A Son For The Cowboy. Sasha Summers

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СКАЧАТЬ he like, Poppy? What’s his favorite thing?” he asked. “Does he ride? Like horses?”

      “He grew up on fairgrounds and in rodeo arenas. He could ride blindfolded, knows all the rules of every event, knows all my stats. And yours.”

      He smiled. At least Rowdy knew who he was. That was something. But it didn’t ease the hurt he felt, the sharp, cutting pain in his chest. “What time?”

      “Dinner is at seven thirty,” she said. “But you’re welcome anytime.” He could tell it was hard for her to say those words. Maybe she wasn’t any happier about this than he was. Well, if she could try, so could he. For Rowdy’s sake, he’d mind his temper and try to be some sort of father figure. Whatever the hell that meant.

      “Should I bring anything?” he asked, more than a little worried.

      “Just yourself. We’ll see you then,” she said and hung up.

      Toben stayed where he was, the anger and hurt, joy and loss that churned his insides making him unsteady on his feet.

      “You okay?” Deacon asked again, without the heat this time. “’Cause it sounds like you’ve got a hell of a lot to tell me.”

      Toben pushed off the fence and turned, shoving his phone into his pocket. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

      Toben stood by while Deacon finished the horse’s hooves. He knew he was being a useless fool, but he was in shock—all over again.

      When Deacon had turned the horses into their stalls and put the equipment away, Toben followed him from the barn. His gaze traveled over the pens and down the fence line, noting the lights of the Lodge blazing. The Boone Ranch belonged to his uncle Teddy. It was a massive spread that tracked their white-tail deer and exotic-game numbers, housed a large horse refuge, turned a profit raising cattle and ran a top-of-the-line bed-and-breakfast. The Lodge offered down-home cooking, hayrides, horse rides, star tours and bonfires complete with sing-alongs. From the look of it, it was going to be a busy weekend. Business as usual.

      But nothing felt usual to Toben.

      “Start talking,” Deacon prodded.

      “You remember Poppy White?” Toben asked. “Barrel racer?”

      Deacon nodded. “How could I forget? You ran from her so fast you left skid marks. Yeah, I remember her. And you being all hangdog for months after.”

      “I... We have a son.” The word felt strange on his tongue.

      Deacon stopped walking and faced him. “A son?” His smile was wide and anguished.

      “Shit, man, I’m sorry,” Toben murmured. Deacon’s family was killed a few years before, leaving Deacon sadder and a lot more isolated than a man should ever be. Toben hated seeing pain in his cousin’s eyes.

      “We’re not talking about my life, Toben. We’re talking about yours.”

      Toben nodded.

      “Why didn’t she tell you? I’d be so pissed—”

      “She said she tried.” He shook his head. “I’m plenty pissed but...I have a son. And being pissed at his mother, the person he knows and loves best, would be a big mistake on my part.”

      Deacon blew out a slow breath. “What are you going to do?”

      “Go to dinner,” he answered. “Sit across the table and try not to stare at him.”

      “What’s his name?” Deacon asked.

      Toben grinned. “Rowdy.”

      “That sounds like your son.” Deacon laughed. “So he’s about six?”

      It had been seven years since his night with Poppy. He nodded. “Guess so. I don’t even know his birthday. He’s a good boy, though. From the little I saw of him today.”

      “Better clean up,” Deacon said, sweeping Toben with a head-to-toe inspection. “Take some ice cream or a pie. Think Clara was making pies earlier.”

      Toben nodded. Pie was good. Boys loved pie. And he wanted to make his boy happy. He wanted to know what made him smile and laugh, what his favorite color was, what he wanted to be when he grew up...everything. He hoped Poppy would realize he had the right to know these things. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d kept Rowdy from him. And that feeling left a nasty, bitter taste in the back of his throat.

       Chapter Three

      The smoke detector was beeping loudly. Dot was screaming and Rowdy was trying to help find the broom. Poppy stood on the stool, waving packing paper at the smoke detector, hoping the beeping—and the screaming—would stop. The old stove had started smoking as soon as she turned it on. She’d opened the windows and turned on the Vent-A-Hood, but the smoke had still triggered the smoke detector.

      “Got it.” Rowdy held the broom up to her.

      “Thanks.” She stood on tiptoe, trying to press the reset button with the tiny hook on the end of the broom handle. But the ceiling was high and Poppy’s five feet two inches could stretch only so far. She leaned forward, teetered on the stool and fell.

      “Gotcha.” Toben’s arms caught her, preventing her from crashing to the wood floor. “Need a hand?”

      He smelled like heaven, even in a smoky kitchen. And his arms, solid and thick, held her as if she weighed nothing. His blue eyes crashed into hers, making her breathless, weightless...and an idiot. As soon as her feet hit the floor, she shrugged out of his arms and stepped back. “Um...” He was handsome—big deal. She wasn’t some young, needy thing—not anymore.

      “She can’t reach the reset button,” Rowdy volunteered loudly.

      Toben nodded at Rowdy, grinned and took the broom from Poppy. He tapped the button and the room—the kids—fell silent. The cooking element made an ominous sizzle-pop sound, making Poppy suspect the stove might just take precedence over the squeaky floors.

      “My ears are ringing,” Dot whined. “It hurts.”

      “You’re such a baby,” Otis snapped. “Get over it.”

      “You two can set the table.” She spoke calmly, ignoring the exchange.

      Dot’s response came quickly. “Why do we have to—”

      “Because I asked you to,” she said, her tone never fluctuating. “Thank you. Rowdy, can you see what our guest would like to drink?”

      She saw her son’s quick glance at Toben, the bright red patches coloring his cheeks. Her boy was nervous. She looked Toben’s way, hoping he’d see his son’s discomfort. But...Toben looked exactly the same as Rowdy. Red cheeked, nervous, uncertain.

      “Sure,” Rowdy said. “Want something to drink?”

      “Iced tea?” Toben asked.

      “Sweet СКАЧАТЬ