She forced a smile their way and continued with the family part of the conversation.
“Besides, Samson wouldn’t have responded well to any kind of official bodyguard tagging along with me.”
Michael scowled at the mention of the man’s name. “We’ll deal with Samson in a minute,” he interjected, the voice of authority she’d known all her life. “First, I need to know you’re okay. The doctors said the bullet passed clean through, and they’re treating you more for shock now than anything else. But how are you really?” He leaned closer, brushing his lips over her forehead the way he’d done many times when she was a child.
The gesture was warm, familiar, and comforting, the way a father’s caress should be, Sloane thought with gratitude in her heart for this man who’d given her such a good life.
Especially compared to the one Samson had lived.
“How are you in here?” Michael asked, tapping on his chest, above his heart.
She smiled at his innate understanding. Just hearing his strong, caring voice told Sloane all was right with her world again. She should never have doubted it. Or doubted him. If she’d come to him when she’d learned the truth about Samson, they all would have been spared a lot of grief. “I’m fine. Really.”
“I don’t call getting shot fine.” He rose and began pacing the floor in the small, confined space. “I don’t call being betrayed by the men I trusted most, being fine,” he said, his voice rising.
Obviously sensing his agitation and fury, Madeline stood and walked to his side, placing her hand inside his. “Sloane was shot, but she’s going to recover.” She spoke in her most reassuring tone, the one that had comforted Sloane when she’d been sick at night or after a scraped knee or a fight with a friend. “The rest of those problems are yours, Michael.
Not Sloane’s. She is fine. And you will be too. We will be. It’s just going to take time.”
Sloane shifted in bed, but her shoulder immediately rebelled. Wincing, she asked, “What will you do about Robert and Frank?”
“String them up by their goddamn—”
“Michael!” Madeline admonished in her strictest tone.
He chuckled, despite the serious subject.
Ignoring him, her stepmother turned to Sloane. “Robert was arrested by Rick Chandler, gun in hand. And Frank was picked up for questioning in New York. To say they’ve been fired is an understatement.”
Sloane swallowed hard, knowing how much pain Michael must be in. “Have you confronted them?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. But the police told me about their initial interview. At first, Robert stonewalled like the coward he is, but when he found out he’d shot you and not Samson, it shook him up badly.”
“You mean he has a conscience?” Sloane asked. “That’s hard to believe after he tried to kill my father,” Sloane muttered, speaking of Samson. Then, realizing who her audience was, she felt a burning flush sear her cheeks, and tears welled in her eyes as she met Michael’s pained gaze. “Oh, Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He waved a hand, dismissing her apology. “There are a lot of things we’re going to have to deal with. Terminology’s the least of our problems, honey.” But he turned away, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his dress shirt.
Sloane bit down on the inside of her cheek. She didn’t know what to say.
Michael, seemingly more composed, grabbed a seat by the bed once more. “You asked if Robert developed a conscience, and I guess it depends on your definition.” He seemed determined to pick up normal conversation. “Regardless, he confessed to firing the shot that hit you, though you weren’t the intended target.”
“So the threat’s over.” Sloane exhaled, allowing the realization to wash over her.
Michael nodded. “You’re safe. So is Samson. I take it you two have met?” A smile of acceptance curved his lips and Sloane knew he understood her need to meet the man who’d sired her. He also knew she loved him, Michael Carlisle, faults and all.
“We’ve met.” Sloane idly smoothed her good hand over her bandages.
“What was it like for you? I know he’s different.”
She tried to explain, but what words described a man who named his pet Dog and talked to himself? “Samson’s . . . eccentric. But he seems to care about me in his odd way.”
“He wanted to meet you and risked a lot by coming to me now, in the middle of a campaign. And those threats he issued to Robert—well, I knew they were harmless. He just wanted to see you.” Michael spread his hands wide. “How could I deny him that pleasure? It never dawned on me that Robert or Frank would try to harm him. My plan all along was to make things public and deal with the fallout. I never got the opportunity.”
Confined to bed, she was unable to do more than nod.
“But I can tell you the man’s harmless or I wouldn’t have let you come up here,” Michael assured her.
Sloane sat upright—or tried to—and immediately suffered the consequences. Tears poured down her eyes as the pain robbed her of breath.
“Oh damn.” Michael wrapped an arm around her, holding her until the agony subsided.
“I’m okay,” she finally whispered.
He released his tight hold but remained by her side. He reached out and tapped her nose.
“You know I have to keep tabs on all my girls.”
She smiled through her lingering tears.
Madeline squeezed Sloane’s good hand. “How could I not tell him where you were? He’d have killed me. Besides, your father and I don’t keep secrets.”
Sloane’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, I get it. You just keep secrets from your children. That’s quite the double standard.” She regretted the sarcastic words as soon as they passed her lips. Embarrassed, she leaned her head back on the pillows and stared at the old cracked ceiling. Okay, so maybe the resentments weren’t completely gone, she thought. But still that didn’t give her the right to be cruel. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Madeline said.
“We’re the ones who are sorry.” Michael knelt down before her, and Sloane had no doubt he meant the gesture as supplication and apology all wrapped into one. “I had no right to keep something like that from you. Adopted children have the right to know they were adopted, and you deserved to be told and to judge whom you want in your life.”