Her Secret, His Child: A Little Secret by Tara Quinn (rosie project .txt) 📕

Until darkness fell. And the woman Jamie had been, the woman who'd worked nights, returned to haunt her. Nighttime was often bad for Jamie; she was used to coping. But that night, none of her coping techniques were working.

She couldn't find peace. Couldn't shut the doors in her mind. Memories flooded her relentlessly until she was drowning, suffocating beneath their weight…

Jamie had only been four, Ashley's age, when her widowed mother married John Archer. Though she'd loved her mother, Jamie had known, even then, that Sadie Archer wasn't a strong person. It was why Jamie had wanted a daddy so desperately.

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She'd hoped and prayed for someone big and strong to take care of them, to keep them safe. She hadn't known, then, to be careful what she wished for.

John was big and strong, all right, but the day he'd moved into her life was the last day Jamie ever felt safe. He'd been a hard man to please, an unforgiving man. And no matter how hard she tried, Jamie never could please him. She spilled her milk; she made too much noise; she left water on the floor in the bathroom.

At first, her mother had taken the beatings for all the things Jamie had done. But it wasn't long, a few months maybe, before Jamie started getting them herself. By her fifth birthday, lying was a way of life. Stories came as automatically as the bruises she had to explain.

And several years after that, when it had become obvious that Jamie's young body was stronger than that of her frail mother, she began to take the hits for both of them. She'd been twelve the first time she stepped in front of a fist aimed at her mother's chest.

And seventeen the last time she'd felt his hands on her body…

Covering her mouth to stifle the sobs, Jamie backed away from Ashley's door. The memories weren't letting up. And Jamie couldn't bear to live through them in her daughter's presence.

She stumbled into the kitchen, as far from Ashley's room as she could get, and slid down to the hard cold tile, leaning against a cupboard. All her

HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

possessions were new since she'd moved to Larkspur Grove—even her underwear. Especially her underwear. She'd brought nothing with her. Not so much as a photograph. But that didn't obliterate the past's existence. It lived and breathed inside her. In her heart, in her mind…

The cemetery in Trona, California, was lush, green, full of flowers. And crowded. Jamie had had no idea so many people had cared about her mother. But it made no difference. Surrounded by all these people, she still felt completely alone. Apart. Frozen. It had all been for nothing.

All the struggles. The prayers. The hopes for a better day. The promises of freedom from hell. They'd all been for nothing. Her mother had lived a life of torment. And then died. She'd never escaped. The future had ended before she'd ever reached it.

'"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid…'" The minister's words faded beneath the screaming in her mind. Peace! Not where she stood. And fear? What else was there?

"You okay, baby?" John's arm stole around her shoulders. She would have lost her lunch if she'd had any. All afternoon he'd played the role of loving stepfather. Just as he always did when anyone was around to see him. Anyone who mattered.

Jamie and her mother had never mattered.

Though she couldn't make herself respond to him, she held herself steadv by sheer force of will, bear-

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ing the weight of his arm about her. She hadn't missed the tightening of his fingers on her upper arm. He'd issued his warning—she wasn't to make a scene. The warning would be a bruise by nightfall.

And no one would ever believe that John had given it to her. Everyone loved John. He was a charming, personable man with a reputation for generosity. Jamie cringed every time she heard him described as a "wonderful family man." But she knew better than to try telling anyone what had really been happening at home all these years. She knew John would deny everything in that charming salesman's voice of his. He'd talk about how difficult she was, what a burden she'd been to him, what a liar she'd become. They'd believe him. They always did.

They'd believed him that time she'd told her kindergarten teacher he'd beaten her so badly she ached all over; he'd claimed merely to have spanked her once for lying to him. He'd actually had tears in his eyes when he'd related how hard it had been to raise a hand to her, saying he'd tried everything else to stop her compulsive lying.

It also hadn't hurt that he'd been valedictorian of his class, in the same school district. Or that his parents—now dead but long revered—had both put in many years on the board of education.

And, of course, the die had been cast from then on. Jamie's word was no longer valid. She was labeled. A compulsive liar.

Her stomach cramped with fear, she hoped the bruise on her arm was the only one she'd be sporting that night. John had been the perfect stepfather since

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her mother's death three days before. But there had been people around. Her mother's elderly sister, who'd flown in from Florida. Neighbors. Members of the church they attended.

They'd all be gone by evening.

'"In my father's house are many mansions: if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you…that where I am, there ye may be also…'"

Recognizing the familiar Bible verse, Jamie felt the first prick of tears that day. If only it were so. If only she could be sure her mother finally had her mansion.

Her expression stoic, Jamie refused to allow