A Friend to Trust by Lee Tobin McClain

Author:Lee Tobin McClain
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2023-03-07T19:45:51+00:00

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As Nate and his father made their way down to one of their favorite fishing streams, Nate’s thoughts were a chaotic tangle.

Everything mingled in him. His guilt that he and his father hadn’t fished here together for more than a year, due to Nate’s being overly busy and his father not wanting anyone else to care for Mom. His sadness about his lost brother. His confusion over what to do about Hayley and their pretend relationship and the kiss they’d shared.

And most of all, his own feelings about her.

Every time he was close to her, he wanted more.

He wanted forever. Wanted to live with her in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, for the rest of their lives, like his parents. Wanted to raise children with her. Wanted to see that sunny smile and hear that throaty chuckle every single day.

It wasn’t going to happen. Couldn’t. The reason was crystal-clear today of all days, when his brother was at the forefront of his mind. If not for Nate’s negligence, Tom would still be alive. He’d be here laughing and teasing and celebrating the day.

Nate didn’t deserve a good woman. Not only that, but he didn’t know how to handle things with Hayley, given the secret he knew about her past and her biological child.

It couldn’t happen, but that didn’t stop the wanting.

He should never have kissed her, but at the same time, he couldn’t regret it. It had been the best kiss, the best moment, of his life.

He paused at the stream, waiting for his father to catch up, ready to offer a hand if he slipped on the steep, rocky ground. Dad was strong, but Mom’s illness had aged him. How old was he now...sixty-five? Old enough to wince when he got into or out of a kneeling position.

The sun shone hot on Nate’s back, and the water ran sparkling clear at his feet. Cold, when he reached down to rinse his hand after baiting his hook. He and his father weren’t fancy fly fishermen; they fished with live bait, for food. At this time of year, they didn’t use waders, either, but wore old sneakers. Working class fishing, Dad called it, and it was the only kind Nate knew.

He watched Dad cast his line out into the stream, his movement easy and assured, the result of many years of practice. He reeled in his line slowly. Then more slowly, then he stopped.

The tip of his fishing pole wasn’t moving, so it wasn’t that he had a fish on. When Nate looked at his face, it was set in careworn lines, and his gaze had settled on the ponderosa pines on the ridge above.

“You okay, Dad?”

“Oh, fine.” Dad started reeling in his line again.

“Are you really?” Nate set his own line drifting so he could focus on his father.

Dad reeled in his line the rest of the way and then cast again before answering. “I’m worried about your mother, just like all of us.”

Nate nodded. “It’s tough.

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