A Man of Honor Read online

  You couldn’t have been more wrong!

  He’d taught her the meaning of real kindness and compassion—rare and beautiful gifts, possessed by only a handful of humans. She was fortunate to have them, and blessed to have learned them through Dusty’s unwavering example.

  The tenderness she felt toward him consumed her, and Grace held him tighter. He’d changed her attitude and outlook, her heart, her whole world. If she could, she’d gladly have traded places with him. Anything to give back a little of the joy he’d brought into her life. “Oh, you sweet, sweet man,” she whispered into his ear, rocking him, stroking his hair, kissing his cheek, “do you at least feel a little guilty for stealing my heart?”

  He sat up and sniffed, and hands bracketing her face, he said, “I didn’t steal it, Grace. You gave it to me, with each big-eyed glance and silly smile . . .” he nodded toward the plate on the coffee table, “with every meal and perfectly brewed cup of coffee.” He kissed her forehead, then reached past her and picked up the sandwich. “How it happened isn’t near as important as that it happened.” He took a bite, then washed it down with a gulp of water. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, taking another bite, “you’ve got mine, too.”

  Grace bowed her head to ask God’s forgiveness for selfishly wanting Dusty to push through his sadness quickly, so he could go back to being the tough, honorable man she’d come to rely on.

  “You’re probably right,” he said after a while, “and Jesse will come back, eventually. But until he does, I can’t live another day without you. I know it’s selfish, asking you to share all the craziness that is my life, but life is short, and good times too few. . . .”

  If he’s gearing up to pop the question, she thought, Lord help me answer quickly. Because in his state of mind, even the slightest hesitation would do far more than hurt his feelings. “If you ever decide to give up preaching, or counseling,” she said, smiling, “you might want to consider poetry. . . .”

  “See,” he said, chuckling, “stuff like that makes me want to spend every waking minute with you.” He put what was left of the sandwich back on the plate and folded his big hands, as if in prayer. “Will you marry me, Grace?”

  28

  Dusty hadn’t been that low in a long, long time.

  If Grace hadn’t come into the room when she did, would he have given in to the temptation to fire up the Harley and ride until he ran out of gas . . . or skidded out? Hopefully not, but he thanked God for the diversion, all the same. Because going back to that life was as unthinkable as anything he could imagine. It would have started with him aiming the bike toward AJ’s—one of a handful of Baltimore area bars that didn’t mind bikers and boots, nor long hair and beards. He’d just as soon forget the way they’d tipped jigger after jigger of Jack Daniel’s, talking about who they’d been and what their lives had been like before 9/11. . . .

  He could hear her in the kitchen, cupboard doors banging and pot lids clanging as she prepared for spaghetti night, the boys’ favorite meal of the week. She’d been so unbelievably happy—or was relieved the better word?—when she left him to start supper, because she hadn’t understood that he’d only done what any honorable man would have done under the circumstances. Especially since it had been his self-centered behavior that—

  Dusty cringed, remembering what he’d let her see. Ashamed that he’d lost control, that he’d opened his personal version of Pandora’s box and started pitching the contents of it at her, had made him want to retch. So he’d dug deep, telling himself that he’d tried; that if Jesse had stayed, they could have shed some light into the dark murk that had been the boy’s life. But the kid had a death wish, he told himself. Even Grace had pointed out that Jesse had run off because, having never experienced it before, he didn’t know how to handle compassion. What she didn’t understand was that Dusty had seen kids like Jesse before. Anybody with a lick of sense knew better than to leave one of them alone, even for a minute. Had Jesse gone back to sleeping on park benches, beside winos and bag ladies? Was he eating out of dumpsters again? Or was he riding high on life (and only God knows which drugs) and the promises Gonzo no doubt had made to lure him in?

  Neither scenario had a fairy tale ending for Jesse. Dusty knew that. Grace did not. She hadn’t lived an easy life—far from it!—but nothing in her background had prepared her for what to expect with a kid like Jesse.

  She started whistling a tune he recognized, but couldn’t name. In the moments it took to search for a title, Dusty admitted that even if Grace had been exposed to the aching disappointment that came with admitting you’d lost another one, she would have leaned on her faith, and let it lead her to the bright side. What kind of preacher was he, that he’d completely skipped over that step?

  Now Grace was humming. Probably making mental lists, things like who she’d share her good news with first, which friends would stand as witnesses at the ceremony, whether they’d marry soon, or wait until spring. It might have made him laugh . . . if it wasn’t so blasted sad. He didn’t know if she dreamed of a storybook wedding or what her favorite color was. Had no idea if she preferred Dickens to Shakespeare, or Pepsi to Coke. Did she have a collection of Teddy bears in her room, a bunch of Eagles CDs on her nightstand? He’d learned other things in the four months since they’d met . . . that she had the biggest heart God ever put into a human, which went a long way in explaining why every one of those rough, tough street kids behaved like little Lord What’s His Name in her presence. She’d had a civilizing effect on them—on him, too, if he was honest. Being completely without family—those two losers who’d filed the lawsuit didn’t count—she’d counted the lot of them as her own. And he felt the same way. Family. It had been a large part of the reason he’d come up with his whole “move to Angel Acres” idea.

  That day when Jesse disappeared, Gonzo had made it clear: he aimed to take over the neighborhood, house by house, boy by boy, by any means necessary. By bringing the kids here under the guise of “helping her out,” he’d bought a little time to prevent it, that much was true. But in so doing, he’d put Grace in Gonzo’s sights, too.

  And now, because in a weak-willed moment he’d blurted out the secret he’d been holding in his heart, she believed they had a future. Like Austin and Mercy, or Matt and Honor, who’d overcome all manner of craziness to be together.

  At least you had the good sense to tell it like it is, Dusty thought, remembering his “I know it’s selfish to ask this” line. If she knew how selfish, she would have run screaming from the room as if her hair had been on fire.

  And he probably would have jumped on the bike to drown his sorrows in jigger after jigger of Jack Daniels. It’s what he did in the old days when things seemed out of control . . . before Griff got hold of Dusty’s old drinking buddy and scared him straight with Scripture and good old-fashioned fire and brimstone. He’d never know the details of the night when Griff had found Austin, passed out cold in AJ’s parking lot, because Austin wasn’t talking. He knew all he needed to know: Austin quit drinking. Quit going to AJ’s. Quit cussing and smoking and chasing skirts and joined the church! In the privacy of his own head, Dusty had given it a month. Two, tops before his drinking, carousing, brawling buddy was back on track. But he’d been dead wrong. Months passed, then a year, yet Austin stayed on track. And two months after earning his one-year sober coin, it was Austin who found Dusty in the parking lot at AJ’s. The morning after, he didn’t know if the hammering headache would kill him, if his parched throat would just decide to close up and choke him . . .

  . . . or if Austin would nag him to death.

  The memory made him smile.

  But it didn’t last.

  Because he kept picturing himself, curled into a ball like a spoiled boy, blubbering into Grace’s shoulder. By the grace of God—and Grace Sinclair—the boys had been spared the pathetic sight. But he would have bet the Last Chance house and everything in it that they knew what was going on in her living room. And if he’d given
in to the urge to head for AJ’s, well, they would have figured that out, too, and he didn’t know how he would have faced them if that had happened.

  So as Dusty saw it, he had two problems. Big ones. And both needed to be dealt with, quickly.

  He had to find Jesse.

  And he had to make sure Grace understood what kind of man she’d hitched her wagon to.

  Dusty had joined her and the boys for spaghetti night, and all through the meal, it was obvious how hard he was trying to behave as though Jesse wasn’t missing, and Gonzo wasn’t a threat, and he hadn’t proposed marriage to a woman he’d known a mere four months, one week, and three days. He’d turn forty on his next birthday, and had managed to live every year of his life unencumbered by relationship-type commitments. What did he want with an almost-thirty-something woman with more emotional baggage than a luggage carousel at BWI?

  One of the lessons life had taught her was to thank God for all blessings—big and small, deserved or not. She’d have to watch him closely, very closely from now on. He was a man of honor, and now that he’d committed himself, Dusty would not go back on his word. So if she saw even a glimmer of regret or indecision in him, she’d find a graceful way to let him go, even though it would be the greatest regret of her life. But if a wedding actually took place at some point down the road, she’d put everything she had into making sure Dusty never regretted his decision, and she’d start by showing him how grateful she was for what he’d done to ease her mind about the lawsuit.

  It hadn’t taken long for his friend’s son to find out that her uncle’s document was a forgery. If she wanted to, the fresh-out-of-law school attorney had said, he’d file a lawsuit on her behalf . . . right after turning her uncle and cousin over to the cops. “They could serve two to nine years,” the young man had said, “for illegal use of a notary seal.”

  “No, let’s not file a report,” she’d told him. “I’ll handle them, myself.”

  They no doubt remembered how she’d panicked at the prospect of standing before a judge when her parents’ wills had been read, and how terrified she’d been when her grandparents had filed for legal custody of her. Two years ago, they would have been correct in assuming she’d hand over the ten acres that their phony pleading demanded. To be honest, she might have caved one year ago.

  But that was pre-Dusty. Pre-Montel and pre-Axel and pre-all of the boys. She was a stronger woman now, and thanks to them, Grace had good, solid reasons to fight hard for the humble little farm that her grandparents had built from nothing. And fight she would . . . just as soon as her so-called relatives showed up to hear what she’d decided.

  “I was hoping we could settle this without lawyers and judges,” Uncle Mike had said.

  “Yeah,” Joe had added, “why should the shysters get paid to do what we can do ourselves? We’re family, after all!”

  Family, indeed. If they had any idea what that meant, they wouldn’t have disappeared when Gramps fell ill. And after he passed, they’d have helped Grams, left alone to do a man’s job in the twilight of her own life. They hadn’t shown up for either funeral, and Grace would have bet the ten acres they’d been drooling over that they wouldn’t have shown up now, if Uncle Mike hadn’t reached retirement age.

  Well, Mikey, you won’t be rockin’ on this porch in your golden years, she thought, staring across the lawn.

  Thanks to Dusty and the boys, she’d been able to bring all twelve cows back from her neighbor’s farm. It had galled her to move them over there, but teaching from September until June, then working all summer as a waitress at the Double-T left no time to care for them. Their feed and vet bills, added to the cost of keeping the lights on and food in the fridge, didn’t leave much for her savings account, but Grace held fast to the belief that one day, God would reward her for her faithfulness—to Him, to her grandparents’ dream, and to this place that had been home for fifteen years.

  The wheat her neighbor planted was tall enough now to sway with every puff of wind, and the soy plants sat squat and lush in their tidy, green rows. Beyond that were fields of ryegrass and fescue, and she could hear the occasional lowing of the cows as they ambled from the sunny fields to the shade of sugar maples, white ash, and honey-locusts planted by her grandfather. “Silly bovines,” he liked to say, “think I put ’em out there for their pleasure.” Mostly, the trees prevented erosion, but it was still a sight to behold when the cows flopped down for a cool nap, side by side by side.

  She thanked God yet again for Dusty’s intervention, for without it, Mike and Joe would have put into practice the “give ’em an inch, they’ll take a mile” rule. It was unfair on so many levels that Grace could barely contain her anger.

  Then came the familiar sound of a car’s tires, grinding up the long gravel drive. Too soon to be Dusty and the boys, returning from another attempt to find Jesse. A chill snaked up her spine, and Grace wished she hadn’t insisted that Mitch go with them, because it would have been comforting to have his bulky presence standing nearby when Mike and Joe stepped out of the car. “Well, Uncle Mike,” she muttered as the big, old boat rolled up to the porch, “you weren’t here for Gramps or Grams’s funerals, but you’ll get your chance to say a final goodbye . . . today. . . .”

  “Hey, there, Gracie girl,” Joe said.

  Feeling mighty sure of yourself, aren’t you, cousin. . . . To this point, she’d conducted herself like a proper Christian, and she’d rather have them go right on thinking that’s exactly what she was. But with these two? No telling what threats might spill from her mouth before she sent them packing, once and for all.

  “Don’t suppose you have anything cold to drink,” Mike said, drawing the back of his hand across his brow.

  “What’s the matter? No air conditioning in your Caddy?”

  “Well, of course there is,” Joe answered, “but the a/c uses more gas. And with the price of—”

  “Stay put,” she interrupted, “and I’ll get you both a bottle of water.” She’d already set up the rockers so that two sat side by side, with a third, facing them. She handed them each a bottle of water, then sat in the one by itself and uncapped her own. “Have a seat,” she said, smiling.

  “Good to see you’re willing to be civilized about this, Grace.”

  “Yeah,” Joe agreed. “I would’ve sworn we were gonna have a big fight on our hands.”

  “Oh?” Grace took a sip. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, you’ve been here all these years, and then we show up.” Mike shrugged. “Naturally, we figured you’d decide the place was more yours than ours.” He uncapped his bottle. “Even though I’m the rightful heir.” He grinned. “As Mom and Dad’s only son.”

  Funny, she thought, that Joe was the one who seemed nervous. Had he been the one who’d drawn up the official-looking pleadings? Maybe he was wondering if he’d forgotten to dot an ‘I’ or cross a ‘T.’ She slid the envelope from her back pocket, separated it into three stacks on the table.

  “I took the liberty of making duplicates,” she said, watching as they each grabbed a copy. Mike seemed calm and sure of himself, but Joe’s hands were trembling. Patience, she told herself; in a moment, Mike would be shaking, too. “So I take it you’re aware what the penalties are for forging court documents?”

  Mike scowled and Joe blanched.

  “Forging? That’s crazy! This,” Mike said, shaking his copy, “is as real as the nose on your face.”

  “I should be insulted that you think I’m so gullible that I’d sign this without having it validated.”

  Joe swallowed. Hard. “Validated? How? By who?”

  “Whom, you idiot,” Mike said. Then he zeroed in on Grace. “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to pull, Gracie, but—”

  “You have five minutes,” she said, standing. “That’s plenty of time to finish your water.”

  Mike stood, too, and took a step forward. “But Gracie girl,” he said, flipping to the last page, “this isn’t signed. �
�Fraid you’ll just have to put up with us until you write your name, and the date, right here.”

  She looked at the smudge on the signature line. “Gee, Mike, thanks.”

  “Thanks?” He tucked his chin into his collar. “For what?”

  “For leaving forensic evidence on your phony paperwork. When I call the cops in . . .” She checked her watch, “three minutes, I’ll have your fingerprints as proof that you were here, making threats and trying to pass off a forgery as a legitimate document.”

  Eyes narrowed, he ground his teeth together. Keep that up, she thought, and you’ll pulverize your molars.

  She tapped her watch. “Tick, tick, tick. . . .”

  “This isn’t over,” Mike said, heading for the steps. “Come on, Joe. Let’s go back to the courthouse and file a complaint.”

  At least Joe had the decency to look guilty. “I’m a little surprised how you turned out,” she told her cousin. “Grams always told me you had more sense than . . .” Using her chin, she indicated Mike. “. . . than him. She knew he’d never amount to anything, but she had high hopes for you.”

  His cheeks darkened with a guilty blush.

  “Much as I miss her, it’s a blessing to know she isn’t here to see how wrong she was.”

  When Joe joined his father on the bottom step, Mike said, “Don’t pay her any mind. She’s as crazy as that no-good father of hers was.”

  Grace only shook her head. “Oh. I almost forgot. I have something for you.” She fished a twenty-dollar bill out of her pocket and handed it to Joe.

  And he took it. “What’s this for?”