He didn’t say anything to the little girl. She just followed him, like a real-life version of the toy puppy she was holding.
The screen door creaked in protest as Trace opened it. He held it for the little girl, and she toddled in. Ty held the door for Mandy, and they both proceeded into the large kitchen. Neat. Clean. Surprisingly so. No dishes sat on the white Formica counter or in the sink. No papers lay on the table. But no curtains hung on the window, no placemats on the maple tabletop, nothing that said a woman had ever worked in the kitchen. Yet Ty’s mother must have.
The little girl waddled right through the kitchen and into what appeared to be the living room, given the beige carpet and the large green chair Mandy could see from her spot just inside the screen door. She hardly knew where to go.
“See you made some changes to the kitchen,” Ty noted.
“Three years ago. It needed work. Lots of things need work,” Trace said, his words clipped. “I have to speak to you, Ty. Alone.” Trace’s pointed gaze left Mandy feeling squirmy. And awkward. Like the odd man out.
“I’ll just go in the other room with…” Mandy wanted to at least know what to call the girl.
“Delanie.” Trace said the name with reluctance.
Well, if she thought Ty was closed mouthed, it was nothing compared to his brother.
“I’ll just be with Delanie then,” she said and hoped there were some toys or something to amuse the child. With a brief quizzical look at Ty, she made her way into the living room.
It was plainly furnished with one overstuffed sofa, the large green chair, a scarred coffee table, and a small flat-screen TV sitting on a wood stand. A plastic box of toys was in the corner, and Delanie was standing by it as if deciding what to pull out.
“Toys, how lovely,” Mandy said, using her brightest voice. “Will you show me what you have there?” Though there weren’t a lot of toys, they all looked rather new. Trace had given the child toys, at least. But where was the mother?
The little girl looked up at Mandy with eyes the same hazel color as Trace’s. With the hair color and the eyes, there was little doubt she was looking at Trace’s daughter.
“My clock,” Delanie said, pointing to a red plastic clock with big numbers and large black hands. The stuffed dog remained tucked in the crook of her little arm. Obviously a favorite. “My baby,” she said, pointing to an unclothed baby doll with hair the color of Delanie’s. The child proceeded to name each toy as Mandy strained to hear the sound of voices from the other room. But all she heard was the screen door slam shut.
*
“You really married J. M. Prescott’s granddaughter?” Trace asked as they stepped out into the yard. Trace stayed close to the screen door, no doubt to keep within earshot of the youngster. “Didn’t I read he just passed away?”
“Yes. To both questions.”
Trace shook his head in that irritating way he had when he didn’t want to believe something. “Guess you know what side of the bread is buttered.”
“You going to tell me about the child?” Ty said, ignoring the censure in his brother’s tone. He was well beyond caring about his brother’s opinion. “Do I have a niece?”
Trace stared out over the empty corrals before answering. “Yes.”
“You married?” After everything, Ty never thought Trace would marry. He’d been a loner from the moment Ty had become aware of his big brother. It had been rough growing up with a brother who hadn’t wanted much to do with you.
“No. But she’s mine.”
“I could see that just looking at her.”
“I had the tests run.” Trace looked almost embarrassed by the act. “I knew she was mine, but I needed proof to be able to get custody of her.”
“Where’s her mother?”
Trace visibly bristled at the question and looked away. His brother had always been private, and Ty imagined answering these questions was painful for him. But Trace was the one who asked him to the ranch. If he didn’t want something from Ty, Trace could have kept Ty from ever knowing about Delanie. He suspected whatever was going on had something to do with the little tyke. Question was, what?
“In prison.”
Ty might have anticipated a lot of answers to that question, but not prison. Although maybe he should have. “Drugs?”
Trace nodded.
Shit. “I thought you were out of that life.”
Trace’s eyebrows knitted together as he glowered at Ty. “I am. Delanie is four years old.”
Four years. Right at the end, then, Delanie must have happened.
“Did you know about her?” Not that they’d talked much since that time, but Trace might have mentioned something as important as being a father.