Once Burned

One Henry stared at the plain white envelope and tried to ignore how his hand trembled. In just a few seconds, he’d know for sure. He raised his gaze to study the pudgy, silky-soft face of the one-year-old boy with those wide, innocent brown eyes and crown of downy brown hair. Brown hair and brown eyes, so different from his own blond and blue. When Dylan noticed him watching, he squealed in delight and walked with wobbly but determined steps to him. Henry indulged the little boy for a few minutes, then distracted Dylan with a favorite puzzle ball and returned his attention to the letter. He positioned the point of the blade of his Leatherman under the flap of the envelope and hesitated again. Clenching his jaw, he sliced open the envelope. Reverently, he slipped the letter out and unfolded it with delicate care, scanning the columns of numbers that meant nothing to him. Finally, his eyes reached his answer. Based on the DNA analysis, the alleged father Henry Hammond is excluded as the biological father of the child Dylan LaBrie-Hammond because they do not share sufficient genetic markers. “Well? What does it say?” Melanie asked. Her voice trembled. It took Henry a moment to form a coherent answer. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want it to be true. “He’s not mine,” he murmured. Melanie’s eyes rounded. “Wh-what?” “He’s not mine,” Henry repeated more loudly. His chest tightened as his heart hammered against his ribs, crushing the breath out of him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to draw enough air into his lungs. I have to get out of here. Abruptly, he stood and walked out of the room. “Dada!” Dylan pleaded. Henry ignored him even though it broke his heart a little more. Everything in him begged him to turn around and scoop the toddler up in his arms, but Dylan wasn’t his son, and if he gave in now, he might never be able to summon the courage to leave. And he had to. He couldn’t continue this charade, couldn’t shackle himself to a relationship built on lies. He strode into the bedroom he had shared with Melanie for a year and a half—the longest they had managed to stay together—and grabbed his duffle bag. The sight of his college mascot, a snarling red bulldog, solidified his resolve. He was heading home to Northstar in three weeks for a wedding. Maybe he should stay there for a while. He had enough money saved to cover his living expenses for a year, longer if he was back home in his rent-free house on his family’s ranch. The floorboard in the hallway creaked, and he didn’t have to look to know Melanie now stood in the doorway; he felt her eyes on his back. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. What else there was there to say? At any rate, the nauseating mixture of pain and fury would probably send accusations flying out of his mouth, and he didn’t want to fight with her. He just wanted to leave. “I’ll be back for the rest of my stuff tomorrow or the next day,” he managed to say. “Please stay. I love you.” No, you don’t. You love my wallet. He barely refrained from saying it as he whirled on her. “No, Melanie. Dylan is—was—the only reason took you back.” He stuffed enough clothes in the duffle bag to last him a week without doing laundry, then brushed past her and returned to the living room to pick up the paternity test results. He wanted to keep that heartbreaking piece of paper just in case he got to thinking he should come back. Dylan wasn’t his son, so there was no longer any reason to stay with a woman he didn’t love. Thank God he hadn’t decided to marry her. “Please, Henry. You’re the only father Dylan knows.” He glared at her and held the paternity test inches from her face. “I am not his father, and as much as I love him, I cannot—will not—be your meal ticket. I suggest you get in touch with his real father, if you can even remember who he is.” “Henry….” Tears glittered in her eyes, and he nearly retracted his harsh words. Instead, he only shook his head. “We were ever a long time ago, but I tried to make it work for Dylan. I can’t do it anymore. I won’t. You broke my heart this time, Mel. Thoroughly.” Henry scooted out the door without another word and refused to give in to the temptation to hold and hug Dylan one last time to apologize for leaving. Dylan is too young to remember any of this, he told himself again and again as he strode out to his truck. It did nothing to stop the guilt from pounding through him. He chucked his duffel bag into the passenger seat, jumped in behind the wheel, and slammed his door. He hazarded a glance at the front door of the two-bedroom cottage and immediately regretted it. Melanie stood on the quaint, white-trimmed porch with Dylan in her arms, screaming and reaching for him, his face blotchy and red. It took every drop of willpower Henry had to put his truck in gear and drive away. He drove aimlessly for almost an hour before he decided to check into a hotel. When the clerk at the front desk asked him how long he would be staying, he inquired about weekly rates. The price she quoted was high enough that he balked—he didn’t want to blow that much money for three weeks’ lodging—but he didn’t have much choice. He had no family here and only one friend he might consider calling, but Doug had dated Melanie before Henry had dated her, and he couldn’t handle that kind of reminder of Mel and Dylan right now. So he paid for the hotel room and hauled his duffel bag upstairs, then dropped it and his keys and cell phone on the desk in the far corner of his temporary living quarters and sprawled on the bed. He balled his hands into fists and pressed them to his forehead, his body rigid as the full force of the truth hit him. Damn, it hurt. Grief saturated his heart, cold and poisonous. Had she truly believed he was Dylan’s father… or had she only picked him because she knew he’d stand up and support her and her son? Her friend Tam had said Mel had mentioned “a couple” men but no other specifics when she’d confessed what Mel had let slip to her. Are you sure Dylan is yours? she’d asked. Mel says he is, he’d replied. I have no reason to doubt her. Except all the comments from friends, family, and complete strangers that Dylan looked nothing like him. A lump lodged in his throat. Tam had offered him a sympathetic smile. And then poured fertilizer on the seeds of doubt. With brutal clarity, he recalled the brilliant sunshine streaming through the windows of the salon and the scent of the hair care products and the chatter of the stylists and customers. He’d stopped by at her request, blissfully unaware of what was coming. She and Mel had fought again, and she was looking to strike a blow in retaliation, so she’d told him of the confession Mel had made over drinks a month or so prior before they’d started fighting over the salon and how Mel’s irresponsibility was jeopardizing it. She told me slept with a couple other men right after you two broke up, Tam had told him. One the night you broke up. The other a couple days later. So I ask again—are you sure you’re Dylan’s father? Henry choked out a sob. Dylan’s cherished face filled his mind and the words he’d uttered to Mel less than two hours ago echoed again and again in his mind. He’s not mine. Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes did nothing to stop the tears from flowing, and he gave up trying to fight the grief. As the tide washed over him, he allowed himself to be completely honest. He’d doubted all along. But he’d wanted that little boy. He’d wanted fatherhood in a way he’d never imagined until Mel had uttered those terrifying, wonderful words. I’m pregnant. She’d begged him to take her back, and he had, but not for her. He’d done it because the idea of his child had sparked something in him that watching his brothers becoming fathers had not. His family had been stunned at how readily he’d embraced it. He, not Mel, had been Dylan’s first word. Dada. And it was a lie. He dragged his hands over his face, drained and empty. What the hell am I going to do now? The sounds of the city, barely muffled by the walls of the hotel, grated on his frayed nerves, and right at this moment, it was difficult to remember the reason why he’d come to Denver. He’d craved adventure and the freedom to figure out what he wanted from life, and while he’d certainly found both, what little sense of purpose and direction he’d gained in the last eight years had vanished the moment he’d read the words confirming that Dylan was not his son. That sweet boy had become the focus of his life and his expectations for the future, and he had no idea what would fill that gap. Throwing himself into his job wouldn’t replace what he’d lost. Of that he was certain. He was a good enough welder and machinist that he could probably find a new job just about anywhere, and while he loved his job and the pay that came with it, the lure of home was far stronger than his desire to return to his company. In fact, he felt no desire to return to work at all. Of course, going home meant he’d have to tell his family why he’d quit his job, and he hadn’t even told them he had doubted Dylan’s paternity let alone doubted it enough to request the paternity test; he hadn’t wanted to upset them in case he was wrong. The thought of telling his parents was especially troubling, and a new wave of despair pulsed through him. “Mom and Dad are going to be devastated,” he murmured. Glancing at his cell phone on the desk, he winced at the jolt of anxiety and immediately decided against calling them. This was the kind of news he needed to deliver in person. “What am I gonna do?” he asked himself again. There was no answer in the empty hotel room. * * * “Wake up, Linds. We’re home.” Lindsay opened her eyes and rubbed the bleariness from them before glancing out the window of Evie Gunderson’s SUV. All she saw was a wall of pines, so she leaned a little closer to the window and looked up. A heavily forested ridge rose above the vehicle, a picturesque backdrop to the log cabin at its base. The photos she’d seen of Vince and Evie’s new home did not do either the cabin or the ridge behind it justice. She pushed her door open, peeled herself out of the car, and groaned as she stretched. She’d been cooped up in various vehicles—a transit bus, a plane, and most recently Evie’s SUV—for almost eight hours. As she reached skyward and turned around, she inhaled sharply, too awed to drop her arms again. Before her, a wall of mountains stood tall against a cobalt sky littered with fluffy, blindingly white clouds, and below them, thick pine forests blanketed rugged foothills that grudgingly gave way to rolling sagebrush hills, lush hayfields and pastures, aspen groves and willow-lined streams. In the clear, early afternoon light, the colors and details of the landscape were so crisp and vibrant. “Wow,” she breathed. At last, her arms fell to her side as her gaze swept from north to south and back again. Unwillingly, she pulled her eyes from the stunning view that surrounded her and turned to her two best friends, who had also climbed out of the SUV and now stood beside her. “Am I turning green yet? Because I am jealous as hell.” She looked out across the narrow valley again. “Skye, I bet your camera hasn’t been out of your hand for more than a few minutes since you got here.” “I haven’t been quite that bad, but yeah, I’ve taken a lot of pictures,” the taller woman replied, beaming. She glanced between her friends. Evie, the shortest of them, had a cherubic beauty and was sociable and bubbly. In contrast, Skye was tall and slender with rich, dark hair and amber-colored eyes and was as reserved as Evie was outgoing. Lindsay herself fell somewhere between in both physical appearance and disposition, though she leaned with Skye on the extroversion-introversion scale, so it amused her that it was Evie who would be settling in this sparsely populated ranching community.