Page 62 of Whispers

Claire sc

ooted her chair back. “He can’t stop me from marrying Harley.”

“Of course he can, honey,” Dominique said, her face suddenly appearing old.

“That’s bullshit! He can’t tell me what to do.” Tessa shot her chair back and, half-running, took off for the front of the house.

“I worry about her,” Dominique said. “Such a hothead, and you”—she reached out, touching Claire’s hand with long, beringed fingers—“it’s not wise to fall too deeply into love.”

“Why not?” Claire said, but she looked nervous and drew her hand away from her mother’s.

“You should always hold a little back. Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case the man you love doesn’t love you back.”

“Harley does,” Claire said swiftly as she shoved her chair away from the table. “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?” She, too, walked out of the room, and, as she did, Miranda noticed the doubt in her eyes, the worry clouding Claire’s gaze.

“Oh, Lord,” Dominique said when she and Miranda were alone in the room. The sound of violins playing some soulful classical piece wafted softly through hidden speakers and filled the painful silence. “Take a lesson, Randa.” She smiled sadly. “I guess I don’t need to talk to you about this sort of thing.”

“No, Mom, you don’t,” Miranda said, though she knew she was lying through her teeth.

“Well, someday a boy will touch you in a special way and then, for the love of God, watch out.”

“Is that what happened with you and Dad?”

Dominique’s face turned into a mask of sadness. She glanced out the window to the porch where her husband was sending clouds of smoke into the starless night. “No,” she admitted. “The truth is that I grew up without any money, you know that. Your father was wealthy and I . . . I decided he was my only escape. I got pregnant.”

“On purpose?” Miranda whispered, thinking about the baby who hadn’t survived to be born. The older sister she’d never had.

Dominique lifted a silk-draped shoulder. “I did what I had to, and I’ve never regretted it. Well, except at times like this. I just don’t understand why this family can’t sit down and have a civil meal together.”

Jack Songbird hiked the collar of his jean jacket closer around his neck. The wind was picking up, blowing in from the Pacific, a storm brewing. Good. He liked the fierce squalls. Bring it on! More than a little drunk, he glared at what remained of his campfire. Hot, red embers glowed in the night. He took a long pull from his fifth of whiskey and glanced upward, to the few stars visible through the clouds. Here on the ridge he felt above it all, the town of Chinook stretching along the inlet, lights sparkling as if to mimic the stars. Somewhere down there his father and mother were probably wondering where he was. Well, they could just damn wonder. He didn’t care.

Slightly drunk, he pulled out his knife and smiled, remembering how it had felt to run the sharp blade along the car’s sleek paint job. It had felt good. Right. No one would ever know. No one could ever prove he was the vandal.

His parents, if they ever found out, would be mortified. They seemed to accept their lot in life without any qualms. They had pride in themselves, in their heritage, but they didn’t seem to accept the truth—Native Americans had gotten the shaft big-time. They seemed to give a little lip service to their ancestors and the “ways of the people” but they didn’t do anything about it, they weren’t angry that they were reduced to living near the poverty level, accepting wages from pricks like the Taggerts and the Hollands.

Shit.

It just wasn’t fair.

And then Crystal. Jesus, what was she thinking? Running around with Weston Taggert while he treated her like dirt. Such a waste. Crystal was smart and beautiful. Too good for Taggert.

Jack glanced down at the blade of his knife and scowled. He marred the car, yeah, but gouging the paint had been the act of a coward. What he’d really needed to do was slit Weston Taggert’s throat—show the bastard what it meant to treat a good woman like a whore. He slid the blade between his index finger and thumb, testing it, knowing that he would never have the guts to kill the bastard, even when he was balling Crystal and treating her like dirt.

You’re just mad cuz he fired your ass.

Well, that was part of it. Jack dropped his knife onto his backpack then took a long swallow from his bottle. Maybe now he could blow this hick town. Take off in his pickup and head south. To California. Get away from Chinook for good. But first he needed to take a piss. Bad.

He heard a noise in the trees just out of the light of the fire. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. There had been sightings of puma and bobcat a little farther up in the hills and bears had been known to wander in these parts . . .

Jack cocked his head, his ears straining. Maybe it was nothing. A rabbit or possum or night bird . . . He heard nothing over the rush of wind, hiss of the fire and the dull roar of the ocean pounding the rocky shoreline a hundred feet below.

It was just his imagination, nothing more. The wind.

And yet . . . He felt the first few drops of rain and thought about leaving, going home, facing the wrath of his parents when they found out that he’d been canned. Jesus, Ruby would have herself a helluva hissy fit but the old man would be worse. From him, Jack would get the silent treatment. Yep, it was time to move on.