Big Sky Romance Collection Page 14

  “Can we start today?” Maddy asked.

  “It’s almost suppertime,” Wade said. “And you’ll have to move your things away from the walls and tape off the trim first.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done this a time or two,” Abigail said.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t.” Wade turned out of the parking lot.

  Abigail lifted her chin. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Like you figured out the garden?”

  She sent him an exaggerated glare, which he missed entirely. “Low blow, Ryan.”

  “We can move furniture and stuff tonight and paint tomorrow,” Maddy said.

  “Tomorrow’s Abigail’s day off, squirt.”

  “Will you help me, then?” Maddy asked her dad.

  Abigail started to speak, then decided to wait for Wade.

  Maddy nestled against Wade’s arm. “Please, Daddy?”

  Maybe Maddy was starting to realize her power. Abigail suppressed a smile.

  “Suppose we could trim after church and chores.”

  “Thanks, Dad!”

  “I guess I could help too,” Abigail said.

  Wade’s lips pressed together.

  Well, tough luck, cowboy. She had to get to know him better if she wanted the truth, and the only way to get to know him was to spend time together. Besides, she thought, assuaging her guilt, it’ll be good for Maddy.

  “Can we pull up the carpet?” Maddy asked after they’d piled most of her belongings in the hallway.

  Abigail surveyed the ugly carpet. She hadn’t noticed the stains until the room was cleared. “I think we’d better leave it, to catch the drips.”

  “Just a peek?”

  Wade dumped the painting supplies from the bag. “Suppose so.” He got on his knees and ripped the carpet from the tack strips with ease.

  Abigail and Maddy peeked over his shoulder as he pulled the stained pad back.

  “Hardwood.” Abigail sighed with relief.

  “Yay!”

  “Hope it’s in decent shape.” Wade put the carpet back.

  “Of course it is. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking there must be a reason someone laid carpet.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  Wade and Abigail taped off the wooden trim while Maddy paced the room, eager to wet the first roller. But by the time they finished taping, it was after ten, and Wade declared it quitting time.

  “Please, Dad? Can’t we paint a little while? Just one wall?”

  Abigail stepped in. “We’ll have all afternoon tomorrow, Maddy. Your dad’s had a long day.”

  Maddy’s shoulders drooped. “All right.”

  “Let’s grab your pillow and blanket and make up the sofa,” Abigail said.

  Maddy exited the room and Abigail followed. She didn’t miss the gleam of appreciation in Wade’s eyes as she squeezed past.

  20

  Abigail went to church with her aunt, then they grabbed a quick lunch at the Tin Roof. As they were about to leave the café, Aunt Lucy couldn’t find her car keys. They searched her purse and the booth area for ten minutes and finally found the keys in the car’s ignition. On the way back Abigail dropped a hint about a checkup, but her aunt didn’t pick up on it. She just talked about her latest idea for a Colonial doll. Next time, Abigail resolved, she would outright suggest Aunt Lucy make an appointment.

  By the time Abigail returned to the house, Wade and Maddy were already in their paint clothes and wielding wet brushes.

  Abigail didn’t have an old shirt, so Wade offered a gray Texas Longhorn T-shirt, which was long enough to cover the shorts she hoped to preserve. She’d hardly started painting when Olivia called, and Maddy took the phone downstairs. Ten minutes later she was still chatting with her friend.

  “So much for her eagerness to paint,” Wade said.

  “I think she’s more eager to have the room done than to actually do the work.” Abigail wet her brush and swept it along the window trim.

  “You don’t have to stick around,” Wade said from his spot on the floor. “You should be resting.”

  “I think painting is soothing.”

  “If you say so.”

  They worked in silence, then a few minutes later they reached into the paint can simultaneously.

  Wade gestured for her to go first. “How’s Miss Lucy?”

  “Good, I think. I enjoy her company—you never know what she’s going to say next.” Abigail swept the brush across the can’s rim, removing the excess paint.

  “She’s a character.”

  “You have any colorful relatives back in Texas?”

  Wade wet his brush, then went back to the trim. “Not really. A few cousins running around, an aunt and uncle, but they’re relatively normal.”

  “I always wanted cousins.”

  “You have a sister.”

  “She’s a few years older, so we didn’t play together much. I always wanted those big family get-togethers with kids running around everywhere.”

  “Know what you mean, being an only child. That’s where neighborhood friends come in, I guess. I’m thankful I had Dylan.”

  “Yeah.” She thought of Julia. “I had a good friend who lived two doors down. We walked to school together, played at recess together . . . she loved to play in the rain. Used to say it was just like taking a shower except for the clothes.” She wasn’t aware of the sadness in her voice until she noticed Wade studying her.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Abigail’s brush paused. She’d never told anyone outside her family about Julia. She sneaked a peek at Wade and got caught in the warmth she found in his earnest gaze. She somehow felt he’d understand. She reached for more paint. “One day I was going to her house, and Julia was in the garage with her father. He was hitting her.”

  “You saw it?”

  She squatted down and swept the brush under the window trim. “I heard it.”

  “How old were you?”

  Abigail smoothed out a few brush lines. “Ten.”

  “A year younger than Maddy.”

  Abigail loaded her brush.

  The action seemed to set Wade in motion. He wet his own brush and started back to work. “That’s terrible. What happened?”

  Sometimes she still wondered if she’d imagined it, and she’d replay the scene to confirm her conclusion. She replayed it now and found the recollection fresh and raw and convincing.

  Abigail pulled herself from the virtual nightmare. “I sneaked away before they saw me. She never mentioned it, but I think he abused her regularly. I saw bruises on her arms sometimes.” Her mouth was dry as sawdust. “I never told.”

  She couldn’t believe she’d told him. She hadn’t even told her sister and mom until she was an adult.

  “You were only ten. Must’ve been afraid.”

  Why had she started this? She cursed herself for bringing up the subject.

  She was making a mess of the trim, but loaded up again anyway. If she stopped, she’d have to look at Wade. And if she looked at Wade, she’d see accusation or disappointment or some other emotion she couldn’t bear.

  “I should’ve told anyway. She was my best friend.” She clamped her mouth shut, wondering why she was going to this place, with Wade of all people.

  “What happened to her?”

  Abigail shrugged. “She moved away when we were thirteen. Kept in touch awhile, but then I lost track of her.”

  A few moments later, Wade lowered himself to the floor next to her and wet his brush. “Don’t know how someone could do that to a child.”

  “I don’t either.” She didn’t want to talk about this anymore. It made her feel too raw, too vulnerable.

  “Wasn’t your fault, you know.”

  The words were balm to her wound, but she didn’t let them soak in too far. “Well, I can’t do anything about it now.” She couldn’t go back and fix it. She’d always regret that she hadn’t told, would always carry the weight of knowing she could’
ve stopped it.

  She felt Wade’s perusal but wasn’t about to look his way and fall into those eyes again. “Everyone has baggage, I guess. I do, you do, Maddy does . . . You just put it behind you and move on, right?”

  Wade fought the wave of sympathy. He imagined Abigail at ten, knowing her best friend was being abused, and couldn’t stop the shudder. She must’ve been confused and afraid. To say nothing of the guilt she obviously carried. It radiated from every pore. He was on a first-name basis with guilt himself.

  But Abigail was done talking about it. He could see that much and respect it.

  “I mean, that’s what you did,” Abigail said. “Moved to Montana and started a new life—put the past behind you.”

  Wade reloaded his brush, then swept it along the trim. If only it were as easy as changing locations. “Hard to put the past behind you when your daughter’s a living reminder of it.”

  “She’s like her mother?”

  Wade shrugged. “Some things. Her smile. The way her eyes light up when she’s excited, the way she tucks her hair behind her ears—that’s all Lizzie.”

  “Must make it hard.”

  “Wouldn’t change it for the world. Maddy’s all I have.”

  Her eyes were crystal green in the light that flooded through the window. He saw compassion and understanding and so much more hidden in their depths.

  Wade felt connected to her. Maybe it was the way she’d bared her soul, the fact that he’d just shared something he’d never told anyone, not even Dylan. Maybe that’s why his next words tumbled out.

  “I was the one that found her—Lizzie.” Wade started to wet his brush, then realized he’d made a complete line around the room. The trim was finished. He set the brush on the can’s rim.

  “You found her?” Abigail’s voice was gentle, coaxing.

  “We’d argued earlier, before I left the house. There was a party. I wanted to go, she didn’t. I was young and selfish. I left for the party, left Maddy with her.”

  The familiar pang of regret hollowed his stomach. If only he hadn’t gone. If only they hadn’t argued. If only, if only . . .

  “What happened?”

  Her question pulled him from deep inside himself. Why was he spilling his guts to someone he’d known barely over a month? What did he know about her—really know—that he’d trust his deepest secrets to her?

  He rose and grabbed a paint tray. “Like you said. Past is the past and ought to stay there.”

  Abigail finished the last part of the window and stepped back. “I’m sorry for what you went through. Maddy too. Losing a parent is hard.”

  Wade set their brushes aside and poured the paint into the pan while Abigail unwrapped the rollers. “I worry about her. She’s at that age where she needs a mom.”

  Abigail handed him a roller. “You’re doing a great job. She loves being with you.”

  The sound of Maddy’s feet on the stairs halted their conversation.

  When she entered the room, she grabbed a roller and unwrapped it. “Olivia said lime-green and brown are really popular colors. I can’t wait ’til it’s finished.”

  “Me neither,” Abigail said.

  Wade’s mind was stuck on his conversation with Abigail. His daughter did need him. But what if he failed Maddy the same way he’d failed Lizzie? It was why he held himself back—that fear that maybe she was better off without him.

  And Abigail didn’t make it easy. Between picnics and projects— case in point, he thought, looking around the room—both of them were becoming a regular part of his daily routine whether he liked it or not. And he wasn’t sure which of them scared him more.

  21

  One week later, Maddy’s room was finished. The walls were painted creamy beige, the equine border was applied, the wood floor gleamed like honey, and her new lime green pillows and shaggy rug completed the look.

  After replanting their garden, they watched new seedlings spring from the ground and inch higher each day. Likewise, Abigail’s relationship with Wade grew. Roots of friendship sprouted easy conversation and laughter. Dinnertime, and the moments afterward, had become her favorite time of day. Wade’s quiet strength soothed her, his humor tickled her funny bone, and his tender, awkward way with Maddy only endeared him to Abigail.

  Her column had become an afterthought, though the reality that she must at least notify her mother about the story was a constant nagging itch. While the writing of the article could wait, the cover had to be laid out well in advance of publication, and that deadline was quickly approaching.

  As the day drew closer, Abigail found herself hoping something would change. That BlueFly Publications would rescind their ultimatum, that another story would materialize for one of the other reporters, something amazing enough to rescue Viewpoint. Because the closer the cover deadline grew, the more attached she became to Wade and Maddy, and the more she recognized her own truth.

  She didn’t want to write the story.

  She still didn’t know the details surrounding Lizzie’s death, but she knew one thing. Wade wouldn’t have hurt his wife—not on purpose.

  The story was still a story, however, even without that bit of information. Because every fan in the continental United States, every publication, every tabloid, was interested in the whereabouts of J. W. Ryan. Interested enough to buy any magazine with his picture splashed across the cover. It would be their best-selling issue since her mom exposed a senator’s affair back in the eighties, back in Viewpoint’s heyday.

  But knowing this didn’t make it easier.

  Abigail changed into her pajamas, washed her face, brushed her teeth, booted up her laptop, and responded to e-mails. She took her blood pressure medication, cleared the junk off her nightstand, then set the stuff back out again.

  Today was the day—the day of no turning back—and she’d waited until the last minute. Because, though she might see the story as the magazine’s one hope for salvation, she knew Wade would only see it as betrayal.

  Abigail stared past the sheers into the dark night. Her own reflection stared back. She looked so innocent in her pj’s, her hair still sporting a youthful ponytail. She tugged the band, setting her hair free. Innocent, my fanny. She was about to betray her new friends. What would they do when they discovered what she’d done? How would they feel then?

  They’d hate her, that’s how they’d feel. Abigail ran a hand over her face.

  She was thinking like a woman, letting her feelings muddy the facts. Think like a journalist. You’re the Truthseeker. Remember who you are.

  And she wasn’t just any journalist. She was the one who was about to save her mom’s magazine. Her job and many others. That was the key—to focus on what really mattered.

  Her mom needed all relevant cover material for the September issue by tomorrow morning. Abigail eyed her cell phone, nested in the pocket of her purse. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

  She retrieved the phone and dialed her mom’s cell. She was doing the right thing. The only thing she could do in this situation. The story had fallen into her lap. It was a gift from above, and who was she to thwart—

  “Abigail. I was just thinking about you, sweetie.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “E-mails are nice, you know, but I wouldn’t mind hearing your voice more often.”

  “I know you’re busy.”

  “Never too busy for my girl. How’s Aunt Lucy?”

  “I’m not sure. There’ve been a couple things that worried me, little things really. I’m going to try and get her to have a checkup.”

  “Well, good luck with that if she’s anything like your father. I hope you’re enjoying your time with her.”

  “She’s a delight, just as I remembered. Her church ladies love her. They’re like a little flock of sheep all gathered around her every Sunday. You should see it; it’s so cute.” She was stalling and she knew it, but couldn’t seem to help herself.

  “I’m glad you’re going to church.”

&nbs
p; “It’s been good. Long overdue.”

  “And are you finding time to rest?”

  “I am.” Abigail nearly added that she felt fine, but she’d had headaches the last two days, and she was sure her blood pressure was up—though she’d avoided checking it.

  Before she told her mom about Wade, she had one last hope. She said a quick prayer and crossed her fingers to cover all her bases. “How’s the September issue shaping up? Going to start laying out the cover tomorrow?”

  “Oh, the usual. A look at the economy from the small business perspective, an interview with the president’s photographer . . . Hendrick is doing an interesting piece on childhood celebrities . . .”

  She heard the false enthusiasm in her mom’s voice. So much for her last hope. Abigail had to tell her mom about Wade, but first she had to come clean. “Mom, I know about the ultimatum from BlueFly.”

  The sigh was loud. “I swore Reagan to secrecy.”

  “Yeah, I swore her to secrecy on my health, and you see where that got me.”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  Mom probably wondered why she hadn’t already rushed back to Chicago. She’d understand momentarily.

  “Have you been feeling okay?” her mother asked. “I really didn’t want you stressing about Viewpoint.”

  Here goes. “I’m fine, Mom. I called to tell you I’m in a position to help the magazine. To rescue it, actually.” Abigail wadded the material of her pajama top in her fist, clenching until her nails bit into her palm.

  “Go on . . .”

  Abigail closed her eyes and gathered her courage. You’re a journalist. You’re the Truthseeker. You’re going to save Viewpoint.

  She lowered her voice. “I found J. W. Ryan.” There. She’d said it. She exhaled, waiting for the relief she’d expected and finding none.

  “J. W. Ryan, the rodeo celebrity?”

  “The very one.”

  “No one knows where he is—what do you mean you found him?”

  “I mean I’m living in his house.” She was careful to keep her voice down. “The girl I’m watching is his daughter.”