Daddy's Home

By Deb Kastner

WHAT KIND OF MAN WAS HE?

Dr. Jasmine Enderlin had once loved Christopher Jordan with her whole heart. And he'd betrayed that love by marrying her sister and then abandoning his pregnant bride. Christopher's actions had made her question her faith. But now her sister was dead, Jasmine was the mother of their child and the prodigal daddy had returned to claim his son .

Christopher wanted to explain what he had done, but Jasmine's hurt and anger prevented her from listening. Until she found her sister's well-worn Bible and learned that appearances could be deceiving. Was God trying to tell her that Christopher deserved a second chance?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781459257764

Deb Kastner

~Love Courageously~ Award-winning author Deb Kastner writes stories of faith, family and community in a small-town western setting. Deb’s books contain sigh-worthy heroes and strong heroines facing obstacles that draw them closer to each other and the Lord. She lives in Colorado with her husband. She is blessed with three grown daughters and two grandchildren. She enjoys spoiling her grandkids, movies, music, reading, musical theater and exploring Colorado on horseback.

Book preview

Chapter One

"Christopher’s back in town."

Jasmine Enderlin stiffened at the statement. Keeping a carefully neutral expression on her face, she met her grandmother’s shrewd gaze. And you’re telling me this because…?

Don’t be obtuse, Gram snapped, shaking a wrinkled finger under Jasmine’s nose. Don’t you pretend I need to spell it out for you. I’m not buying. You know exactly what I’m saying, and you know why. Now, do you want to know the details, or don’t you?

Yes, she whispered, not even sure Gram would hear her. She released an audible sigh and turned back to the thick olive-colored sweater she’d been folding moments before.

Jenny’s sweater.

Brushing the soft material across her cheek, she caught a whiff of Jenny’s light, breezy scent on it.

She wouldn’t have thought something as simple as the smell of her sister’s perfume would set her off, but for some reason, today it did. Her eyes pricked with tears, and she brushed them away with a hurried swipe of her fist, hoping Gram wouldn’t notice the furtive action.

Why would Christopher come back to Westcliffe at all, and especially now of all times?

As if to answer Jasmine’s unspoken question, Gram shrugged her age-bent shoulders. He wants his son.

What? She sprang from the bed, tipping a pile of freshly folded blue jeans into a heap at her feet. "What do you mean he wants Sammy? He can’t have him," she added vehemently, hugging her arms to her chest as if protecting an infant there. Her infant.

A moment more and she would have dashed from the room to snatch up the baby boy sleeping soundly in his bassinet in the next bedroom, but Gram held up a finger in protest. You haven’t heard the story.

I know the story, she thought, her heart clenching. Love. Betrayal. Desertion.

That chapter of her life was over, she reminded herself, fiercely determined to remain in control of her emotions. She shook her head to detour the advancing thought, but it came anyway.

Jenny’s dead.

Ugliness folded over her like quicksand. God didn’t help Jenny. He could have, but He didn’t. Guilt stabbed at her conscience, and she briefly wondered if her thoughts constituted blasphemy.

Maybe they did.

But how could she change the way she felt, the way she viewed things? What else was she to think? Three months ago when she hadn’t been able to save Jenny. Not with all her years of medical training, not with so much love that she would have willingly taken her sister’s place.

And God had done nothing.

It isn’t your fault, my dear, Gram said as she hobbled over to a high-backed Victorian chair and seated herself with the sluggishness of age. You shouldn’t blame yourself.

Gram, she reflected with an inward wince, had the annoying ability to read her mind. Even as a child when Jasmine lost both parents to a tragic car accident, Gram had known what she was thinking and feeling. Gram had raised her, knew better than anyone what she suffered now.

Because Christopher came back all of a sudden, after a year away? she asked, knowing full well it was not the question Gram was answering.

Her keen silver eyes fixed upon Jasmine. If she was disturbed by her granddaughter’s persistent avoidance of the obvious, it didn’t show in her gaze.

I had my hair set in the salon today, she said, relating the story as if it were of no consequence. As if Jasmine’s world hadn’t come crashing to a halt the moment she’d heard Christopher’s name. Lucille Walters came in for a perm. She told me everything she knew. Said since it’s January and all, he’s looking for a new beginning. Clean slate, you might say. Seems he’s bunking with her boys at the Lazy H.

He’s rooming with ranch hands? she asked, surprise sounding in her voice. His parents, like hers, were with the Lord. And as an only child, he had no family to return to. But ranch hands?

Seems a bit peculiar to me. Gram raised a gray eyebrow and cocked her head to one side.

Her laughter was dry and bitter. Yeah, for someone who’s scared to death of horses, I’d say it is. How quickly the old anger returned to course through her. Righteous indignation swelled in her chest. She embraced it, welcoming the heat that surged through her bloodstream like electricity.

It was her way of dealing with what she couldn’t stand to face. Anger filled the empty spaces, leaving no room for more painful, tender emotions to surface.

It was a welcome relief. Did you talk to him? she queried, her voice unusually low and scratchy.

No. Gram leaned forward and cupped a hand to her mouth as if to whisper a secret. But he told Lucille he wants his son.

"Sammy is not his son!"

Sammy! Would Christopher take him away from her? That sweet baby had given new meaning to her life, given her a reason to live when all she wanted to do after Jenny’s death was crawl into the nearest hole and die.

And Christopher could take it all away. The thought pierced her heart like a stake. Sure, she had the papers that said she was Sammy’s legal guardian, but Christopher was related by blood. She pumped her fists open and closed to release the tension swirling through her.

Oh Jenny. Why did God take you away from us?

"Sammy’s my son," she said again, more to reassure herself than to answer Gram.

Not sure the law will see it your way. Gram’s age-roughened voice broke into her thoughts. Her eyes were full of compassion as she reached forward to squeeze her granddaughter’s hand. Seems to me Christopher had some part in making that baby.

Jasmine didn’t want to think about that. "Jenny’s will makes me his guardian. Besides, a romp in the sack doesn’t make a man a father. She snorted her derision. He doesn’t deserve to be a father to baby Sammy, as I’m sure the courts will agree. He abandoned Jenny long before his son was born. What kind of a father does that make him?"

Gram held up her hands as if to ward off a blow. I’m not disagreeing with you, honey. No-sirree! I’m just concerned that he’s going to fight you every step of the way. Mark my words! You know as well as I do that Christopher Jordan is a strong, stubborn man. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants.

She knew. Better even than Gram did. Once, she’d known his heart and soul. Or at least she thought she had. He won’t get Sammy, she vowed, her voice tight.

Gram raised an eyebrow. Well, girl, I’ve gotta say you can be just as determined as any ol’ man when you put your mind to it. She chuckled. My money’s on you.

Thank you for your confidence, she replied with a wry smile. I’ll fight him if I have to. No one would take Sammy away from her. No one. He was her baby now. And he was all she had left of Jenny.

Sammy’s cry pierced the gray haze of rage and frustration that flooded Jasmine’s mind. She dashed into the other bedroom and tucked the crying baby to her chest, speaking to him in an incoherent, soothing whisper.

At three months old, Sammy was already well able to make his desires known, she reflected with a smile. Not all the anger in the world could dim the gentle glow of love that filled her heart every time she held this sweet, precious child.

With the palm of her hand, she smoothed the tuft of light brown hair covering his head. He had a cowlick on the left side of his forehead. Just like his father.

Christopher.

She shook the thought away. Gram, if I change Sammy’s diaper, will you take him for a while? I want to go through the rest of Jenny’s clothes before I quit for the night.

Gram came around the corner, smiling and cooing as she approached Sammy. Let’s get you changed, little fellow, so I can take you. Your Mommy needs to get some work done.

Mommy. Jasmine felt less awkward after three months, but still the term hovered in the corner of her consciousness, taunting her to prove herself. She wrapped a fresh diaper around Sammy’s waist and pinned it securely, barely giving a thought to her actions.

Some things, at least, were beginning to come easier for her.

It was she who rose each night for the two o’clock feeding, she who burped and cuddled and changed the boy.

She hadn’t planned to be anyone’s mother. Not for years yet, in any case. If only…

Don’t you think you’ve done enough for one day? Gram asked, reaching for the infant and bouncing him against her shoulder, patting his back in an age-old, soothing rhythmic gesture. You have to go to work early tomorrow. Besides, you’ve been called out three evenings in a row. Can’t the people around here stay out of trouble for a single night?

She chuckled. I don’t mind, Gram. Really. That’s why I went to medical school. I survived my residency with far less sleep than I get here. This town rolls up the carpet at six o’clock in the evening! In Denver, our worst hours were late at night.

Be that as it may, Gram argued, things have changed. You’ve got a little one dependent on you. You need to keep yourself healthy. For Sammy’s sake, Jasmine, if not your own.

She laughed. Gram, I’ve never been sick a day in my life, and you know it. I rarely even catch a cold!

For Sammy’s sake, the old woman repeated, kissing the infant’s forehead.

Jasmine sighed. For Sammy’s sake. Everything I’m doing is for Sammy’s sake. Not that I regret a minute of it. She stroked one finger down his feathery cheek, enjoying the loud giggle that erupted from him. Staring down at him now, her heart welled with love.

Take care of my baby.

Her sister’s voice echoed through her head as if it were yesterday, and not three months past. Would that fluttery, empty feeling in the center of her chest ever really go away, or would she eventually learn to live with it? It caught her unawares at the oddest moments.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady her quivering nerves. I’ve got to get back to these sweaters, or I’ll never get this done.

Gram settled herself on the rocking chair in the corner of the baby’s room and adjusted Sammy on her lap. We’ll be fine, dear. Just don’t be too long. I think he’s hungry.

I’m not surprised. That baby eats more than most kids twice his size, she commented as she moved into the opposite bedroom. There’s a bottle ready in the fridge if he gets too restless.

She eyed the open closet defensively. Jenny’s clothes—blouses crammed haphazardly onto hangers, blue jeans rolled and stuffed on the shelf top above, the one dress she owned to wear for special occasions—beckoned to her.

She’d already put off this unpleasant task too long. The time had come for her to finish packing Jenny’s things away and to sell the bungalow.

She reached up to the shelf above her head and tugged on a pile of jeans, which came fluttering down on top of her. Something solid hit her head, making a loud, clapping noise and stinging her skin where it slapped. She instinctively threw her arms over her to protect herself from being beaned with further projectiles, but none were forthcoming. It was just one book.

A book had been rolled up in a pair of jeans? That was something she didn’t see every day. Curious, she reached to retrieve the errant missile.

A Bible. Jenny had a Bible, hidden away like a treasured possession. Somehow she’d assumed Jenny had left the faith, if her actions were anything to go by.

Curious, Jasmine thumbed the pages, recognizing the flowing loops and curves in the margins as Jenny’s handwriting. Even though Jenny said she hadn’t made peace with God until the end of her life, this Bible obviously had held some significance for her. Bits of paper were carefully folded into the book, as well as a single white rose, carefully pressed and dried, softly folded onto the page with the family tree.

Jasmine brushed her fingers over the crisp, dry calligraphy. February twenty-fifth. Jennifer Lynn Enderlin married Christopher Scott Jordan.

Tears burned in her throat, and she bit her lip to keep them from flowing. Would the pain never lessen?

She ran a finger over the black ink, the carefully formed letters. Jenny’s handwriting had always been so much neater than her own. It had been a source of endless amusement for Jenny to be able to harass her older sister about the chicken-scratching she passed off as handwriting. It was, she had often teased, God’s sure sign to her that Jasmine was meant to be a doctor.

She curled up on the floor against the edge of the bed, staring at the Bible. It was a tangible piece of Jenny. She could run her fingers down the cracked leather binding, read the notes Jenny made in the margins about the Scriptures she read.

Slowly, almost reverently, she opened the Bible, silently flipping page after page, pausing to read a comment here and a highlighted Scripture there. Jenny had obviously spent a lot of time in the Word before her death. Jasmine’s throat constricted around her breath.

The doorbell sounded. She snapped the book shut and stuffed it under Jenny’s pillow. Her thoughts whirlwinded as she considered who might be at the door. Perhaps someone was here to look at the bungalow, even though it wasn’t listed yet.

I’ll get it! she whispered, peeking into the extra bedroom. Sammy was sound asleep in Gram’s arms, and it appeared Gram, too, had taken the liberty of a small nap. Her chin nestled against the baby boy, and her mouth had dropped open with the light buzz of snoring.

Jasmine chuckled quietly and moved to the front door. It was only when her hand was already on the knob and she’d half opened the door that it occurred to her who might be waiting.

Christopher! Jasmine confirmed, staring up at the tall, ruggedly handsome man before her. What are you doing here?

Her heart skipped a beat, then thumped an erratic tempo in her throat, blocking her breath. Anger, shock and a dozen other emotions buzzed through her like a swarm of angry bees.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which gleamed like cold, gray stones. Despite herself, Jasmine remembered how those eyes used to twinkle, changing in shade from a deep gray to a cobalt blue whenever he was happy.

He clearly wasn’t happy now. The quirk of a smile changed into a frown, matching the twin creases between his light brown eyebrows.

That’s a fine welcome for an old…friend, he commented slowly, his scowl darkening.

What do you want? she snapped, her voice cold. She felt a stab of guilt for her rudeness, but she brushed it away.

The man didn’t deserve better. In her book, anyone who deserted his family didn’t deserve much of anything. Except maybe a swift kick in the backside.

Cut to the chase, Christopher. The determined gleam in his eyes left no doubt he wasn’t here for a social call. And the sooner he was gone, the better.

Every muscle in her body had tensed to the point of physical pain, but that was nothing in comparison to the wrenching agony of her heart at seeing him again. She had no idea it would be this difficult to face the man she’d once loved with all her heart. She clenched her fists, her fingernails biting into her palms.

I’m not ready.

She knew she’d eventually have to confront him, but she’d hoped to be doing it on her terms, in her time, on her own turf. Three strikes and she was out before she even got a chance to bat.

He was taller than she remembered, with a lithe frame and broad shoulders. He curled a steel gray cowboy hat in his fists, leaving exposed the cowlick that made his light brown hair cock up just over his left eyebrow. She remembered once telling him it gave him a roguish appearance. He’d just laughed and shaken his head. Maybe