A Son For The Cowboy. Sasha Summers

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       Chapter Two

      Poppy hit Ignore on her phone and shoved the pillow she was holding into a newly purchased, newly laundered pillowcase. Mitchell would call back. He always called back. He was reliable—that was one of the reasons she appreciated him. But talking to Mitchell would lead to tears or anger, neither of which she needed right now. She had to figure out how she was going to tell Rowdy that his father was here. And that his father wanted to meet him.

      She gritted her teeth and patted the pillow with more force than needed, still trying to wrap her head around Toben’s disbelief that morning.

      “I told you. I sent you letters. Letter after letter. Left messages with every woman that answered your phone—left messages so you could reach me,” she’d said, the remembered humiliation tightening her throat. “And you sent me an autographed picture.”

      He’d gripped the counter, his hands white-knuckled. “Poppy, come on. You can’t honestly believe I’d—”

      “Why not? Don’t tell me to come on. I was the only woman you hadn’t slept with on the circuit. What sort of expectations should I have had of you?” Her whisper rose. She glanced at the door, hoping the kids couldn’t hear. She started again, softly, in control. “None. Your picture confirmed it. I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it.”

      “Rowdy is my son?” He stared at her, his jaw tight and his blue eyes raging. “A son I have every right to know.”

      She was stunned. “Now you want to know him?”

      “I didn’t know he existed until two minutes ago. If I had, you can be damn sure he’d have had his father in his life. He will now. You tell him and you call me. Tonight.” He slammed a business card onto the countertop and stormed out of the shop.

      He’d seemed sincerely upset. So much so that she felt a twinge of remorse. No, dammit, she wouldn’t feel regret. She’d tried to reach him—again and again. She hadn’t wanted to raise Rowdy alone. But Toben had never reached out to her. Was she supposed to have tracked him down so he could tell her to her face he didn’t want anything to do with their son?

      No. She’d pulled herself up and kept going. She’d had no choice.

      “Mom,” Rowdy called from down the hall. “Can I paint it black?”

      She laughed. “Your room?” she asked.

      “Yeah,” he answered.

      “Um, no. That’d be a little too dark.” She shook out the blanket, wincing at the tug in her side. Most days it wasn’t so bad, but sometimes when she turned suddenly, there was still pain. Stretching carefully, she finished making up her bed, thankful she’d had the movers unload everything the day before. Moving boxes and clutter aside, it was nice to have their things in one place. The small house already offered the promise of home for her and Rowdy.

      “What about orange?” he called.

      She left her bedroom and wandered down the hall to the room Rowdy had claimed. He was standing in the middle of the space, hands on his hips, considering.

      “Why orange?” she asked. The house needed a lot of work—a lot. But in time they’d make it their own.

      “I like orange.” He smiled at her.

      “I like pink, but I’m not painting my bedroom that color.”

      He laughed. A flash of Toben sprung to mind. The resemblance between father and son was astonishing. The only difference was Rowdy’s hair and eyes—brown like hers, not his father’s СКАЧАТЬ