A Town Called Valentine(58)

Emily nodded, biting her lip, then managed a rueful smile. “If you don’t know the father’s name, I’m not sure how to find out. There was only one close friend, and she didn’t know about the pregnancy.”

“Guess you’ve got a mystery.”

Color was returning in splotches to her face, and her voice took on an edge of anger. “My father—the man I thought was my father—died when I was little. But I loved him, and I remember him. Do I really want to know if my mom lied to him as well as me, if she used him? She wasn’t the best mom in the world, but this makes her out to be . . . some kind of monster.”

“Or a frightened teenager,” Doc said neutrally.

“She wasn’t a frightened teenager for long,” Emily said bitterly. “She could have told me many times over the years. But then she always thought she knew best.”

Nate wondered if Emily was remembering her mom’s little talk on her wedding night. Had Delilah meant to spill the secret then and changed her mind?

“Could she have been protecting you?” Nate asked.

She regarded him impassively. “Or protecting someone else? Probably herself. It would have been inconvenient to deal with it all, with the emotions she caused.” She wiped a hand down her face and forced a smile for Doc as she stood up. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all this.”

Doc Ericson came around the desk and took her hand. “Anytime you need to talk, I’m here. Sometimes a neutral person can help make things clearer.”

“Thanks. What do I owe you for the appointment?”

He waved a hand. “Nothing. I didn’t do anything but answer one question.”

“You’re very kind.” She slipped her purse over her shoulder, and said to Nate, “I’m ready to go.”

She was quiet when they got in the pickup, and although he put the keys in the ignition, he didn’t start it up. Should he say something? Comfort her? They were trying to keep each other at a distance, but this was so big.

And then she started to cry, big tears sliding down her cheeks, and he felt absolutely helpless. He drew her into his arms, and she clung to him, her face pressed into his chest. Rubbing her back, he whispered the only words he could, that it would be okay.

At last, her sobs quieted, and only the occasional shiver swept her body. With a sigh, she relaxed against him and let him stroke her hair.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured at last.

“Yep, women cry a lot when they’re with me.”

She glanced up at him in bemusement.

“With gratitude,” he finished solemnly.

She chuckled and pulled away, leaning her head back against the seat and closing her eyes.

“Do you feel okay?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I—I don’t know what I feel. I finally have to accept it, you know? It’s like everything I thought about myself is turned upside down. I’m angry with my mom, I feel sorry for my dad—and then I wonder if he knew. I mean, come on. Wouldn’t you know if a woman had a full-term baby seven months after you met her, or however long it was?”

“Maybe he was so in love, he didn’t count the months—or he didn’t care, especially once he saw you.”

“Damn, you say the sweetest things,” she said ruefully.

“Or maybe he knew from the beginning, and agreed to everything, but died before he could tell you the truth. And your mom . . .”

“Go ahead, find a good excuse for her,” she said bitterly.

“Maybe she loved him, too, and when he died, she only wanted you to remember the best about him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now you’re giving her too much credit. You didn’t know her. She was a selfish woman, and whatever excuse she made to be able to sleep at night, believe me, it was all about her.”

There was nothing he could say to that, but he silently thanked God for the parents who raised him.

“So what are you going to do now?” he asked. When her eyes filled again, he regretted the question immediately. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“No, no, please, I’m the one who’s sorry, dragging you into this mess, crying all over you. Thank God it’s raining, so you can explain your wet shirt.” She sighed, turmoil clouding her eyes.

“Jacob Strong was your dad, whatever else you find out. You have memories of him, just like I have memories of my biological father. Believe me, you can thank God your memories are far better than mine.”