Cherished (Steel Brothers Saga #17) - Helen Hardt Page 0,21
used to it for the most part, until something really jumps out at me.”
“Like what?”
Like Dale Steel’s voice. But I’m not about to share that with Brendan, who’s still a virtual stranger to me.
And I’ve successfully managed to stray off topic again.
I bring the goblet of Latour to my lips and take a sip, letting the lush liquid sit on my tongue. It’s so full and vibrant that it almost feels gelatinous against the inside of my mouth. I swallow, relishing the warmth in my throat.
“It’s wonderful,” I say after swallowing. “The tannins have softened with time, but they’re there, and they’re exquisite. But they pale in comparison to the black fruit. Currants are forefront, with some pepper and coffee on the finish.” I take another taste. “Delicious. Beautifully delicious. Thank you so much for sharing this with me.”
Brendan takes a sip as well. “Yes, it’s wonderful. I doubt I appreciate it as much as you do, but I swear it goes down like mother’s milk.”
“It does.” I pour us each a full glass and raise mine. “To a lovely dinner, a wonderful wine, and good company.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “I’d hardly call burgers lovely, but I’ll take it. To many more dinners together.”
I smile. Perhaps he wants more from me. More than I can’t give, as I’m in love with someone else. But we can be friends, for sure.
And friends talk.
Something I’m counting on.
Chapter Sixteen
Dale
Silence looms between us for a while.
Maybe, just maybe, my father will level with me. Tell me why he adopted Donny and me all those years ago.
He rescued us, for sure, but why was he there on that remote island where we were held captive? He and Uncle Ryan carried us to safety, and we ended up…
My God.
We ended up in a house. A house that looked just like the main ranch house—the house I grew up in.
Images form in my head—images I’ve tried my hardest to forget.
Thoughts. Talks with my brother.
Our…
Fuck.
Our suicide pact.
Donny almost drowned in that replica house. Aunt Ruby performed CPR and saved him.
Why was she there? Why were my dad and uncle there? And that older guy…? And the lady…? The baby she carried…?
These were things I never shared with Aunt Mel or any of my other therapists.
These were things I didn’t even recall until this moment.
Fragmented pictures—like looking in a broken mirror—fly through my consciousness.
“Dad…”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to say anything more? Or leave me hanging?”
He clears his throat. “I don’t know, son. First, I should tell you why I came over here.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I made arrangements for your father to go into rehab in Grand Junction.”
“You’re my father.”
“I know that, and you know what I mean.”
“Call him Floyd, then. Not my father.”
“Of course. Floyd has agreed to the treatment. It begins tomorrow. It’s a three-month in-house program.”
I feel nothing. Not a damned thing.
“It’s nice of you to help,” I force myself to say.
“He gave me my sons. I owe him.”
I shake my head. “You owe him nothing. I owe him nothing.”
“You owe him your life.”
“So he shot sperm at the right time. It doesn’t take a genius to do that.”
Dad laughs. “I don’t blame you, Dale. I have no love lost for my own father, but I recognize what he did for me, and the first thing he did for me was give me life.”
“He didn’t do it alone,” I retort.
“No, he didn’t. I owe the same to my mother.”
I nod. I know so little about my grandfather, and even less about my grandmother.
“Your father died in prison.”
“He did. And he deserved to be there. But he also did a lot for me before then, when I was growing up.”
A touch of sadness laces Dad’s tone, and I’m unsure what to make of it.
“My father denied me things I needed at certain times in my life, but he did teach me how to run the ranch, taught me the value of money and a hard day’s work. I owe him for that.”
“Those are things fathers are supposed to do. You did them for me.”
“I did. I’ve tried very hard to be the father my own father wasn’t.”
“You’re a great father.”
“Thank you. That means the world to me. But I’ve kept things from you. I had my reasons at the time, and I’m too old now to second-guess my actions.”
I stare at him, our gazes meeting.
“I expected you to look surprised,” he says, “but you don’t.”
“I didn’t question much when I was a kid,” I say. “I was just