The Cowboy Upstairs. Tanya Michaels

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ him feel bad for not trying harder at soccer.

      She brushed the back of his shirt again. “We’d better get this straight in the washer if I’m going to get the stain out.”

      “Sorry.” His mother didn’t like stains. Or running in the house. Or when he forgot to swallow his food before telling her interesting stories, like how Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake got out of its cage. Marc had learned at dinner last night she also didn’t like stories about Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake.

      “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong—everyone falls down.”

      “Even you?” It was hard to imagine Mama falling. She never messed up.

      “On occasion.” She hit the key button that made the doors unlock. He got in the back seat, wishing he was big enough to sit in the front. It felt lonely back here.

      Although she started the engine, she didn’t drive anywhere. She looked at him in the mirror. “Marc, are you enjoying soccer?”

      If he told her the truth, would he still have to play? Probably. She was the coach. They couldn’t just quit the team. “Soccer’s okay.”

      “You know you can talk to me, right?”

      “Yes, Mama.”

      She sighed. She made that sound a lot. Marc didn’t remember her doing it so much when his dad lived with them, but those memories were blurry, like when he tried to see underwater at the community pool.

      “Mama? A girl in my class has parents with a divorce.”

      “Parents who are divorced.”

      “She says she lives with her dad in the summer. Is it summer soon?”

      “Next month, after the election.”

      “Will I live with Daddy then?”

      “No, I’m afraid not, champ.” Her eyes were shiny in the mirror, like she might cry, and Marc wished he hadn’t asked. “But I’ll do my best to make sure you and I have a great summer. Okay?”

      “Okay.” He looked out his window. “Is Mr. Zeke coming back?” For months, the bald, smiling man had been around their house, making what Mama called ren-o-vations. Mr. Zeke had shown Marc cool drills and saws.

      “Not anytime soon. The attic’s finished now, so he’s moved on to his next job. But now that the attic apartment is ready to rent, maybe we’ll have guests.”

      That would be nice. It would be even better if whoever came to stay with them was as cool as Mr. Zeke.

      * * *

      BECCA HAD MIXED feelings about her son’s silence on the drive home. On the one hand, she’d had a very long day and appreciated the few minutes of peace. But she was worried; quiet reflection was not the seven-year-old’s natural state. Was he still in pain from his fall? More likely he’s still in pain from his father’s defection. The questions about when he would see his dad, followed by whether or not the general contractor would be back, made it pretty clear that he missed having a man to look up to in his life.

      Her throat burned. Nothing mattered more to her than her son, but she couldn’t be everything to him. The town’s upcoming centennial celebration was taking up her time for the next couple weeks. But maybe after that, she could invite Zeke, a widower in his late fifties, over for dinner—a home-cooked thank-you for a job well done.

      By the time they rolled into the driveway, the stillness in the minivan was becoming oppressive. This called for emergency measures. “How about I order pizza for dinner while you take your shower?”

      The excited whoop from the back seat made her smile. She’d barely pulled the keys from the ignition before her son flew out of the vehicle and up the three wide porch steps. There, he sat dutifully to remove his cleats. She took a minute to stare at the house, gleaming white in the Texas sunshine, and remembered the day she and Colin had moved in. It was a beautiful two-story home, complete with a porch swing, surrounding rosebushes and gorgeous maple trees in the yard. It had all symbolized how far she’d come from an overcrowded double-wide trailer on a gravel lot. To her, this house had been the castle at the end of the fairy tale.

      It still can be. She clenched her fists at her sides, summoning determination. Okay, yes, Colin had turned out to be more fraudulent frog than prince. But she didn’t need him for a happy ending. She would become mayor and raise a wonderful son.

      “Mama, I can’t get this knot out.”

      Joining Marc at the top of the steps, she knelt down over his shoe. Her promise of pizza must have really improved his mood, because by the time she’d unlaced both cleats, he was happily chatting away. She didn’t even register the sound of the vehicle at the bottom of the driveway until the door closed.

      “Excuse me,” a deep masculine voice called, “are you by any chance Becca J—”

      As she turned, the man stopped dead, recognition striking them both. The cowboy from the bar? What was he doing here? Stalking her?

      “You,” he breathed. His mouth curled in a slow, satisfied smile. “You’re the woman who was checking m—”

      “Marc, you run along and take your shower,” she instructed. She was about to throw this man off her property. It was probably better that her son didn’t witness it...or overhear any of the man’s lewd commentary on what she may have been “checking.” Unbelievable. She’d ogled a stranger once since her divorce, and he’d followed her home. What were the odds?

      “Uh, Mama? The door’s locked.”

      Right. She knew that. She fiddled with the key, but the dead bolt got only part of her attention. The sense that she could feel the man’s gaze on her was distracting. “There you go, champ.” She swung the main door wide open, expecting her son to reach for the handle on the inner screen door.

      Instead, he hesitated, waving at the approaching cowboy. “Hi, I’m Marc.”

      The cowboy smiled, his long-legged stride graceful and annoyingly mesmerizing to watch. “I’m Sawyer.”

      Marc’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the man’s gold belt buckle, etched with a cowboy on the back of a bucking horse; Becca read the word champion before realizing that she was staring in the direction of the man’s groin, and averted her eyes. “Did you win a rodeo?” her son asked.

      “Quite a few.”

      “That is so cool! Maybe I’ll ride in a rodeo someday,” Marc said, surprising Becca. He’d never expressed any interest in that. “I take riding lessons from Ms. Meredith. She’s nice, but I like Ms. Kate better. She’s my piano teacher. She gives me cookies.”

      Hearing him list his teachers out loud, Becca mentally kicked herself. She’d inadvertently surrounded him with women. Why hadn’t she checked to see if Jarrett Ross was taking on any more riding students over at his ranch? In Becca’s defense, Marc’s soccer coach was supposed to have been a man. But when he’d broken his leg the first week of the season, she’d stepped up to fill the void.

      Sawyer winked down at her son. “Keep at that piano practice. The ladies СКАЧАТЬ