"Absolutely not.
We were both much too reasonable for combat. There were no children." Her choice, he remembered, only slightly bitter. "She'd kept her own name."
"A modern professional marriage."
"You've got it. We split everything down the middle and went our separate ways. No harm, no foul."
Curious, Savannah tilted her head. "It bothered you that she didn't take your name."
He started to correct her, then shrugged. "Yeah, it bothered me. Not very modern or professional of me. Just one of those things that would have made the commitment emotional instead of reasonable. That's just pride."
"Partly," Savannah agreed. "But part of you wanted to give her that piece of you that you were most proud of, that had been passed to you, and that you wanted to pass to your children."
"You're astute," he murmured.
"Lawyers aren't the only ones who can read people. And I understand the importance of names. When Bryan was born, I stared at the form they give you. For names. And I thought, what do I put where it says Father? If I put the name down, then I'm giving that name to my son. My son," she repeated quietly.
"What did you put down?"
She brought herself back from that moment, when she'd been barely seventeen, and alone. Completely alone. "Unknown," she said. "Because he'd stopped being important. My name was enough."
"He's never seen Bryan?"
"No. He packed up his gear and lit out like a rocket the day I told him I was pregnant. Don't say you're sorry," she said, anticipating him. "He did me a favor. It's easy for a sixteen-year-old girl to be dreamy-eyed and hot-blooded over a good-looking cowboy, but it isn't easy to live with one."
"What have you told Bryan?"
"The truth. I always tell him the truth—or as close to it as I can without hurting him. I'm not ashamed that I was once foolish enough to imagine myself in love. And I'm grateful that sometimes foolishness is rewarded by something as spectacular as Bryan."
"You're a remarkable woman."
It touched and embarrassed her that he should think so. "No, I'm a lucky one."
"It couldn't have been easy."
"I don't need things to be easy."
He considered that, and thought it was more that she didn't care for things to be easy. 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."