The Last Bridge Home

“Oops.” Zak looked sheepishly at the milk carton. “Bad habits of a bachelor. You think they’ll mind?”

Both boys said “No” at the same time. Jilly figured they never refused anything to eat or drink. She plucked the carton from Zak’s fingers and poured each child a glass.

“You’re out of milk,” she said.

Zak made a face, then lifted Bella onto a chair. Her pixie face barely peeked over the table but both chubby hands reached up and took the halved sandwich. The baloney and bread disappeared below the plane of the table.

Jilly helped Zak put away the sandwich fixings, secretly glad for a reason to linger here with him. When she turned from replacing an unused spoon, he grasped her upper arm.

“Thanks.”

Her stomach went south. She relished these chance touches just as she relished being this close to him. With effort, she put on her chipper grin, aware that her freckles stood out like beacons when her face wrinkled. “That’s what friends are for.”

He looked at her long and hard, the strain of the past twenty-four hours evident on his handsome, chiseled features. Jilly, longing to put her arms around him in comfort, settled for a couple of pats to his upper chest. The muscles beneath his white-and-red athletic shirt were rock hard, ready to pitch a fastball or to fight fires. Either way, Zak was in amazing shape. What would it be like to be held in those arms against that chest with his heart beating only for her? For five years she’d wondered.

The sound of movement turned them both to the entry between the living and dining room. A wobbly, wan Crystal, scant hair mussed, entered.

Crystal. Zak’s wife.

Jilly’s heart sank, a brick in a warm pool. She took one step away from Zak, wishing things were different while knowing all too well, they weren’t. And never would be again.

Chapter Five

“What are my options?”

Zak sat in a fancy leather chair across from Hunter Case, attorney at law. Hunter also happened to be a teammate on the local independent baseball team—a crackerjack third baseman with a solid batting average. As such, Zak trusted him with the whole, ugly, painful truth.

“You want me to investigate her claim or do you believe her?” Backlit by the morning sun, Hunter’s red hair glowed like a fire around his head. Zak had flashes of Jilly running through his. She’d been a trooper since his life had exploded. Even with her job at the vet clinic, she’d managed to check on Crystal and the kids while he was pulling a twenty-four-hour shift. Her mom, as sympathetic as Jilly, had brought a casserole for the trio of army ants who ate anything in their paths.

His cupboards were bare, his house a mess and he’d missed practice every single night this week.

Three days into his nightmare and he was no closer to waking up than before. It anything, life was harder. The kids weren’t mean, but they were undisciplined and confused. They made messes, disappeared without permission and alternately tugged at his heart and infuriated him.

“Both. If she’s the same Crystal, she’s telling the truth. She never got the divorce. But I need to know for certain where I stand legally.”

Hunter scribbled something on a notepad. “What will you do if she’s lying? Kick her out?”

Zak blinked. Kick a dying woman out on the street? “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“You should. If she’s falsely using your name and extorting room and board, you could have a case.”

“I don’t want a case. I want—” He pinched his bottom lip and sighed, frustrated. “I want all this to go away. I want Crystal to be well enough to take care of her kids.”

“You’re convinced her cancer claims are true?”

Hunter believed the worst in everyone. Suspicion was his job and he did it well. “She saw Dr. Stampley yesterday. He sent for her medical records but told me there was no doubt in his mind of her condition. It’s bad, Hunt. Real bad.”

“How long did he give her?”

“Days, weeks, months. No one but God knows for sure, but she doesn’t have long.”

Hunter made a smacking noise. “Bad deal.”

Zak found the statement sorely lacking. “Tell me my legal responsibilities.” An attorney couldn’t help him with the moral dilemma. No one could. Even himself. “Do I have to take those kids? Is the little girl mine just because Crystal gave her my name?”

“Is she yours?”

“No! Come on, Hunt. I haven’t seen Crystal in ten years.”

The lawyer lifted a flat palm. “Had to ask. That’s the way it works. I’ll have to do some research, but my initial thought is no. You can prove with a paternity test that she is not your biological daughter.”

“Yeah.” He felt like a creep for asking these questions. “The guys at work are giving me fits.”

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