The You I Never Knew Part 18

"Mich.e.l.le, it's Sam."

G.o.d. Oh, G.o.d. "I don't want to talk to you right now."

"Is this a bad time?"

"The worst." Her heart pounded. Her throat ached with the things she wanted to tell him.

"Cody's all right, isn't he?"

"Of course he's not all right-" She broke off. Sam meant the injury. "His head's fine. He had a nap, and a pretty good dinner, and he's in his room right now."

"Then why did you say he's not all right?"

She swallowed hard, and it hurt, as if something enormous was stuck halfway down. "I told him about us. I told him you're his biological father."

Silence. In the background on his end, a dog barked. The Border collie. The morning she'd gone out there, she had noticed that Sam had an unconscious, affectionate way with the dog, idly stroking her head and ears without even seeming to know he was petting her. He was probably doing that right now.

"How'd he take it?" Sam finally asked, his voice low.

"He's not a happy camper. After he said the word 'f.u.c.k' to his mother, he walked out and closed himself in his room."

"I'm coming over."

"No, Sam, you can't-"

His end of the line went dead. She couldn't stop him now. She felt helpless. Should she tell Cody that Sam was coming over? No; then he might barricade the door, or worse, run off somewhere.

She settled for straightening up the bungalow, doing the most mundane of ch.o.r.es. A fresh hand towel in the bathroom. A light on over the front door. Minutes dragged by, and she ran out of things to do. Restless, she took out her sketchbook and favorite pencil-a Primacarb Number One. Accustomed to bringing her work with her from the office, she never went anywhere without a sketchbook. Even though she had given up painting, she still thought in pictures, and she never knew when an idea for an ad design or concept would hit her.

Her pencil swirled and danced over the page, and she felt a tug of sensation, something she hadn't felt in a long time. Nerves, she told herself. That's what it was. And when she saw what had emerged onto the paper, she knew it was nothing more. The image she had outlined was icy cold, a vineyard everyone had seen before on a dozen wine labels. It came from her mind's eye but not from her heart. Perfect for one of their big winery accounts.

She shut the book and put it back on the table. A few minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. She went to Cody's room and said, "Sam's here."

No response. He probably had his Discman on, fitting the headphones over the dressing on his head.

Sam took his boots off at the door. He didn't smile when he greeted her. He just sort of stared, those eyes probing, seeing her in a way she didn't think anyone else ever had. Finally, he said, "You look awful."

"Thanks. I'm having a swell evening." She gestured at the fridge. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Not right now, thanks. Where's Cody?"

"In his room." She indicated the door.

Sam didn't hesitate; that was the first thing she noticed. She had always hesitated when it came to dealing with Cody. She tended to stop, weigh the options, rehea.r.s.e the scenario in her head, and proceed with caution. Sam plunged right in. Of course, he had a lot less to lose than Mich.e.l.le did. Sam couldn't lose what he'd never had.

He knocked on the door and said, "Cody, it's Sam. Your mother and I want to talk to you."

Your mother and I.

Mich.e.l.le had never thought she'd hear those words, not in the context of her own life. There had never been a unit known as "your mother and I." The phrase conjured up images and yearnings Mich.e.l.le didn't want-a partners.h.i.+p, a union... a dream she once had.

Cody's reply put the sentimental thought into perspective: "I got nothing to say to either of you."

At this point, she generally let him be, let him chill out. But Sam didn't know Cody's implacable moods. He put his hand on the k.n.o.b. "I don't recall giving you that option. Now, you can either come out here or I'll come in there. Either way, it happens in the next five seconds."

"Or what? You'll spank me?"

Sam twisted the doork.n.o.b, and Mich.e.l.le was surprised it didn't come off in his hand. He looked perfectly calm as he strode into Cody's room. The bedroom was done in muted plaids and stripes, like an upscale resort hotel. Cody lay on the bed, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes full of hate as he watched Sam.

Mich.e.l.le stood in the doorway and held her breath.

"I'd never hit you." Sam kept his voice soft and low, the way he always did when he was angry. That was one of the things Mich.e.l.le remembered about him. The madder he got, the quieter he got. "I'd never hit anyone. But I also don't take no for an answer. So why not get up off your b.u.t.t and get into the living room?"

"Maybe I don't feel like it."

A small, evil part of Mich.e.l.le took pernicious delight in this exchange. In the past she had been the one on the receiving end of Cody's defiance. Finally, someone else had to hear it. Sam stood like a s.h.i.+eld between Cody and Mich.e.l.le, absorbing the boy's contempt as if it were nothing.

"So you want us to camp out in here?" He moved Cody's suitcase off the luggage bench and had a seat. "Fine with me."

Cody didn't say a word, but levered himself up from the bed, marched out of the room, and plunked himself down in an armchair in the living room. He didn't look at either Sam or Mich.e.l.le. She was amazed that Sam got him to come out.

"I guess I'll start, then." Sam lowered himself to the sofa, and she did the same, folding her arms, unconsciously protecting herself.

"First of all, you've got to know this, Cody. Finding out about you is the biggest thing that's ever happened to me."

This was a man who had been a six-time national rodeo champion. A man who had saved lives, delivered babies, told people a loved one had died. And yet he could still say this was a bigger deal.

Cody stared straight ahead, stone-faced. And Lord, even now, startlingly good-looking, a fallen angel with a mended head.

"Second thing," Sam continued, "is that if you ever talk to your mother like that again, you'll be sorry you ever found me."

Cody turned to her, contempt written in hard lines around his mouth. "Great, Mom. Already running to him and telling him private stuff."

"I don't blame you for wanting to keep it private. I'd be ashamed, too, if I said stuff like that to the woman who raised me." Though Sam's voice was mild, there was an edge to his words, an edge that was sharp with warning.

Watching Cody, she could see that he sensed the sharpness, too. He was out of his league here. Sam had grown up fighting his way through the rodeo, through school, through seventeen years of battles she could only imagine. Cody's att.i.tude might have the power to hurt her, but to a man like Sam it was nothing.

"So what are you doing here, anyway?" Cody asked.

"Same thing as you are. Trying to figure out what to do next." Sam crossed one foot over his knee. He wore flecked gray thermal socks. Bits of snow still clung to the cuffs of his jeans. "I have figured out what not to do. And that's mouth off to your mother. I won't tolerate it, Cody. Do you understand?"

Their gazes locked. From the very start, there was no question who was going to win. Within a few seconds, Cody shrugged and looked away. "Whatever."

"Your last outburst was just that," Sam said. "Your last. Believe me, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm just some old guy. I have no authority over you."

"You don't," Cody pointed out.

"You know what?" Sam leaned back congenially. "You're absolutely right. I won't take you over my knee. But I can tell you this. Don't be such a little s.h.i.+t to the person who's put in sixteen years and nine months raising you."

Cody did his best to look bored, but she could tell he was fascinated by all this. "Why not?"

Still maintaining a relaxed pose, Sam nailed him with a stare that would wither gra.s.s, and he spoke softly, with deadly control. "Don't ask me that again."

Mich.e.l.le unfolded her arms and studied them both, and in a flash, she saw an uncanny resemblance. They looked so much alike she was surprised the whole town hadn't figured it out by now.

"All right," Cody said at last, keeping his chin up despite his capitulation. "Whatever."

"Well," Mich.e.l.le said, trying to dissipate the tension. "I suppose we have to decide what's going to happen next."

"You're going to finish this operation thing and then we're going back home," Cody said.

"It could happen that way," she conceded. "Is that what you want?"

"Why would I want anything else?"

"No reason, maybe," Sam said, and she was glad he spoke up, because she couldn't think of anything more to say. "But then again, maybe there is a reason."

Silence. And sadness. Sam's words filled Mich.e.l.le with a huge ache. Because in her heart she knew they had both made coc.o.o.ns of themselves. And somehow, it had diminished them. No strings, no connections. Safe from love, safe from hurt.

"So what are you talking about? You think I want you to take me to baseball games and buy me stuff and all that c.r.a.p?" Cody demanded. "I'm a little old for that."

"Good. I can't stand baseball. Hate shopping." Sam drilled him again. That stare was powerful. Where did he learn to do that? Mich.e.l.le wondered.

"So here's the deal," Sam continued. "If you feel okay in the morning, and it's all right with your mom, you come out to my place. See how that foal's doing. Maybe we'll talk some, maybe we won't. We'll just see."

Cody sat stiff and silent for a while. "What if I don't feel like it?"

"Then you don't come." But Mich.e.l.le and Sam had both seen it. The spark in the boy's face when Sam mentioned the horse. "You stay here and... do whatever it is you do."

More silence. Cody was as still as a stone, but she knew a battle raged inside him. Finally, he said, "Can I go to my room now?"

Sam's face turned hard with a silent demand.

Finally, reluctantly, Cody added, "Um, please?"

Wonders never cease, thought Mich.e.l.le. He asked permission.

Sam looked at her. "Mich.e.l.le?"

"See you in the morning, Cody," she said. "You can let me know then if you need a ride to Sam's place."

Chapter 19.

Sam watched Cody leave the room, noting the studied slouch, the hands jammed in his pockets. Despite the att.i.tude, he was still a good-looking kid, and Sam had thought so even before he'd figured out who fathered him.

He wanted to ask Mich.e.l.le what Cody had been like as a baby, a toddler, a little boy, but each time he thought of all those lost years, he nearly choked on rage and frustration. Those years were gone and there was no way to get them back. But that didn't stop the hunger in him to know.

"What's going through his head right now?" he asked softly.

"In a minute, probably Marilyn Manson on his Discman. I hate his music. And I hate it that I hate his music, because I love music."

"Believe it or not, I understand what you're saying."

That coaxed a fleeting, weary smile from her. Sam knew he should go, but he didn't want to. Leaning forward, he picked up a sketchbook off the table. "May I?"

"Sure. It's work, though. I doubt you'll find it very interesting."

He'd always liked looking at her drawings. When they were young, she'd had the sort of talent that made people do a double take. They'd look, then look again, and then the low-voiced comments would start.

But when he opened the sketchbook, he didn't see the wild, emotional abstractions he'd been expecting. These were studies, mostly of inanimate objects-furniture and running shoes and grapes and shower nozzles-and a chilly, anatomical study of a winter merganser in flight. Each was rendered with remarkable control and perfection, as if a computer had done it.

Mich.e.l.le s.h.i.+fted on the couch, tucking her feet up under her. "I told you, it's work. I'm a graphic designer."

"You're d.a.m.ned good," he said with total honesty. "I can't believe you quit painting. You were so pa.s.sionate about it."

"Sam, I was eighteen years old. I was pa.s.sionate about everything-about my art, about horses... about you. The trouble was, life outlasted pa.s.sion. Some people call it growing up."

Her statement thumped into him like a dull blow. The firelight flickered off her cheek, illuminating a haunting sadness in her face. He didn't like seeing this wistful melancholy in her. But he sure as h.e.l.l didn't know how to make it go away.

"Aw, d.a.m.n it, Mich.e.l.le." He moved closer to her on the sofa. "I didn't mean to upset you." And because it was late and he was on autopilot, he did the next thing quite naturally. His arm extended across the back of the seat and went around her.

In the s.p.a.ce of a second, she softened against him, and he couldn't believe the rush it gave him to feel her like this, pliant and giving. But only a heartbeat later, she seemed to realize what she'd done and pulled away. He let out his breath in relief. His life was finally on track, and getting involved with Mich.e.l.le Turner could cause a train wreck. n.o.body in his right mind wanted a train wreck.

"I'm all right, really," she said with a quaver in her voice. "Things've been difficult lately."

"That's putting it mildly. But you and your dad are strong. You'll do great with this procedure. I had a talk with Maggie Kehr today, and she accepted my personal reference. The surgery's going forward as scheduled."

She shut her eyes for a long moment. "Thanks, Sam." Then she opened her eyes and looked at him. "And... thank you for coming over tonight."

"So is Cody what parents like to call a 'handful'?"

"Oh, yeah. Year Sixteen has been a real picnic."

"I got that idea."

"Let's see. He came home the first week of school with a pierced navel and a cigarette habit. He didn't even try hiding either one from me. I think he liked seeing the effect self-mutilation had on me."

"I imagine he did. What's the point of piercing something if no one notices?"

"And your suggestion would be?"

"I guess I'd ignore it until he injures himself zipping his pants. Then let the wound heal over."