His father lost his life for some asshole’s selfish decision to burglarize their home. He’d gotten away with a small stash of jewelry, including his father’s family ring, an old DVD player, a television, a few pieces of silver—and their family’s heart and soul. Logan’s father’s life.
Logan would never forget that his father had given his all for his children. He only wished he’d been there to give his all for his father in return. He was making up for it now. He and his brothers took turns looking after their mother, stopping by each day to ensure she had groceries, to help her with meals, care for her lawn, and take her wherever she needed or wanted to go. And on Sundays they all got together at her house for a family dinner. Everything they did was out of love for their parents, not out of pity. Save for Logan, whose love was topped off with guilt.
“Sweetheart, what are you doing here so early? Are you okay?” She ran her fingers over his face, and Logan held his breath. His mother would know in seconds exactly where his mind was. There was no hiding from her. She might not be able to see, but her fingers had some kind of emotion sensors. They didn’t miss a damn thing.
“You’re tense.” She reached out beside her until she felt a chair, and she pulled it out from the table. “Sit, lovey. I’ll make you some tea.”
“Ma, you don’t have to do that.” He didn’t try to stop her because he knew it would do no good. She doled out love through tea and talks, always had. And right then, maybe he needed a little comfort more than he cared to admit.
“Tsk. Sit, baby.” She moved with the familiarity of sight, pulling mugs from the cabinets and setting the kettle on the stove. She must have heard Logan walking to the pantry to retrieve the tea, and she waved him off. “I’ve got it. Please, baby, sit.”
He smiled as he sank into a wooden chair. Baby, lovey, sweetie. She rarely used their given names. He’d long ago given up on claiming not to be a baby. He and his brothers knew that to her, no matter how big or how old they were, she’d always dote on them as if they were youngsters.
She set their tea on the table and settled into a chair beside him with a sigh.
“I’m sorry I woke you, Ma. I was just checking things out.”
“Logan, baby, you don’t have to do that at all hours. That was a crazy onetime thing. I’m fine. Lord knows you and your brothers make sure of that every day.” She patted her dark hair. She’d always been pretty, and even though she looked as though she’d aged ten years since his father’s death, she was still beautiful. The fine lines around her eyes told of her age, or maybe of her loss, but her olive complexion and once blue, now slate gray eyes gave her a Mediterranean look. Although Mary Lou was about as far from Mediterranean as a woman could get. His parents had met when his mother still lived in Weston, Colorado, where she’d grown up on her family’s ranch. His father had grown up in Trusty, Colorado, not far from Weston. He’d been working as a trucker and had stopped in at the diner in Weston where Mary Lou happened to be sitting at the counter alone, waiting for a girlfriend to meet her for lunch. His father had spent the next few months wooing her. Seven months after they met, they’d married and moved to New York, where Bill had been offered a more stable position with no travel. Logan’s mother always said that he had a little bit of his father’s Weston charm in him.
He sipped his tea. “How are you, Mom? Heath is coming by tonight to take you out to the market.”
“Yes, Heath’s a good boy. He told me about your friend.”
“Did he?”
“You know Heath. He likes to fill me in. He said he saw something in the way you looked at her.” She lifted her eyes to his, and even though he knew she couldn’t see him, he felt as though she saw right through him. He’d never been able to lie to her, not as a kid, when lying would have saved him from being grounded, and not as an adult, when it might have saved him from a lecture or two.
At least, he’d never been able to tell her an outright lie. He’d never told her that he’d killed the man who’d attacked her and killed his father, but he’d told her that she was safe and the guy had been taken care of. Had she asked if he’d killed him, Logan would have answered truthfully, but she never had.
He’d tracked the bastard down using the contacts he’d made as a private investigator and had tailed him until he had a chance to nail him. Logan had caught him casing a house and had reported it to the police, but the police weren’t all they were cracked up to be. They didn’t make it in time. The woman’s scream drew him into the house with one goal in mind—making sure that asshole never hurt another person. He’d completed that mission with a mixture of pride, guilt, and remorse, and that strange baggage had remained a constant companion ever since.
He pushed those thoughts away when his mother’s hand covered his.
“Lovey, what is it? You seem conflicted.”
“How do you do it, Ma? How do you know what’s in my head?” He’d asked her a hundred times before and knew he’d ask her a hundred more, because her non-answer was always the same.