Chapter 9
Chapter 9
O n Saturday morning, Jack was awake even earlier than usual.
He let Trey out the back door, filled the dog’s food and water bowls, and looked in on Gideon, who was still sleeping.
His son looked so young—younger than twelve, certainly—and so vulnerable that Jack’s heart ached with both love and concern.
Harper was right, he thought. Turning Gideon’s life around was going to be a tall order, and it would take time. Loreen and her boyfriends had done a lot of damage, damage he was determined to undo.
With a soft sigh, Jack closed Gideon’s door and turned to head back to the center of first-thing-in-the-morning operations, the kitchen.
It was still half finished, that room, a strange amalgamation of brand-new top-of-the-line appliances and worn linoleum, fancy tract lighting in the framework ceiling, windows in need of replacement.
Jack started a pot of coffee brewing, poured himself a mugful as soon as there was enough in the carafe to do so. He took it black and, since he hadn’t gotten all that much sleep the night before, he was glad it was strong.
Trey returned, scratched politely at the screen door, and came in when Jack opened it, going straight to his kibble, gobbling it down with a lot of heavy-duty crunching, and then moving on to lap loudly at his water.
Jack chuckled and leaned down to pat the dog’s head. “Anybody would think we’ve been starving you,” he observed, shaking his head.
He was considering what to make for breakfast when his cell phone rang in the pocket of his shirt.
In the early-morning quiet, the noise was jarring.
A tightening in the pit of his stomach warned Jack that this was a call he didn’t want to take.
Nevertheless, he did. Avoiding problems wouldn’t solve them.
The caller ID panel read, Unknown .
He thumbed the accept icon.
“Jack O’Ballivan,” he said briskly.
“It’s me,” Loreen blurted. Even though she’d spoken just two words, Jack knew there was a lot more she wanted to say.
“What do you want, Loreen?” Jack asked evenly. His backbone had stiffened, and his shoulders were bunched around his ears.
He took a deep breath and released it. Relaxed a little, though everything in him was on red alert.
“I need money,” Loreen said sheepishly. The tone was unexpected; the request wasn’t.
“What else is new?” Jack retorted.
“Listen, my car broke down, and I’m stuck in Crap Creek, Nevada!”
“Where’s Brent?”
“Don’t be an asshole about this, Jack. You loved me once, and I gave you a son, remember? It won’t hurt you to peel off a couple of hundred bucks and send them to me—there are apps for that.” She paused, and he could hear her breathing. It was rapid and shallow, which meant she was stressed, and possibly in need of a fix. He strongly suspected that heroin was her drug of choice. “Brent’s gone. He’s—he’s in jail.”
“So you want money for bail?”
“Get real!” Loreen burst out. “That would take more cash than I can even dream of having. Besides, I wouldn’t do it. I’m asking for money because I don’t have anybody else to turn to, Jack.”
Jack knew she was telling the truth about that last part. Loreen had undoubtedly burned a lot of bridges since she’d started using. “What happened to the check I wrote you? It was sizable, as I recall.”
“It was gone in a few days,” Loreen said defensively. “I owe some people—some not very nice people—a lot of money. If they catch up with me—”
Jack wasn’t heartless; he knew Loreen was messed up, that a lot of what she did could be chalked up to her habit and to the fried neuropathways in her brain. She did rotten things, yes, but she was sick, not evil.
None of which meant he wanted thing-one to do with her.
“If your life is in danger, Loreen,” he said reasonably, “go to the police.”
“The police?” She let out a raw and bitter laugh. “Not gonna happen, cowboy! I probably have warrants!”
Silently, Jack counted to ten. Then he said, “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll pay for your stay in any rehab facility you choose, as long as it’s legitimate. One hundred percent. But you have to stay for the whole show, Loreen, and you can be sure I’m going to vet the place first.”
Loreen began to cry. “You’d do that? It would cost thousands, Jack. If you can do that, you can give me enough to get out of trouble, once and for all, and I’ll never bother you again. Call it back child support.”
Jack huffed out a scoffing breath. “That’s the one thing I can’t understand. Why you didn’t come after me for child support a long time ago.”
“I told you,” Loreen said, almost whining the words. “I was married when I had Gideon. The guy thought the kid was his. And you haven’t answered my question. Why would you want to spend so much just for rehab?”
Just for rehab.
Jack’s voice had a definite edge when he replied. “Why would I pay top price for you to get treatment? Because you’re Gideon’s mother. And for that, if nothing else, I’m grateful to you. But it’s rehab or nothing, Loreen. If you need cash so badly right now, go and wait tables or tend bar somewhere. Even in Crap Creek, they must have bars, if not casinos.”
“I can’t do that, Jack! I’ve been wearing the same clothes for three days and sleeping in my car. Now that it’s broke down, I can’t even get to the YWCA or a shelter for a shower and a meal!”
Jack almost gave in, because it bothered him when people were down on their luck, and Loreen surely was. On the other hand, she could be lying through her teeth, holed up in a motel room with Brent or somebody just like him, more concerned with scoring the drugs she needed than anything—or anyone—else. He was betting on the latter.
She hadn’t even asked about Gideon.
He was about to call her on that, and on her real reason for calling, when he heard a noise behind him and turned to see his son standing in the doorway, looking miserable and afraid.
“I’ve got to go now,” Jack said into the phone, gesturing for Gideon to come in and sit down at the table. “Let me know if you decide to get treatment. If you don’t, then don’t bother me again.”
In the background, he heard a man’s voice uttering a gravelly curse.
“Jack, wait—” Loreen protested, sounding desperate now.
Jack ended the call.
Turned to his son.
“Was that her?” Gideon asked, stroking Trey, who, as usual, had come to sit beside his chair.
Her. Not Mom , but her .
“It was Loreen,” Jack answered, refilling his coffee cup.
“I’m scared,” Gideon announced, surprising his father.
“What’s to be scared of?”
“What if she comes back? What if some stupid judge says I have to live with her?”
“Whoa,” Jack said, going to the table, easing Trey aside, and crouching to look up into Gideon’s face. “I have custody, bud. Full and permanent custody. And your mother has a drug habit. You’re not going to be sent away.”
Gideon’s face contorted; he was trying so hard not to cry. “I heard you say you’d pay for her to get treatment. What if she gets well and she gets her parental rights back?”
“You’re borrowing trouble. Try to stay right here, in today, where everything is all right. It’s going to be a nice day, and I’m giving you time off from being grounded to go fishing with Tom, so you can have some fun.”
“You’re going riding with Harper,” Gideon said, and his tone was flat, giving nothing away. It was anybody’s guess how he felt about what amounted to his father going on a date.
“That I am,” Jack said, standing up again. “Do you have a problem with that?”
The question was a sincere one. Jack really wanted—needed—to know the answer.
Gideon shook his head. “Just don’t get too far away, okay? Because if you’re far away, and Mom decides to come around, I might get kidnapped. I might never see you or Trey again if she snatches me!”
“Your mom is a long way from here,” Jack said. “And she’s up to her—eyeballs in trouble right now. She isn’t going to ‘snatch’ you, buddy.”
“Did you tell the people at the school not to let her pull me out of class and take me away?”
Jack realized he hadn’t, and made a mental note to do so. In fact, he’d tell Harper today, just to make double sure the principal and Gideon’s teachers got the word. Having let the duty lapse, he wasn’t going to depend entirely on his memory.
“That’s taken care of,” he said, which was a hedge, if not an outright lie, but honest as he was, Jack couldn’t bring himself to let the boy worry.
“For real?” Gideon pressed.
Jack let the question slide. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Some of that trout we caught last weekend,” Gideon answered. Clearly the ploy had worked, and he’d been distracted from the idea of being stolen by his drug-addicted mother, if only for the moment. “It’s really good, rolled in flour and fried in hot grease. That’s how Sadie makes it, when she comes out here to cook for Tom and the others.”
“Dude,” Jack reasoned. “It’s frozen.”
“Then zap it in the microwave.”
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” Jack teased.
Gideon puffed out his unremarkable little chest and sat up very straight in his chair. “Nope,” he said. “I’m an O’Ballivan and you said it yourself. O’Ballivans don’t give up. Not ever .”
The remark made Jack feel slightly less guilty. If it hadn’t been Saturday, he’d have called the principal’s office at the middle school right then and there, and told them that under no circumstances was the boy’s mother allowed to take Gideon off the premises.
He took the package of cleaned and frozen fish from the freezer above the refrigerator, unwrapped it, and shoved the whole thing into the microwave to defrost.
The meal was tasty, especially supplemented with hash browns—also frozen to start with—and bowls of fresh blackberries Gideon had picked himself. The thorny bushes grew in plentitude all over the property.
Gideon was more than ready to go fishing when Tom tapped at the back door, around eight thirty. Looking at Gideon but speaking to Jack, the foreman said there would be plenty of time for a run to town to do some bowling, if they got tired of fishing, or caught their limit too quickly.
Message received.
Tom was telling Jack he could take all the time he needed, riding with Harper. He, Tom, would take up the slack.
It was close to ten o’clock when Jack saddled his favorite gelding, a buckskin he called Samson, along with the tame little pinto mare, Dapples, he’d chosen for Harper’s mount.
Harper had a natural talent for riding—she’d ridden with him and Gideon a few times since the night of the big party—but she hadn’t had a lot of practice, and she still lacked confidence.
Jack was playing it safe. Keeping her safe.
The way he meant to keep Gideon safe.
It was a short ride down the driveway and through the gate—he had to dismount to open and close it—then across the road to Harper’s cottage.
The place had been improved considerably since she’d moved in, he observed, as he swung down from the saddle and tethered both horses loosely to the fully restored, bright-white picket fence surrounding the sizable yard.
The fireplace chimney had been rebuilt, the roof shored up, the shingles painted.
The front steps still sagged a little, but that was okay.
In time, that would be taken care of, too.
The door opened, and Harper appeared, looking hell-too-cute in jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and newly purchased boots, but the crowning touch, literally, was her western hat.
It was bright blue, like the shirt, and banded in shiny silver circles, like coins but without the imprints. Over one arm, she carried a large wicker basket with a lid.
“Sandwiches,” she said, grinning as she lifted the basket a little way, “plus deli potato salad, cupcakes, and two bottles of wine.”
Jack laughed and took the basket from her while she opened the gate and passed through. Teasing, he lifted the lid and peered inside.
“All that,” he joked, “and no Ollie.”
Harper rolled her beautiful eyes. “He’s miffed, but he’ll be just fine, lazing about and playing with his toys.”
Jack closed and latched the gate behind her, then held Dapples’ bridle while Harper jabbed a booted foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up.
Plunking into the saddle, she sighed and said, “I need to work on my upper body strength.”
Jack chuckled, shook his head, and mounted Samson, deftly managing the picnic basket as he did so. But he made a point of pretending it was outrageously heavy.
“I was planning on taking you to town for lunch or dinner—depending on how long we’re roaming the countryside—but it looks as if we’re all set. It’ll be a picnic.” He paused. “Without the blanket.”
Harper blushed a little at the image that reference probably brought to mind, but she kept right on smiling. “Jack O’Balli-van,” she said, “you promised to behave yourself.”
“But I didn’t promise not to kiss you.”
She seemed to consider that as they started their ride, traveling in the direction of the wooden bridge down the road. Jack pondered all the soft earth and green grass on either side of that bridge.
What he imagined doing there, on the shadowed banks of the creek, went well beyond kissing.
“No,” Harper finally answered, after due consideration. “You didn’t promise that.”