His son had gone through a lot of adjustments in the last year and a half. It had only been recently that Joe felt as though he could stop scrutinizing the boy for any signs of trauma over the changes in his family unit. Kids were resilient, far more so than adults, although Joe had undergone a few major changes of his own.
He checked his watch. Thirty minutes to bedtime. He rebounded for his son and pulled up for a short jump shot. When he missed, he turned his son’s jeer into a groan by announcing, “Time for bed. You just have time for a shower and a snack if you hurry.”
“Come on, Dad! Another fifteen minutes?”
Looking down in his son’s eyes he steeled himself against the familiar con and said, “You know the rules. Doesn’t matter if you’re at your mom’s house or mine. Summer bedtime is eight-thirty.” Although the theatrics didn’t diminish, something in his voice must have convinced the boy because he started trudging toward the house.
Joe retrieved their discarded shirts and went to put the ball away. It had been difficult to forgive Heather for what she’d planned to do. Even after hearing her tearful explanation of wanting to get Jonny far away from the monster her father had become, it had been tempting to let it all spill out at the custody hearing. By revealing that she’d learned of her father’s activities and systematically planned a way to run, rather than go to the police, there would have been no contest to the hearing. She may even have faced jail time. She might have deserved that.
But his son didn’t.
The scandal that had swept the reservation when Bruce Glenn’s activities had come to light would be hard enough for Jonny to grow up with. He didn’t need to lose his mother in the process, as well.
Joe headed toward the house. It had taken nearly a year, but he and his ex had come to a wary sort of truce. She’d taken up residence in Chinle and Joe was as fair as he could be with the time she spent with Jonny. It had been over six months since Graywolf had been sentenced, and four since Bruce’s trial.
And it had been three months eleven days since Delaney had left.
The familiar longing traced through him as his mental calendar notched another day. She’d stayed put longer than he should have expected. Perhaps the most remarkable of the changes he’d undergone had been a gradual understanding that he could no more ask her to stop doing what she loved than she would have suggested he stop being a cop.
So he’d stepped aside when she’d taken that new job, swallowing his protests, his worry, and learned to live with the gut-clenching desolation that had been a constant companion since she’d walked away. He had his son. His family. His job. It should have been enough. But ever since she’d left there had been an acid-etched void that no one else seemed capable of filling.
Joe walked over to pick up Jonny’s bike, wheeling it closer to the house when an unfamiliar car slowed and pulled into the driveway. Frowning, he turned and lowered his son’s bicycle.
“I didn’t know superheroes rode bikes.” Delaney slammed the car door and rounded the hood. “Another myth bites the dust. One of these days I’m going to completely lose every ounce of naiveté I hold dear.”
He was at her side in two quick steps, his arms closing around her. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back this week.” He kissed her, long and deep, before raising his head to get his fill of looking at her. “We would have come to the airport to get you.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” He looked good, she decided, staring hungrily at him.
“You’ve got the book done already?”
He hadn’t released her and that was fine with her. Leaning against him, she murmured, “I’ve got enough material, I think. And if not, I can always fly back for a quick follow-up.”
The sordid tales that had emerged from the Graywolf and Glenn trials had ignited her imagination. Following her completed project on the Navajo culture, she’d decided to go to Mexico for an in-depth study of the staging society that existed near some border crossings. Although Joe hadn’t been able to hide his reaction to her plans, he hadn’t tried to dissuade her. At least not much. But even in his silence it had been an excruciating decision to leave, even for a time. And the loneliness she’d experienced in the intervening time away had shortened the time she’d spent on the project.
“Dad!” A bellow from the house interrupted them, and they looked toward the six-year-old boy, clad only in his underwear, framed in the doorway. “Can I have some ice cream? Hey, ’Laney’s back! Did you bring me something?”
Laughing, she called back, “It’s in my bag.” He whooped and ran back into the house. “It’s a carving of Huitzilopochtli, a deified ancestral warrior-hero.”
“Did you bring me anything?” The suggestive timbre in Joe’s voice had a delicious shiver chasing over her skin.
“Just me.”
His face lightened in a rare smile. “That happens to be exactly what I wanted.” There was a look in Joe’s eye, seductive promises that she was anxious to test. “I can’t wait to have you all to myself.” But then he glanced toward the house and said, “But first I have a six-year-old preparing for the nightly bedtime battle.”
“I know. I can wait.”
“Really?” His tone was light, but there was a flicker across his expression. “I was kind of hoping we were done waiting.”
She looked at him without answering. She knew he was asking about their future, and it was a question they’d learned to avoid since her answer only seemed to bring them both pain. But that was before she’d spent three long months away from him. The gnawing pain of missing him had clarified a great many things she’d once had trouble understanding for herself.
“You’re right.” She stopped and waited for him to face her. And wanted desperately to erase the cautious mask that had slid over his features. “You have waited. I’m sorry for that. I thought…” She struggled to find the words.
There had been a time in the not-too-distant past when she’d thought she’d never have a sense of belonging to any place. Or anybody. That to do so would mean losing a part of herself. But as soon as she’d set eyes on Joe again, the certainty that had been growing in her over the last few months had bloomed. She belonged here. With this man, wherever he was.
“It doesn’t matter what I thought. I love you, Joe Youngblood.” The savage joy on his face ignited an answering emotion and when his arms closed fiercely around her, she hugged him just as tightly. “You had to wait too long for me to say it. To realize it. But I don’t think you’ll have to wait long to hear it again.”
“Good.” He cupped her face in his hand, his eyes searching hers. “Then we’re done waiting?”
“Yes.” They headed toward the house, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, gazes locked. “We’re done waiting.”
KYLIE BRANT
Kylie Brant is the award-winning author of twenty-two novels. When she’s not dreaming up stories of romance and suspense, she works as an elementary teacher for learning disabled students. Kylie has dealt with her newly empty nest by filling the house with even more books, and won’t be satisfied until those five vacant bedrooms are full of them!
Kylie invites readers to check out her Web site at www.kyliebrant.com. You can contact her by writing to P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mailing her at kyliebrant@hotmail.com.
