“I planned to have it put in the local paper,” Gran continued, “as a human interest story, you know. But then, after what happened, I didn’t.”

Dylan looked up, puzzled. “What happened?”

“That was the day he died,” Gran said gently.

He tapped the photograph with his index finger as if pinpointing the day and time. “This was taken on the day he died? October seventeenth?”

“Yes, dear.” Gran patted him on the arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that part of the story might upset you.”

“I’m not upset.” He studied the face in the picture. “Could I get a copy of this picture? Since it’s the last one taken of him, I think my sister would like to see it, too.”

“I have a scanner in my office,” Gran said. “But Gracie may have to remind me how to use it.”

Dylan continued to stare at the snapshot for a few more seconds. Gracie began to feel like an interloper. Before she could think of a tactful way to end the intrusion, the timer on the stove broke the silence.

“What are you baking, Gran?” She picked up potholders and opened the oven door.

“Coconut pies.” Gran seemed as relieved as Gracie by the distraction. “Clay says your grandfather might get to come home tomorrow, and I wanted to take a little treat to the nurses who’ve been taking care of him.”

“He’s coming home? That’s great.” Gracie set the pies on the cooling rack, sneaking a concerned glance at Dylan.

He’d left one finger in place to mark his father’s picture, but idly turned the pages. Abruptly, he sat forward. “Who’s that?”

Peering over his shoulder, Gracie said, “That’s me with Clayton, not long after he moved in with David.”

“And this?” Dylan pointed to another picture taken outside the bakery. “Is that your mother with Clayton?”

Gracie glanced at the photograph of a woman in a tie-dyed T-shirt. “No, that’s Clay’s mother, about a month before she disappeared.”

He closed the book with a snap and stood. “Excuse me, please.”

“Wait a minute.” Gracie tugged on his elbow. “How’s your head?”

“Not as good as it was.” He touched the swollen area gingerly. “I seem to be getting a headache.”

“Do you want something for it?”

“No, thank you.” His curt response dismissed her concern as he disappeared up the stairs.

“What was that about?” Gran asked. “I hope he wasn’t disturbed about the picture.”

“I don’t think he was,” Gracie assured her. “I’m on my way to see Granddad and then to meet Clay for a movie. What are your plans for the evening?”

Chapter Eleven

Gracie and her grandmother’s chatter dwindled to a murmur as Dylan stumbled to his room. He did have a migraine and nausea gripped him. Collapsing backward across the bed, he tried to organize the thoughts whirling through his head.

With his hands clasped behind his neck, he stared at the ceiling and let the images flow.

He had been eight years old when his father died. Old enough to remember the smell of his aftershave, the full-bodied sound of his laugh, and the crease between his eyebrows when he gave someone his full attention. Some of Dylan’s recollections—like the causes Matthew Bradford supported, the speeches he gave, and his political aspirations—were public record.

Most of what he knew about his father had been passed along by his mother. The devotion to his parents, constituents, and children. And despite the rumors, she had never doubted that he had been a faithful husband.

Dylan’s mind skated closer to the yawning abyss. A fierce tension coiled inside him. He jerked upright and sprang off the bed to pace the room. Emotional turmoil hurled him from wall to wall with frustrating swiftness. He needed to get some exercise or explode.

Changing into shorts and cross trainers, he left through the front door to avoid bumping into anyone. At first, the repetitive beat of his feet pounding on the pavement held his attention. Then, matching his breathing to his tempo became a suitable focus.

Half a mile later, his thoughts caught up with him. He ran faster, trying to out distance his demons. But they kept pace, threatening to trip him up with every step.

Even after Dylan was old enough to know the score, he had preferred to believe his father was different from other wealthy and powerful men who considered it their birthright to use women for fun and games.

If his father, legendary womanizer that he had been during his bachelorhood, could find real love and happiness and settle into family life, then it just might be possible for Dylan to do so, also. That thought had given him hope for his own future.

Without doubt, without hesitation, he championed his father’s reputation and accepted his mother’s account of their marriage. Never had he allowed his faith to be shaken.

Until now.

Today, he had seen the resemblance to himself in the picture of the young boy roller-skating alongside Gracie. Dylan’s own family albums contained pictures of him and Natalie at similar ages. Gasping for breath, he forced himself to acknowledge that Clayton looked like him. Enough like him to be his brother.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Lana Harris’s picture had detonated a landmine of memories. The accusations of another woman in his father’s life took on greater significance when faced with a photograph of a real, red-blooded woman. And the allegation of Clayton being Matthew’s son grew in proportion with the knowledge that the woman in the picture was Clayton’s mother.

Was Dylan’s belief in his father’s integrity based on nothing more than family solidarity? The question made his heart churn with betrayal. His mother had expected him to keep the memory of his father intact. And now, if Dylan didn’t run faster, fast enough to escape his treacherous thoughts, he’d be contemplating going against her wishes. Her express wishes.

But what if her version of the past was wrong?

His feet flew across the pavement. He willed his mind to clear, turning himself into an automaton with no thoughts, no feelings, no suspicions, and no fears. He headed up the rutted drive that led to the old Bradford camp. Slowing his pace to a walk, he circled the building.

Sweating and gasping for breath, he dropped down onto the crumbling porch steps. Elbows propped on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands.

He’d failed to accomplish a single thing he’d set out to do. If Gracie owned this place, she wouldn’t be waiting around for someone else to do the work for her. His lack of practical skills compared to hers was starting to make him feel like a total wuss.

He’d be damned if he’d sit around any longer.

Going inside, he surveyed the damage. Maybe the debris and graffiti left behind by twenty-some years of trespassers made it look worse than it actually was. Prepared to do anything to keep from acknowledging the possibility of an unthinkable relationship between his father and Clayton Harris, Dylan began picking up cans, bottles, condom wrappers, and fast food containers. The pile of refuse grew along with his doubts.

According to Uncle Arthur, Dylan had been to the cabin with his father on several occasions. Dylan remembered only one. A beautiful crisp fall weekend. Arthur and his son Frank had been with them.

Seized by the memory that replayed in his mind, Dylan moved toward the dock. The overgrown path faded in and out, but he managed to find his way to the water. The old dock was still there along with the dilapidated boathouse where they used to keep a small skiff.

That weekend, they had taken the boat out to fish, returning late in the afternoon. At seven years old, Dylan had boasted about the number of fish he’d caught. As they started toward the cabin, a woman had emerged from the woods. His father and uncle exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“Damn. Why is she here?” his father had muttered. “She shouldn’t show up here during family time.”