Deborah took a deep breath. 'Ashe had some business to take care of immediately. Mother is doing beautifully, and you can see her tomorrow after school.'
'Great. May I call her tonight?'
'Right after dinner,' Deborah said.
'Will Ashe be home in time to help me with my math homework?'
'I'm not sure how long his business will take.' She wanted to wrap Allen in her arms and keep him safe. For the millionth time in ten years, she wished she could tell him she was his mother. Dear God, how Ashe must feel. But he had no idea the price she had paid pretending to be Allen's sister. Both of them had lost so much not having the chance to be Allen's parents. Maybe it really was all her fault. Maybe Ashe had every right to hate her. If she'd had the strength to stand up to her father or the courage to have gone to Ashe with the truth long ago, things would be different now.
Deborah checked her watch as she followed Allen into the kitchen. Would Ashe return tonight? Tomorrow? Or would he leave town and never return? Oh, he would return, all right. He might leave her again, but he would never leave his son.
« ^ »
Ashe sat in his car, the window down, the crisp night air chilling him. He had to go home, home to Deborah. For the past several hours he had thought of nothing except what she'd told him about Allen. His son. Their son.
He'd stopped by a local lounge for a couple of drinks, then come down here by the river and parked. He hadn't wanted to be around anybody. He'd needed time alone to lick his wounds, to resolve his feelings for Deborah.
The fact that he cared deeply for her complicated his life considerably. If she hadn't come to mean so much to him, he could hate her. But he didn't hate her; and he didn't even blame her for what she'd done. How could he? Eleven years ago he'd taken her innocence and broken her heart. He'd tried to reject her gently, telling himself he was doing what was best for her. If he'd been a man instead of a thoughtless boy, he would have made sure he hadn't gotten her pregnant. That had been his fault. He'd been the one with experience, not her. And she'd loved him. He hadn't appreciated how much the love of a girl like Deborah meant. Now he did.
Why hadn't he, just once, considered the possibility that he'd gotten her pregnant and she'd kept it a secret from him? Hell, he knew the answer only too well. He couldn't have handled the guilt. He didn't blame her for not coming to him, after the way he'd treated her. Back then she hadn't known her father had run him out of town; she'd thought he'd deserted her.
He couldn't justify her keeping Allen's existence a secret after her father died, but he understood her reasoning. He had hurt her badly. She had been afraid to trust her life and Allen's to him.
Things were different now. She did trust him. And she still loved him. That was the greatest miracle of all. Somehow, he'd find a way to make up all the lost years to Allen and to Deborah.
They needed to talk, to come to an agreement on the best way to handle the situation. He wanted Allen in his life, whether or not they ever told the boy he was his father. And he didn't want to lose Deborah, not again. All these years she had stayed alive inside him, her gentle beauty, her unconditional love.
He didn't know exactly how they'd work things, but they would find a way. He'd make Deborah see that no obstacle was too great for them to overcome—together. He wasn't going to lose his son or his son's mother.
Ashe started the car, turned around and headed toward Sheffield, all the while thinking about what he wanted to say to Deborah. When he turned into the driveway, he noticed every downstairs light was on. In the distance he heard sirens. A police siren and an ambulance siren. His heart raced, his nerves rioted. What if something had happened while he'd been off licking his wounds?
He flew to the front door and through the house, calling for Deborah, then he bellowed out Roarke's name. When he entered the kitchen he ran into Allen, who trembled and cried and spoke in incoherent phrases. Huckleberry stood at Allen's side, licking the child's hand.
Ashe grabbed his son by the shoulders. 'Allen, what's wrong? What's happened? Where's Deborah? Where's Roarke?'
'Deborah's gone.' Allen sobbed, his big blue eyes wide with fear. 'I don't know what happened. I heard Deborah scream.'
'When did you hear her scream?'
'Just a little while ago. Her scream woke—woke me and—and Huckleberry.'
'Where's Roarke?'
'Outside. In the—the backyard. I think he's dead!' Allen threw his arms around Ashe's waist, hugging him fiercely.
Ashe lifted his son in his arms, sat him down on top of the kitchen table and wiped the tears from his face with his fingers. 'Are you all right, Allen?'
'Yes. But I can't find Deborah. Where is she? Did they get her?'
'Show me where Roarke is,' Ashe said.
'I called 911. Roarke told me to call, then he passed out.'
Ashe lifted Allen down from the table. Holding his son's hand, he followed the boy and his dog outside. Roarke's big body rested in a fallen heap on the patio. Huckleberry sniffed Roarke's semiautomatic, which he'd obviously dropped when he'd passed out. The gun now lay in a pool of fresh blood that had formed on the bricks.
Ashe leaned down, turning Roarke slightly. The man groaned, then opened his eyes.
'Hang in there. An ambulance is on its way,' Ashe said. 'Can you tell me what happened?'
'She was restless.' Roarke spoke slowly, his breath ragged. 'Worried about you. Thought she … heard your car parking in the back.'
'Where is she?'
'He took her.' Roarke tried to lift his head. 'Told her not to go outside. Couldn't catch her. Couldn't stop her. She thought it was you.'
Ashe inspected Roarke's body and discovered he'd been shot several times. Dear God, why didn't that ambulance hurry? If Roarke lost much more blood, he'd be dead before the medics arrived.
'Take it easy,' Ashe said.
'I walked out—out the door.' Roarke coughed several times. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. 'The minute I stepped out… Shot me. Kept shooting.'
'Did you get a look at him?'
'Big guy. Ugly. Sandy hair. Jeans. Leather jacket.' Roarke lifted his hand, but the effort exerted too much of his strength and his hand fell to his side. 'Failed. Sorry.'
'I'll find her,' Ashe said. 'You just hang in there until—' Ashe realized Roarke had passed out again.
Four Sheffield policeman stormed the backyard, their guns drawn. Standing, Ashe placed his arm around Allen's shoulders. His son leaned against him.
'Come on, Allen. After we talk to the police and see Roarke off to the hospital, I'm taking you over to Mama Mattie's. I'll get Chief Burton to send one of his officers to stay with you until I find Deborah.'
'You'll find her, won't you, Ashe? You won't let anybody hurt her, will you? You love her, just like I do.'
'Yeah, son, you're right. I'll find her, and I'll never let anybody hurt her because I love her, too.'
Ashe barely contained the rage inside him, and the fear. Dear God, the nauseating fear! If anything happened to Deborah, it would be his fault. If he hadn't left her, deserted her again, then she wouldn't have been in such a tormented state of mind. She never would have rushed outside without thinking, disobeying Roarke's orders. If anything happened to her or if Roarke died, Ashe would have to face the fact that he could have prevented tonight's disastrous events.
Ashe marched into the Sweet Nothings club like a storm trooper. Evie tried to grab his arm, but he threw her off and swept past the bouncer, making his way to Buck Stansell's office. If the man was responsible for Deborah's kidnapping, he'd kill him with his bare hands—after he found out where Deborah's abductor had taken her.
Ashe flung open the office door. Buck jumped up from behind his desk, like a scared rabbit dodging a hunter's bullet.
