And if Madeline wanted to discuss how he’d failed in his bargain with her by not keeping Sloane safe—well, he didn’t need that particular lecture either. He’d beat up on himself enough.
He rose and paced his office, determined to get this discussion over with as quickly as possible. “What can I do for you?”
“First, I’d like to thank you for keeping your end of our agreement. I respect a man of integrity and honor.”
Chase stopped in his tracks, turned, and stared at the woman, certain he’d lost his mind and his hearing. When he caught sight of what seemed like a warm, genuine smile gracing her lips, he figured his sight had gone too. Yet, he detected no sarcasm to Madeline’s words or expression.
“Excuse me?” He narrowed his gaze, attempting to figure out what was going on. “Have you forgotten that your daughter is lying in a hospital room right now because of me?”
She placed her purse on his desk and leaned against the old wood. “Unless you fired the gun, and I know you did not, I suggest you get rid of the blame you’re carrying. Robert and Frank were determined to get to Samson. There wasn’t anything anyone could have done to prevent what happened. Including you.”
Easy for her to say, Chase thought. She obviously didn’t have all the facts. Sloane had probably spared her.
“Now let’s get down to business before the rest of the journalists figure out what’s really happening. I owe you an exclusive and I’m determined to keep my word.”
His stomach cramped with guilt that she’d still want to give him their family story after all he’d done. “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t feel right accepting the exclusive,” he said.
Had those words really passed his lips? Had he just turned down the story of a lifetime?
The story he’d wanted at any expense? And why did doing so feel so damn right?
Madeline shook her head, determination blazing in her eyes. “Don’t be a fool. There are dozens of reporters who’ll take this story and run with it, no questions asked. This is a career-making opportunity and you’ve earned it. Why turn it down now?”
Chase walked up beside her, taking her hand. “You’re a kind woman, Madeline, but you know as well as I do, I should have been with Sloane when she was shot. At best, I might have been able to prevent it. At least, I would have been there.”
She arched one delicate eyebrow. “Did I ask you to glue yourself to Sloane’s side or merely to look out for her? Which I hear you did quite well.”
Was that a sly smile she possessed? And why did it remind him so much of Raina at her meddling best? Chase shook his head. “I blew it.”
“Guilt is a wasted emotion in a lifetime of uncertain duration,” Madeline said as she expelled a frustrated breath. She picked up a yellow legal pad and pen, then turned, handing him the writing utensils. “Right now I suggest you listen and take notes. Then later you can examine why you’re so hard on yourself. After which, you’d better damn well get over it. My daughter deserves more than a man who’s wallowing in the past.”
Despite it all, Chase wanted to applaud her performance.
“Now.” She sat down and crossed her legs, her feminine movement at odds with her harsh, determined words. “My husband will be here soon to add his side to the story, so it’s time for you to take notes.” She leaned back in her seat, glancing his way. “Unless you’d prefer a tape recorder?”
Chase chuckled. “You ought to meet my mother.”
“I’m sure we’d get along extremely well. And there’s plenty of time for introductions.
Another day.”
Hours later, after Chase had secured the story from Madeline and the senator himself, the revealing details that would provide an exposé and journalistic opportunity of a lifetime, he sat down to write the story.
It was a story of love and loss—Samson’s, Michael’s, Jacqueline’s, Madeline’s, and now Sloane’s. It was a story that would either sway voters to side with Senator Michael Carlisle, a good, decent man who’d done right by a young woman in need, or convince them he’d used that same woman for political gain. In the end, Chase believed that whatever Michael’s political reasons for marrying Jacqueline, he’d loved her too. And in the end, he’d saved her from her father, who would have emotionally destroyed her.
Chase’s slant was unbiased, but even in the unbiased version, Chase felt Michael’s side was not just well represented, but understandable. Samson had contacted Chase too, backing up the senator’s story and supplying his own painful tale for the world to read.
But he no longer resembled the sad, misunderstood man the people of Yorkshire Falls had come to know.
Just as Chase no longer resembled the heartbreaker his brothers jokingly called him. And they both had Sloane to thank. The difference was, Samson had Sloane in his life, while Chase was still alone, ironically finding no satisfaction in the story of a lifetime or the career he’d insisted was so important.
Sloane was his future, but how to convince her of his sincerity? Irony came to play once more, as he decided that his mother’s matchmaking talents might be useful, after all.
Sloane awoke with a start. Considering she was still in the hospital, she’d slept well, or at least in between being woken up for temperature and IV checks. She wasn’t sure what had roused her from sleep, but something had. She opened one eye and realized she was facing the window and the aluminum blinds let a hint of sun slip through the horizontal slats. Morning already. She tried to move and winced, realizing how much of a beating her body had taken and how much pain she was actually in.
She buzzed for the nurse, determined to take only half the amount of painkillers they’d administered yesterday. She wanted a clear head for her last hours in Yorkshire Falls. Her parents were taking her home today.
A muffled sound caught her attention and she turned her head gingerly toward the door, expecting a nurse with a hypodermic needle. Instead, she saw an unfamiliar man wearing a dark suit, sitting in the chair beside her bed, watching her in silence.
“You’d better be more careful next time you pass by open windows, young lady,” he admonished in a gruff but familiar voice.
“Samson!” His rough outer exterior might have changed, but she’d know that gravelly tone anywhere.
“What’s the matter? You don’t recognize your old man?” he asked in that Samson-type language she’d come to know. But his expression softened as he continued. “I’m guessing this look is what you’d have preferred to find when you came looking for the man who sired you?” He gestured up and down, taking in the fitted suit, shirt, and tie. A deep crimson stained his clean-shaven cheeks, but to his credit, he didn’t glance away.