Free The Pride of Jared MacKade by Nora Roberts Page A

That he understood.
    “What did you do when you left home?”
    “When I got kicked out,” she said. “You don’t have to pretty it up. My father gave me the back of his hand, called me…all sorts of things it’s impolite to repeat to a man wearing such a nice suit—and showed me the door. Wasn’t much of a door,” she remembered, surprised to see that Jared had reached out to link his fingers with hers. “We were living in a trailer at the time.”
    He was appalled. Probably shouldn’t be, he realized. He’d heard stories as bad, and worse, in his own office. But he was appalled at the image of Savannah at sixteen, pregnant and facing the world alone.
    “Didn’t you have anyone you could go to?”
    “No, there was no one. I didn’t know my mother’s family. He’d have probably changed his mind in a day or two. He was like that. But the things he’d called me had hurt a lot more than the slap, so I put on my backpack, stuck out my thumb, and didn’t look back. Got a job waiting tables in Oklahoma City.” She picked up her drink. “That’s probably why Cassie and I hit it off. We both know what it’s like to stand on your feet all day and serve people. But she does a better job of it.”
    Oh, there was plenty she was skimming over, Jared thought. Miles of road she wasn’t taking him over. “How did you get from waiting tables in Oklahoma City to illustrating children’s books?”
    “By taking a lot of detours.” Well fed, she leaned back and smiled at him. “You’d be surprised at some of the things I’ve done.” Her smile widened at his bland look. “Oh, yes, you would.”
    “Name some.”
    “Served drinks to drunks in a dive in Wichita.”
    “You’re going to have to do better than that, if you want to shock me.”
    “Worked a strip joint in Abilene. There.” She chuckled and plucked the thin cigar he’d just taken out of his pocket from his fingers. “That’s got you thinking.”
    Determined not to goggle, he struck a match, held it to the tip of the cigar when she leaned over. “You were a stripper.”
    “Exotic dancer.” She blew out smoke and grinned. “You are shocked.”
    “I’m…intrigued.”
    “Mm-hmm… To pop the fantasy a bit, I never got down to the bare essentials. You’d see women on the beach wearing about as much as I shook down to—only I got paid for it. Not terribly well.” Casually she handed him back the cigar. “I made more money designing and sewing costumes for the other girls than I did peeling out of them. So I retired from the stage.”
    “You’re leaving out chunks, Savannah.”
    “That’s right.” They were her business. “Let’s say I didn’t like the hours. I worked a dog and pony show for a while.”
    “A dog and pony show.”
    “A poor man’s circus. Took a breather in New Orleans selling paintings of bayous and street scenes, and doing charcoal sketches of tourists. I liked it. Great food, great music.”
    “But you didn’t stay,” he pointed out.
    “I never stayed long in one place. Habit. Just about the time I was getting restless, I got lucky. One of the tourists who sat for me was a writer. Kids’ books. She’d just ditched her illustrator. Creative differences, she said. She liked my work and offered me a deal. I’d read her manuscript and do a few illustrations. If her publisher went for it, I’d have a job. If not, she’d pay me a hundred for my time. How could I lose?”
    “You got the job.”
    “I got a life,” she told him. “The kind where I didn’t have to leave Bryan with sitters, worry about how I was going to pay the rent that month, or if the social workers were going to come knocking to check me out and decide if I was a fit mother. The kind where cops don’t roust you to see if you’re selling paintings or yourself. After a while, I had enough put together that I could buy my son a yard, a nice school, Little League games. A community.” She tipped back her glass again. “And here we