It’s not too late, he’d told Charly, with all the confidence of somebody who doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. Now, looking at the kid, he wasn’t so sure of himself. He kept thinking he ought to do something to help things along, say something to the boy, maybe strike up a conversation, find out what made him tick. But he didn’t, partly because Troy remembered what he’d been like at that age, bullheaded and sure he knew everything there was to know about the world and everybody in it, including himself. And partly because he was…well, galling as it was for a former U.S. Navy SEAL to have to admit, the fact was, the kid had him just about scared to death.

Lord help Charly, he thought grimly.

Then inspiration struck. “Hey,” he said, digging in his pockets for change, “I’m goin’ down to the Coke machine. Can I bring you somethin’ back?”

The kid flicked him a glance, then went back to studying the piece of carpeting between his feet. “No…thanks.”

At least, Troy thought, somebody’d taught him manners. “You sure? How ‘bout a soda, or somethin’? I’m buyin’.” Ah, hell-that’s tryin’ too hard.

“Naw,” the boy muttered, “I’m fine.”

“Well, okay,” said Troy.

So then, of course, since he’d said he was going to, he had to take a walk on down to the damn vending machines and get himself a can of iced tea he didn’t really want. While he was there, he got a Coke for Cutter, just in case the kid could be persuaded to change his mind about accepting it. He was on his way back to the sitting area with a cold can sweating in each hand when he saw Charly coming from the direction of the ICU, wiping her eyes with a wad of tissues. His heart started to pound.

They came together just outside the waiting-room doorway. “Hey,” he managed to say in an undertone, fear thickening in his throat, “how’d it go? Everything okay?” Damn, but he wished he could put his arms around her, touch her, at least, but he couldn’t because his hands were full of cans.

“Yeah,” she said, dabbing at her nose with the tissue, “it went fine.” But she wasn’t meeting his eyes.

She took the Coke he’d brought for Cutter, absently mumbling “Thanks” as she popped it open, then drank from it deeply, like someone parched. As she lowered the can with a long exhalation and a soft, unabashed burp, her gaze slid past him, aimed like a searchlight’s beam through the doorway and into the waiting room. She had kind of a shiny wet newborn look about her that for some reason brought a lump to Troy’s throat.

“You sure you’re okay?” he whispered, touching her arm now that he had a hand free.

She finally jerked her eyes to him, and to Troy it was like having the sunlight hit him full in the face after a long time in darkness. “I’m fine,” she said softly. “Really. It went…very well. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now I have to talk…” She gave a slight nod, looking once more toward the sitting area, where Cutter had risen to his feet and was waiting for her, primed and tense as a fighter waiting for the bell to ring.

So then what could he do, when every instinct in him wanted to be ridin’ to her rescue, swords drawn and guns blazin’, and the damn dragons were nowhere in sight? Nothing. That was the only answer he could come up with, and the only one he’d been coming up with, and it was about to drive him crazy. Charly was on her own. And all the help he could give her was to nod his head, swallow nails, step aside and let her go and get her heart broken.

Because he knew damn well that was what was going to happen; he could see it in the kid’s face. Twenty years of hurt and anger were written there, plain as day. No way that boy was going to let it go, not yet and not without a fight. Maybe not ever.

Lord…help Charly…please.

As she walked toward her son with the Coke can clutched against her stomach like a bride’s bouquet, Troy wondered if it was to keep her hands from shaking.

Cutter watched her come, standing his ground with his arms folded across his chest, stiff necked and bristling, until she got to within hand-shaking distance. Then he shifted abruptly, turned a shoulder to her and said stiffly, “Okay, you did what you came to do. You saw him, you talked to him-now you can leave.”

“Cutter,” Charly said in a voice so low Troy had to strain to hear, “I’d really like to talk to you. Do you think we could-”

“I’ve got nothin’ to say to you.” The boy flung the words like knives, and Troy felt each and every one of ’em right in his own heart.

Charly didn’t flinch, though. “That wasn’t what I asked,” she said in a stronger voice. “I said I’d like to talk to you. Maybe you could just listen to what I have to say?”

While she was saying that, Cutter’s chin pushed up and then jutted out, and Troy, watching, felt a shiver of recognition that almost-almost-made him laugh. It reminded him so much of Charly, the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her, coming down the hallway that night he’d bailed her out of jail. Lord, he thought, if the kid had very much of his mother in him, then Charly was in for the fight of her life.

“There’s nothin’ you have to say that I want to hear.”

“Maybe you should hear me out before you decide that,” Charly countered. She cleared her throat. “Look, my father and I just talked. We both said some things that needed to be said. And…it was a good thing. Maybe a new start. Don’t you think you could…give us the same chance?”

She hadn’t touched him, but he shook himself away from her as if she had, taking a step backward and holding up his hands. “Look,” he said, “I’m glad you and Pop talked-I really am. That’s between you and him, all right? And if that’s what makes him happy, then…fine. But you and me? That’s somethin’ else again.” He turned from her, enough so Troy could see his face plainly, and the struggle that was going on inside him-the struggle between the little boy he’d been and the man he wanted to be.

“I’m not tryin’ to be mean,” he said in a man’s voice…a boy’s mumble. “All right? I just want to make sure you understand, I don’t want you in my life. I don’t need you, okay?”

“Cutter-”

The hand came up again, demanding silence as he fought his inner battle for control. Finally he pulled in a sustaining breath. “There was a time I did. I used to say my prayers every night-‘God bless my mama and keep her safe and bring her back.’” In spite of all his efforts, his voice cracked. He drew another breath. “But that was when I was little, okay? I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need a mother, and if I did, it wouldn’t be you. Dobie and Pop, they’re my mama and daddy. You had your chance, and you blew it when you walked out on us. You’ve got no place here. So you can just…finish up your business and go, okay? Go back to…where you came from-I don’t care. Just…leave us alone.”

Troy watched as the smooth young face seemed to crack like old china, finally letting loose the tears the kid had been trying so hard to contain. And he thought, That’s one more thing he’s gonna have a hard time forgiving her for.

As for himself, Troy was discovering that there was nothing in this world quite like the pain of watching somebody you care about-somebody you love-get hurt. He’d had things happen to him before-like his dad dying, buddies getting killed-but at those times, it seemed like there’d been a kind of a buffer, a sense of unreality, of shock, that he guessed must be nature’s way of protecting people from things that might otherwise be more than they could handle. Here, there was nothing between him and the pain, nothing at all. He could see it like a crushing burden pressing down on Charly’s head and shoulders, and feel the weight of it in his own chest. And added to it, the sharp, cutting agony of helplessness, of wanting so badly to help her, and knowing there wasn’t a damn thing he could do.

He was barely aware of it when Cutter brushed past him, heading for the exit. His eyes were on Charly, and he was moving toward her like a man wading through a swamp.

“Hey,” he’d just managed to say through the muck in his throat, and was reaching for her, had just touched her shoulder when they both heard a sound.

They turned at the same moment to see Dobrina standing in the doorway. She hesitated a moment when she saw Troy, then gave him a polite nod and came on in. She had a big handbag over one arm and another, smaller one, clutched to her chest.

“You been in t’ see your father?” the housekeeper asked, zeroing in on Charly with her fierce, deep-socketed glare. “He’s been askin’ for you.”

Charly whispered, “Yes, ma’am,” and brushed at her cheeks as if she had no right to tears. Then she cleared her throat and said in a stronger voice, “Yes, I did, Aunt Dobie. We had a good talk. Um, Cutter just-”

“I saw him leavin’.” The woman’s voice had the hard-edged, angry sound of too much emotion. “Best to leave ’im be, for a while. Just leave ’im be. He’s young, you know-he don’t understand…” She paused, her head moving from side to side, as if she’d lost her way. Then she looked down at the pocketbook she was holding and thrust it at Charly. “Here, honey, I brought you your purse.” She lifted her head up. To Troy it looked as if she was bracing herself.

Charly reached for the purse, murmuring thanks and sniffling a little, but instead of handing it over, Dobrina shook her head and clutched her arm with one strong, brown hand. “The Good Lord forgive me for takin’ it-and for puttin’ that bottle a’ whiskey in your car, too. I know I shouldn’t have done what I did.” Then she drew herself up, proud and fierce once more. “Maybe it wasn’t my place to interfere, but I wasn’t about to let you leave again. No, sir-not after the way you and your father were talkin’ to each other, just yellin’ and hurtin’ each other, and nobody speakin’ the truth. There’s been enough a’ that in this family. And enough, I say, is enough.”