Chapter Eight
They drove out of Waterford Farm and onto the highway that led to town in silence. Not the stressful kind that made Trace’s arms ache and tightened his throat, but what someone might call a “companionable” silence. A patient, calm, still quiet that gave them a chance to get used to each other.
Even the undersized cobalt-blue hybrid she drove was spacious enough for him to feel like he fit—a sensation Trace didn’t have very often.
“I was wrong,” he mused, glancing to her.
“About what?”
“Everything.” He locked his hands behind his head and let it drop back a bit. “I was wrong about Waterford Farm. Not just what I’ve seen since I got out, but I bet I was wrong about it all those years ago.”
“Well, it was different all those years ago,” she said. “It was a family house with a lot of property and some foster dogs. Now it’s a thriving business.”
“Same family, though,” he said. “And from what I knew about Kilcannons…” He shrugged. “I was wrong.”
“Simple misjudgment. Happens to everyone.”
As a man who lived with misjudgment every day and night, he didn’t argue with that. “I didn’t expect to be, you know, welcomed.”
She shot him a sideways look. “I didn’t welcome you,” she said softly. “I didn’t even treat you with the decency I’d give any dog owner with a very sick animal. I’m sorry.”
He forgave with a simple nod. “I shocked you.”
“Even before I went to the door last night, I suspected it was you my dad was telling us about, but…”
“He said my name?” For some reason, that hurt. He’d asked Dr. Kilcannon not to use his name, but—
“No, he didn’t. He said he’d met someone from around here who seemed to be great with dogs and had been in prison. That’s all.”
“And you knew it was me just from that?” He let out a choke of a laugh. “I know I had a bad reputation in town when I was young, but to hear ‘prison’ and jump straight to ‘Bancroft’ is a pretty damning leap.” Although, to anyone who knew his family’s truth, it was a very sensible jump to make.
“That’s not how I leapt.” She shifted in the seat and pulled into the fast lane, accelerating to pass a slower vehicle. “I saw you in town last Saturday when I was shopping with Pru.”
“You did?”
“You went into the hardware store, and I convinced myself I was imagining things because I knew the weekend was coming up and I had to tell Pru and I’ve been pretty stressed about it.”
He turned and studied the bare trees in the woods as they cruised by. “You’ve never ever told anyone?”
“My mother,” she said. “I told her it was you the day I told her I was pregnant.”
“But not your dad?”
“She and I decided that you had the right to know first.”
He laughed softly, getting a questioning look from her. “Sorry, it’s just that your family is so…proper. Right. The moral compass points due north in the Kilcannon world.”
“I never really thought about that,” she said. “But I guess it’s true.”
She backed off the gas and slid into the right lane when anyone else would have kept flying at a higher speed.
“Must be where Pru gets her rule-following ’cause it sure as hell didn’t come from my side of the family,” he mused.
“Well, she has a strong moral compass.” Molly laughed softly. “That girl never met a rule she wouldn’t follow.”
Poor kid. Her moral compass would shatter when she found out what her dad was. And her grandfather. A wave of discomfort rolled over Trace, bringing that low-grade sense of internal agony reminding him of what he was and would always be.
Loser. Murderer. Ex-con.
He wiped his hands over his jeans, the comfort he’d felt moments ago disappearing as reality set in.
Molly glanced over, brushing back some of those deep auburn waves to get a better look at him. “You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure. Just, you know, worried about that little girl. New sensation for me.”
“My mom’s favorite saying was, ‘You’re only as happy as your least-happy child.’ And, until you have one, you can’t really understand that.”
“I get it,” he admitted. “Up until last night, Meatball was my least-happy child.”
“Meatball’s going to be fine,” she promised him. “Give him a couple of weeks and he’ll be the dog you knew and loved.”
“Pru, on the other hand?”
She sighed. “I can’t imagine Pru changing that much. But she’ll look at me differently.”
“I don’t want that, Molly. I really don’t want that.” He couldn’t mean it more. “I’ve gone all these years not knowing she was alive, and I can—”
“Never forget she is.” Molly turned onto the road that led to Bitter Bark. “Where’s your house?” she asked.
The last thing on heaven or earth he wanted her to see was where he lived. They had outhouses on Waterford Farm that were nicer. He’d have to tell her to—
Step into the shit and wade through.
He could hear Wally’s voice, still, doling out his unwanted but wise advice. A little discomfort is all, Wally would say. Not death.
“On the other side of Bushrod Square, follow River Run about a mile, then go south on Azalea.”
“Oh, back where Kaylie lived.” She threw a look at him. “Where we were the night of that party.”
“A little farther than that, near Sutton’s Mill.”
“Oh. That area used to be pretty rough—”
He snorted. “No kidding.” There were more trailers than houses out there when he was growing up, though most of them were gone now.
“But that land is on the radar of several developers,” she added. “You really might be sitting on more money than you realize.”
“I thought I might be,” he said. “But right now, it’s a hellhole. Brace yourself.”
“I’m braced, and ready for more than that,” she said as she meandered into town traffic. “I was hoping you’d tell me what happened, Trace. How you ended up in prison.” When he didn’t answer immediately, she turned, her expression warm. “Knowing the truth can only help me—and you—decide how and what to tell our daughter.”
Our daughter. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t really look away from her or think straight or comprehend what she’d just said. He tried to look at the red brick buildings and cute little stores and cafés that somehow seemed much more precious than when he lived in this small town. But all he could think about was Pru and how she’d react.
“Please tell me,” she said softly.
“Okay.” He took a deep, long breath and tried to think of where to start, studying the square named for town founder Thaddeus Ambrose Bushrod. For some reason, he was glad he remembered that. Happy to still have a connection to Bitter Bark, North Carolina, no matter how different and gentrified it looked now.
She drove down a side street of brick brownstones, and as he gathered his thoughts, he studied the polished residences that had never looked quite so upscale when he lived here.
“Swanky,” he muttered.
“My brother’s wife owns that one on the end,” she said, her voice gentle, as if she somehow knew he needed some time to prepare.
He threw her a grateful smile that she missed, but that was okay.
“I left town a few hours after we were, uh, together,” he started, diving in before taking his next breath.
She tapped on the brakes, slowing down at an intersection to look at him. “You didn’t go home or pack or anything?”
“I did, but not for long. Bart McQueen had already been to my house and scared the crap out of my mother. My car was at his shop, too. I had to run.” He threw her a look. “So, after you dropped me off not far from here, remember?”
She nodded. “I remember dropping you off.” She added a sigh and a somewhat shy glance. “I remember everything.”
So did he. Which was no surprise, considering what happened next essentially ended his life. “I went home, and my mom was freaking out. Of course, she totally believed Bart.”
“She did?”
He exhaled, remembering the words she’d said so often, and each time it was like a razor blade over his heart. You’re just like your father.
Well, he sure lived up to that high praise.
“I had a little money, so I decided to take a bus to Pittsburgh to stay with my cousin for a week or two. Problem was, I didn’t have enough cash to make it all the way there. The next night, I was stuck outside of Charleston, West Virginia.”
“So what did you do?”
“Made the biggest mistake of my life and walked up to a bar called Jimmy Square Foot’s near the bus station.” Why did he go there? Why? He’d asked himself that question a thousand times. “Anyway, there was a line to get in, and the bouncer was having some problems, so I gave him some backup with a troublemaker.” Another mistake. He should have found a phone, called his cousin, and waited at the bus station until someone wired him cash. But young Trace had been impulsive and didn’t know about bad luck and shitty timing and…parking stoppers.
“Is that when it happened?” she asked.
“No, no. The guy at the door appreciated the help, though, so he let me inside.” He closed his eyes for a moment, smelling stale beer and remembering the tinny-sounding speakers blaring Toby Keith. “I almost left.” Oh man, if he’d have only left.
“Why didn’t you?”
“That bouncer came and got me. He was short-handed and asked if I’d help out. Free drinks, no cover, and they’d let me have a burger at the end of the night. I took that gig…and it turned out to be the worst decision I ever made.”
She glanced at him, then back at the road, steering her little car easily onto the old bridge that crossed a narrow section of river next to an old mill, following the directions he’d given her earlier. It was pretty here, he thought, giving his head a break from his story as he took in the quaint North Carolina vista. Pretty anywhere that wasn’t Huttonsville.
Freedom washed over him like cold water on a summer afternoon. He had to remember he had that now, and he didn’t need to get greedy about a daughter he didn’t deserve. He glanced over at Molly right as she looked at him, the sweet softness in her eyes like a sucker punch to his gut.
He didn’t need to get greedy about anyone or anything around here. He had his freedom, and that should be enough.
“What happened, Trace?”
“About an hour later, I watched this guy kind of muscle a girl out to the back, giving her a hard time. They went out to a parking lot, and I followed because I smelled trouble.” So much trouble. “He was all over her, pissing her—and me—off.” He closed his eyes and remembered her face. He could always remember her face. Not the douchebag’s, but hers. Not Paul Michael Mosfort, age twenty-three, born in Summersville, West Virginia, second son of Janet and Gary Mosfort.
No, he barely remembered what that guy he killed looked like.
But the girl in trouble? Oh, he could still see the fear in her big blue eyes, the vulnerability when she realized she was drunk, but big Paul Michael was a hell of a lot drunker.
When that prick pushed her against a dumpster and tried to stick his tongue down her throat, Trace could still hear her cry, Stop!
Stop! Get him off me! Help me!
“Trace? Trace.” He felt the gentle pressure of a woman’s hand on his arm, the sensation so unfamiliar that he flinched in surprise. Then he blinked and focused on Molly Kilcannon, pretty, pure, and perfect.
The car was stopped, he realized, and he glanced around, seeing the thick pines in front of his house.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He took a slow breath and let it out. “Yeah, sorry. I was just…” He wet his lips and forced himself to wade in his shit, as Wally used to say.
“What happened?” she asked. “With the girl and the guy trying to attack her?”
“I…didn’t know what to do,” he said, locking on the ever-changing green and golden color of her eyes, suddenly feeling…well, not comfortable, but able. Able to tell his story to someone who actually seemed to care.
“You helped her?” she suggested.
“I was a bouncer, or at least that’s what they told me. And even if I hadn’t been, I would have helped her, but maybe I wouldn’t have…” He paused. “No. I’d have done the same thing. But my defense was always stressing that I’d been ‘hired’ to be a bouncer. Except, that didn’t really fly with the jury.”
“What happened?” she asked again, leaning forward and closing her hand over his arm again. He glanced down at it, at those slender, feminine fingers that saved dogs and fluttered when she talked and probably soothed her sick kid.
His kid.
“I pulled him off her,” he said. “I yanked him away, and he was a big guy, bigger than me, and he drew back his hand and sent a fist at my face full force. I stumbled, and in the time it took me to see straight, he smashed her back into the side of the dumpster and ripped her shirt right in half.”
His stomach turned as he remembered the sound and her gasp and that bastard’s grubby paws slamming onto bare breasts.
“He told me to shut up and I could have some, too, when he was done.”
“Oh my God.”
He tried to swallow, but his throat was tight, remembering his disgust. “I…reacted. I launched forward and pushed him with all my strength and sent him flying backward.”
And that was the end of Paul Michael Mosfort, age twenty-three, of Summersville, West Virginia.
“His head hit a stone parking stopper.” He gave a mirthless, dry snort. “Bet you didn’t know those things had a name. Well, I know. I heard that six thousand times in court.”
“And he died?”
“Right there in the parking lot before an ambulance even got there. I was cuffed and arrested before that girl sobered up and realized what happened.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Turns out Paul was from a wealthy family, that his dad was a lawyer, and Paul himself had started law school that very semester. Lawyers everywhere.” He shook his head. “Except for Paul, who never got a chance to go anywhere but six feet under.”
“You didn’t intend to kill him,” she said. “You were protecting that girl. Didn’t she testify that you were protecting her?”
“That doesn’t matter when the judge is an old law school buddy of the victim’s father. The family got to the girl, and she claimed to have no memory in court. I was lucky I didn’t have attempted rape thrown at me, too.”
“Why? Why would she do that?”
“Because money talks, Irish.” He closed his eyes. “And that family had a lot of it and none of your family’s scruples. At least not when their boy was killed.”
“But you were doing what the other bouncer hired you to do. You were doing the right thing!”
He almost smiled at the echo of his public defender’s arguments. “Except, I wasn’t an employee, it was outside the place of business, and whether I intended to or not, I was well aware of the possible consequences of pushing a man that hard, and I did it anyway. I got voluntary manslaughter and fourteen years without possibility of parole.”
“Why no parole?”
“Judge. Age of victim. Shitty unfair life.” Especially his life.
With the whole thing out, Trace relaxed a little, leaning back, only then realizing she was still holding his arm.
For a long time, she said nothing. Her fingers were still, though, and warm against his skin, making him glad he’d left his jacket back at Waterford. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had touched him so tenderly.
Well, yeah, he could. Because it was the same woman.
“I think I know Pru well enough to say that she’d have been on your side in the courtroom,” Molly said.
“Can’t change the fact that I did time,” he said. “Can’t ever change that. And you only heard my side, and if I had any money, I’d bet that girl of yours is the first one to want to see both sides before making a decision. The other side won. Don’t forget that.”
He felt her intense gaze on him, and the scrutiny made him want to squirm. But he refused, looking back at her, watching wheels turn and judgments get made and thoughts form. God, he’d love to climb into those heavenly hazel eyes and know what Molly Kilcannon was thinking.
“Why don’t we both tell her?” she asked on a soft whisper.
He drew back. “That wouldn’t be fair to her. She couldn’t react normally. We’d be putting her on the spot.” Fact was, he didn’t want to tell her. He didn’t want to see that disappointment darken her eyes.
She nodded. “Yes, maybe, but it might be easier if we both did it.”
Easier for who? He put his other hand over Molly’s and pressed firmly, her palm practically burning his forearm now. “Why?”
“Because…you were given a raw deal, and that’s clear when you hear it coming from you.”
“Molly, a ‘raw deal’ was not how the courts saw it. I was convicted of murder. I will always be a murderer and an ex-con. It’s what I am.”
She shook her head, a hint of a smile pulling.
“Why is that funny?” he asked.
“It’s not. I was thinking of something my mother said the day I told her I was pregnant with Pru.”
“You’re grounded for life?” he asked on a soft laugh.
“Well, having Pru accomplished the same thing, but no. She said over and over again that Pru wasn’t a mistake. That I made a mistake, and that mistake doesn’t define me. Or her.” She inched closer to make her point. “You made a mistake, and it cost a man his life. But that doesn’t define you.”
If only that were true. “Well, that’s a nice way to look at it, Molly, but the fact is, I’m a convicted murderer, and I don’t expect a little girl who finds out that’s what her daddy is to be okay with that.”
Molly shook her head, making those silky waves dance over her shoulders. “You don’t know Pru. She’s a fighter for the right thing. She might not agree with that jury. Or she might. But she has a right to make that decision, and we have an obligation to tell her.”
“Now there’s a conversation I’m not looking forward to,” he admitted. “This was hard enough.”
“In time. We need a little time. I’ll definitely tell her that because of Meatball we’re not going to the Outer Banks.”
“So, see? She’ll hate me to start with.”
“She won’t like it, but she’s the daughter and granddaughter of veterinarians. She’ll understand. And when the time is right…”
“And when will that be?”
“Sooner rather than later.”
“Or later rather than sooner,” he suggested.
She dropped her head against the backrest, exhaling again and shuttering her eyes closed. “I never dreamed it would be so complicated.”
“Because I came back. I’m still willing to disappear as quickly and easily as I came. Once Meatball is better.”
“And I still don’t think that’s a fair option to you or, really, to Pru.”
“What about you?” he asked.
“Me?”
“What do you want?”
He could tell the question surprised her as she lifted her head, considering it. “I…my…I’m not the issue here.”
“How can you say that? You’re her mother, you’ve raised her alone, you call the shots with her. What do you want, Molly?”
She stared at him for a good, long time. “You’re only as happy as your least-happy kid,” she finally said. “I want her to be happy.”
“Then we both want the same thing,” he said. “But we have different ideas how to go about it.”
“Let’s both think about it, okay? Will you be at Waterford tomorrow?”
He rubbed his jaw, already wondering how the hell he’d get there. “I told Shane I could move into the temporary place tonight, but—”
“I’ll pick you up around five and take you there. I don’t have to get Pru until six thirty tonight. It’ll give us the afternoon to think about what we’re going to do and we’ll decide when I drive you over.”
He searched her face, drawing a little closer because she pulled him like a magnet. “You don’t owe me any of this,” he said gruffly. “Not the help for my dog, not access to Pru, not a ride to a job I didn’t even earn.”
“Trace.” She frowned and reached to him, that gentle hand on his arm again. “You’re my daughter’s father. Like it or not, that’s who you are.”
How could he not like it? Right now, it was the best thing he’d ever been.