The Black Sheep’s Baby

Chapter 6

A s if the gods understood that Devon, a Californian born and bred, was in no way equipped to deal with such things as blizzards, the storm seemed to let up a little as she fought her way back to the house. The wind dropped; instead of the feral wail and shriek she’d almost grown accustomed to, a lovely whispering silence fell. Snow still swirled, but not in an impenetrable curtain. It lent an almost Christmas-card quality to the farmhouse huddled on the crown of the hill beneath the stark bare branches of trees.

Oh, God-Christmas. She remembered, then, with a small sense of shock, that Christmas was only a few days away-she’d lost track of exactly how many. Back in Los Angeles, in a world a universe away, Christmas decorations would be wilting in eighty-degree sunshine, and shoppers coming to blows-sometimes worse-over the last available spaces in the mall parking lots. An unheralded wave of homesickness swept over her, filling her with an intense longing for a freeway traffic jam, a nice hot Santa Ana wind.

Christmas was no big deal to Devon. She personally didn’t go in for a lot of the sentimental trappings, but she wasn’t one of those people who got mopey and depressed during the holidays, either. Her shopping had been done weeks ago with a minimum of fuss, all her purchases gift-wrapped at the store where she’d bought them and now stacked neatly on the bed in her seldom-used guest room. She never bothered with a tree, since she was so rarely home to appreciate it. On Christmas Eve, as always, she would have dinner with her parents at their home in Canoga Park. As for the day itself, she was currently “between relationships” so there would be no leisurely Christmas morning cuddle with mugs of eggnog in front of a gas log fire. Devon planned to catch up on some paperwork, and later perhaps drop in on one or more of the holiday parties to which she’d been invited. Or, maybe she’d skip them all and go to a movie. The advantage of being single, she thought, was that she could do pretty much anything she pleased. Which was the way she liked it.

As she approached the house, two medium-sized dogs-they’d sounded much larger in the dark last night-came romping out to meet her. Not being accustomed to dogs-or animals of any kind-and remembering the ferocious-sounding welcome they’d given her upon her arrival, Devon froze in her tracks. Holding her hands and arms close to her chest and trying to look as stumplike as possible, she ventured in a quavering voice, “Hello, doggy. Nice doggy…?” However, no doubt smelling familiar clothing, they greeted her like a returning prodigal, with wriggling and giddy joy.

“Nice doggy,” Devon confirmed as she pushed past wet, questing noses and clomped on up the snow-dusted steps to the back porch.

Shedding her muddy boots and snow-crusted parka in the service room, as instructed, she went into the kitchen. Her cheeks and fingers were tingling, her nose running; she felt exhilarated for having survived all Mother Nature could throw at her. And something else-a curious sense of…almost of expectation…of the warmth and light and welcome that awaited her there. Odd-when she’d never felt like that coming into her own home, or even her parents’ home when she was a child. Had she?

Such a simple, basic thing. A feeling of home, of welcome and security. Why couldn’t she remember even that?

As it turned out, the kitchen was empty. But it smelled of coffee and bacon and maple syrup, and there were two places set at the oval oak table. More dishes, washed and stacked in a drainer in the sink, suggested Mike and Lucy had already eaten.

Never a big breakfast eater at the best of times, and with a stomach full of knots left over from that confrontation with Eric in the barn, Devon poured herself a cup of coffee which she sipped standing at the counter, frowning at nothing while she digested unaccustomed feelings of disappointment and loneliness.

“Crazy,” she muttered to herself, not even sure what she meant by it. Only silence answered her.

No, not quite silence. She became aware all at once of a sound, one that had been there all along, but one so familiar, so much a part of her customary habitat, it hadn’t registered. The faint and distant clickety-clack of computer keys.

Carrying her coffee, she wandered down a dim hallway toward the front of the house, head cocked and ears pricked like a hunter alert to the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves. On one side of the house a formal living room stood dark and, Devon suspected, seldom used. Across from it an open doorway spilled warmth and light and busy noises into the hallway murk.

Devon announced herself with a polite “Knock knock” as she stepped into what was obviously these people’s real “living room,” and a welcoming clutter of books and family photographs, afghans and worn but comfortable furniture.

“Come on in.” Mike was peering intently at a computer monitor that was sitting on an old wooden desk placed endwise to a window through which Devon could see snowflakes swirling amongst bare black branches. A moment later the keyboard clatter ceased and he turned from the screen, peeling off a pair of dark-rimmed glasses as he rose with a welcoming smile.

“Oh, please,” she said, holding up a hand, palm outward, “don’t stop. I’m sorry-I’m interrupting you.” But she couldn’t keep curiosity out of her voice, and, she was sure, her face. The desk was piled high with papers and books, and a low table under the window held a sophisticated combination printer-scanner-fax machine. Granted, Devon hadn’t much firsthand knowledge, but it seemed to her a little much for a farmhouse in the middle of Iowa.

“No problem,” Mike cheerfully assured her. “I was just killing time. Deadline’s still a ways off. Did you find breakfast? I think Lucy left it in the oven to keep warm.”

“What? Oh-yes, thanks…” She waved her coffee cup and offered an apologetic smile. “Actually, though, coffee’s all I want right now. I had some toast earlier, so I wasn’t really hungry. Maybe later?”

“That’s fine.” There was a pause, and then, with a cautious smile, he asked, “Eric still shoveling manure in the barn?”

Devon murmured an affirmative and managed to avoid his eyes by taking a sip of coffee, but not before she’d caught the compassionate twinkle in his eyes.

“Where’s Lucy?” she asked as she turned away to begin a casual exploration of the room.

“Take a guess.” He pointed at the ceiling as he joined Devon in front of an old upright piano topped with a collection of framed photographs she was looking at without really seeing. “First thing Lucy did this morning after chores was unearth the bassinet and her rocking chair. She’s taking to this grandmother business in a big way.”

Devon would never be mistaken for a sentimentalist. She gave him a quick glance, and her mouth opened to tell him the truth in her customary blunt and forthright manner. But something-an unexpected constriction-suddenly made it impossible, and instead she swallowed the words with an audible sound she tried to hide in a gulp of coffee.

Mike wasn’t fooled. “What?” he prompted gently.

Devon shrugged, keeping a shoulder turned to him, avoiding his eyes. “Nothing-I was just…”

“I take it she isn’t.” It was matter-of-fact. And not a question.

She gave him another quick, hard look; then, letting go of a breath, nodded. “He admitted it to me just now-down in the barn.” Oddly, right now she felt no sense of victory.

After several long seconds of silence, Mike murmured on an exhalation of regret, “Well, Lucy will be disappointed.”

Devon felt an alien bump of empathy. Startled, even a little frightened by it, she moved on to the fireplace, where still more photographs crowded the mantelpiece and a fire sputtered and crackled with a merry eccentricity that could only be real wood.

“You don’t seem surprised,” she remarked, holding her hands toward the fire even though they weren’t cold, watching them so she wouldn’t have to look at the gallery of photographs arrayed before her. She couldn’t have said why; normally she liked photographs. Moreover, these were Eric’s family. She wanted to know more about him, didn’t she? And here they all were, his entire family spread out in front of her, all those friendly eyes and wholesome smiles. Nice people…good people.

Mike had come beside her again. “Oh, I was pretty sure Eric wasn’t Emily’s biological father.”

Devon tilted her head and fixed him with a look of honest curiosity. She was a lawyer; she hadn’t missed the precise and, she was sure, deliberate terminology. “May I ask why?”

He smiled, though not with his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, the way he told us, I guess. Eric’s always been careful with words-what comes of having a writer for a father. What he said was, ‘she’s mine.’ You understand? Not, ‘she’s my daughter,’ or ‘I’m her father.’” The smile made it to his eyes then, just as his mouth tilted into irony. “I know my son.”

Once again she was caught unawares, this time by the poignancy in that particular combination of words and smile. “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, frowning at her coffee cup. “I know this is awkward-my being here. Like this.”

“Wasn’t much anybody could have done about it.” Mike gave a little shrug. “Couldn’t very well let you freeze to death on our doorstep.”

Devon laughed. “Well, yes, actually, you could have.” Somber again, she looked him straight in the eye-one of her best weapons in the courtroom-and said earnestly, “You have to believe I never meant it to be like this. The storm-”

“What did you mean it to be like?” His interruption surprised her. Suddenly alert, she realized the eyes that gazed back into hers, eyes that before had held only gentleness and compassion, now held a keen and probing light. “Just curious,” he said quietly, studying her, arms folded on his chest. “Seems a little unusual for an attorney to personally take on something like this. Why didn’t you let the authorities handle things?”

Devon made a sound, a soft, unamused laugh, and turned her back on the homey crackle of the fire. “You’re right, it is unusual for the attorney to get personally involved. I chose to, for several reasons. I definitely would have handled it differently if Emily hadn’t been my niece-that’s one. However, since in the normal course of things, Emily winds up in foster care and your son possibly in jail on contempt charges-” Aware that her voice had developed a hard and brittle edge, she abruptly changed both her tone and tactics, schooling her gestures and body language as she would in handling a delicate courtroom situation.

“You have to understand,” she said, one hand upraised, quietly earnest again. “I had no idea what kind of person your son was, what his background was, nothing. Except that my sister Susan evidently trusted him and thought enough of him to leave her baby in his care, even though she knew he wasn’t the biological father.” Her poise slipped and she gave another mirthless laugh. “Of course, my sister was a homeless, screwed-up kid, probably a drug addict, so what does that tell you?”

She told me she’d been abused by her father. Your father.

She gulped cold coffee and just did manage to keep from choking on it. The struggle for control hardened her voice again as she continued, “So, the upshot of it is, I had our firm’s P.I. track him down. Once we had this as his home address, and credit card gasoline receipts started popping up showing him heading east on a direct course to Iowa, it wasn’t hard to figure out where he was going. I thought I’d beat him here, actually. I thought the unexpectedness of my being here, waiting for him, would demonstrate the futility of running, and that I could convince him the best course of action for everybody concerned would be for him to bring Emily back to Los Angeles voluntarily. For Susan’s sake, I didn’t want to see him arrested. And I definitely didn’t want Emily in the hands of social services.”

“Especially,” Mike said dryly, “at Christmastime.”

Devon looked at him and made a faint “Humph” sound. “Believe it or not, I never even thought about that. I keep forgetting it’s Christmas.” She looked around, only then realizing that, comfortable and warm as the room-the whole house-was, she hadn’t seen any sign of holiday decorations. No Christmas tree or wrapped presents, no creche, no wreaths or garlands, not so much as a twinkling light or red velvet bow.

Mike had followed her gaze, and apparently her thoughts. “I know what you mean. We’ve been having the same problem around here. Been meaning to do it-the boxes of decorations are sitting upstairs in Lucy’s work room. Tree’s in a bucket on the back porch. Just haven’t gotten around to it. Lucy’s been in a mood this year…” He paused, then added softly, “She’s been missing the kids more than usual. Eric’s coming home was…like the answer to a prayer.”

Eric. Devon didn’t want to think about Eric, didn’t want to hear his name or remember those unsettling moments she’d just spent with him down in the barn. And yet, she knew she must if she was to regain-and maintain-the upper hand here, where she was so clearly out of her element.

“This is all so different than I imagined,” she said on an exhalation, strolling to the window and on the way trailing her fingers idly across an antique wind-up Victrola and a worn recliner draped with a brightly colored afghan.

Behind her, Mike’s voice sounded amused. “Considering how little you knew of my son, I’m sure it is.”

The desk, the computer monitor, were right in front of her. She touched the monitor, remembering things he’d said before. She said brightly, conversationally, “You said you’re a writer?”

“Journalist, actually. I write a nationally syndicated column-just twice a week, now. And once a month on a rotation for Newsweek.”

Devon turned to stare at him. “Wow. I’m sorry-I feel I should know who you are.” She smiled her regret, meaning it. “The truth is, I don’t have much time for reading newspapers and magazines-mostly what I read are legal briefs and court documents.”

“Ouch,” Mike said with a good-natured wince. “I hate to say it, but it sounds boring as hell.”

She smiled. “It can be. But not always.”

“Sounds as though you like what you do.” Again his eyes had turned probing.

“Yes, I do.” But she was never comfortable talking about herself, and steered the conversation firmly back to the subject she was most interested in. “So you’re a writer-sorry, journalist-and Lucy’s a farmer. That’s an unlikely combination, isn’t it? How did you two meet?”

“A long story. Part of the family folklore.”

Devon waited, but he said no more. She gave a dismissive shrug and said lightly, “I hope you’ll tell it to me some time.” But she was conscious of the same vague disappointment she’d felt, coming in from the cold and finding the kitchen empty. Plagued by unfamiliar and perplexing emotions, she fought down irritation and tried again. “Eric’s not an only child?”

“We have a daughter, four-no, almost five years older.” He picked up a framed photograph from the mantel and handed it to her. “Rose Ellen. She’s a biologist-works for the government. She and her husband are out of the country at the moment-in fact, most of the time these days.”

Devon recognized the pretty, wholesome-looking girl she’d seen in so many of the photos on the walls of Eric’s room. After a moment she nodded and handed it back. “A biologist-wow. And Eric’s a photographer.” She was on the verge of asking how such a thing had come about when Mike interrupted her.

“Photojournalist,” he corrected firmly.

Devon laughed. “He said exactly the same thing to me, you know-down in the barn.”

“It’s an important distinction.” Mike’s eyes were smiling. “As is writer versus journalist.”

“I’ll remember that.” For the first time, she felt some of her own awkwardness and tension ease. “I saw the photographs upstairs in his room,” she said, touching one or two of the frames on the mantelpiece before turning to a collection hanging on the wall next to the fireplace. “Did he take these as well?”

“No, not those.”

Alerted by something in his voice, Devon leaned over to peer at one photograph in particular, a dramatic picture of helicopters flying in formation over a jungle river at sunset. As beautiful as it was, there was something subtly menacing about it. “This looks familiar. Is it Vietnam?”

“It is.” Devon turned to look at him; for once he hadn’t moved up beside her, but stood a little way off, hands in his pockets. “Those are my dad’s. He was a photojournalist, too. A pretty famous one-Sean Lanagan. He was killed in a helicopter crash during the Tet Offensive. Which I realize you’ve probably never heard of.” He tilted his head toward the wall of photographs. “Those came from magazines, actually-some of them. Others I got from my mother. My personal collection, the ones he’d sent me from all over the world when I was a kid, were lost in a fire years ago.”

He paused, then went on in a musing tone, still gazing at the photos. “Eric idolized his grandfather. Always wanted to be just like him.” Again his smile tilted crookedly. “Until recently, I think his biggest disappointment had been not having a war to go to.”

He said it lightly, but thanks to the nature of her profession, Devon’s emotional intensity radar was acute. Issues, she thought.

Moving abruptly away from the photo wall, she caught sight of a snapshot on the mantelpiece, similar to one she’d seen upstairs, of a laughing young man standing under a huge tree, one knee on an old-fashioned wood plank and rope swing, holding on to the ropes. “Oh, my God,” she cried, snatching it up, “please don’t tell me-this can’t be President Brown!”

Mike chuckled; it was the first time Devon could remember hearing anyone actually make such a sound. “Oh, that’s Rhett, all right. I suppose we should have something more dignified-an official presidential portrait, at least, but Lucy likes that one. She’s always thought Rhett is inclined to be a little too full of himself, and she wants to make sure he doesn’t forget where he came from.” Devon was staring at him, speechless. He laughed. “You didn’t know? Rhett Brown is Lucy’s brother.”

Realizing her mouth was open, she hurriedly closed it-and then her eyes as well. “I had no idea,” she said faintly, “Until I saw the picture upstairs.” And then, in a burst of candor brought on by chagrin, snapped, “I can’t believe this. Yesterday I thought your son was just some homeless unemployed bum my drug addict sister picked up on the street. Today I find out he’s the nephew of the former president of the United States.”

A husky voice, dry and amused, responded from the doorway, “The two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, are they?”

Devon jerked toward the voice.

“Hello, son,” Mike said mildly, “did you find your breakfast?”

“Not yet, but I will.” Eric let his eyes slide past Devon as he moved into the room. Okay, so he was deliberately-perhaps childishly-ignoring her. And yet, so acutely attuned to her he could hear her breathing, quick and shallow like his own. “Baby still asleep?”

“Your mother’s up there with her,” his dad said. “Haven’t heard a peep out of either one of ’em.” He ran a hand over his chin, looked from Eric to Devon and back again. “Uhh, guess I’ll go see what they’re up to…”

“I’ll go. She’s my kid.” Eric wanted to kick himself for the surliness in his voice.

He felt like even more of a jerk when his dad merely said, touching his arm as he moved past him, “You’d better get your breakfast first-you know your mother, she’s not going to want to see your face upstairs until you do. And,” he added with a chuckle on his way out the door, “you’d better change out of those pants before she sees ’em, too.”

“Some things never change,” Eric growled into the silence his father’s going left behind.

Devon laughed, a light but artificial sound. “Sounds like you might have a few issues with your father.”

He let himself look at her then, having had time to prepare himself for the shock that always came from seeing her, time to school his features so as not to let it show. Though…he felt the jolt a lot less this time. Maybe he was getting used to her. Beginning to see her as Devon, instead of Susan’s Ghost.

“What is this…issues?” he drawled as he studied her. “We don’t communicate. We’re father and son. So what else is new?” His voice was edgy because he was thinking that if the woman could look as beautiful as she did wearing his dad’s castoff bathrobe, somebody’s old chore coat and his high school sweatshirt, he sure would like to see what she looked like in her own clothes. What would they be, he wondered-gray flannel suits for the courtroom, maybe? Something softer, more feminine for the evenings. Royal-blue, or a deep forest-green, he thought, dressing her with his photographer’s eye.

“I don’t know,” Devon drawled back, mimicking his own tone as she touched the computer monitor that was sitting on his dad’s old desk, “your father seems like a pretty good communicator to me. I didn’t find him hard to talk to at all.”

Eric snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s because you’re not his son.” He added under his breath as he turned away from her, “And you haven’t let him down as many times as I have.”

“What?”

He watched his fingers trail lightly over dusty piano keys, making no sound. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“I’m sorry,” she persisted, moving closer to him, “what do you mean, you ‘let him down’?”

He lifted an eyebrow at her and smiled without humor. “Take a guess.”

But he saw that she was frowning, and genuinely perplexed. He let out a long slow breath while he thought about whether to answer her or not. It wasn’t his problems-issues-with his family he wanted to talk about, and certainly not with her. What he needed to do was get her talking about her family, her issues. On the other hand, maybe one way to get her talking and remembering was to start the ball rolling himself.

For a few more seconds, though, he didn’t say anything; not being used to personal confidences, it was hard to know how to begin. Finally, he reached up and took down a photograph-the biggest one-from the top of the piano. Smiling because that particular one always made him smile, he handed it to Devon.

She gave him a curious glance. “Who is it? Looks old-the picture, I mean, not-”

“It’s my great-great-Lord knows how many greats-grandmother. Lucinda Rosewood.”

“She looks a lot like your mom.” Devon was holding the portrait like an open book in her two hands, her normally flawless forehead marred by a tiny frown.

Eric nodded. “She’s named for her.”

Her eyes flew wide, colliding with his, and he felt himself start as if he’d been splashed with cool green water. “Oh-she’s much prettier, of course. Your mom is, I mean. This lady-God, she looks so severe.”

Eric laughed and shifted so he could look at the portrait of his ancestor with her. He caught the faintest whiff of something from her clothing…could it be mothballs? “Those pioneer women always do, don’t they? Like they could lick their weight in wildcats.” His throat was husky. He cleared it, and as if it were a signal of some kind, Devon looked up at him and handed the picture back.

Instead of returning it to its place, he held on to it, and said hoarsely, “There’s a legend in our family about Grandma Rosewood-I must have heard it a thousand times at least, growing up.”

“Legend?” Her voice was hushed, and…was it his imagination, or did there seem to be a catch in her breathing?

He didn’t look to see why. He was too close to her…the heat from her body was seeping through the weave of his shirt, soaking into his skin. Her scent was in every breath he took-a warm, woman’s scent, without even a lingering hint of mothballs.

He cleared his throat again. “Yeah…according to this legend, Grandma Rosewood saved herself and her baby from a Sioux raiding party by setting fire to her own house and barn. Then she tied her baby up in her apron and climbed down the well and hid there while the fire burned all the way to the river.”

“Looking at that picture of her,” Devon said in a light, laughing voice, “I can easily believe it.”

He reached up to set the portrait in its place. “That’s how long this farm has been in our family. Handed down from generation to generation, for more than a hundred and fifty years.”

“Wow…some legacy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a legacy that’s going to end with my mom,” Eric said, and his voice was neither light nor laughing, but hard and heavy, like the weight that had come to be in the middle of his chest.