Taming the Lone Wolff(71)
“So you resented your father for not being there for you?”
His smile held little humor. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze this, Winnie. The truth is much darker. Devlyn and Annalise and I were thrilled to be here on the mountain. And guilty as hell because we felt reborn. Our mother was an abusive alcoholic who liked slapping and hitting and…” His throat worked, and he turned away for a moment, ostensibly to brush away a cricket that had landed on his arm.
When he looked at her again, Winnie saw a lifetime of grief that was so deep and dark it made her want to weep. “You don’t have to tell me this,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Our aunt Laura was a saint to us. When my mom was drinking we would run next door and she would try to keep us occupied. And you have to remember, Annalise was a toddler, and I was not in kindergarten yet. It was Devlyn who bore the brunt of it.”
“But why?” she cried softly, her chest hurting. “Could your aunt not intervene?”
“She was young. Probably in awe of her much older husband. And maybe back then, people were more likely to turn a blind eye. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I failed my brother and my sister, and that tore me up, even as a kid. I slipped into Devlyn’s bedroom one night after our mother had been on a rampage. He was huddled under his blankets, crying, trying to put medicine and Band-Aids on the places where she had burned him with a cigarette.”
“Oh, my God.” Winnie’s stomach pitched in horror.
“When I tried to talk to him, he just waved me away. We never spoke of it. My job was to keep Annalise out of sight. And for some reason, that worked.”
“Then how did you fail her?”
“A little girl needs her mother. I tried to find times when my mother wasn’t drinking. I’d brush Annalise’s hair and help her put on a pretty dress. I thought if our mom was sober she’d want to play with her little daughter. But she was too self-absorbed to notice. So Annalise felt that rejection. She says she doesn’t remember much about those early years, but I know it marked her. It took her a long, long time to trust anyone enough to get married.”
Winnie swallowed, too invested in the story to quit now. “And your father did nothing?”
“Well, that’s the thing…he told Devlyn a while back that he never knew. That he was working long hours to make a living, and was seldom at home when we were awake. He apologized to Devlyn. And we’ve forgiven him, I suppose. But the emotional damage that was done to all three of us can’t just be wiped away. Our dad is our dad. But there aren’t any warm, fuzzy feelings between us.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. She wanted to cry for the little boy. But not in front of the man he had become.
Sixteen
Larkin studied Winnie’s face. The rustling leaves dappled her cheeks with shards of sunlight. She had curled her legs into a pretzel position, and the familiar posture caused a memory of the night before to flash in front of his eyes. Though Winnie was wearing more clothes at the moment, she was no less alluring.
Her pale skin reminded him of an Irish beauty. Slim legs and arms had developed a pink flush, either from the sun or from the heat of the day. The tank top she wore outlined her lush curves, and her shorts were long enough to be modest, but short enough to make him crazy. Her wonderful, riotous, pale gold hair was caught up in a ponytail on the back of her head. Renegade wisps curled around her face.