Page 66 of The Heartbreaker (Chandler Brothers 3)
Grace nodded. “Thank you for that. Anyway, there’s the tree house.” She pointed to the end of the property and the large tree in the corner. “Take your time, okay? It was nice meeting you.”
Sloane smiled, liking the woman a lot. “Same here.”
“I didn’t think to ask where you’re living, but I’m sure I’ll see you around.” Grace turned and headed back for the house, leaving Sloane to question why she hadn’t bothered to correct the other woman’s misconception that Sloane resided in Yorkshire Falls.
Delving too deeply into that question could only cause Sloane pain, and with an unknown father in her future, she had a hunch she was already in store for enough. She approached the tree house and was about to attempt the rickety ladder leading up the trunk when she heard a rustling sound from the bushes. Someone appeared to have been lurking. She glanced back toward the house, but Grace had gone inside.
Alone, Sloane’s heart pounded hard in her chest. Feeling silly for being afraid in this typically friendly town, she called out in a forced but friendly voice. “Hello?”
She heard the rustling again and caught sight of a man who rose and obviously planned to run away. “No, wait.” Something compelled her to stop the stranger before he could retreat.
The figure paused, then turned back to Sloane. Eerily familiar golden eyes stared back at her from an unshaven, weathered masculine face. “Samson?” she guessed.
“You look like your mother,” he said—no preamble, formality, or warmth.
“Can I take that as a compliment?” She swallowed hard, shock rippling through her. After all her searching, her real father stood in front of her. That easily.
“Take it any way you please.” His gaze held hers for an awkward moment; then he abruptly turned to leave.
Panicked, she called him back. “Don’t go. Please.”
He paused but didn’t look over his shoulder.
“Why did you come here?” she asked, wondering if the same feeling that had brought her in search of the old tree house had also brought him. Wondering if fate did work in such mystify-ingly simple ways.
He shrugged. “It’s not like I have anyplace else to go.”
“Your house. I’m sorry about the fire.”
“Unless you lit the match, you got nothing to be sorry about.”
She clenched and unclenched her fists. Obviously, somebody who worried or cared was a foreign emotion, one she chose not to delve into just yet. She hoped they’d have more time. “But why come here? Why now?”
“I got tired of ducking the cops.”
“Excuse me?” She tamped down on the urge to step closer, afraid he’d run away.
“I couldn’t go anyplace public and so I came here. I do that sometimes. When those kids are in school.”
“Because the tree house holds memories?” she asked.
He merely grunted.
She took the reply as a yes. It wasn’t enough that he was alone, he’d also retreated into the past. His story got sadder and sadder, Sloane thought, and though she was grateful to meet him now, she gained a new understanding and perspective on her own life. The chances Michael Carlisle had given her were chances Samson hadn’t had.
“I have to go,” he said.
“But I want to know you.” She grasped for anything to keep him standing in front of her. “And I heard you want to know me.”
He scowled at her. “What I wanted was to see you up close. To be sure. Now I can go.”
Sloane had heard about his gruff exterior. She’d heard he was antisocial, but she never imagined he’d turn that harshness her way. What were you expecting, Sloane, a warm, fuzzy family reunion? she asked herself. She wouldn’t be getting one. Samson wasn’t a Chandler nor was he a Carlisle, and she had no right to put those expectations onto him. After all, she’d been warned going in.
But he was part of the blood that ran in her veins and she wouldn’t go quietly out of his life. Her disappointment was hers to deal with later, but she wasn’t ready to give up now.
“You wanted to be sure of what? That I was your daughter?” she asked, pushing her limits.
“Yeah.” He started to reach out, as if to touch her, then dropped his hand. “You’ve got your mother’s hair and my mother’s eyes. I’m sure you’re mine. Who told you the almighty senator wasn’t your father?” he asked with no tact.
Samson’s tone told her he was angry with the senator and didn’t trust him. He was wary and she understood that. But Michael wasn’t to blame and she needed Samson to understand that.
Especially if they wanted to call off Michael’s men. “I stumbled over the truth,” she said, attempting to put a realistic spin on things.
Samson’s head jerked up and he met her gaze. “A few weeks ago, I went to D.C. Talked to the senator.”
That news shocked Sloane. “What did you discuss?”
