Читать книгу A Son For The Cowboy - Sasha Summers - Страница 11

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 golden locks and blue eyes.

“Maybe one wall. Maybe. Let’s settle in a little first, okay? For now, you’ll have to survive with white walls. Maybe orange curtains?” She hugged him. “Where are your cousins?”

“Guest bedroom, watching movies or playing video games or something.” He shrugged. “When will Cheeto get here?”

Neither one of them liked to be parted from their horses long. “Mitchell’s bringing them up tomorrow,” she reminded him.

Rowdy sighed. “He’s probably missing me.”

“I know he is.” Her son loved his pony. And his pony loved him right back. He followed Rowdy all over, more like a dog than the sturdy spotted pony he was. “You got a minute?” she asked.

He nodded. “Shoot.”

She smiled. “Well, I’m not sure how to tell you this. So I’m just gonna say it, okay?”

“You and Mitchell are getting married?” he asked, a slight frown on his face.

“What? Why would you think that?”

“You were gonna marry him. Dot says he still wants to marry you,” he said. “Real bad. That’s why he’s always around.”

“And he knows I don’t want to get married. Ever. To anyone. He’s my best friend, that’s all.” She waited.

“I feel bad for him, Ma.” Rowdy stared up at her.

“Oh, well, if you feel bad for him, then I’ll marry him,” she teased.

Rowdy laughed. “I don’t want you to marry him. I like him but...”

Exactly. She liked him, valued his friendship, but there was no spark there. She and Mitchell had tried, hoping their friendship could grow into something more. But his proposal had been prompted by her pregnancy and Mitchell’s goodness. His wife had just left him, and he’d been devastated and grieving. And Poppy had needed help. They’d realized it was a mistake a few months later. But instead of losing a fiancé, she’d gained a best friend—one who told it like it was, one she could call if she needed help or share a beer with at the end of a long day. He’d been a fixture since before Rowdy was born. As her friend, nothing more.

She sank onto the corner of his bed, putting thoughts of Mitchell aside. She took a deep breath, smiled and said, “No, what I want to talk about has nothing to do with Mitchell.”

“Okay,” he said, sitting beside her.

“I’ve told you a little about your dad,” she said, her throat constricting.

“Toben Boone.” He smiled up at her.

“Well...” She tucked one of his curls behind his ear. She couldn’t say it... The words stuck in her throat.

“He okay?” Rowdy asked, his brown eyes going wide with concern. “Something happen to him?”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “He’s here.”

Rowdy jumped up. “Here? In Stonewall Crossing? Is that why we moved here?”

“I didn’t know he was here. I lost track of him a while back.” Because she’d stopped looking for him, stopped hoping he’d change his mind and want to meet his son.

“Does he know I’m here? Have you talked to him?” Rowdy was so excited he was practically bouncing.

“I have. And so have you,” she said. “The man today with the pastries. That was him.”

Rowdy stared at her. His smile faded, the energy seeming to slowly drain from his body. “Why didn’t he say anything to me?” His shoulders slumped.

She reached for him and pulled him close before continuing. “Toben said he didn’t know about you, Rowdy.”

Rowdy was rigid in her arms. “You told him.”

“I did,” she agreed.

“So he’s lying?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, continuing to hug him. “I don’t know what happened. But he does want to meet you.”

Rowdy stepped out of her arms and looked at her, the excitement returning to his eyes. “He does?”

She nodded, her stomach knotting.

“When?”

“What do you think about having him over?” she asked.

Rowdy glanced across the hall at the closed bedroom door. “But Dot. And Otis.” He wrinkled his nose. “I want him to like me.”

“Of course he will like you, Rowdy.” She tried to smile, tried to sound optimistic instead of terrified. “If your cousins are underfoot, it’ll be that much more obvious that you’re awesome.”

Rowdy laughed.

“What do you think?” she asked.

Rowdy shrugged. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she said, taking Toben’s card from her pocket. “He wanted me to call him when I’d talked to you. Today.”

Rowdy smiled. “I’m glad he wants to meet me. I’ve got lots to tell him.”

Poppy swallowed, fighting back tears. “You do.” She stood, eager to put some distance between them. She didn’t like upsetting Rowdy or getting too emotional in front of him. He was a kid, and while she believed in full disclosure, she was very aware of how things were presented. Rowdy would grow up soon enough, without her putting adult worries on his shoulders. “Need anything?” she asked.

He shrugged. “When’s school start?” he asked.

“It’s only June,” she answered. Rowdy loved school. “You’ll have to suffer through a few more weeks of freedom with me.”

He nodded. “Got time to get Cheeto settled,” he said, opening a box. “And paint the wall orange.” He shot her a grin.

Poppy chuckled and left him, the wooden floor of the hallway creaking loudly. She stopped walking; the squeaking stopped. The floors might take top priority. She took Toben’s card into her bedroom and lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She could do this. She didn’t need to worry—Toben just wanted to meet his son. Something he had every right to do. Something she’d wanted for Rowdy in the beginning. Back then she’d hoped Rowdy would tame Toben Boone—show him it was time to grow up and why. But now she knew even less about the man than before. And this man, this stranger, wanted to spend time with her son.

* * *

TOBEN CHECKED HIS phone again. Still nothing. It was almost six. She hadn’t called.

“What’s eating you?” his cousin Deacon asked, swinging the saddle back onto the rack. “You planning to help or are you going to keep standing there staring at your damn phone?”

Toben tucked the phone into his pocket and focused on the task at hand. Once the saddles were stowed, they brushed the horses down, removing any thorns or stickers from their coats and tails. Toben ran his hand down the back of the dapple-gray horse’s left leg. The horse shifted, letting Toben cup the hoof. He used the hoof pick, removing mud and rocks that might bruise the horse and affect its gait. He’d just finished all four hooves when his phone rang.

“Toben here,” he said, stepping away from his cousin and the horses.

“It’s Poppy.” She sounded out of breath. “Would you like to come to dinner with us?”

His anger was instantaneous. “I just want to spend time with Rowdy.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to spend time with her. He didn’t want to believe she’d keep the boy from him but... How could she have gone so long without telling him?

“If you want to see him, you have to see me,” she returned. “I don’t play games, Toben. Not with my son. You’re a stranger to me and to him.”

“Because of you,” he argued, his tone hard. “I want to see my son.” He heard a thunk and a muffled “Shit” behind him but didn’t turn. “You’ve had him for six years. I’ve known about him for four hours.”

“Then come to dinner.” She paused. “He wants you to come.”

Toben closed his eyes, resting his forehead on the top rail of the stall in front of him. “He does?”

“Yes, he does.” Her voice wavered.

“What’s 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.