The Parent Plan Part 2. Paula Riggs Detmer

she saw disappointment shimmering in his eyes. “Trust me, Karen. It’s not the same.”

      “How do you know?”

      His eyes grew bleak, then steadied. “My brother and I were pretty much raised by a baby-sitter.”

      Karen blinked. “You never told me that.”

      His shoulders moved only a fraction. “Why should I? It had nothing to do with you and me.”

      “Your mother had to work?” she asked, an idea taking shape in her mind.

      “I don’t have a mother.”

      “But you said she left when you were ten. That you found her address after your father died and sent her a letter, but she never answered.”

      Pain he thought he’d conquered years ago tore through him. He fought it the only way that was safe—with a cold anger.

      “Hire the housekeeper if you want. I never wanted you to wear yourself out scrubbing toilets.”

      “In other words, you’ll give me anything I want—as long as I quit my job and stay home full-time.”

      “Is it so wrong to want a normal life?”

      “Normal for you, but not for me.”

      “And what about Vicki?”

      She had to take a breath. “Vicki is totally well-adjusted and happy, and before you start accusing me of neglecting her, most of the time when she’s not in school, she’s out with you or Billy or one of the other men. And when we’re both busy, Wanda is here.”

      He rubbed his callused fingers over the worn padding on the chair seat. “A child needs her mother. She needs you, Kari.”

      “She has me, Cassidy. Just not every moment of my time or every ounce of my energy.”

      She saw his eyes narrow a split second before he lowered his gaze to the desk. “Did you ever stop to think what it feels like for a child to live on leftovers?” he asked with a deadly softness.

      “What are you talking about?”

      “Scraps, Kari. Of time and attention and…other things.”

      Kari couldn’t breathe. Was that how Cassidy had grown up? Feeling like a stray dog hanging around waiting for bits of attention or pieces of love?

      Her heart softened. “Vicki has always been my first priority. No matter what, I always make sure I spend quality time with her.”

      “And your husband, Kari? Was that what happened last night? More quality time from Dr. Sloane?”

      “You know it wasn’t,” she whispered.

      “No, Karen, I don’t know.”

      Karen heard a truck pull in and doors slam. It wouldn’t be long before Billy was knocking on the back door, eager for a cup of coffee and a little gossip with the boss before they started the day.

      Cassidy’s expression told her that he, too, had heard the men arrive. She waited, expecting him to go out to start them on their day. When he didn’t, she told herself that was a good sign.

      “You don’t want a nanny and you don’t want Wanda,” she repeated calmly.

      “Wanda’s fine. When you’re not here.”

      “Which is exactly my point, Cassidy. Vicki’s needs are being well met.”

      A flush ran up the back of his neck. “Quit the damn job,” he said in that same quiet tone. “Call the hospital administrator tomorrow and resign.”

      His face was stony, his eyes cold, no reason at all to suspect that he was pleading with her. And yet, she felt as though he were staking everything he held dear on this one demand. Some of her anger fell away.

      “I tried it your way,” she said, careful to keep her voice calm and reasonable. “For three years. I nearly lost myself as a result. I can’t take that chance again.”

      His jaw tensed. Karen studied the deeply chiseled lines of character and experience in his hard face and marveled that he really had no conception of the power he held in those big work-worn hands because she loved him.

      “Cassidy, listen to me, please.” She leaned closer and touched his arm. His muscles contracted, and she let her hand drop. “Part of me loved being a full-time mom, especially when Vicki was toddling around, discovering something new and wonderful practically every minute of every day. And I loved fixing up this funny old house. But another part of me was dying by inches. Inside, I felt ashamed because I was—”

      “Just a poor, uneducated rancher’s wife?” The raw bitterness shuddering through his harsh question slammed into her like a body blow.

      “No, that’s not it at all! I love being a rancher’s wife. And you have more knowledge of animal husbandry and agronomy than most PhDs.”

      “You said you were ashamed,” he snarled.

      “I said I was ashamed because I’d broken a promise I’d made to myself and my father to become a doctor,” she said in deliberately calm tones. “To carry on the work he intended to do.”