The Rancher's Secret Child. Brenda Minton

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СКАЧАТЬ or life or art.

      Art, another of his ventures and something he kept hidden in the upstairs bedroom, away from prying eyes.

      He had a son. He had rejected the boy and it had cost him. Last night he’d lain awake thinking of that little boy’s eyes, his face. He’d been a funny kid, rolling on the ground with Lucky. Marcus thought of his nieces, Issy and Jewel. With a sigh, he took a seat on the porch swing and buried his face in his hands. Father, if it is Your will, take this cup from me.

      Jesus had uttered those words in the Garden of Gethsemane just before he was taken into custody. He guessed having a son didn’t quite match up to what Jesus had been about to endure. But what Jesus had done had been the ultimate act of obedience, of giving himself up for others.

      Marcus could admit to being torn. He had given his son up because he felt he wasn’t the dad Oliver needed. He wasn’t what any kid needed. It hadn’t been easy to watch his son take hold of someone else’s hand and walk away. Like a coward, he’d headed inside so he wouldn’t have to meet the boy’s dark and questioning eyes.

      Oliver would be better off without him. He’d be better off with the woman, Lissa Hart. She seemed decent. She seemed to care. She would meet a good, honorable guy, get married, and they’d be a family. He’d meant to make himself feel better with the thought; instead, he felt worse. His son would be someone else’s family.

      He leaned back in the swing as the sun peeped up over the eastern horizon, and he called himself a fool. He knew better than anyone that appearances were an illusion. His dad had been the master of the game, creating a facade that fooled people until they were too far into his web to escape. His own family had been victims of the deception.

      Jesse Palermo’s wife, mother to his children, had preferred walking away from her own flesh and blood to staying with a madman. Marcus bore the scars of his dad’s abuse—his broken voice, the jagged line down his cheek and the emotional baggage.

      His sister Lucy and his twin, Alex, had worked through their pain and married. Their youngest sister, Maria, seemed to have survived. Only because she’d been a little girl when Jesse died.

      Marcus had been drifting for the past ten years or so, since their illustrious sire had died on the back of a bull he’d challenged Alex to ride. Marcus had made some money, sowed his wild oats and done his best to outrun the past. And he had a son. A boy named Oliver. A boy who would be better off without Marcus, because the only thing Marcus knew about being a father was what his dad had taught him. Jesse Palermo had beaten his children. He’d controlled his family and his congregation. He’d ruined every life he’d come in contact with.

      A car barreled down his drive, tossing up dust and invading the early-morning peacefulness. He groaned when he recognized the old International wagon. His aunt Essie’s pride and joy. It wasn’t quite seven in the morning, so he doubted this was a pleasure visit. He headed inside for whatever lecture happened to be forthcoming. His skin was thick and she’d told him on more than one occasion that so was his head.

      She met him on the front porch. Knocking on the door to seventy, she was a spitfire with long, graying hair pulled back in a braid. Today she wore jeans, a T-shirt and her apron. She’d obviously been at the café she owned before heading to his house on whatever mission had brought her.

      Marcus sighed. He wasn’t fooling himself. He knew what had brought her out here. The same thing that had kept him up all night and had him doubting himself this morning.

      “Aunt Essie, I just made coffee.”

      She had a spatula in her hand. She must have carried it out of the café with her, but she went ahead and waved it in his face.

      “You!” After decades in America, her Brazilian accent was normally undetectable, but today was a different story. “You’ve pulled stunts in your life, but this? Oh, I should paddle you, Marcus Palermo.”

      He drew in a breath and exhaled. She could only be talking about one thing. Or one person. “How’d you find out?”

      “Yesterday afternoon Mindy rented a room above her store. The young woman showed up with a boy that looked a lot like you and Alex when you were little. This morning that young lady came in my café, and wasn’t I surprised?” She waved the spatula a little too closely to his face. He grabbed it from her hand and tossed it onto the counter.

      “Imagine my surprise when she showed up here,” he countered.

      “So you sent her on her way as if the boy, your flesh and blood, doesn’t matter.”

      He recoiled at the way she described his decision and her eyes narrowed, as if she’d spotted a chink in his armor.

      “What, Marcus, you don’t want to take responsibility for your actions?” she demanded. She’d been more a parent to the Palermo offspring than their own mother and father, and he wasn’t surprised by her questions. He wasn’t even offended. Truth was, he did feel guilty.

      “I sent her away because the boy does matter,” he told her as he spun on his heel and walked back to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

      “There you go, shutting yourself off, acting as if none of this concerns you. As if you don’t have emotions.”

      “It concerns me,” he said as he poured her a cup of coffee. She took it and gave him a long look. “What about this concerns you?”

      Wrong thing to say. He knew it when she moved closer, her lips thinning with displeasure.

      “What concerns me is that there is a boy in need of a father and you’re acting as if it isn’t your responsibility.”

      “I’ll support him. I’ll give him whatever he needs.”

      “But not your time. Or your love. The two most important things you can give a child.” She started to ramble in Portuguese, which he spoke little of.

      He poured coffee in his favorite mug and tried to ignore the memories that the cup evoked. He hadn’t even thought about it when he’d pulled it from the cabinet. Sammy had given him the mug with the verse from Lamentations, about God’s mercy being new every morning. She’d wanted him to remember that each day was a fresh canvas. He guessed that might be one reason he loved mornings. They did feel new. A fresh start. Every day.

      New, even though the old baggage kind of held on and wasn’t easy to be rid of.

      It bugged him that he’d pulled that mug out of the cabinet. He looked up, wondering if God was telling him something and wishing He hadn’t bothered.

      “He’s your son, Marcus. That’s as clear as that ugly nose on your face.” Aunt Essie had resumed English, like someone had pushed a switch.

      “My nose isn’t ugly,” he replied. “And that boy deserves better than a dad who might or might not be his own father’s son. I won’t do that to any woman or any child. That’s why Sammy kept him from me. I don’t know why she made the decision to have his guardian introduce him to me after she was gone.”

      A wash of grief flooded him, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes that he’d regret later. Aunt Essie’s expression softened and she put a hand on his arm, giving a light squeeze.

      “I’m sorry. I’m sure you cared about her.” Essie patted his arm. “You are Jesse Palermo’s СКАЧАТЬ