Heart of A Cowboy

Her heart pounded so fast and loud she wondered if he heard it. Perspiration broke out on her forehead, upper lips and her palms. “Nicholas…” Her son’s name came out in a whispered rush, the air sucked out of her lungs.

“Is this about homeschooling? I don’t know anything about that. Talk with Becca if you want. She could answer your questions.”

She put the glass on a table near the swing before she dropped it, then ran her damp palms on her capri jeans. Her chest rose and fell with the deep inhalation. “No, I went by and talked with Dr. Baker last Thursday. I’ve decided to take him out of school and teach him at home. I’ve got to do something different because what he’s doing now isn’t working.” The sense of doom and the sensation of being cornered besieged her as though she were under attack.

“Then what is it?”

Tell him. Before you lose your nerve. “Nicholas—” The blood rushed into her ears. She gripped the edge of the swing, her fingernails digging into the wood, her breath trapped in her lungs. “Nicholas loves coming out here, and I want to thank you again for giving him lessons.”

A sigh blew out between pursed lips. “What is it you’re avoiding? This isn’t like you not to come to…” His gaze latched onto hers. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He shoved away from the railing, not one emotion on his face. “How old is Nicholas?”

“He turned ten in April. He’s small for his age. He was born a month early. Nicholas is your son.”

He slumped back against the wooden post, clutching it. The dark stubble of his beard accentuated a gray pallor. His eyes fluttered. A flush of excitement glimmered in his expression. But quickly joy morphed into a bitter twist like a bundle of barbed wire. “You kept my son from me?”

She nodded slowly—all words lumped together into a huge knot in her throat.

His gaze clashed with hers. He opened his mouth to say more but snapped it closed, his teeth clicking from the force. Pivoting away, he clamped his hands on the railing and leaned into it. With his shoulders slumped forward, he dropped his head.

She collapsed back against the swing, twisting her hands together in her lap. She should have eased into the news. Cushioned the blow. But it wouldn’t have really made a difference. It wouldn’t change the fact Nicholas was his son.

Finally he turned slowly toward her. The painful look in his eyes tore down all her reasons for never telling him and made a mockery of the hurt she’d experienced at him not contacting her. Then a shutter fell over his face. He wore a cold mask as though they were strangers—adversaries, and she supposed they were now.

“Why didn’t you tell me this eleven years ago? Even a week ago?”

The lethal quiet of his words sent a chill down her spine. He wasn’t innocent in this whole affair. She’d given him two chances, and he’d ignored her—hurt her and left her to deal with Nicholas’s birth and illness by herself. She’d learned the hard way to rely only on herself and God. No one else. Certainly not him.