Something Borrowed

Chapter 47

Owen

"Daddy, you've got a visitor." Melissa's voice tore him from a stupor, and he jerked his gaze away from the photograph on his desk. His daughter stood in the doorway, in a faded pink dress with her hair piled in a mess on top of her head. Her mother always used to wear her hair like that, and it struck him as odd that he never looked at Melissa and saw his late wife. He only ever saw his daughter.

"Who is it?" he asked. Normally he enjoyed the break to the monotony a visitor offered, but he wasn't in the mood. He was deep in a whirlpool of confusion, with that troubling feeling that the cure to what plagued him, the answer to all his questions, was right on the tip of his tongue. He didn't want to be disturbed while he hovered so close to... what? Absolution? Resolution?

Damnation, more likely...

"It's the reverend," Melissa said, distaste clear in her tone. She'd never liked Peters, and in truth Owen hadn't liked him much either when he first came to town. He still didn't care for the man on a personal level. He had an arrogant way about him that always made Owen feel like a child when they spoke. Nonetheless, he had come to appreciate the guidance the preacher offered. When God head set about punishing him, Reverend Peters had helped him understand why, and helped guard himself against further misfortune. At least he thought he had...

"Send him in," he said absently.

"Are you sure? I could tell him to leave."

"Send him in, Melissa," he ordered, and she gave him a disappointed frown and turned, leaving him alone in his office once more. She was so much like her mother, with that attitude and her chin always tilted up in the air like she didn't even know the meaning of shame or guilt. Yes, Melissa had inherited his wife's stubborn streak, and her wild confidence. Brent had inherited her lust for life and her easy charm. They were so much like her, it should have killed him to look at them, but it didn't. They were his children, and no more. Their resemblance to her was a quiet blessing.

The one who hurt to be around was Josh. His mere presence in a room made Owen sick to his stomach, and seized his heart with grief and loss. He used to think he knew why that was: disappointment, that he'd raised a coward who had hidden himself away while his mother was murdered. Shame, at the walking proof of his own sinful past. He even used to think it was as simple as their coloring. Brent and Melissa were fair and blue-eyed like him. Josh had her dark hair, and her warm brown eyes. It was the eyes that really hurt him.

But really, the worst part about his eldest was that he didn't hate him. He couldn't hate him. Not like he knew he should. Somehow, his bastard had wound up with all the qualities that Owen had loved most about his wife. He carried her quiet, pensive soul-- that feeling he got when he was near her that he stood beside a swift-moving river, glassy and smooth on the surface while all the thoughts in the world ran beneath. He had her kindness and her generosity. He saw that in all his interactions, from the ranch hands to the animals, to Melissa, and now Amelia and Rebecca. Worst of all, he saw it when they were face to face. When he hurled all the venom he could muster and the kid just took it.

Josh made it so difficult for Owen to hate him the way he knew God wanted. Forcing himself to spurn and abuse a person who carried so much of the woman who still, two decades in the grave, carried his heart? It was killing him.

"Owen."

Again, he was jerked from his reverie and he looked up to see the preacher in the doorway. He stood and gestured toward the chair opposite his broad mahogany desk.

"Thank you for coming by," he said, struggling to muster his hospitality. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, no," Peters said, waving a hand dismissively as he settled into the chair. "I came to see how you are faring. I heard there was an incident. Is your son recovering?"