Sisters Of The Craft: Heat Of The Moment Part 32

"She says she's my sister."

Owen frowned into the setting sun. "She explain how that could be possible?"

She'd intimated that the spell of two witches, cast four hundred years ago, fueled with sacrifice, fire, and magic, had sent my sisters and me to this time-where no one believes in witches any more. Or at least not the kind they'd believed in then.

"Not really," I hedged.

"Why should you believe her?"

"You saw her, right?"

"Right." He reached over and laid his hand atop mine where it rested on Reggie's bony head. "What are you going to do?"

"Ask my parents if I'm adopted."

Despite all the childhood conjecture, I never had before.

"What if they deny it?"

"There's always DNA."

Owen turned into the lane that led to my parents' farm. "This is gonna be swell."

Chapter 20.

Moose brayed like a banshee, and Reggie tried to climb over me while doing the same. As soon as the truck stopped, I reached for the handle.

"Reggie should stay here," Owen said.

"He doesn't play well with others?"

"His idea of play is work and vice versa."

"What does that mean?"

"He lives to play with his ball after he finds deadly explosives. Got a grenade you could hide for him?"

Reggie stared out the window, panting. Play. Run. Chase.

"He wants to play," I said.

"He tell you that?"

Instead of answering, I opened the door. Reggie vaulted out of the truck and chased Moose into the high gra.s.s. I listened for growling, yelping, or snarling. When none came I cast Owen a glance, but kept the "told you so" to myself. I had bigger fish to fry.

Both of whom stood on the porch, having been alerted to our arrival by the security system known as Moose.

"Should I stay in the truck?" Owen asked.

"No need."

I certainly wasn't going to bring up witchcraft, time travel, spells, and the like to my parents. All I wanted was the truth about my past, and I didn't mind Owen hearing it too.

We crossed the yard. My mother hurried down the steps and threw her arms around him as if he were a long-lost child who had at last come home. He kind of was.

"Owen," she said, the same way she always had.

In contrast, my father's scowl seemed completely out of place. Though Owen's arms had gone around my mom and held her close, his gaze had gone to my dad. He wasn't smiling either.

"What's up with you two?" I'd asked before, but neither one of them had answered. I was pretty sick of it.

"You tell me," my father said, eyes still on Owen, who'd released my mom, though she'd taken his hand as though afraid he'd disappear if she didn't hold on to him tight. I understood the feeling. "He broke your heart. Now he's back and that's just fine and dandy?"

I certainly didn't want to discuss how broken my heart had been, how long it had taken me to get over Owen-the truth being that I never had-in front of my parents.

In front of anyone, ever, not even him.

"I'm not here to talk about Owen."

"Then feel free to run along," my father said to him.

"No." I took the hand my mom wasn't clinging to and clung a bit myself. "He stays."

"You afraid he's going to disappear if you don't keep an eye on him?"

"A little."

"He's going back wherever he's been, Becca. You shouldn't get too attached."

I'd started for the house, but his words made me stop. "How do you know that?"

My father's mouth tightened, as if he didn't want more d.a.m.ning words to flow free.

I glanced at Owen. "How did he know that?"

"We ran into each other."

"You've been here a day."

"He stopped by the cottages this morning."

My gaze narrowed. "You said you had to mend fences. That was a euphemism for talking to Owen?" Didn't appear like they'd mended much. More like they'd broken things even more.

"Dale?" My mother released Owen's hand. "What did you do?"

He took a step back; his face flushed, and I knew.

"You told him to leave," I said. "Not just today but ten years ago."

It wasn't a question, so neither one of them answered.

"Mom, did you know about this?"

"No." She stared at my dad. I knew that expression. He was in so much trouble.

"Why?" I asked.

"You were my little girl," my father said.

"Was I?"

His gaze flicked to my mother's. Owen's fingers tightened around mine, and I knew that truth too.

I wasn't.

Though Dale cast Owen a withering "go away" glare, Owen followed everyone into the house. He might be leaving eventually, but he wasn't going to leave now. He owed Becca that.

Besides, she was holding on to his hand as if she really needed it. He couldn't take it back and walk away.

As he climbed the porch steps, Becca pointed at his leg. "You aren't limping."

He rubbed at the ache. Still there, but a lot better than when he'd arrived. Had that only been yesterday?

"It's a good day," he said.

The doctor had told him some would be better than others. Until today, none of them had been. He'd enjoy the reprieve while it lasted. Tomorrow would be worse. Had to be. It wasn't as if he could heal overnight, even though it felt like he had.

Come to think of it, Reggie had run off with Moose like a puppy, when the dog had been gimping just last night. Owen never would have thought a Wisconsin autumn was conducive to healing. Usually the cool, damp air made aches worse. Or so he'd heard from anyone who'd had aches the last time he'd been in town.

In the living room, Becca sat on the same couch that had been here all those years ago. Owen sank into it so far he worried he wouldn't be able to climb back out. Either the springs were shot, or he weighed a lot more than he had at eighteen. Probably both.

"Where are the boys?" Becca asked.

"Team dinner after football practice," Pam Carstairs said. "They won't be home for another hour at least."

Becca pointed at the chairs on the other side of the coffee table, and her parents sat in them as if they were the kids and Owen and Becca the parents. He kind of liked it.

"What makes you think that you aren't our daughter?" Pam asked.

"I'm the redheaded stepchild."

Her mom stiffened. "You are not!"

"Mom, I don't look like any of you."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"I met a woman today who could be my twin."

Her mother blinked, then all the air seemed to leak out of her like a balloon punctured with a pin. "What did she say?"

"That we're sisters." Becca peered at her hands, which were twisting in her lap. She separated them, laid her palms on her thighs, and lifted her gaze. "Is it true?"

"I don't know."

"Wouldn't the adoption agency tell you if I had sisters?"

"Sisters?" Owen asked. Plural? Where had that come from?

"Whatever." Becca kept her eyes on her parents.

"You weren't adopted," Dale said.

"Dad, come on."

"You've seen your birth certificate."

"What does it say?" Owen asked.

"It lists Dale and Pamela as my birth father and mother." She tilted her head. "How'd you do that?"

"Wasn't easy," Pam muttered, and Dale snapped, "Honey!"

Becca's mom threw up her hands. "She knows. I'm not going to keep lying about it."

"Why did you lie in the first place?" Becca asked.

Pam's eyes filled with tears. "I didn't want to lose you."

"Why would you lose me?"

"Maybe you better start from the beginning," Owen said.

"I lost several babies." My mom's voice was so broken I ached. "Over and over, they died."

"You never said," I began.

"I couldn't. I ... I..."