The Soldier And The Single Mom. Lee Tobin McClain

Finally, she spoke. “Hank was...smart and handsome. And rich.”

      He smiled. “Bodes well for Bobby.”

      “Yes. I just hope he doesn’t inherit a couple of the other genes.”

      “Like?”

      “Like the addiction-prone one.”

      “Oh.” Buck looked away, feeling ashamed. Addiction was considered genetic by some, but more of a character flaw by most. And it was a flaw he shared. “Did your husband ever do AA or anything like that?”

      “He was more into cocaine,” she said, “but sure, he did NA. Plenty of times.”

      “It never took?” That was discouraging. “You’re talking about him in the past tense. Is he dead?”

      “He died not long after Bobby was born. Ski accident.”

      “Drugs?”

      She nodded. “Yes. He was high, skiing one of the most dangerous double black diamond slopes in California. He didn’t have a chance.”

      “I’m sorry.” Why did a guy do drugs when he had a wife and baby who needed him?

      Then again, why did any addict do what he did?

      “So that’s not who you’re running from.”

      She shook her head. “No. It’s...my in-laws.”

      “Your husband’s family? What’s the problem there?”

      She sighed. “Abuse, if you must know. I don’t want to talk about it.”

      Buck’s pulse rate shot up. There it was. He’d like to get his hands on those people. “If they abused you or Bobby, they should go to prison.”

      “They should, but they won’t,” she said with complete certainty.

      “They’re that powerful?”

      “They’re that powerful.”

      The sky was black velvet now, the air cooling more. She huddled under the blanket she’d been using as a nursing cover. She looked so pretty. So vulnerable. So in need of protection.

      As was the little baby now sleeping in his arms.

      He wasn’t going to let anything happen between him and Gina, no way, but he had to let her stay. Dion had asked him to, and he had a lot to report to the police chief. And maybe, just maybe, it was a way for him to get over Ivana, move on. Maybe this was part of the restitution he was trying to practice in his recovery.

      He was to make amends for wrongs he had done. Well, he was doing that with bar owners around town, with friends he’d borrowed from. With Lacey, who’d had to put up with a lot from him during his two-year drinking spree.

      But the people he’d wronged the most were dead.

      Could he make restitution through Gina and Bobby? Give something to them, and that way right the balance with his wife and child, who were beyond earthly help?

      And once he’d made his restitution and saved up a little money, he’d leave. Leave, with a clean slate, and start over somewhere where nobody knew his past. It was what he wanted. All he wanted. All he was working for.

      The wind blew the cool farm air toward the house, fragrant with fresh-plowed earth. Crickets sang out in a chorus. Streetlights flickered on down the block, where the shops were.

      He slid one hand away from the baby and into his pocket where he carried his recovery coin. Six months sober. He could handle this new challenge.

      “I’ll talk to Lacey,” he said gruffly. “Try to get her to let you stay awhile. And you can work on the renovation with me.”