Birthright

terrifying and annoying.
    He’d been thirty, unencumbered—unless you countedDigger—and planning to stay that way. He loved his work. He loved women. And whenever a man could combine the two, well, life was as perfect as it was ever going to get.
    He didn’t answer to anyone, and certainly had no intentions of answering to some curvy little archaeologist with a mean streak.
    God, he’d loved that mean streak of hers.
    Sex had been nearly as stormy and fascinating as their bickering. But it hadn’t solved his problem. The more he had her, the more he’d wanted. She’d given him her body, her companionship, the challenge of her contrary mind. But she’d never given him the one thing that might have settled him down.
    Her trust. She’d never trusted him. Not to stick by her, to share loads with her. And most certainly she didn’t trust his fidelity.
    For months after she’d booted him, he’d consoled himself that it was her blatant lack of faith that had ruined everything. Just as for months he’d held on to the conviction that she’d come crawling after him.
    Stupid, he could admit now. Callie never crawled. It was one thing they had firmly in common. And as time passed, he’d begun to see that maybe, perhaps, possibly, he hadn’t handled everything quite as adeptly as he could have. Should have.
    It didn’t really shift the blame away from her, which was exactly where it belonged, but it did open the door to considering another approach.
    That current still ran between them, he acknowledged. There was no question of it. If the Antietam Project offered him a channel for that current, he’d use it.
    He’d use whatever came to hand to get her back.
    And whatever was troubling her now, well, she was going to tell him. She was going to let him help her. If he had to tie her down and pry it out of her with forceps.
    C allie hadn’t expected to sleep, but just after dawn she’d curled up on top of the bed in her old room. She’dhugged a pillow under her arm, the way she had since childhood when ill or unhappy.
    Physical and emotional fatigue had beaten out even the headache and the nausea. She’d woken a full four hours later at the sound of the front door slamming, and the bright call of her name.
    For a moment, she’d been a child again, snuggled into bed on a Saturday morning until her mother’s call stirred her. There’d be Cheerios for breakfast, with fresh strawberries cut up in the bowl and the extra sugar she’d sneak into it when her mother wasn’t looking.
    She rolled over. The aches of her body, the sick headache, the utter weight settled in her chest reminded her she wasn’t a little girl any longer, whose biggest concern was sweetening her cereal.
    She was a grown woman. And she didn’t know whose child she was.
    She swung her legs slowly to the floor, then sat on the side of the bed with her head in her hands.
    “Callie!” Sheer delight lifted Vivian’s voice as she rushed through the doorway. “Baby, we had no idea you were coming home. I was so surprised to see your car in the drive.”
    She gave Callie a quick hug, then ran a hand over her hair. “When did you get here?”
    “Last night.” She didn’t lift her head. She wasn’t ready to look at her mother’s face. “I thought you and Dad were in Maine.”
    “We were. We decided to come home today instead of Sunday. Your father was obsessing about his garden, and he has a full day at the hospital on Monday. Baby . . .” Vivian put a hand under Callie’s chin, lifted it. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you feeling well?”
    “Just a little groggy.” Her mother’s eyes were brown, Callie thought. But not like her own. Her mother’s were darker, deeper, and went so beautifully with the rose and cream skin, the softly curling hair that had the texture and color of blond mink. “Is Dad here?”
    “Yes, of course. He’s taking a look at his tomato plantsbefore he brings in the rest of the luggage. Sweetie, you look awfully pale.”
    “I need to talk to you. To both of you.”
    I’m not ready. I’m not ready, not ready, her mind screamed, but she pushed herself to her feet. “Will you ask Dad to come in? I just want to wash up.”
    “Callie, you’re scaring me.”
    “Please. Just give me a minute to throw some water on my face. I’ll be right down.”
    Without giving Vivian a chance to argue, she hurried out and into the bath across the hall.
    She leaned on the sink, took slow, deep breaths because her