29 

Nothing short of a miracle.” Jean MacKenna’s whisper held a note of awe as she gently tucked a raven strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear while Jess lay sleeping in a hospital room as dark as her future was bright.

Jamie couldn’t agree more. Forbidden tears swelled as he stood next to his mother, but he didn’t even care, arm firmly latched to her waist with a staggering sense of gratitude. Medicinal smells that normally turned a stomach—the sharp odor of carbolic acid and pungent smell of linseed oil—filled both the room and their nostrils with the blessed scent of hope. Hope that the sister and daughter they loved would no longer limp or suffer with pain, but would enjoy a life full of promise and laughter and joy.

Jamie absently caressed Jess’s fingers, too overcome to utter a single word lest water stream from his eyes. His little sister had been right. “Let go, Jamie, and let God be God,” she’d whispered that day, conveying to him in her humble and sweet way a lesson many had tried to teach him before: “He does it so much better than you.”

Emotion jerked in his throat. That he does, Jess, that he does. For the first time in his life, he had laid down his will for God’s, an act of love and sacrifice at the bequest of his sister, and the result had stunned him to the core. Despite breaking his courtship with Patricia and her tearful threats, the board had voted to approve Jess’s pro bono surgery. And as if that were not enough, his sister now resided in a private room on the coveted fourth floor of Lane Hospital following a surgery that the doctors proclaimed a resounding success. Jamie blinked, desperate to stave off the wetness that begged to fall. By all practical means, the vote should have failed, but God intervened, not only softening Patricia and Senator Hamilton’s hearts, but Jamie’s as well. God, forgive me, he thought, head bent to his mother’s, for turning my back on you all of these years, for being so blind, so stubborn . . . His lids weighted closed as Cassie came to mind, and his heart wrenched in his chest. And so very, very stupid.

He opened his eyes at his mother’s touch. “I think I’ll slip out to get us both a coffee.”

“I’ll go,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“No, you need to be here if the doctor comes.” She lifted on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, the sheen of wetness in her gaze threatening his own. “I love you, son, with every breath in me.”

Clutching her tightly, he squeezed his eyes shut. “Me too, Mom, more than I can say.”

She patted the scruff of his jaw, eyes brimming with pride. “You’ve more than said it, son, in your ceaseless devotion to your sister and me. Sit and get some rest. I’ll be back soon.”

He nodded and sank into the chair next to his sister’s bed. Hand on her arm, he lay his head back and closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the goodness of God. In his pride and anger, he’d struggled all of his life to take care of his mother and sister when help had always been just a prayer away. He’d scaled mountain after mountain, when all it would have taken was a tiny seed of faith. His mouth tipped even as moisture stung beneath his lids. The smallest of seeds, and yet enough to level mountains of pride and set his sister free.

And me.

Free! His eyelids popped open as the realization fully developed in his mind. Free . . . to follow Cassie! He jolted up in the chair, heart stumbling over the fact that the woman he loved hated him and with good reason. His breathing accelerated as hope sprung in his chest. But God wouldn’t bring him this far to leave him high and dry. Would he?

Hope stalling, his gaze lighted on his sister, her chest rising and falling with a calm and steady rhythm so like her faith—peaceful, hopeful—and he suddenly knew God would not forsake him. At the thought, his body relaxed, the barest of smiles lining his lips as he rested his head on the chair, exhaustion and an unfamiliar peace luring him to doze . . .

“Our girl still sleeping?” Startled awake, he glanced up to see his mother enter the room, steam billowing from two cups of coffee she held in her hands.

Jamie jumped up to relieve her of his. “Like a baby. Dr. Morrissey said the more sleep, the better.” He nodded at the chair. “Sit, Mom, you look as tired as Jess.”

A soft chuckle parted from her lips, but it couldn’t hide the sag of her shoulders when she dropped in the chair. “Thanks, Jamie—I’m quite certain we could all sleep for days after this. I’ll tell you, I’ve never prayed so much in my life, and that’s saying something.”

Perching on the sill, he sipped his coffee, lips in a slant. “Me neither, and that’s saying something too.” He grazed the warmth of the cup. “But I plan to remedy that from now on.”

She paused over the rim of hers, surprise flickering across her features. “Seriously?” Her wide gaze glistened with affection. “Oh, Jamie, do you have any idea how long I’ve prayed for that?” Mischief laced her tone. “So dragging you to church all these years wasn’t for naught?”

He laughed, peering up with a sheepish look. “No, it wasn’t, although Jess gets the credit for pushing my back to the wall.”

“How so?” His mother took a taste of coffee, head cocked in question.

His sigh was weary as he stared into the black liquid of his cup, mind wandering to how he’d escaped a future as bitter and dark. Since he’d begun courting Patricia, a gloom had descended, whisperings that he wouldn’t be happy with a woman who wanted control of his heart or a father-in-law who wanted control of his life. But he’d convinced himself seeing Jess happy and whole would make him happy and whole, and that Cassie’s friendship would fill in the gaps. But he hadn’t counted on Cassie leaving and he hadn’t counted on Jess sensing how miserable he was. He glanced up, heart aching that now he wouldn’t be able to give his family all he had hoped. “She refused to have the surgery if it was contingent upon my courting Patricia.”

“What?” Cup paused at her lips, her hands slowly drifted to her lap where she cradled the coffee. “What does that mean?”

He exhaled heavily. “It means I was courting Patricia to secure her father’s help in swaying the vote for Jess’s surgery.”

“Oh, Jamie, no . . .” His mother rose to sit beside him, setting her coffee aside. “But I thought you liked Patricia . . .”

“I do, but not enough to marry her, and Jess called me on it.” His smile tipped. “Told me to let go and let God, which I did, but it’s kind of ironic.” He placed his cup on the sill to scrub his face with his hands. “All I wanted was to save Jess’s life, and here she ends up saving mine.”

“Well, for the love of all that is decent and good, James MacKenna, at least I have a daughter with common sense even if my son does not.” Bracing his shoulder, she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, then clucked her tongue. “Hard head, soft heart,” she whispered.

“I’ll say. Patricia was furious. Said her father would never lend his support on the vote, which is why this surgery is such a miracle because apparently he did.”

His mother hugged him, then pulled away, sympathy softening her tone. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Jamie, but God will bring the perfect woman for you, you’ll see.”

He peered up, giving his mother a sideways glance. “Mom?”

She turned to look at him, cup halfway to her lips. “Yes?”

A slow smile traveled his face at thoughts of Cassie. “He already has.”

His mother blinked. “But I thought you said you broke it off with Patricia?”

He grinned. “I did, but I’m not talking about Patricia, I’m talking about Blake’s cousin.” His chest expanded with hope. “I’m in love with Cassidy McClare, Mom, and I want to marry her.” He exhaled slowly, offering a sheepish smile. “That is, if she doesn’t spit in my eye first.”

The mug slipped from his mother’s hand and clunked to the floor, spilling coffee down her brown gabardine skirt, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Jamie snatched a cloth napkin from Jess’s lunch tray to mop up the floor, grateful the ruckus didn’t awaken his sister. Blotting his mother’s skirt, he glanced up, concern creasing his brow. “Are you all right?” She didn’t answer, and he rose to grip her hand, which was as cold as the needles of ice suddenly prickling his skin. “Mom, tell me what’s wrong—are you ill?”

She shook her head, lips parted as if to speak words that would not come, and he felt his own fingers go cold. She began to shake and tears welled as she searched his face, her eyes issuing a silent plea. “Jamie, no, please . . . not the McClares.”

His blood chilled. “What are you saying, Mom? Cassidy McClare is the love of my life.”

“No, son,” she whispered, her voice a rasp as tears trailed her cheeks. “Cassidy McClare is your cousin.”

Jamie rammed a finger to the elevator button, the groan and grind of gears and pulleys rivaling the taut strain of his nerves and the angst in his gut. His eyes burned in their sockets while anger burned in his chest, the searing jolt of his mother’s revelation paralyzing him to all rational thinking. Chest heaving, his lungs pumped harsh air like a bellows igniting a blaze of hate.

Logan McClare was his father.

Fury swelled anew as rage coursed through his veins. A father who had not only abandoned him and his mother, but had denied him the rights of a son. A man he had admired and revered, now no more than a coward who turned his back on his own. The thought of Logan touching his mother made him sick, bile rising at what she’d endured at the hands of a wealthy law student who promised her the moon and gave her a child instead. Fifteen-year-old Jean Kerr, barely making a living as a dance-hall girl on the Barbary Coast, had fallen hard for a man with a silver spoon in his mouth that matched a silver tongue. Desperately in love, she’d succumbed to the deadly charms of a social aristocrat with whom she had a six-month affair. But Logan had broken it off, anxious to avoid scandal on the eve of his engagement to socialite Caitlyn Stewart, only to discover Jean Kerr was pregnant with a child Logan conveniently denied. To ensure her silence, he offered a monthly stipend that ended when his mother married Brian MacKenna, the man she’d allowed him to believe was his father. Jamie’s jaw ground till it ached.

Better a sorry sot than a lily-livered liar.

The doors of the elevator squealed open, and Jamie shoved past several well-dressed gentlemen, bumping the shoulder of one, but too enraged to utter a pardon. Fists clenched, he strode toward a frosted glass door emblazoned with gold lettering. McClare, Rupert and Byington—yesterday a future he’d aspired to, today a past he’d avenge. Flinging the door wide, he ignored the saucer stare of the receptionist to storm down the hall, gaze fixed on Logan McClare’s door, closed as always to distractions he didn’t want.

Like his illegitimate son.

“Mr. MacKenna, please—wait! Mr. McClare asked not to be disturbed . . .” Miss Peabody’s voice trailed him down the hall, alarm evident in the crack of her voice, but he paid no mind. Every nerve in his body itched for revenge, to extract a pound of flesh and give the devil his due. Oh, he’d “disturb” him all right—with a hard-knuckled fist and some well-placed guilt.

He hurled the polished cherrywood door open with a loud crack to the wall, fresh hate gurgling in his stomach at the sight of the man who had used his mother and cast her aside.

“What the—” Pen in hand, Logan peered over wire-rim reading glasses with a scowl.

Miss Peabody’s babbling echoed behind. “I’m sorry, Mr. McClare, I tried to stop—”

Jamie slammed the door in her face, his muscles quivering with rage.

Logan took off his glasses, lips ground in a tight line. “Something on your mind, Jamie?”

“Yeah, Mr. McClare, there is.” He strolled forward, a tic pulsing in his jaw. He singed him with a look. “How about you, sir, anything on your mind . . . or maybe your conscience?”

Eyes narrowing, Logan tossed his pen on the desk and sat back, arms braced casually on the chair. “Look, son, I don’t have time to play games . . .”

Jamie stepped forward, fists knotted at his sides. “Don’t you dare call me ‘son,’ ” he hissed, “you haven’t earned the right. And no time for games? You sure had plenty twenty-five years ago, didn’t you?”

All blood drained from Logan’s face, his skin as pale as the papers stacked on his desk.

“What, cat got your tongue, Pop?” The razor edge of Jamie’s tone sliced through Logan’s typical calm, bloodying his face with a ruddy shade of shock.

With ragged breaths, Logan carefully rose like a man twice his age, the truth of Jamie’s outburst apparently sapping his energy. Head bowed, he steadied himself with a palm to his desk, broad shoulders slumped as if in a stupor. His face finally lifted to meet Jamie’s, regarding him with a sorrowful gaze he’d seldom seen in a man he’d all but idolized. “Jamie, I—”

Jamie leaned in, eyes on fire. “You gonna say you’re sorry you took advantage of my mother, is that it? Sorry she tossed a glitch into your perfect life with an unwanted brat?”

“No, it wasn’t like that—” His voice, hoarse with repentance, cracked as he quickly made his way around the desk.

“No? Well how was it, Mr. McClare? Just exactly what makes a man turn his back on his own flesh and blood?”

“Give me a chance to explain—”

Logan reached for his arm, but Jamie slung it away, bile eating away at his words like acid. “Give you a chance? You mean like you gave my mother and me?”

“For pity’s sake, Jamie, I was nineteen years old,” he said, gouging blunt fingers through perfectly groomed hair. “A kid sowing wild oats and too stupid to count the cost. And then I met someone else . . .” A spasm jerked in his throat. “When your mother told me she was pregnant, I was scared, desperate, and to be honest, not even sure you were mine.”

A curse hissed from Jamie’s lips as he lunged, fist flying.

Logan deflected the blow with surprising skill, shoving Jamie back. “But I supported her anyway,” he shouted, his breath coming out harsh and hot. Shoulders square, he steeled his jaw while fire sparked in his eyes and for the first time ever, Jamie saw the resemblance as if in a mirror. He had his mother’s hazel eyes, certainly, rather than Logan’s gray, and thick black hair to Logan’s brown, but in the height, the build, and the jaw, he was a McClare through and through, evident in the temper that now pulsed in both of their cheeks. “I sent money every single month, I swear, even though I didn’t believe you were mine. Even though you looked nothing like me when you were born.” He paused, the only sound the thick wheeze of his breath as his chest rose and fell. His gaze wandered into an aimless stare as if he were somewhere far away. Or wanted to be. “In my mind’s eye,” he whispered, “I always denied it, unwilling to believe it was true. But when I saw you again . . .” He slowly looked up, a rare sheen of moisture coating his eyes as his voice trailed off. “I knew you were mine. And as God is my witness, Jamie, I vowed to do everything in my power to give you all you deserved.”

“Except your name.” Jamie spit the words like venom.

Sorrow welled in Logan’s eyes despite the lift of his jaw. “It’s too late for your mother and me, Jamie, but it’s not too late for us. To become father and son, in heart if not in name.”

Jamie’s lip curled in contempt. “No thanks, Pop, I don’t want anything you have to offer—not your sorry apology, not a relationship, and not this job.”

Logan moved in, a command in his tone. “Don’t be a fool and throw this all away—”

“Sorry, Pop, guess it just comes naturally.” He glared. “You know, like father, like son?”

“We’re blood,” Logan rasped. He clutched Jamie’s arm, the press of his jaw as tight as his grip. “You have to know, I would do anything for you.”

“No, Mr. McClare,” Jamie said, voice deadly. “You’re a liar. You wouldn’t do anything for me—you wouldn’t marry my mother.” He thrust Logan back, causing him to stumble. “That’s from me, Pop,” he said, then landed a blow to Logan’s gut. “And that’s for my mother.”

And without the slightest bit of remorse, he turned on his heel and strode to the door, slamming it closed on both his father and his future. Because this was the man who’d stolen everything from him—his name, his inheritance, and now the only woman he ever really loved.

His cousin.