Jameson (In the Company of Snipers #22) - Irish Winters Page 0,106

pain.”

Jameson cleared his throat. “Dziecko anioła is…?”

“Polish for angel baby,” Krystyna replied, her head up and a good strong arm still around Maddie. “And dziewczynka means baby girl. What are your intentions for my daughter?”

Maddie couldn’t hold back the cheek-cracking smile that stretched from one ear to the other at being named the daughter of this strong woman. “Relax, Mom. Jameson is my hero. He’s a former Navy SEAL, and we work together in Alexandria, and we’re going to marry in a month or two, and I want you to walk me down the aisle.”

“Marry?” Krystyna’s voice quavered.

Maddie looked into the sweet faded-blue eyes of the first person she had ever loved. “Yes, Mom. It’ll be a small wedding, maybe by a justice of the peace is all. I don’t have a lot of family, just—”

“But I do,” Jameson announced with unexpected rowdy conviction. “SEAL teams consist of six platoons, Maddie. Each platoon is sixteen SEALs strong. Two officers. One chief. Thirteen enlisted. Trust me. My brothers’ll all be there. Then there’s Mom’s and Dad’s brothers and sisters. Two sets of grandparents. All my cousins.”

“And I have eleven brothers and sisters, dziewczynka. All live in America and all with sons and daughters, cousins you’ve never met. Your grandparents, Matka and Ojciec, my mom and dad, are still alive. They’ll be so thrilled to meet you. I’ll have to rent the hall in my church. It might be large enough, but if it isn’t…”

Maddie looked to Jameson. He was grinning. Like her. So many words she used were her mother’s. She traded Krystyna’s embrace for Jameson’s, knocking his cane to the ground as she burrowed under his chin.

“Thank you,” she told him as she circled her fingers around the back of his neck and pulled his forehead down to hers. “You gave me back my mom.”

“I think we should serve lemonade at our reception,” he whispered into her mouth. “What do you think?”

“I think I love you, Jameson Tenney. Forever and ever—”

“Amen,” he breathed.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Lexie. Whatcha doing, sweetheart?” Alex asked, not sure what his precocious little one was up to. Her bright brown eyes sparkled from the corner of the front room sofa where she sat with Bradley snuggled in her arms. With his face pressed to her—chest?

“I feeding baby, Daddy,” she said, the sarcastic “duh!” in her tone obvious, like he shouldn’t have asked such a silly question.

“Oh, my, no,” Kelsey murmured. She’d barely settled into the nearby rocking chair after making sure Lexie had a good hold on Bradley. Now she was back on her feet. “No, honey. Put your shirt down. Let me get you a baby bottle to feed Bradley.”

“No, Mama. I wanna feed him like you do. He likes it this way.”

Alex nearly roared with laughter the way Lexie had Bradley’s face plastered to her flat, little girl chest, as if she knew better than her mom and dad. Girls. God, he loved them. Never a dull moment at his house.

“Kelsey? This one’s all yours.”

Her brown eyes laughed back at him. “Just you wait. Bradley’s going to give you a run for your money one of these days.”

“Plan on it, Mama.” Nothing would make Alex happier.

After all was said and done and explained to the satisfaction of the authorities in Boston, he’d brought Mel home and put him to bed. The next day, he moved his old man out of the comfortable bedroom in the basement, upstairs to the bedroom closer to Lexie’s, two doors from Alex and Kelsey’s.

Since that telling night in Boston, Mel had been semi-faithful about taking his meds, with Alex riding shotgun to make certain he did. Mel had also explained more about his relationship with Pops Delaney and the Irish mob. His claim of being Pops’ lieutenant wasn’t verifiable, since everyone involved was dead, and, according to Tucker Chase, the FBI had no evidence he’d ever been to Ireland or in Boston. But none of those answers or explanations changed the fact that he’d deserted his family for a life of intrigue and dirty-dealing. That he’d left them as destitute as beggars on his folks’ doorstep, then missed most of his only son’s life. Not to mention his wife’s and parents’ deaths and funerals.

If Mel had ever been sharp enough to leave no trace behind, as he claimed, he would’ve been a completely different person than the father Alex remembered. Which cast doubt on every word out of the old con’s mouth. Alex didn’t fall for Mel’s stories. He was certain