Kayla's Cowboy. Callie Endicott

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      Alex stuck his chin up. “Isn’t that good enough?”

      Mom sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of her neck. “Nothing’s good enough to justify a fifteen-year-old running off on his own. And why Schuyler? You could have come home if it bothered you that much.”

      She was always so logical, it was hard to argue with her.

      “I didn’t run away. I just took a...an unauthorized vacation.”

      “You’re fifteen. An unauthorized vacation for a fifteen-year-old is running away.”

      “Grandpa says he’s always admired the logical way you argue,” he said, hoping to avoid more questions. “He says you’d make a Vulcan proud. Imagine an old guy like that knowing about Star Trek.”

      “Don’t try to slide around this, Alex. You scared me half to death. I almost...” Her voice choked up and he could swear she was ready to cry.

      Crud. If he’d felt rotten before, now he was neck deep in pond scum. But it was mostly her fault, because she hadn’t told him the truth.

      She straightened. “Alex, I want to know right now. Why did you run away?”

      “I... Okay. That is, I thought...”

      Now he wasn’t completely sure why he’d done it. He’d just been so angry the way Dad acted around Brant and how they’d kept the adoption a secret. Heck, he knew they’d gotten married three years after he was born, but that wasn’t unusual. Half his friends could tell the same story.

      “I wanted to get back at Dad somehow, and you, too, I guess,” he blurted out.

      “Why me?”

      “Because you never told me that Dad isn’t my real father,” he said in a rush.

      His mom’s face turned pale. “That was wrong,” she admitted slowly. “Your father wanted it that way, so I agreed. Later I knew it was a mistake, but Dad still thought it was best to wait. And it doesn’t change anything to say he isn’t your birth dad. He’s your real father. Adopting you was his idea. He really wanted to do it.”

      She stopped talking and waited, but Alex didn’t know what to say.

      “How did you find out?” she finally asked.

      “From Brant. Dad told him when they went on that stupid ‘bonding’ camping trip.”

      “Bonding?” Mom’s mouth tightened.

      “That’s what Dad called it when he said I couldn’t go. I guess he was trying to be buddy-buddy with the obnoxious little creep. Brant couldn’t wait to spill everything.”

      “Oh. Well, now that you know, you must have some questions.”

      Mostly Alex had thought about how to run away without getting killed. Face it, he was a wimp. When he’d run away, he’d gone to his great-grandparents’ house; how lame could you get?

      “Do you want to know anything about your biological father?” his mom prompted. “You have to hear about him now anyway. He lives in Schuyler.”

      “Here?” Alex gulped.

      “Yes, and since there’s a strong resemblance, folks in town may have already realized you’re his son.”

      Alex nervously rubbed his nose. People had looked at him funny and said he seemed familiar, but he’d thought it was because of his great-grandparents.

      “Uh, what’s my birth dad like?”

      His mother shook her head. “It’s hard to say. I briefly ran into him today, but that’s the first time I’ve seen Jackson since before you were born. I’ll talk with him as soon as possible, and should know more after that. In the meantime, I also need to explain everything to your sister.”

      “DeeDee doesn’t have to know,” Alex protested.

      “She does unless we leave Montana immediately, which isn’t going to happen. And it might even follow us back to Seattle. This is like breaking an egg—we can’t put the pieces back together again in the same way. So start thinking about whether you want to meet your birth father. I’ve left a message at his house so we can get together and talk. I can try to arrange for you to meet him, but to some extent, the timing is up to you.”

      That made him feel a little better.

      Mom stood up. “I’m going to see DeeDee right now. I don’t want her to hear what’s happening from anyone else.”

      “Uh, okay,” Alex said reluctantly, then realized there was something he wanted to ask. “Wait. Why didn’t my birth dad ever come to see me?”

      His mother looked uncomfortable. “It’s complicated. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

      Alex settled back on the bed, convinced she wasn’t telling him everything.

      * * *

      THE NEXT MORNING, Kayla turned in at the road with the Crazy Horse Ranch sign arching over it. She’d been tempted to come over the evening before, but dealing with Jackson when she was so tired hadn’t seemed wise. Instead, she’d called a second time, leaving another message on voice mail when no one had picked up.

      Maybe Jackson would be more reasonable than the last time they’d really spoken. After all, there was a vast difference between a grown man and a boy confronted with his girlfriend’s unwanted pregnancy. On the other hand, Jackson hadn’t returned either of her calls, despite her saying it was urgent, so maybe he was as pigheaded as ever.

      Rather than wait, she’d decided to drive out to the ranch before someone mentioned Alex’s resemblance to Jackson or his family. She didn’t care if it embarrassed Jackson, but it would be rotten for his daughter to learn something of that sort from anyone but her father. And the McGregors had been nice people. They hadn’t approved of her, but that didn’t mean she wanted them to be blindsided by gossip.

      Parking in front of the house, Kayla climbed from the car and straightened her shoulders. The two-story structure was surprising—too new and modern to fit the open, rolling land. But the two vehicles parked to one side—a huge black SUV and a pickup truck—fit with every stereotype she’d ever had of Montana ranchers.

      The doorbell seemed loud and tension crawled up her spine as light footsteps approached...definitely not those of a man of Jackson’s size.

      The door opened, revealing a woman with iron-gray hair and a stiff expression. Probably a housekeeper. Grams had mentioned that Jackson was divorced from Marcy Lipton.

      “Yes?”

      “I’d like to speak with Jackson McGregor,” Kayla said.

      The woman assessed her up and down. “Name?” If she was the housekeeper, she hadn’t been chosen for her personality.

      “Kayla Anderson.”

      “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

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