his pain. He gritted his teeth as he thought of Emily. Sweet, sad Emily. And Ryan. His only son. A boy who hadn’t lived long enough to see his first birthday.
The old ache burned through him.
Angry at the turn of his thoughts, he shoved another length of oak into the fire and sat at the kitchen table where he’d been going over the books. He punched figures into a calculator and scratched notes to himself as he pored over the accounting records and tax returns for the previous decade.
The Waterman place had been going downhill for years, it seemed, but Chase discovered ways to cut corners, to sell at higher prices, to reduce his overhead while upping his production of grain and cattle. It looked possible to make good on his bargain with Kate, even though a year was a short
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