A Father's Sacrifice. Karen Sandler
slice open a foil-wrapped baker and toss it on the plate.
If he hadn’t let his mind drift a bit from the actions of his hands, he might have missed the flash of movement caught out of the corner of his eye. As it was, he was so occupied with moving the T-bone from the hottest part of the flame, he couldn’t turn to confirm what he thought he’d seen. There was a shuffle of feet next, then when Jameson glanced over toward the source of the noise, he saw a small form duck out of sight.
After four years constantly on edge, aware of the peril around every corner, it was a relief to have nothing more to fear than the spying eyes of a young boy. When Jameson heard another rattle, then a clang when a large metal spoon slipped from a counter to the floor, he sensed the child didn’t want to be seen so he kept his attention on his work.
He’d gotten only the briefest glimpse of the youngster before Nina had swept him away. He had Nina’s coloring—dark hair, lively dark eyes, a sweet smile. Thin as a whippet, unlike his mother’s generous body. Energy to spare, Jameson guessed from the way the boy had rocketed into the café.
So, who was the father? Jameson remembered Nina had had quite a thing for one of the local ranchers. That was part of the reason she’d been so vulnerable to him, he recalled with a twinge of guilt. Despite the passion blazing through him, he’d made certain that night she was willing, but even then, he’d known he wouldn’t have had a chance if her heart wasn’t aching for another man.
So, could the rancher be the father? Had he and Nina linked up after Jameson had disappeared from her life? If so, the rancher certainly wasn’t in the picture now, or he would have been the first one she called to stand in for the missing night cook.
Suddenly, there was Nina on the other side of the pass-through, her wary gaze on him. Jameson flushed, half wondering if she’d somehow guessed his thoughts. But she was only there to slap another order on the shelf.
Jameson reached for it, then when Nina made to pick up the slip of paper again, his fingers tangled with hers. She stared at him, startled, her hand tense against his. He had to pull away, shouldn’t be touching her, but she was too warm, too real. He couldn’t seem to break the contact.
She snatched back the meal check. “Sorry. Forgot to add fries.”
“No problem.” He turned away on the pretext of checking the steak on the grill. He flipped the T-bone, giving her time to drop the check and go. But when he returned to the prep counter, she still stood at the window, her brown eyes troubled.
“We always worked well together,” she said. Then she tipped her head down, set down the check and hurried out to the tables.
Emotion tugged at him, a shadow of what he’d felt years ago when the Russos had taken him into their lives. At the time, he would have jumped over the moon if it would have won their acceptance. And yet he’d betrayed them—once with their only daughter, a second time when he took the path that led to Folsom Prison.
He set his mind back to his work. Take the T-bone off the grill. Serve up mashed potatoes and gravy. Spoon up a dish of peas and put the order up.
He quickly finished the other plates for the ticket, rang the bell and stabbed the check onto the spindle with the other completed orders. When Nina arrived to take the plates out, he made sure he was on his way to the walk-in for more steaks.
As he passed what had once been the dry store pantry, he was surprised to see the space had been converted into a kind of playroom. His small spy had returned to home territory and was now bent over crayons and paper, toys scattered at his feet, a video playing on the TV. The name “Nathan” was stenciled on the wall. Jameson kept moving, his promise urging him on.
They’d reorganized the walk-in refrigerator, but it didn’t take long to orient himself and locate the steaks. He tugged a ten-pound box from the metal shelf and pushed open the walk-in door. As he rounded the heavy door, he nearly collided with a three-foot-tall dynamo in blue jeans and Harry Potter sweatshirt.
The boy jumped back, craning his neck to look up at Jameson. “Who are you?”
Something about the boy teased at Jameson, the stubborn line of his jaw, the pugnacious turned up nose. When he recognized the familiarity, pain stabbed at him. That childish face reminded him of his brother Sean when he was ten years old. Because his grandfather had forbidden any visits, it had been by sheer happenstance Jameson had seen Sean that day in San Francisco. Several years older than Nina’s son was now, he’d nevertheless had that same innocence in his face. It wasn’t until later the rebelliousness and anger engulfed him.
He forced a smile. “I’m Jameson.”
The coffee brown eyes narrowed on him. “Are you the new cook?”
“I’m just helping your mom tonight. Are you Nathan?” Jameson asked, remembering the name on the wall.
“Nate,” the boy corrected him. “Mommy needs lots of help. ’Cause some of the cooks really stink.”
Jameson stifled a laugh. “I’m sure they do their best.”
“Nope. They’re all flakes. That’s what Mommy says.”
The box of steaks was cold and clammy in his hands, and no doubt he had another order waiting, but he couldn’t resist the restless, wiry charm of Nina’s dark-haired son. He found himself trying to think of something to keep the conversation going. “I like your playroom.”
“Come look,” he said, snagging Jameson’s wrist. “Papa and Granny made it for me.”
Nate towed Jameson along toward the playroom. They’d nearly stepped inside when Nina appeared and blocked Jameson’s way.
Alarm burst inside Nina when she saw Nate’s small hand on Jameson’s arm. She couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. “What are you doing with him?”
Jameson backed away. “I’m sorry. I came back for steaks. He was just—”
“I like this one, Mommy.” Nate eyed Jameson from head to toe. “He doesn’t stink at all.”
She took a breath, tried to calm herself. “Go back to your cubby, Nate.”
Nate’s lower lip came out as he considered rebellion. Then he turned toward the alcove, feet dragging. Just before he slipped inside he looked back at Jameson. “Can you come say goodbye to me? Before you go?”
Jameson glanced over at her. How could she say no? She nodded.
“Sure,” Jameson said. “Before I go.”
Arms crossed, she returned to the kitchen, Jameson behind her. He dropped the box of steaks on the prep counter and ripped open the flaps. “I didn’t go looking for him.”
“I know.” Nina stepped back out of his way as he crossed the kitchen to the stainless steel refrigerator.
He yanked open one of the double doors and pulled out a plastic bin. “I would never hurt him, for God’s sake.” He grabbed steaks from the box and slapped them into the plastic bin. Pitching his voice lower he said, “I’m not a damn pervert.”
Guilt warred with her protective instincts. “I didn’t think you were.”
The bin refilled, he returned it to the refrigerator, then glanced out at the floor. “Any more orders?”
“No. I was just coming back to tell you we have a bit of a break.”
He pulled down the last ticket, scrutinized it as if it was the Rosetta stone. His dark brown hair, always such a startling contrast to the blue of his eyes, was cut too short to curl the way it had when he’d worn it longer. She remembered the night they’d been together, that it had started with her brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead.
She never should have touched him. But the loneliness she could usually keep at bay had swamped her that night. She’d seen Tom Jarret in the café, and the hopelessness of her love for him had hit her hard. She’d gone back into the kitchen