Johanna Lindsey - Angel

“Cassie—!”

“So he suggested I go home.”

That gave Catherine pause. “He did? You mean the man actually has some sense?”

“That’s not funny, Mama.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be, baby.”

“At any rate, he was entirely too highhanded about it, thinking he can order me around.”

“All husbands tend to think that way. I’ve never understood why. Women may have gotten the right to vote in Wyoming, we can serve on juries, and we can even boast about having the first woman justice of the peace in the whole country, but husbands still think their word is law.”

“Papa was never like that.”

“Your papa was an exception.” And then Catherine laughed. “The Summerses are another exception. We know who wears the pants in that family, and they fit her very well.”

“That’s not nice, Mama. And it’s not true. I’d say they both fit into the same pants. If they have a difference of opinion, they hash it out. One spouse doesn’t arbitrarily say, ‘Do it,’ and think that’s the end of it.”

“Chase Summers would never be that stupid,” Catherine said with a grin. “But all right, I’ll concede Jessie tiptoes around him sometimes. However, most times she walks all over him.”

“Only because he lets her,” Cassie insisted. “There’s the difference.”

Catherine was suddenly frowning again. “How did we get so far off the subject?”

Cassie really wished her mama hadn’t noticed that. “By discussing arbitrary males. And before you embarrass us both by asking, yes, I will have to wait again before I can divorce mine.”

Angel knocked on the front door of the massive stone house. He knew he shouldn’t be there. He’d cleaned up. He was as neat as he could get without cutting his hair, which he wouldn’t do until springtime. But he shouldn’t be there. Only it was either come here or get roaring drunk to take his mind off his little wife. He didn’t feel like getting drunk.

The door opened. A man with curly white hair and side-whiskers, in a stiff-looking formal suit, stood there. His skin was so dark it was almost black.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like to speak to the lady of the house,” Angel told him.

“Who is it, Jefferson?” another voice asked, followed by the appearance of a tall, middle-aged man with blond hair and green eyes.

“I don’t rightly know, Mister Winston. This gentleman has asked to speak to Missus Anna.”

The green eyes narrowed as they gave Angel a more careful once-over. “Might I inquire what business you have with my wife?”

“You’re the banker?”

The eyes narrowed even more. “Yes.”

“I just found out this morning that your wife is my mother. My name’s Angel — O’Rourke.”

It was the first time Angel got to say it. It felt good — and it brought a sigh from Anna’s husband.

“I see,” the man said in a resigned tone. “You’re about the fifteenth Angel who’s come to my door, faying to collect the reward.” Contempt entered his voice as he added, “At least the others were Irish, or made an attempt to sound Irish. Can you prove that you’re my wife’s missing son?”

Doubt was the last thing Angel expected. He almost laughed.

“I don’t need to prove it, mister.”

“Then you won’t get a penny—”

“I don’t want your money,” Angel cut in. “I just came to have a look at her before I head back west.”

“Well, that’s a new approach,” Winston said, though his look remained skeptical. “Just out of curiosity, what story have you concocted to explain your disappearance all those years ago?”

“If she wants to know, I’ll tell her,” was all Angel said, and he was being generous in that, considering the man was starting to irritate him.

The banker hesitated a moment before he acquiesced. “For my wife’s sake, I’m forced to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I warn you, she’ll know just by the sight of you if you’ve told me the truth. And if she doesn’t recognize you, I’d appreciate it if you would leave without mentioning who you’re claiming to be. My wife has been through enough agony over this. I don’t want all those memories stirred up again for no good reason.”

Angel nodded, unable to argue with that. He didn’t need to talk to her. He didn’t need anything from her. Just one look was all he’d like, so the image of her that he carried wouldn’t be so vague. And that was probably all he’d get, because he couldn’t see how a woman, even a mother, could recognize a four-year-old child in the man he’d become.

The servant opened the door wider for Angel to enter. “May I take your coat, sir?”

It was too warm in the house not to give it up. Angel didn’t want to start sweating and have them think it was caused by nervousness. But as soon as he handed the slicker over, the banker’s eyes went straight to his gun. He might have cleaned up, but he’d made no effort to hide what he was or where he was from. He wore his usual black, right down to a new bandana knotted loosely at his neck.

“Are you a lawman?” he was asked.

“No.”

The frown was back. “I’d rather you didn’t wear that thing in my house.”

Angel made no move to remove it. “If you’ve been good to my mother, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

The banker’s cheeks went florid, but he said stiffly to the servant, “Inform my wife that we have a guest. She may join us in the east drawing room.”

The servant went away. Angel followed his host down a wide hall to a door on the right. The room beyond was large, the furniture so elegant he was leery of sitting on it. He was nervous — no, scared was more like it. He’d never been so scared in his life. He had no business here. He should have got drunk instead.

“I can’t do this,” he said suddenly. “I thought I could, but — tell her — no, don’t tell her anything. It’s better she don’t know what happened to me.”

“As I thought,” Anna’s husband remarked with enough contempt to shrivel a lesser man. “Most of them back out at this point.”

“I’m not going to take offense at that, mister, because you’re looking out for her interests, and I’m glad to know she’s got someone to do that for her.”

And Angel was being really generous this time, because what he’d felt like saying was, he killed men for less provocation, which wasn’t true, but saying so tended to put an abrupt end to the provocation. It ended anyway, because the man nodded, either in acceptance of his remark or because he had nothing else to say.

Angel headed for the door, the tension already starting to leave him, but it came right back when his path was suddenly blocked by a young girl. She was beautiful, with her black hair floating about her waist, and big green eyes — her father’s eyes. She couldn’t be more than thirteen years old. A sister, Kirby had said, and Angel knew in his gut he was looking at her.

A lump rose in his throat. He couldn’t seem to move or take his eyes off her.

She stared at him, too, eyes bright with curiosity, and didn’t look away even as she told her father, “Mother says she’ll be coming right down and who might you be?”

She said it all in one breath. “Angel,” he said without thinking.

“No kidding? I have a brother named Angel, though I’ve never met him. I’ve got lots of other brothers, but Mother says a girl can never have too many to look out for her.”

Angel couldn’t see himself looking out for a sister. He’d end up leaving dead bodies all over the place if she was even looked at wrong, and he didn’t think these city folks would appreciate that.

“Katey’s my name,” she continued, and again in the same breath, “Are you my brother?”

The question went through Angel like lead, sharp and painful. He didn’t know how to answer. The truth wouldn’t get him out of there any time quick. It would likely be refuted by the banker, too. And it would commit him. One little word, and an empty part of his life would be filled.

Anna’s husband didn’t give him a chance to say it.

“You have delivered your message, Katey; now take yourself off to your room.”

“But—”

“You know better than to make a nuisance of yourself when we have guests.”

His voice wasn’t stern. If anything, it was filled with too much tenderness, telling Angel the girl was well loved. And she left with a “Yes, sir,” only a slight pout drawing at her lips.

“Thank you for not answering my daughter,” Angel heard at his back. “She’s an impressionable child. She would have believed you.”

Believed the truth? Imagine that. But Angel didn’t say it, didn’t say anything. He headed for the door again. If the damn room weren’t so big, he’d have been gone already.

He didn’t make it. They collided at the door, both rushing for it. He had to grab her to keep her from falling backward. He heard her gasp, then laugh, but she hadn’t looked up yet. She was actually a small woman. The top of her head barely reached his chin. But he didn’t need to see her face. The laugh told him, a sound so familiar to him, he could have heard it only yesterday.

It was her, and the memories came back with her, of gentle scoldings, and hugs and kisses, bedtime stories, and the tears when his da had died and she’d had to tell him, and love, so much love. He couldn’t breathe, that knot grew so big in his throat. His hands tightened on her arms. That made her look up, and it was a good thing he hadn’t let go of her, because she turned so white, she looked about ready to faint.

“Cawlin?” she said in a fearful shriek, and Angel knew she thought she was seeing a ghost He didn’t answer. Words wouldn’t get past that lump. It hadn’t occurred to her yet that she was seeing the son rather than his father, and he ought to leave before it did. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even let go of her. He wanted to draw her forward and crush her in his arms, but he was afraid to, afraid of frightening her, afraid he might never let go.

The things he was feeling were choking him. He suddenly wished Cassie were there to meddle and fix things in her indomitable way, because he’d never felt so helpless and out of his depth as he did in that moment. The banker was there instead, to pull them apart and lead Anna into the room to a chair. Angel still didn’t move. He ought to get the hell out of there, but his feet wouldn’t obey him, and his eyes wouldn’t leave his mother.

His image of her might have faded over twenty-one years, but it was back now because she’d changed so little in that time. And the things he could remember now, the little things he’d forgotten. She hadn’t lost him through carelessness. If anything, she’d been overprotective of him because he was all she’d had — then. But she had another family now, and he didn’t belong in it.

Fear finally got his feet moving, fear of rejection and the hurt that went with it. It was the one thing he’d never been able to handle very well, and he wasn’t going to start trying now.

He’d taken several long steps down the hall before he noticed the barricade at the front door in the form of his little sister. Katey was leaning back against it, her arms crossed, and shaking her head at him. She hadn’t gone to her room as told. She’d waited to ambush him, and that was exactly how he felt, ambushed.

She grinned at him now as she reminded him, “You didn’t answer me.”

“Answer you what?”

“If you’re my brother.”

“What if I am?”

“I know you are.”

“How?”

“Because I want you to be,” she said simply. “So I can’t let you leave. Mother would be upset if I did.”

“She’s already upset.”

“That’s nothing. She’ll scream the house down if you walk out this door.”

“She doesn’t scream.”

Katey grinned again. “According to Sean and Patrick, she does. They’re my brothers—your brothers. They wouldn’t forgive me, either, if I let you go before they got to meet you.”

“You really think you can stop me, honey?”

“Maybe not, but she can.”

She nodded behind him. He turned to see his mother at the door to the drawing room, holding onto the frame with one hand, the other pressed to her heart. She was still as pale as parchment. Her husband stood behind her, ready to catch her if she ever got around to fainting.

She looked fragile enough to break, but her voice was strong, almost accusing, when she said, “I’m believing in leprechauns as well as ghosts, but you’re not Cawlin’s ghost, are you?”

“No.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, God — An-gel?”

He didn’t so much as breathe. She didn’t wait for his answer. She came toward him, so slowly, her eyes devouring every inch of him through the tears that were now falling unchecked. Then her hands were on his face, his shoulders, his arms, making sure he was real, and finally slipping around his waist and locking there as her head dropped to his chest and she began to cry in earnest.