Well, timing never had been his strong suit...

And the fact that Bowie Bravo walked in the door, after seven years away, just when Glory Rossi was about to go into labor with another man’s child certainly proved the point. Because the last time Glory had seen Bowie was when she was delivering his child—a little boy who’d never known his real father. But according to Bowie, that was about to change.

Bowie was now a respectable businessman, and he was more than ready to be a father—to both of Glory’s children. He was also ready to be a husband to the woman he’d never been able to live without. And when he saw that their feelings for each other still burned bright, he didn’t see any reason why he’d have to....

“Better?” he asked so softly.

He was stroking her hair by then. It felt way too good.

She kept her head buried in his shoulder. “Yeah. Better. For the moment, at least.” He smelled good. Clean. Like soap and cedar shavings. Like pine trees in the springtime. He’d always smelled like pine.

“What was that?” he asked. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah. More or less,” she panted, and she made herself look up at him, at his worried frown and his blue eyes full of questions.

She told him, “I’m in labor. The baby’s coming. The baby’s coming now….”

Dear Reader,

Some of you may recall that a few years back, in Brett Bravo’s story, Married in Haste, Bowie Bravo left his hometown of New Bethlehem Flat, California, to try to make some kind of life for himself. He left behind a son named Johnny and his son’s mother, Glory Dellazola. Glory loved Bowie deeply, but she just wouldn’t marry him, no matter how many times he asked. Bowie was wild and undisciplined and not likely to change.

Now, almost seven years later, Bowie has turned his life around. And at last, he’s come back to make things right. Too bad Glory has hardened her heart against him and his son has been calling another man Dad.

Bowie’s got a lot to make up for. But he’s a determined man now. He won’t give up, no matter how hard Glory pushes him away.

Glory, recently widowed, has a new baby on the way. Bowie knows she needs him now. And his son needs him, too. He’s not running away this time. Once and for all, he’s going to prove that he’s ready to be the man Glory always needed him to be.

Happy reading, everyone!

Yours always,

Christine Rimmer

The Return of Bowie Bravo

Christine Rimmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHRISTINE RIMMER

came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oregon. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.

For Hazel Schwartz,

who kept after me for years

until I finally wrote Bowie’s story.

Hazel, this one’s for you!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

Glory Rossi saw him coming. He seemed to materialize out of the storm.

It was a blustery Monday morning in mid-January and she stood at the bay window in the family room at the front of the house. She stared out at the snow that had started coming down only a little while ago.

The wind whistled under the eaves outside, catching the thick, white flakes and carrying them sideways in drifts and eddies, so the world out there was a whirling fog of white. She couldn’t see much beyond the bare box elder tree in the front yard—not the bridge across the street that spanned the river, not the houses on the other side. She knew her hometown of New Bethlehem Flat, California, like she knew her own face in the mirror, but the snow obscured it now. She thought how empty the house seemed, how lonely and lost the wind sounded as it sang under the eaves.

And then she caught a hint of movement within the white. She frowned. Squinting, she leaned closer to the glass.

No doubt about it. There was someone out there, a tall, broad-shouldered figure coming up the front walk. The figure mounted the steps.

Glory turned to look out the side window in the bay. It gave a view of the porch. A man, definitely. She couldn’t see his face. His head was hunched into his down jacket and a watch cap covered his hair.

He stood at her front door and raised a gloved hand to ring the bell.

And right then, as the doorbell chimed, she knew.

It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. And yet, she was absolutely certain.

Bowie.

As if he felt her watching him, he turned her way. And he saw her, standing there at the window, her hand on the hard, round bulge of her belly, staring at him with her mouth hanging open.

No.

Her mind rebelled. Why now, after all this time? It made no sense. She must be dreaming.

He looked…different, the hard planes of his face more sculpted than before. He looked older. Which he was. By more than six years.

Older and sober. The gorgeous blue eyes were clear as the Sierra sky on a cloudless summer day.

Dreaming. Yeah. This had to be a dream.

She looked away from him, counted to five and then glanced back. Dream or not, he was still out there at the front door, watching her. Maybe if she did nothing, if she just stood there, frozen, refusing to move or even breathe no matter how many times he rang the bell…

Maybe he would give up and go away.

But she knew he wouldn’t. In his eyes she saw a strange, calm determination. He wasn’t going to simply turn and leave.

Seeing no other choice, Glory went to let him in.

In the foyer, she paused with her hand on the doorknob, certain that when she pulled open the door, there would be nothing on the other side but wind and snow. He would have vanished as suddenly as he’d appeared. She could return to her life as she had come to know it, could snap herself out of the funk that had gripped her that morning, and go about the mundane tasks that waited for her: doing the laundry and loading the dishes into the dishwasher.

Glory opened the door.

Snow blew in on a gust of wind, stinging her cheeks with icy wetness. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

He was still there. He was absolutely, without-a-doubt real.

A soft cry tried to slip out of her throat. She swallowed it down and hitched her chin high. Beyond seeming taller and broader than she remembered, he also struck her as more…formidable, somehow.

“Hello, Glory,” he said. He regarded her solemnly. His voice was the same, only deeper, richer.

A shiver went through her. It wasn’t because of the cold.

Her heart rebelled. It wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair. After everything. All these years. After her sweet Matteo, who had shown her what peace and happiness could be…

It wasn’t right. But apparently, rightness had nothing to do with it.

Six and a half years since he’d vanished from her life, Glory gazed up at Bowie Bravo and she knew that she still felt it for him. Even big as a barn with her lost husband’s unborn child, she still had that thing for him.

She despised herself at that moment. And him, too.

“Are you going to let me in?” He asked it calmly. Gravely, almost. He seemed so different from the crazy wild man she used to know.

She considered simply closing the door in his face.

But what good would that do? In the end, since he had come, he would have to be dealt with.

She stepped back. He took off the watch cap as he crossed her threshold and she saw he’d cut his long blond hair. He wore it cropped close to his head now.

He removed his gloves and shrugged out of the down jacket. Underneath the jacket, he wore a faded chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal his corded forearms. His jeans were faded, too. “Where’s Johnny?” he asked, sticking the gloves in a pocket of the jacket.

Her heart rate accelerated. Was she in for a custody battle? Was that what this sudden, out-of-the-blue visit meant? “He’s in school.”

“In this storm?”

Oh, please. Suddenly he was worried about Johnny? That was rich. “It’s supposed to blow off by early afternoon.”

“It’s pretty wild out there.”

“Yeah, well. The school will call if they decide to close. Besides, it’s Trista’s turn to pick up the kids.” Trista was second-born of Glory’s eight siblings. “She has four-wheel drive and some serious snow tires.” Glory took his hat and jacket and hooked them on the coat tree at the foot of the stairs. Then, reluctantly, she offered, “You want some coffee?”

“Sure.”

She led him through the door at the rear of the hall, into the kitchen in back, where she gestured at the table in the breakfast nook. “Have a seat.” He sat down and she made quick work of loading up the coffeemaker. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

“Fine.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, thanks. Just the coffee would be great.”

She took the chair opposite him, lowering herself carefully into it, feeling huge and awkward in her maternity pants and a baggy shirt—and hating that she even gave a damn how she might look to him. “So have you been to see your mom?” Chastity Bravo owned the Sierra Star Bed and Breakfast down at the other end of the block, where Jewel Street met Commerce Lane.

“Not yet,” he said. “I came here first.”

Besides his mom, two of his three brothers—Brett and Brand—still lived in town. She’d never asked any of the Bravos—not even her own sister Angie, who was Brett’s wife—where Bowie was or how she might reach him. In fact, after he’d been gone a year and a half, when she’d finally accepted that he wasn’t coming back, she’d made it painfully clear to all of them that she was moving on with her life and she didn’t ever again want to hear his name.

But that didn’t mean that his family hadn’t kept him up to date on her and Johnny. Somebody had told Bowie where she lived. She’d been getting checks from him for more than four years now, every month. Regular as clockwork.

Checks with a Santa Cruz postmark, checks that kept getting larger as time went by. Checks that scared her a little, if the truth were known. Where did he get all that money? It wasn’t as though he’d ever managed to hold down a job.

And when she’d married Matteo and she and Johnny moved into this beautiful old house at the top of Jewel Street with him? Right away, that first month, Bowie’s checks had started coming to their new address.

Bowie said, “How are you doing, Glory?” The question, which did sound sincere, fell into the long and painful silence between them. The silence of broken hearts. The silence of loss and love gone bad. The silence that happened when the best two people could do was to stay away from each other. And move on.

Bad enough, since I lost my husband. Worse, since you showed up.

She reminded herself that there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing him. “I’m all right.” But she wasn’t, not really. And already she was beyond tired of sitting here, trying to talk reasonably when the pain of the old wounds felt all too fresh and new again, when the truth of his desertion hung like a dirty gray curtain in the air between them.

The baby kicked. She winced and put her palm to her side.

He frowned and sat up a little straighter. “You okay?”

She blew out a breath. “Babies kick, but I guess you wouldn’t have a clue about that.”

He studied her from under those sun-gold eyebrows. “You’re bitter. I can’t say that’s a big surprise.”

“What do you expect, Bowie?”

“Of you? Nothing. Of myself? A lot more than I used to.”

What was that supposed to mean? Her pulse pounded hard in her ears and her stomach felt queasy. She wanted to jump up and order him out of her house. Instead, she rose with slow care and went to the coffeepot. It was still dripping. But there was more than enough for a cup. She filled a mug, carried it back to the table and pushed it across to him.

“Thanks.” He took it and sipped.

She lowered her bulging body into the chair again. “Look, can we just get real here?”

He rested one rough-knuckled hand on the tabletop. She watched as he traced a seam in the wood. And then he slanted her another of those strange calm looks. “I am being real.” His voice stayed level, as composed as his expression. It scared her a little. Was this really Bowie sitting across from her? Bowie Bravo never stayed calm.

“What’s up?” she demanded. “Just tell me. Why are you here?”

He took his sweet time answering that one, first picking up the cup again and taking another sip, then setting down the cup, then tracing that seam in the tabletop some more. “I figured it was about time I got to know my son.”

Long past time, she thought, but she didn’t say it. Over the years, she’d learned a little self-control, too. “Why now, exactly?”

“I’ve been—” he seemed to seek the right words “—trying to decide when the best time would be. Finally, I realized there was no good time.” No good time. Well, at least she agreed with him there. “So I chose today.” He added, “I heard you lost your husband. Matteo Rossi was a good man.”

“Yes, he was,” she shot back too fast and too angrily. New Bethlehem Flat, aka “the Flat” to everyone who lived there, had a population of around eight hundred. The Rossi family was an old and respected name in the Flat. Matteo had run Rossi’s Hardware Emporium for half of his life. And before him, his father, Christopher, had owned the store.

Bowie said, “I’m…sorry that he’s gone.”

“So am I—and Johnny won’t be home from school for hours yet.” And the last thing he’ll be expecting is to see you here. And really, how could this be happening? What exactly was happening? She still didn’t get it. Her heart was working overtime, beating a sick rhythm under her ribs, the rhythm of dread. If he tried to take Johnny away…

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. No court in the world would give him custody of the son he’d made no effort to visit in almost seven years.

And no matter how much she might wish that he could have just stayed away, well, she knew what was right: he should know his son.

And Johnny needed to know him.

She asked, “How long are you going to be in town?”

“I’m keeping it open-ended.” He leaned toward her a little.

She sat back, maintaining the distance between them. “Staying with your mom, at the B and B?”

“I’m not sure where I’ll stay, Glory.”

“Well, aren’t you just a font of useful information?” It came out really sour-sounding. She turned to the window and watched the swirling snow beyond the glass, knowing she had to get a grip. Nothing would be gained by her playing the bitch about this. The past was a foreign country now. And so far, even though he wasn’t telling her much about what his plans might be, he’d been perfectly civil. More so than she’d been, certainly.

“Glory, I’m sorry. I really am. Sorry about all of it, the thousand-and-one ways I messed things up.” His voice was full of sadness.

She had no doubt he meant every word of what he’d just said. Still, she didn’t look at him. “A letter, you know?” she said to the white world outside the window. “A letter now and then. It would have meant so much to him. You couldn’t even manage that?”

“Things were bad at first. I had to get sober and it wasn’t easy. I told myself that when I was sober for two years, when I had some kind of handle on myself, on my behavior, I would get in contact, start trying to work things out. But then you married Matteo…”

She made a low, furious sound in her throat. “Oh, that’s your excuse, then? That it’s my fault you never got to know Johnny. My fault because I got married.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

“No, Glory. It’s not what I meant. What I meant is I knew enough about Matteo Rossi to realize that he would be a good husband. I knew he was gentle and patient and kind. And he brought in a good income. He was pretty much everything that I’d never been. I thought that it would be the best thing, to stay away. To let you have a life, you know? Not to cause you any more trouble.”

“A son needs to know his father.” She hated to say it. It only supported his claim on Johnny, however late in time he’d returned to make that claim. Still, it was the truth.

“I see that now.” His voice was soft. Reasonable.

She wanted to pop him a good one right in his too-well-remembered face. “He’s a little kid,” she accused. “He doesn’t understand why his dad went away before he was even a year old, why you never came back. All a little kid knows when his dad disappears is that it must somehow be his fault.”

His expression darkened. “I used to think that when I was a kid.” His voice wasn’t so gentle now and his square jaw was set. “I wanted my father to come back. I blamed myself that he didn’t. But then I grew up and I learned more about him, enough to be glad I’d never met the rotten bastard.”

“That was a completely different situation. You are not your dad.”

“I’m just saying it’s not absolute, Glory. Given who I was when I left town, Johnny was better off not knowing me.”

“I don’t believe that.” She spoke low, with heat. “I’ll never believe that.”

“Just stop. Just think for a minute.” His blue gaze pinned her.

“Stop and think about what?”

“You said you understood, don’t you remember? You said that you were okay with it, when I left.”

“I did understand. It’s a small town. People make judgments. And here in the Flat, you were everybody’s favorite screwup. You could never get anything right. They all expected you to mess up again, no matter how hard you tried not to. And you never disappointed them. I understood that you needed to get away, to get out from under that judgment, to figure out for yourself who you are, really. What I didn’t expect was never to hear another word from you.”

“You heard from me.” He said it to the window.

“Checks in the mail are not ‘hearing’ from you.”

Bowie sipped his coffee. He stared blankly out at the storm, the same way she had done a few moments before. Finally, he set the cup down—a little harder than necessary—and he turned his gaze on her again. “It’s not like you ever came looking for me, not like you gave me any kind of sign that you wanted me around.”

She met his eyes and she refused to look away. “It wasn’t my job to make you feel wanted. It was your job to be a father to your son.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he kept his voice strictly controlled. “You don’t give an inch, do you, Glory? You never did.”

“I couldn’t afford to. I had a son to raise.”

“Ouch,” he said, too softly. And then he continued, “The good news is, I do get what my job is. And I’m ready to do it, to be a father to my son. You’re not chasing me off this time, no matter what you say or what you do.”

Her temper flared. “Meaning I chased you out of town before? You know that’s not true.”

“How many times did you refuse me, Glory? A hundred? A thousand?”

She stared him down. “Tell me to my face right this minute that you think a marriage between us would have been a good thing. You go ahead, Bowie Bravo. You tell me that lie.”

He had the grace to look away. And then he brought up his big, rough yet heartbreakingly graceful hands, and scrubbed them down his face. “I didn’t come here to do this, to play the blame game. I honestly didn’t.”

“Then stop,” she commanded in a hissing whisper. “Just…stop.” She shoved back her chair and lumbered upright. Too bad that once she was on her feet, she didn’t know what to do next. So she turned and went to the counter. She got the coffeepot, brought it back to the table, held it up.

“Great. Yeah,” he said.

She refilled his cup. It was an awkward moment, standing there beside him, pouring with her arm extended at an odd angle. She had to turn a little to the side so that her bulging stomach wouldn’t touch him. She didn’t think she could have borne that right then, to have her stomach and her baby inside it—Matteo’s baby—touching Bowie Bravo.

She managed to pour without spilling and also without any part of her body making contact with his. That accomplished, she took the pot back to the coffeemaker. Then she turned, leaned against the counter and told him, “You should know that Johnny and Matteo were close. Johnny loved his stepdad a lot.”

Bowie gave one slow nod of his close-cut golden head. “That’s good. For Johnny. And Johnny is the one who matters.”

She took one step toward the table again—and that was when the contraction hit.

A full-blown, hard-labor contraction. Starting at the top of her uterus, it moved down and around, like huge and powerful hands, tightening, pressing.…

Stunned at the suddenness of it as much as at the pain, she cried out, “Oh!” and staggered.

“My God. What the…” Bowie shot to his feet and started for her. “Glory…”

She clutched her belly with one hand and put out the other to ward him off. “I…no.” She tried to deny the reality of what was happening. Anything to get him to stay back, not to touch her. “Really, I’m fine, I…” The sentence died unfinished. All she could do was groan deep in her throat as the contraction kept squeezing, as it got even stronger. It had her in a vise grip, until she couldn’t hold herself upright any longer. She had to turn and bend over the counter to keep from sinking to her knees.

“Glory…” He came at her again and that time, she didn’t have the presence of mind to back him off. All at once, he was there, touching her, putting his arms around her, supporting her as she rode out the pain.

There was a minute—or two or three—an endless, animal space of time when she didn’t even care that Bowie Bravo had his hands on her again. All she knew was the pain, all she cared about was to ride it, to get through it and come out on the other side.

When it finally faded and left her panting for breath, the relief was the sweetest thing she’d ever experienced. By then, she was sweating and holding on to him. She couldn’t help it. She needed someone to hold on to and he was the only one there.

“Better?” he asked so softly. He was stroking her hair by then. It felt way too good.

She kept her head buried in his shoulder. “Yeah. Better. For the moment at least.” He smelled good. Clean. Like soap and cedar shavings. Like pine trees in the springtime. He’d always smelled like pine.

“What was that?” he asked. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, more or less,” she panted and made herself look up at him, at his worried frown and his blue eyes full of questions. She told him, “I’m in labor. The baby’s coming. The baby’s coming now.…”

Bowie’s tanned face blanched. His eyes, too, seemed to lose their color, to grow paler. She looked in those eyes and she thought of his father, for some crazy reason. She’d never seen Blake Bravo in the flesh. He’d made his last visit to the Flat before she was born. But she’d seen the pictures, heard the stories. People said that Bad Blake Bravo, kidnapper, suspected murderer and notorious polygamist, had the kind of eyes you never forgot.

Pale eyes, wolf eyes…

Bowie was staring at her, blinking like a man suddenly wakened from a deep sleep. “Uh, what did you say? Tell me you didn’t say what you just said.”

She had the most ridiculous urge to laugh. “Sorry, I did say it. And it’s true. My baby’s coming.” Strange how absolutely certain she was. But then again, she’d been here before. “It’s just like it was with Johnny. Out of nowhere, with zero warning, I was far gone in labor. He was born an hour and a half after I had my first contraction—one that felt exactly like the one I had just now.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, yes, I am. This baby is coming. And coming fast.”

Chapter Two

“Now?” Bowie cast a desperate glance toward the windows. Outside, the wind gusted and the snow came down harder than ever.

“Yeah, Bowie. Now.” She could almost feel sorry for him. This had to be the last thing he’d expected when he came knocking on her door.

He gulped. “The hospital. I’ve got to get you to the hospital.”

She shook her head. “In this storm, on the mountain roads? It would take forever to get there. And this baby is just like Johnny. This baby is not going to wait.”

He remembered. She could see it in his eyes. He’d been there when Johnny was born—or at least, he’d tried to be there. She’d had Johnny in her mom’s house down the street, upstairs, in the big front bedroom. Bowie had begged her to marry him as she sweated and screamed through one grueling contraction after another. He’d pleaded and he’d coaxed. He’d been drunk, as he usually was back then. His brother Brett, who was the town doctor, had finally gotten him to go away.

But he wasn’t drunk now. He said, “The emergency helicopter. We can have you airlifted.”

“Come on, Bowie, nobody’s flying a helicopter in this.” She flicked a hand toward the storm outside.

“Brett…” He said his brother’s name desperately. She understood that, the desperation. She wanted cool, calm, competent Brett there, with her, and she wanted him now. And when Brett came, so would her sister Angie. Angie was not only Brett’s wife, she was also his nurse. And of her six sisters, Glory had always felt closest to Angie. She could tell Angie anything. They were not only siblings, they were also best friends.

The phone was a few feet away down the counter. Going for it gave her an excuse to escape the scarily comforting circle of Bowie’s arms. She had the number of Brett’s clinic on auto dial, so she punched it up fast.

The receptionist answered on the second ring. “New Bethlehem Flat Clinic. This is Mina.”

“It’s Glory, Mina. I’m in labor. The baby’s coming and coming fast.”

“No kidding? Wow. Right now? Isn’t that a little early?”

Glory gritted her teeth. “Yeah, Mina. It’s two weeks early, but it’s happening. I need Brett and Angie over here at my place, now.”

“They’re out on a call.” A call. Sweet Lord. They were out on a call. Mina chattered on. “Scary, huh, in this weather? But evidently, Redonda Beals and Emmy Ralen just had to go out for their morning walk today of all days. The storm started. Redonda took a fall. Broke her arm in two places. It’s pretty bad, evidently. Dr. Brett is seeing what he can do about it until the weather clears and she can be airlifted to Grass Valley.”

“Can you reach them, tell them I’m going to need them over here, and fast?”

“They should be back soon—I mean, unless the snow keeps up like this.”

“Mina, hello. I asked if you would call them.”

Bowie moved closer, frowning. “Let me talk to her.”

Glory put her palm over the mouthpiece and told him drily, “Thanks, I can handle this.”

He stopped coming toward her, but he kept on frowning.

Mina was gabbing away again. “Now, Glory, I have kids of my own. I know how long labor takes. And I know sometimes you feel it’s urgent when really it’s going to be quite a while.”

Oh, great. Just what she needed. Lectures on childbirth from Mina Scruggs. “Mina, forget it. Are they at Redonda’s? I’ll look up the number and call them myself.”

“Glory, there is no reason to get snippy.”

“I am having my baby, Mina. I am having my baby now.”

Mina made a humphing sound. “How far apart are your contractions?”

As Mina said the operative word, another one hit—worse than the first one. It started at the top of Glory’s stomach and it moved downward, a deep, clutching, hard pain, gathering and pressing as it moved. She groaned and almost hit her forehead on the counter as she doubled over with the force of it.

“Glory! Glory, you still there?” Mina called from the other end of the line.

Bowie took the phone and growled into it. “She’s having a contraction. A strong one. You need to get Brett here right away…” Mina said something. He made a low sound. “Who am I? Bowie… That’s right, Mina. Bowie Bravo… Yeah. Right. I’m back in town. Surprise, surprise. Now don’t you be messin’ with me. Get my brother over here and get him here right now.…”

Glory tuned out the rest. She was too busy riding that contraction all the way to hell and back and swearing a blue streak as she went.

She didn’t normally have a filthy mouth, but there was something about giving birth. It brought out every bad word she’d ever heard and some she couldn’t believe she knew.

When that one finally passed, Bowie had already hung up. He reported, “Mina will call them and tell them. They’ll get in touch.”

Her hair was already damp with sweat. Ugh. She swiped it back off her clammy forehead. “When, damn it?”

“She said she’d call them right away.”

“Okay. Great.” With care, pressing a hand to her back, she straightened up.

He looked down at the phone he held and then up at her. “Do you want to…go to your bedroom, get a little more comfortable?”

Oh, God. Having her baby. With only Bowie to help. “Bet you wish you’d picked another day to make your big appearance, huh?”

He stared at her for what seemed like a very long time. And then he said, “Well, I’m here. And I’ll do what I can. Now, answer the question. You want to lie down or something?”

“Uh, no. Not right this minute.” She bent at the waist and rested her head on the counter again. It was cool and smooth and felt good against her cheek. “I’ll just stay here for now, wait for Brett to call, beat my head against the counter when the next contraction hits.”

He looked stricken. “Don’t even joke about it.”

“Right.” She blew out a hard breath through puffed cheeks. “Sorry.”

He held up the phone. “How about your mom? Should I call her?”

Her mom. Good idea. Rose Dellazola knew a lot about having kids. She’d had nine of her own and been there at the births of every one of her grandchildren. “Yeah, please. It’s number two on the auto dial—and Bowie?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell her if she brings Aunt Stella, I will personally kill both of them.” Her maiden aunt, who lived with her mamma and her dad, was extremely devout. At births, Stella Baldovino spouted scripture and counted off the rosary—like she did pretty much everywhere she went.

He started to dial.

“Wait.” Her cheek still pressed to the cool polished surface of the counter, she held out her hand. “I can do it.”

He regarded her doubtfully. “Glory…”

She fisted her hand and pounded the pretty blue-speckled black granite that Matteo had ordered installed for her birthday last year. “Give me the phone. Now.”

He handed it over. She braced up on her elbows and punched the right number. It rang three times and then the answering machine picked up.

“Hello,” her mother’s recorded voice chirped. “Dellazola residence. We do want to talk to you. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”

Terrific. Her mom, her dad, her great-grandpa and Aunt Stella all lived in that house together. And they all had to choose today not to be home. Where had they gone in a blizzard?

She didn’t even care to know. “Mom,” she told the machine. “I’m having the baby. And I mean right now. When you get this, get over here to my house. I need you—and do not bring Aunt Stella. I mean that. Just don’t.” She turned the phone off and felt the next contraction coming on. “Bowie?” she moaned.

“Right here.”

She cast a quick glance at the kitchen clock. It was ten after ten. “Watch the clock. The second hand. Starting now. Time this contraction…”

“Gotcha.”

Glory started screaming. Bowie moved in close again. He held her up and he watched the clock. She heard herself swearing. Really bad words. Terrible words. It didn’t make the pain any less, but she swore anyway.

When it faded, at last, she asked him, “Well?”

“Fifty-four seconds.”

“Great,” she said, for lack of any other reasonable response. She noted the time. “There’s a pencil and paper in that little desk on the other side of the table. And a Timex watch with a second hand. Get them now.” He didn’t say a word. Just went over there and got what she’d asked for. She instructed, “Write down the time that contraction started and how long it lasted.”

“Got it.” He wrote on the paper.

“Do that every time I have one. Can you handle that?”

“Will do.” He put on the watch and stuck the paper and pencil in a back pocket. “How about a cell phone? Your mom got one? We could try it. Or maybe Angie or Brett has one?”

She shook her head. “My mom never bothered to get one. Angie has one, but they still don’t work here in the Flat. The canyon walls block the signal. You have to go up to the heliport to get any bars.”

“Is there someone else we should call?”

She thought of her three sisters who still lived in town: Tris, Clarice and Dani. She loved them all dearly, but she didn’t see how having them there was going to help her much. She wanted Angie. And Brett. And failing them, her mother.

He said, “My mom?”

Chastity. Yeah. Chastity had been good to Glory over the years. They were friends. And she was definitely the best choice given the options. “Call her.”

He did. “Not answering,” he said after a minute.

Glory said a word so bad that it would have dropped her aunt Stella in a dead faint. “Where is everybody? They’re always underfoot until the moment you need them.”

Bowie left a message. “Mom, it’s Bowie. I’m at Glory’s house. Her baby’s coming—fast. And there’s no one to help. If you get this, she needs you to come over here right away.” He hung up.

Glory shut her eyes and whispered prayerfully, “Please, Brett. Angie. Call me, get over here.…”

The phone rang as if on cue. She held out her hand. Bowie frowned again but he passed it to her. “Angie?” she cried. “Angie, oh God, I’m so glad you—”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said a pleasant recorded voice. “Your credit remains excellent. I’m Amy from Credit Card Services and I’m calling to tell you—” Muttering yet another unacceptable word, Glory hung up.

“What?” Bowie demanded, looking slightly freaked.

“Robo-call.” She passed the phone back to him. “Call Mina again, please. See what the holdup is.” She sighed and laid her head back on the counter as he called the clinic.

When he hung up, he said, “Mina tried to reach Brett and Angie. Twice. It looks like the phone’s out at Redonda’s house. She got dead air when she called over there. She said she’d keep trying.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Maybe we should just try 9-1-1, see if we get some help that way,” he said.

“Do it.”

He started to dial, then put the phone to his ear. “We’re out, too.” He switched it off and then on again. “Nothing. Deader than a hammer.” He handed it to her.

She listened. And heard only silence. The storm must have knocked down some lines. “No,” she cried. “Oh, no.…” Shoving the useless phone away down the counter, she lowered her cheek to the granite again. “This isn’t real,” she moaned. “This can’t be happening.…”

He loomed above her, wearing that determined look, the same one he’d worn when he stood at her front door. “You don’t look comfortable bending over the counter like that.”

She rolled her eyes and stayed right where she was. “I’m about as comfortable as I’m going to get, considering the circumstances.”

“I think we probably ought to get you to the bedroom, I really do. And shouldn’t I be boiling water or something?”

“Boiling water. He wants to boil water.…” She let out a laugh that was almost a sob. “I’m having a baby and there’s no one to help me.”

“There’s me. I think you’re going to have to work with what you’ve got,” he said with more humor than she could have mustered at that point. “For the moment, I’m it. You’re going to tell me what to do and everything is going to be fine.”

“Tell you what to do?” She pretty much screeched the words. “How can I tell you, Bowie? I don’t even know myself.”

“You’ve had Johnny.”

“Yeah, with Brett there to tell me when to push, with Angie there to hold my hand and coach me through every contraction.…”

“You’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.”

Glory yearned to call him a bunch of bad names and scream at him that he didn’t know his ass from up. Unfortunately, he had a point. They would have to figure it out. There was no other choice. She had a couple of books on pregnancy and childbearing. One of them was bound to have a section on emergency births at home. They would refer to the chapter, follow the damn instructions.

She muttered out of the side of her mouth, “I hate you, Bowie Bravo.”

“I know.” He took her shoulders and pulled her off the counter and upright again. “Let’s go.”

Redemption, Bowie thought as he coaxed Glory up the stairs to her bedroom. That was pretty much what he’d come back to his hometown to get.

He wanted to know his son and to try, at least a little, to be an actual father, the kind he’d sure never had. To maybe make peace with Glory. And to help her however he could, with Johnny, with the new baby, with the damn hardware store she’d inherited from Matteo Rossi, if it came to that. He’d had this idea he’d do whatever was needed to make up for all the years he hadn’t been there when his son and his son’s mother needed him.

He hadn’t gotten off to such a great start, he had to admit. She’d started out mad at him and then gotten madder.

And then, all of a sudden, she was screaming and clutching her big stomach. She was having her baby. Now. Today.

Way to go, Bowie. He showed up, and instantly Glory went into labor. The doctor, the nurse and her whole family turned out to be unavailable. It was too dangerous to try driving to the hospital. Cell phones didn’t work and the landline was dead.

It was all his fault, for showing up when he probably should have just stayed away. For pissing her off so bad that she started having contractions.

Redemption at this point didn’t seem all that possible. In fact, it seemed like a ridiculous thing for him to have imagined he wanted, a silly crock of crap.

Right now, redemption didn’t matter in the least. Glory was having her baby. And if anything happened to her or the child, well, he knew damn well whose fault that would be.

Halfway up the stairs, she had another contraction. She leaned over the railing, holding on to it with one hand and him with the other. She had quite a grip on her for a small woman. She gritted her teeth and yowled. And she swore. A long, harsh stream of amazingly bad words.

“Time?” she demanded when she stopped swearing. She blew a hank of sweaty brown hair out of her big brandy-colored eyes and looked at him like she dared him to answer that question.

But he was ready. He had the watch and he’d actually remembered to glance at the second hand when that one started. He told her—both the length of the contraction and the time between it and the one before it. And then he pulled the paper and pencil from his pocket and wrote everything down.

Once that was dealt with, he wrapped his arm around her again and coaxed her the rest of the way up the stairs.

The master bedroom was at the front of the house, big, with bay windows the same as in the family room below it. It had a separate sitting area, its own bath and a walk-in closet. All so damn tasteful, wallpapered in blue- and-white stripes, with sheer curtains and antique furniture that had probably been in the Rossi family—in that very house—for generations. He thought of Glory and Matteo sharing the big four-poster mahogany bed and then decided not to think about that.

She’d been happy with him, that was what mattered. He’d made her happy and he’d been good to Johnny. And he’d left her well set up when that sudden rock slide hit his car last summer and rolled him right off the road into the river gorge way below.

“There are going to be fluids,” Glory said.

He didn’t know whether to laugh—or run down the stairs and out the front door and never again let himself even consider coming back to the Flat and trying to make things right. “Good to know.”

“We need a sheet of something plastic to protect the mattress.”

“A shower curtain?”

“Good. The curtain liner in Johnny’s bathroom is plastic.” She pointed. “It’s across the hall.”

He ran in there and started ripping the inner curtain liner off the hooks, aware in a distant sort of way of the clothes hamper by the door with the leg of a pair of boy’s jeans hanging out of it, of the bright plastic toys in the corner bin, of the jungle mural on the wall across from the old-fashioned claw-foot tub.

The task should have been simple, but the curtain hooks didn’t seem to want to let go.

“Bowie?” Glory called from across the landing.

“I’m coming!” After forever, he had the damn thing free. He dragged it out of the bathroom and across the hall.

“About time,” said Glory. She was kneeling in the sitting area, her head on a chair, a hand under the giant curve of her belly. “I was starting to wonder if you’d decided to have a shower while you were in there.…”

“Sorry, I…”

She put up a hand. He knew from her expression that another one was starting. He dropped the curtain liner, checked the time on the watch and went to kneel beside her.

One hour later, the phone was still out and the snow was still coming down. No one had come to their rescue—not Brett and Angie, not Rose, not Chastity. Bowie had already volunteered to go down the block knocking on doors to see if anyone was around who might be able to help.

Glory had grabbed his hand. “If you leave right now, I will curse you until the day you die.”

So he’d stayed. He’d found the place in one of her pregnancy books that told what to do in an emergency delivery.

He’d followed the instructions to the letter, stripping the bed and covering it with the plastic, and then covering the plastic with an old sheet. Between contractions, he’d coaxed Glory into the bathroom for a quick shower and then had her put on a T-shirt with nothing on under it.

She hadn’t put up any argument about being pretty much naked in front of him. It wasn’t like that, not in the least. It was just about doing the job of getting her baby born. Getting through it with both her and the baby safe and well.

He’d washed his hands thoroughly. And more than once, too.

He had two stacks of towels ready and another of clean, ironed receiving blankets from the baby’s room. And ice chips. Between contractions, he’d bolted downstairs to the kitchen and gotten them for her, like the book said, so she could keep hydrated.

Every contraction had been timed and recorded—just in case a miracle happened and Brett showed up before the actual delivery and wanted the numbers on how far her labor had progressed. The contractions kept getting longer and closer together. And while they were happening, Bowie spoke soothingly to her, just like the book said. He comforted her and reassured her, per the instructions.

She continued to swear a blue streak and scream like it was the end of the world. She also clutched his hand so hard that she almost cut off the circulation to his fingers.

Now and then, when she wasn’t screaming, when things settled down for a minute or two and Glory closed her eyes and seemed to be dozing, he thought of how he should have been there like this for her and for Johnny, when Johnny came. He thought about how much he’d missed, how many ways he’d gotten it all wrong.

And then he thought about Wily Dunn. He’d lost Wily only two months ago. The old man had died nice and peaceful in his sleep on the day after Thanksgiving. But if Wily was still around, Bowie knew what he would say about now. That is water under a very big bridge. Let it flow on by, son. ’Cause there sure ain’t no bucket big enough to catch it.

“Bowie?” Glory squeezed his hand. “Another one. Starting now…”

He checked the watch on his wrist and then she was screaming and he stopped thinking about all that he’d done wrong—stopped thinking altogether. He said soft, soothing things and told her to take quick, shallow breaths and to go with it. Just go with it and keep on breathing.

An hour and fifteen minutes after he’d gotten her upstairs, she was all the way down at the end of the bed, her head and shoulders supported by a pile of pillows, her feet on two chairs, knees wide. Bowie knelt on the floor between them. It was the last place he’d ever expected to be on the day he returned to New Bethlehem Flat.

The top of the baby’s head appeared. Bowie said what the book had told him to say. “Pant, don’t push. Easy, easy…” Glory moaned and panted. She seemed pretty focused now, and she wasn’t even screaming. She did mutter a string of bad words, though, as she blew out quick, short breaths and moaned and swung her head to get the sweaty hair out of her eyes.

He used his hands—washed again a few minutes before—to apply gentle pressure as the head emerged. The goal, the book said, was to keep the head from popping out suddenly. The faster, the better, Bowie thought. But, hey. He followed the instructions and told himself to be grateful that so far, everything was going pretty much the way the book said, which he took to mean that everything was going okay.

The head slid free. It was all scrunched up and covered in sticky white stuff. The tiny, distorted mouth opened. But no sound came.

He reassured Glory. “Good, good,” he said. “Really good.”

“What does that mean?” she demanded furiously. “Good, good. Hello? That could mean anything.”

He glanced up into her sweat-shiny face. “It means that so far, we’re doing fine.” And then he was back to business again. Gently, he stroked the sides of the tiny nose and downward toward the neck. And then he went the other way, upward from under the chin, to expel mucus and amniotic fluid from the nose and the mouth. It worked. Slimy, gooey stuff came out.

“What’s happening?” Glory moaned, straining to see. “Is the baby…”

“Fine. It’s fine. Shh, now. Shh…”

“Don’t you shush me, Bowie Bravo.”

“Shh…” Next, as gently as he could, he took the baby’s sticky head in his two hands. “Okay, Glory. Now. Push!” She stopped griping at him and started grunting and bearing down and he pressed the baby’s head very carefully downward at the same time.

And it happened. Just like in the book. One shoulder slid out.

After that, it was all so quick that he didn’t have time to do what the book said. Nature did it for him. The other shoulder slid out. And then the rest of the tiny body came sliding fast in a rush of fluid, so fast he barely had time to catch it, let alone have the receiving blanket ready.

Glory cried, “My baby, my baby…”

And he said, “It’s a girl,” and then the tiny little thing opened her mouth and let out a big yelp followed by a long, angry cry. He smiled. Just like her mother, the dark haired little scrap of a thing didn’t hesitate to make her feelings known.

“Is she…”

“She’s perfect, Glory. Just perfect, I swear it.” He got a blanket and put the baby on it, still with the cord connected. The book had said not to cut it, to wait for the professionals.

Bowie was just fine with that. There was also something called the placenta that might or might not be popping out before help came. He sincerely hoped that he might get lucky and not have to deal with that.

Glory was crying. “Serafina Teodora,” she sobbed. “After Matteo’s mom. Sera. She’s Sera.…” Glory held out her arms. And Bowie put another blanket around the tiny, red, sticky little body, to make sure she stayed warm. And then he lifted her up to give her to Glory.

But right then, as he levered up on his knees, carefully raising her to put her in Glory’s arms, trying to hand her over without pulling on the cord that still connected her to Glory, he looked down and saw that the baby was staring up at him.

The little thing was quiet now. Calm. Her eyes watched him so seriously from that tiny, red, old-person face. Her mouth was a round O.

It was like…she knew him. That little baby knew him.

And she accepted him, absolutely. Instantly. Unconditionally, unlike her mother and most everyone else in his hometown where he’d never managed to do anything right.

He, Bowie Bravo, was okay with Sera Rossi, no questions asked.

And inside him there was a rising feeling, all warm and good. Right then, for that too-brief moment, looking into that baby’s eyes, he could almost believe that everything would come out right.

Chapter Three

Glory was crying, the tears sliding along her temples into her already-sweat-soaked hair. “Come on,” she said softly now, still holding out her arms. “Come on, give her to me.”

Bowie handed Sera over.

He got up and washed his hands. Returning to the bedroom, he went to the bay window. It was quiet out there, the sky a gray blanket, the street covered in white. The wind had died down and he could see across the river now. Smoke spiraled from the chimneys of the houses over there and people were already outside, shoveling walks, scraping off windshields. “The snow’s stopped,” he said.

“Ah,” Glory replied, kind of absentmindedly. He looked over and saw she had the baby at her breast and she was stroking the little one’s matted dark hair, smiling a tender, secret, mother’s smile.

Bowie checked the phone to see if they had a dial tone yet.

Nothing. Dead air.

So he went to work mopping up the floor with the towels he had ready. He cleaned up as best he could without making a lot of noise and disturbing the exhausted mom and the tiny girl in her arms.

Glory asked for some apple juice. “In the fridge, downstairs,” she added softly.

He went down to get it. The doorbell rang as he was starting up the stairs again and the sound grated in his ears, made the muscles at the back of his neck jump tight. He didn’t want to answer it. He wished they’d all just stayed away.

Everything was so peaceful now. He hated to ruin it.

And he knew it would be ruined the moment everyone started showing up and they all found out that Bowie Bravo was back in town.

“Bowie?” Glory called from above.

“It’s all right. I’m getting it.” And then he turned and went and pulled open the door.

His brother Brett and his sister-in-law Angie, each wearing heavy coats and snow boots, mufflers, wool hats and gloves, and each with a black medical-looking bag, stood on the other side.

Angie blinked her big brown eyes. “Bowie. Wow. Mina said you were here.…”

“Hey, Ange.” He faced his brother. “Brett.” And he knew, just from the wary look in Brett’s hazel eyes, exactly what his brother was thinking, Not again. As a matter of fact, he’d seen the same look in Angie’s eyes. He didn’t blame them. How could he? After all, they were both there the day that Johnny was born, when he’d been drunk as a skunk and nothing but trouble. “Look,” he said levelly, “I’m stone sober and I’m only here to help.”

Brett and his wife exchanged a look. And then Brett said, “Good enough.”

Bowie stepped back and let them in. They set down their black bags and started taking off the layers of outerwear.

Brett said, “Sorry it took us so long. The phone was out at Redonda’s all morning. We didn’t have a clue Glory was in labor until we got back to the clinic twenty minutes ago.”

“Who is it?” Glory shouted from upstairs.

Angie answered, “It’s me and Brett. We’re on our way up.” She grabbed her bag and raced up the stairs.

Brett hung back. He asked Bowie quietly, “How’s she doing?”

“She did great,” Bowie answered. “She’s a damn champion.”

Brett looked puzzled. “Did?”

And then Angie called down from the second floor. “Brett, you won’t believe this. You’d better get up here.…”

Ten minutes later, Brett had cut the umbilical cord and checked over both mother and child. He’d said what Bowie pretty much already knew. That Glory and Sera were doing fine.

Brett looked at him with real respect, which Bowie couldn’t help but find gratifying. It was a much better reaction than he’d expected.

“Little brother,” Brett said, “you did an excellent job here.”

Even Glory gave him a tired smile. “Yeah, you did. Thanks.”

He looked in her big brown eyes and dared to think that maybe coming back hadn’t been such a dumbass idea after all.

The placenta arrived. Bowie was very grateful that it had waited to make its appearance until Brett and Angie were there to deal with it. Angie packed it up in a cooler to take to some woman who made vitamins out of it for the new mother—or something like that. Bowie didn’t really care to get the particulars on the subject.

He checked the phone again a few minutes later and got a dial tone. “Phone’s back on,” he said, in case anyone needed to know.

It rang the second he hung it up. He stepped aside and let Angie get it. It was Rose Dellazola, Glory and Angie’s mom, known around town as Mamma Rose. Angie told Rose that Rose’s new grandbaby had arrived safely and everything was fine. When she hung up, she reported that Rose and the others had headed for Grass Valley at the crack of dawn that morning. It had been rough going, getting back in the storm. But they’d made it safely and Rose was coming over right now to meet her new grandchild.

Bowie and Brett’s mom called next. Angie repeated the happy news and then passed the phone to Bowie. “Your mom wants to talk to you.”

He took it. “Hey, Ma.”

“Bowie, it’s so good to hear your voice.” He could tell that she was smiling, just by her tone. And maybe getting a little misty-eyed, too. He’d kept in touch with her in the time he’d been away, even started calling her now and then in recent years. Twice in the past two years she’d visited him up in the Santa Cruz Mountains. She said, “You come on down the street and see me.”

He wasn’t going anywhere until Johnny got home. “I will, Mom. In a few hours.”

“Shall I fix up a room for you?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Think about it.”

“I will.”

He’d barely hung up when Glory’s mom and dad—and her aunt Stella, too—arrived. He and Brett went downstairs to let them in. Brett answered the door and they all three looked like they were seeing a ghost when they caught sight of Bowie.

“Bowie!” Glory’s dad, whom everyone called Little Tony, clapped him on the back. “Good to see you, man!” He actually seemed to mean it.

Mamma Rose and Stella were friendly enough, too. They’d always been civil to him. Back when Johnny was born and Bowie had hounded Glory for months on end to marry him, the older generation of Dellazolas were all on his side. They were good Catholics. They believed that a man ought to be allowed to do the right thing and marry the mother of his child.

Bowie did see the irony. He’d been so worried about everyone’s reaction to his showing up. But Stella was more upset about Glory’s phone message than she was about seeing Bowie Bravo back in town again. She clutched her rosary to her chest. “I am hurt. Terribly hurt. Glory said she didn’t want me here. Why wouldn’t she want me here?” And then she started quoting scripture. “‘And I will cleanse them from all their iniquity, whereby they have sinned against me; and I will pardon all their iniquities, whereby they have sinned, and whereby they have transgressed against me.’” She turned her dark eyes on Bowie then. Probably because he was the biggest sinner in the front hall at that moment. “Jeremiah, thirty-three,” she declared in a noble tone, “verse eight.”

Mamma Rose, who was taller, thinner and prettier than her sister, patted Stella’s shoulder. “Now, Stell, you can’t go taking it personally. You know how Glory is.”

Stella pursed up her lips and fingered her rosary. “Yes, I do, sadly enough.”

Rose put an arm around her and gave her a quick squeeze. “You know what they say? This, too, shall pass away.”

Stella’s reply to that was an injured, “Hmmph.”

A minute later, the two women went upstairs and Glory’s dad joined Brett and Bowie in the kitchen. Brett and Little Tony seemed right at home in Glory’s house. Brett got a fresh pot of coffee brewing and Little Tony went through the cupboards and the fridge looking for snacks, coming up with some packaged cookies and a box of mini chocolate doughnuts.

They sat for half an hour or so, drinking coffee, eating the doughnuts and talking about the weather and the New Bethlehem Flat High School basketball team. Nobody seemed to want to get around to the big, fat elephant in the room—which was what was Bowie doing there and where the hell had he been for all this time?

And then Mamma Rose appeared. She loaded some food and juice on a tray and took it back upstairs.

Once she was gone, Little Tony finally broached the delicate subject. “So, tell me, Bowie, how you been for all these years?”

Bowie said he was doing okay, that he lived in Santa Cruz, up in the mountains.

“You find work?”

“I did. I’m a carpenter now.”

“As in construction?”

“I build mostly furniture.”

“Any money in that?”

“I make a living.”

“Good. Good. And it’s great to see you back in town.”

“Yeah,” Brett agreed. “Good to have you back.”

Bowie figured that was probably the warmest welcome he was going to get—except maybe when he went down the street to say hi to his mother. He told himself to be grateful that a few people seemed glad to see him. For the rest of them, he would either earn their respect—or get along without it, as he’d been doing for all of his life.

Later, after Brett and Little Tony left, Bowie sat in Glory’s kitchen for a while, wondering what he ought to do with himself now. The women were all upstairs with Glory and the baby, doing whatever women do after a baby comes. The kitchen clock and the Timex watch he’d used to time Glory’s contractions both agreed that it was quarter of one. What time did school get out? Two? Three? Four?

He took off the watch and put it back in the drawer where he’d gotten it and then he wandered around downstairs for a while. It was a great house. He’d always admired it. The place was well over a hundred years old and still standing strong. There were built-ins—that little desk area in the kitchen, the dining-room china cabinet and the waist-high bookcases on either side of the family-room fireplace. The bookcases, like the mantelpiece, were hand-carved with flowers and vines.

Eventually, when he ran out of quality woodwork to appreciate, he put on his jacket and went outside. The storm had dropped about six inches of new snow, white and pure, stretching out over the wide field at the back of the Rossi house, all the way to where the pines started. Since the house was at the end of Jewel Street, where the street hooked to the northeast and then came to an end, there was a good deal of open land around it on the north and east sides. His breath pluming in the icy air, he stood at the base of the back-porch steps and looked up at the mountains that rimmed the town, all of them blanketed in snow-dusted evergreens.

His hometown. In some ways it still didn’t seem real to him, that he was here, that he’d actually done it. Returned to the place of his childhood. The place where he’d grown up and made such a mess of everything.

After a moment, he shook his head. He started moving, trudging through the fresh, powdery snow, out to the big gray barn fifty feet or so behind the house.

The barn had windows. He wiped the snow off the panes and peered in. The structure had been divided. The smaller side was a garage for a riding mower and other yard equipment. The larger section was a workshop. Through one of the workshop windows, he saw a cot and a free-standing woodstove, as well as pegboards hung with tools and long, rough waist-high wooden workbenches. A fluorescent light fixture hung from a ceiling beam.

It wasn’t bad. Big enough for both a place to work and a living area. His needs were simple. A cot to sleep in and a stove to keep him warm during the long winter nights. If he stayed, the workshop would suit him fine, although he’d have to have a phone installed because his cell wasn’t going to be any use to him here.

But getting a landline put in was no biggie. The biggie would be getting Glory to go for it. He hardly felt confident on that point.

You’ve got zero hope of getting a yes if you never ask the damn question, Wily Dunn would have said.

Right, Wily. But it’s Glory we’re talking about here. Glory wouldn’t give him a yes if her life depended on it.

Still. If he felt he had to, he would ask the question, anyway. He’d know better what his next step should be after a certain six-year-old got home from school.

He returned to the back porch, knocked the snow off his boots and went inside again. Angie and Stella were in the kitchen and something that smelled good simmered on the cooktop.

“Soup and a sandwich?” Angie asked. She looked at him warmly, he thought. And suddenly, he was grateful after all that he’d come today, that for once, he’d been there for Glory when she needed him—and that her sister knew it.

He realized he was starving. “Soup and a sandwich would be great.”

Angie fixed his food and he sat down to eat while she and her aunt loaded up a couple of trays and went back upstairs.

After he ate, he started wondering how Glory and little Sera were doing. He went out into the front hall and stood at the base of the stairs with a hand on the newel post and thought about going up there. He wanted to go up, but he didn’t quite dare to. Instead, he went into the family room and rebuilt the fire that had burned down to coals during Sera’s birth.

He’d just gotten it going good when he heard the front door open. He shut the door to the fireplace insert, hung the poker back on the stand and rose to his feet. The front door closed. Hesitant footsteps came closer. And stopped. He turned slowly to face the sturdy, handsome boy who stood in the arch to the foyer.

Still in his coat and hat, his rubber boots and backpack, the boy had Glory’s brown hair and big eyes. And the telltale Bravo cleft in his square chin. He took his time, looking Bowie up and down.

Bowie returned his stare. The only sound was the crackle of the newly revived fire at his back. For Bowie, in that wordless moment, the world seemed to shift on its axis. Everything came into sharper perspective. He saw what he’d already known in his mind. But now he saw it through his heart and whatever that thing was that might be called a soul. Only at that moment did he fully accept that he had a job to do here, a job he’d left undone for too long.

There was no way he could leave town. Not in the near future anyway.

“I know you,” the boy said at last, his mouth that was the same shape as the mouth Bowie saw when he looked in the mirror, curved in a sneer. “I’ve seen your pictures in Granny Chastity’s house. You’re the one they call my dad. But you’re not my dad. My dad died. And I hate you.”

Chapter Four

Bowie stared at the son who’d just said he hated him and tried to think of an acceptable reply.

There was none. Anything he said right then would only be so much crap.

Johnny didn’t wait for him to think up something meaningful. He demanded, “Where’s my mom?”

“She’s…resting.”

Johnny dropped the backpack down one arm. It plunked to the hardwood floor, although he still held it by a strap. “In her room?”

“That’s right.”

Hefting the pack, Johnny turned for the stairs.

“Wait.”

The boy whirled back. “Don’t you tell me what to do.”

Bowie almost smiled. It was the kind of thing he used to say a lot—and not only when he was six. He thought of his own mom, for some reason. Of Chastity’s calm, matter-of-fact approach to things. She used to be the only one with a chance of getting through to him. She never fought fire with fire. He said quietly, “Your sister was born this morning.”

The boy tried to keep sneering, but his eyes went wide. “Is my mom okay?”

“Your mom is fine. Resting, like I said. Your aunt Angie, your grandma Rose and your great-aunt Stella are with her.”

“What’s her name, the baby?”

“Serafina Teodora, but your mom calls her Sera.”

“I want to go up there. I want to see my mom and the baby.”

“Take off your coat and hat and boots first. And go quietly. Remember to knock.”

The boy did what he was told. He unzipped his jacket and took off his hat. Bowie marveled. At six, Johnny had more self-control than Bowie had possessed at twenty-six. The boy turned and left the archway.

Bowie didn’t follow. Getting too close so soon seemed like a bad idea.

From where he stood at the fireplace, Bowie had a clear view into the front hall. He watched Johnny set his pack at the base of the coat tree, hang his jacket on a low hook and put his boots side-by-side next to his pack.

In stocking feet, Johnny went up, not looking back. Once he disappeared from view, Bowie moved to the foot of the stairs. He heard Johnny knock on his mother’s door, a gentle, careful sort of knock.

And then he heard the door open and Mamma Rose’s voice. “Here’s our big boy.…”

Johnny said something. Bowie couldn’t make out the words. He heard the door click shut.

There was an easy chair by the fire. Bowie returned to the family room and sank into that chair. He sat and stared at the flames and waited for his son to come back downstairs.

It didn’t take all that long. Fifteen minutes, maybe, and he heard the light step descending.

Bowie stayed in the chair. He had the feeling that sudden moves on his part would not be appreciated. Better to continue to keep his distance for a while. He might even get lucky and the kid would come to him.

Doubtful, but you never knew. So he waited.

The light footfalls came closer. “My mom says I have to be nice to you.” The boy had stopped maybe six feet from Bowie’s chair. He’d put on a pair of tennis shoes while he was upstairs.

Aware of a strange tightness under his breastbone, Bowie drank in the sight of him. “Did you see your sister?”

Johnny nodded. “She’s pretty ugly. All red and wrinkled.”

“Most babies are like that. But personally, I think she’s gorgeous.”

“You maybe need glasses, huh?” Johnny tipped his dark head to the side, frowning. “Are you a drunk and a crazy man?”

Bowie wanted to laugh. He also felt the burn of a more painful emotion sting the back of his throat. “Not anymore,” he said. “But I used to be.”

The boy seemed to consider that answer. And then he shrugged. “Mom says I can have milk and two graham crackers and then do my homework.”

“Need any help with that?”

Johnny blew out a disgusted breath. “I’m not a baby.”

“Well, I’m here if you need anything.”

The look the kid gave him then was more puzzled than anything else. The big brown eyes said, Why would I need anything from you? And then he turned for the door to the kitchen.

Bowie should have left it alone then. He knew that. But somehow, he just had to say, “I’m going down the street to say hi to your grandma Chastity. Do you want to come with me?”

“No,” the boy said. He neither paused nor looked back.

What did you expect? He hates you, remember?

Once Johnny disappeared into the kitchen, Bowie got up and climbed the stairs. He knocked on the door to Glory’s room.

After a minute, Rose opened the door wide enough to put her head through the crack. She whispered, “Everything okay?”

“Just wanted you to know I’m going down to Ma’s. Back in an hour or so. Johnny’s in the kitchen.”

“You look good,” his mom said when she opened the door to him. “Healthy. Strong.”

She looked pretty much as he remembered her, tall and slim in khaki trousers, a button-down shirt and a thick wool cardigan. Her short brown hair had more gray than before, and the lines bracketing her mouth and fanning out from the corners of her dark eyes were etched deeper than they had been. She was a practical woman who took care of business and of those she loved.

She stepped aside and he went in, accepting the hug she offered, then pulling back, holding her by the shoulders as she beamed up at him.

He said, “Good to see you, Ma.”

“Take off your coat. Come on back.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and she hung it in the closet by the door.

The Sierra Star Bed and Breakfast was as he remembered it. Homey and welcoming. A couple of people he didn’t recognize sat on the sofa in the living room reading the town’s weekly paper, The Sierra Times. Guests. They glanced up and smiled as his mom led him to the kitchen, her private domain at the back of the house.

She offered lunch, but he told her he’d eaten. He shook his head when she raised the full coffeepot in his direction.

So she poured herself a cup and sat in the chair opposite him. “Serafina Teodora, huh? It’s a big name for a little baby.”

“After Matteo’s mother,” he said.

Chastity made a low sound. “The saintly Serafina, who made sure her son had no other women in his life until she was in the ground.”

“Come on, Ma, cut it out. I always liked Matteo. He was a fair man. Kind. And Glory and Johnny both thought the world of him.”

“Did I say a thing against him? Not I. I liked Matteo. He and I were friends.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were too busy getting into trouble to pay any attention to how often Matteo showed up around here.”

“Here? You mean at the Sierra Star?”

Chastity nodded. “Believe it or not, Matteo even confided in me back in the day. We shared some really good…talks.”

Bowie wondered what she was getting at. “What kind of ‘talks’?”

“Private ones.”

“Sheesh, Ma. Be a little mysterious, why don’t you?”

“It hardly matters now. What matters is that Glory was happy with him. And he was good to Johnny. Wanted to adopt him. Glory kept putting him off on the adoption question, though.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“See? There are real benefits to keeping in touch.”

He let the dig pass because he was still stuck back there with the idea that Matteo had wanted to adopt Johnny. Bowie wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Not surprised, really. And not particularly happy, either. “For Matteo to adopt my son, Glory would have had to come to me, to deal with me.”

His mom looked at him sideways. “I give her more credit. I say she knew it would be wrong to cut you out of Johnny’s life that way.”

“Maybe you forgot. She didn’t even give him my name.” On Johnny’s birth certificate, Glory had told Brett to put Dellazola as the last name.

“But she did put you down as the father, didn’t she?”

“Why are we talking about this, Ma?”

“You’d rather we discussed the weather? All right. It was snowing. Now it’s not.”

He laughed. “Smart-ass.”

“Don’t call your mother names.” Her old cat, Mr. Lucky, jumped into her lap. She scratched him under the chin. “People will think that you’re badly brought up.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I have a feeling they think that already.”

Her expression grew serious again. “You’ve got quite a job ahead of you.”

“I know it.”

“Not only with Johnny.” She stroked Mr. Lucky’s caramel-colored coat. “Glory’s got that big heart of hers hardened against you.”

“That’s not news—and it doesn’t matter, about Glory’s heart. It’s over between her and me. I just want to help her out if I can because I owe it to her. And because she’s the mother of my son.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t really believe that, do you? I certainly don’t.”

He reminded himself that his mother never did have her head screwed on straight when it came to love and romance. After all, she’d loved Blake Bravo. Loved him big time, and loved him long enough to give him four sons.

Chastity spoke again. “I know what you’re thinking. Stop.”

He said, “Glory loved her husband. I’m old news.”

His mom looked into her coffee cup, but then set it down without taking a sip. Mr. Lucky jumped from her lap and strutted off down the hall. “How long you here for?”

“As long as it takes to work things out with my son and to see that Glory’s back on her feet and managing okay with a new baby to look after.”

“I wouldn’t say she’s on her own. She can’t walk down the street without tripping over a relative.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” his mom said too sweetly. “Probably better than you.”

Back at Glory’s house, he found Mamma Rose at the cooktop in the kitchen with a very fussy Sera on her shoulder. “Stella and Glory had words,” she said with a shrug. “So Stell went home. Then Angie left, too. She’s got the boys and Brett to look after.” Angie and Brett had two sons—Jackson, who would be six in a couple of months, and Graham, who was two. Rose stirred a big pot of pasta sauce. “Johnny’s upstairs in his room.…” Sera let out a yelp, then yawned, then yelped some more. “Stir this,” she instructed. “I’ll take this baby back up to her mamma.”

“I’ll take her up,” he volunteered.

Rose sent him a doubtful look. “You sure?” He already had his arms out. “Well, you did deliver her. I guess you can manage to carry her upstairs well enough.” Rose handed over the tiny pink-blanketed bundle.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.