The Ashtons - Cole, Abigail & Megan

to him. But if I so much as mention the future, he turns vague. Casual.”
    I’m up for a longer run if you are. She sniffedagain, but more in scorn than sorrow this time. Even if they’d been having a purely casual affair, that comment lacked grace.
    “Lots of men have trouble committing,” Merry offered. “It takes them longer to admit what they’re feeling. You two haven’t been back together very long, Dixie.”
    “I know, but…oh, everything I could mention sounds trivial. I haven’t seen him for two days, and he just canceled our dinner tonight. That shouldn’t be a big deal, and yet…it’s not what he does, but the way he does it. I feel like it’s happening all over again,” she finished sadly. “Just like eleven years ago. I can feel his walls going up.”
    And she wasn’t sure she could handle it. All the pep talks in the world didn’t stop the hurt. Or the doubts. How could she make herself believe she could count on Cole when, for no reason she could see, he suddenly started tacking up Keep Out signs?
    Merry didn’t say anything for several moments. “Cole’s got walls,” she admitted. “Big, high, scary ones. Half the time you seem to slip in under them easier than anyone. The other half, you trigger them.”
    “Yeah.” Dixie plopped down on the bed again. “I’m scared.”
    “Goes with the territory, unless you’re sensible enough to be like me and just date losers. No gain, no pain, I always say.”
    “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Craig,” Dixie began.
    “Uh-uh. No. Not today. You can give me advice after you get your love life straightened out.”
    “When I’m seventy, you mean?”
    “If you’re lucky.”
    Dixie sighed. Cole had promised they’d get together tomorrow night. Maybe she should press him for some frank talk. Or would that be pushing for too much, too soon?
    Never mind. She’d think of something. “How about a girls’ night out tonight?”
    “Sorry.” Merry carefully removed a piece of fuzz from her slacks. “Wednesdays I have supper with Jared. Used to be the three of us, but…” She shrugged. “We’ve kept it up since Chloe died. It seemed to help him, especially at first, to have someone to talk with about her. We’ve become good friends.”
    Dixie slid her a curious glance. Chloe had been a friend of theirs in college. She and Merry had stayed close afterward, since they lived nearby. But a standing dinner date with Chloe’s widower six years after Chloe’s death? That sounded like more than friendship…but then, who was she to say?
    Merry was right. Dixie needed to get her own life figured out before she tried to straighten out anyone else’s.
    “I need to paint,” she said suddenly. “Or go mess with paint, anyway.”
    An art therapy session might tell her what she needed to know—even if she wasn’t sure she wanted to learn it.
    Thursday afternoon Cole stared at the faxed report in his hand. His brain felt numb. Fuzzy. Rain beat against the office window. The only light came from his desk lamp. All else had faded into gloom with the arrival of the storm.
    He shook his head. This couldn’t be right. There had to be some mistake. He reached for the phone and punched in the number of the detective who’d investigated Grant Ashton.
    Fifteen minutes later the numbness was gone. Rage gathered in its place, questions ping-ponged around in his head—and beneath all lay a vast bewilderment.
    The detective would bill him. How was he supposed to sign the check? Cole Ashton… that’s who he was, who he had been all his life.
    He could have become Cole Sheppard when he was ten. Lucas had wanted to adopt them, but Spencer had refused to relinquish his rights. He hadn’t wanted his children, but he hadn’t wanted anyone else to claim them, either.
    And now he’d made Cole’s entire life into a lie.
    Cole slammed his fist down on the desk. “Damn him!” He jerked to his feet, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. And didn’t notice that his jacket had brushed against the delicate orchid sitting on one corner of his desk, sending it crashing to the floor.

Chapter Twelve
----
    C ole drove for hours. Drove through the rage and into bitterness. Passed from that to bewilderment and questions, many of which couldn’t be answered from behind the wheel of his Suburban. But they could be listed mentally, ordered, given consideration and assigned priorities. He drove until, finally, he had to pull over at a motel and