Page 40 of Silver-Tongued Devil
She saw the fight go out of Russell like a balloon leaking air. He slumped in his chair, and Bella shoved her nose into his palm. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Eat your dinner.”
She had to laugh. “Really? All that, and that’s what you’ve got?”
He smiled, a painful twist of his mouth. “No. Guess I need to say more than that. Guess I need to tell you that of course you’re my daughter. What else could you ever be? What else have you ever been?”
She couldn’t say anything. The lump in her throat was too big for any words to come out. The heat was rising in her chest, and if she didn’t stop herself, she was going to cry. “But I was… I’m not yours. I was just… Riley’s sister. I know that’s why you took me. Because Riley wouldn’t let me go. I know. That’s OK. You did it anyway.”
He was still glaring, the words still sharp. “Of course you’re mine. Maybe that was why I did it at first. But just because I don’t go around talking like some Hallmark card doesn’t mean you’re not my daughter. It sure doesn’t mean I’m not your dad.”
Her mouth worked, but no words came, and his voice was gruff and not a bit steady when he said, “You better come over here and give me a hug. I’m too damn crippled to do it, and I can’t stand to watch you cry.”
She was out of her chair in an instant. In the next moment, she was on her knees with her arms around his waist. Russell’s arm had gone around her shoulders, and Bella was right there, too. It was a family hug. A family that was two people and a dog with no trace of blood to hold them together. But they had love. That, they had.
Dakota’s shoulders shook with the effort not to cry, and Russell’s hand stroked awkwardly over her hair. He said, “I’m lousy at this. This is what I’m talking about. I should’ve been saying it. I never had any practice, I guess. Too much in love with the bottle. Maybe if you give me a grandbaby someday, I can start at the beginning. Maybe I can do better at being a dad then.”
“You’re already doing better,” she whispered. “You’re already my dad.”
“Damn straight I am.” He sounded absolutely sure, and now shewascrying. “Damn straight.”
Blake said, “OK. Thanks,” hung up the phone, sat back in the desk chair in the office he’d temporarily allocated himself at the resort, and tapped the phone absently against his leg. Then he stood up and headed for the door.
If he was going to take care of this, he needed to get started. It was Thursday, he was leaving this evening for a swing through the Midwest, and besides… he needed to get started. That was all.
He hadn’t seen Dakota since that evening three days earlier. He came home every night to find another room painted, the mess cleaned up, and only the pungent, lingering smell of paint telling him she’d been there. She didn’t hang around to see him, which would have been the easiest thing in the world for her to do, and that told its own story. But then, she’d already given him the message.
He walked into the house ten minutes later and didn’t see her. She wouldn’t be on the main floor, though, because she’d finished it yesterday. He ran upstairs, and sure enough, dropcloths covered the desk in his office, and two of the walls were pale gray. But she wasn’t there.
He called out, “Dakota?” and didn’t get an answer. Her truck was outside, though, so she must be around. He headed downstairs, then to the bottom floor, but didn’t find her there, either.
Well, huh.
It was lunchtime. Maybe she was swimming? It was another warm day. He headed out to the deck to look for her, calling her name as he went.
He found her at last, sitting up hastily in a chaise in the shade at one side of the wooden expanse of the deck. She started to climb out of her chair at his approach, a messy sandwich in one hand.
“Oh,” she said, looking flustered and self-conscious. “Were you looking for me? Sorry. I was just taking my lunch break. Half an hour.”
“Am I allowed to interrupt your lunch break?” he asked. She was wearing her overalls as usual, but she’d taken off her cap and unhooked the straps so the bib hung down around her waist. Another white V-necked tee, the same thick, dark braid, delicate collarbones, and smooth skin. And paint, of course, tiny drops of it speckling her arms.
“Of course,” she said. “It’s your house. It’s your job. And I assume it’s OK that I’m using the deck. I like to get out of the paint for a little while.”
“Sure. Use whatever you want. Go on and sit down, though, and eat your lunch. Or better yet—I’ll go get mine, too, and join you. What are you having?”
He tried his best to send the message.Just lunch.
She held up her sandwich. “Turkey and Swiss, plus an apple. Pretty exciting. Russell makes it for me, so I’m not going to complain.”
Her words were casual, but her face had that somber thing going on big-time. She wasn’t smiling today. She was the very last thing from “cute,” and she was very nearly beautiful, in the way a piece of polished hardwood was beautiful. Nothing superficial, but something born in the texture of the wood.
What was he, a poet? He was losing it. That wasn’t what he was here for. “Give me three minutes,” he said. “I’ve got this idea I want to talk about with you.”
“Uh…” she said.
“It’s not personal. Or rather, it is, but it’s not about you and me.”
“Oh. All right.” She was shoving her sandwich back into its plastic bag, her movements quick, her tension obvious. “I wasn’t going to hang around out here for long, though. I want to finish that room today.”
It didn’t sound much like, “Kiss me now. Touch me, love me, hold me tight,” but it was what he’d expected.
