The Sheriff's Daughter. Tara Taylor Quinn
climbed over cartons on the way to her new kitchen.
The walls were green, but they were going to become yellow before the week was out.
“Dinner’s ready!”
She grabbed a beer for her father and a glass of diet cola with lots of ice for herself. Then she collected paper plates, tore paper towel off the roll to serve as napkins and fell onto an elegant dining-room chair in her ceramic-tiled kitchen.
Brent had gotten the kitchen set, in spite of the fact that Sara didn’t have a formal dining room. So…eclectic was in. The set was made of handcarved cherry wood and the seats were extremely comfortable.
“TV, VCR, DVD and stereo are all hooked up.” John Lindsay came in, stopping by the sink to wash his hands.
She nodded. Half of the components were new. As was the entertainment center in her small sunken living room.
Unscrewing the beer cap, he sat across from her, apparently unaware of the incongruity of sitting in his jeans and sweaty T-shirt in an informal kitchen on velvet brocade chairs. He loaded his paper towel with pizza slices. Took a hefty bite. Looked over at her empty plate.
“Eat.”
“I will.” Maybe after he left.
But probably not. She’d had a banana a couple of hours before. And cereal for breakfast. She’d stay alive another day.
“Now.” His dark-eyed gaze bore into her.
Sara picked up a slice of pizza and watched her father eat. John Lindsay, retired and in his sixties, was still an intimidating man. Tall, lean, even now, with broad shoulders that never seemed to hunch, he commanded respect.
He loved her. Sara had never doubted that.
He glanced up and caught her staring. “What’s on your mind?”
She could shrug, tell him nothing, and no more would be said. Or…
“I met my son.”
Hand on his beer bottle, he froze.
“I’d given permission for the agency to reveal my identity, if he ever asked.”
“Why didn’t your mother and I know about this?”
“You wouldn’t have approved.”
His glance was searching. And then he nodded, started to eat again.
“He’s a cop, Daddy,” she said softly.
“Where?”
“Here. With the Columbus police. He’s on the Westerville beat.”
“I know some guys over there.”
“I figured you would.”
“You want me to ask around about him?”
“Would it matter if I said no?”
“Probably not.”
She grinned. “I didn’t think so.”
He finished his pizza. Wiped his mouth. And sat back with his bottle of beer in his hand.
“How long ago did you meet him?”
“Over six weeks,” she told him and then quickly added, “I’ve only seen him once, when he showed up unannounced on my doorstep.”
“Did he say why?”
“He’s known about me since he was fourteen and he’s been keeping a watch over me, he said.” With a deep breath, she continued, “Which is how he found out about Brent and Chloe.”
John frowned. “He’s the one who told you?”
Nodding, Sara played with her pizza crust, twirling a thin piece back and forth between her fingers. “He thought I should know.”
Her father didn’t look as if he agreed with her son’s decision and Sara was struck once again with her awareness of something she’d always known. Her father would tell her only what he thought was for her own good, withholding everything else. And his idea of what was good for her wasn’t necessarily hers.
“What’s he like?”
Sara smiled and held back the tears that arrived every time she thought about the handsome young man who’d shown up on her doorstep and turned her life upside-down. In so many ways.
“Taller than you. Broad. Blond, with green eyes. Like any good cop, he seemed to take in the whole room at a glance.”
And he’d given her things to think about that were compelling enough to take her mind off the fact that life as she’d known it was over—that the man she’d trusted to be loyal to her, hadn’t been.
“His name’s Ryan. Ryan Mercedes.”
John sipped his beer slowly, gaze intent, though he didn’t seem to be focusing on anything in front of him.
“I don’t think it’s just chance that he’s in police work.”
“What?” Her father asked, turning that gaze on her. “You think it’s hereditary?”
“I think he’s a young man with an analytical mind like yours, an unbending view of right and wrong and a sense of responsibility to do what he can to fight evil. He’s known since he was fourteen that his grandfather was a sheriff, and I think some emotional need to connect with his biological roots, combined with his traits, has led him to his chosen career.”
“You got all this from one meeting?”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about him.”
And the things he’d told her.
“You going to see him again?”
The sun was setting, though it would be another hour or two before it got dark outside. Evening shadows were creeping into the kitchen.
“He left his number.”
“I take it you haven’t called.”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
SARA ALMOST CALLED Ryan Saturday night. Now that her father knew, hadn’t tried to deny that she’d ever been pregnant and given up her child or denied that he had a biological grandson, Ryan’s existence seemed all the more real.
She picked up the phone a couple of times, but always put it down again. She had no idea what she’d say. If he’d be at home on a Saturday night—or what he’d be doing if he was.
Did one leave a message for one’s child that one had given away? What did she call herself? This is your mother. Her mind played out various messages and rejected them.
Mrs. Mercedes was Ryan’s mother. Sara was Sara. Nothing more.
HER FATHER WAS BACK again on Sunday, seemingly undeterred by the seventy-five-minute drive from Maricopa to Columbus, to unpack her half of the tools in her garage. He’d brought along a Peg-Board and broom-holder bar to hang for her.
And when that was done, he came inside to help, moving boxes, putting together the new daybed in the room that was going to serve as her study and guest room. After which, he installed two new toilet seats in her bathrooms—Sara’s mother had always insisted new toilet seats were mandatory when moving.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, watching as he lay flat on his back on the tile floor, his head underneath the tank while he worked an ornery lug nut, Sara knew the time had come.
Ryan’s appearance in her life had prompted many changes. And because she was starting to obsess about some of the things he’d told her—the things left unsaid—she was going to have to do something.
“Tell me about that night.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “What night?” The words came out almost as a grunt as he gave the wrench