Her Secret Cowboy

“The front porch.” Away from his brothers’ prying eyes. They walked past the house in silence, the intermittent breeze carrying the scent of Marsha’s perfume beneath Will’s nose—a light, citrusy smell that made him want to take off her clothes. He ground his teeth and silently cursed himself for finding her attractive.

When they reached the front yard, he spoke. “Why did you suddenly decide to tell me about Ryan?” He doubted her reason had to do with guilt, otherwise she’d have come forward years ago.

“My father’s ill.”

Stagecoach was a small town. Will’s boss happened to be a member of the Community Mission Church and had told him about the pastor’s health issues. “What does your father’s prostate cancer have to do with being truthful with me?”

“Ryan’s very close to his grandfather and when he’s gone...” She cleared her throat. “Ryan won’t have a man to look up to.”

Will was the last person on earth who should be a role model. Feeling as if Marsha had backed him into a corner, he lashed out—more from fear than anger. “Would you have ever told me about Ryan if your father hadn’t become ill?”

She stared him in the eye, which wasn’t difficult considering she was at least five feet ten inches in her boots and he was six feet in his boots. “You told me to get an abortion. You said under no circumstances did you want to be a father.”

“I was eighteen, Marsha.” He paced in front of her. “That’s what a typical eighteen-year-old guy tells the girl he got pregnant.” He hadn’t suggested giving the baby up for adoption because he was afraid he’d be just like his old man.

“I was eighteen, too. Old enough to make up my own mind about whether or not I was ready to be a mother.”

She’d avoided answering his question, so he answered it for her. “You wouldn’t have told me about Ryan if your father hadn’t become ill.”

“I would have told you...eventually.”

“You’re a liar. Buck forced your hand.” When she didn’t respond, Will said, “My brother should have told me right away when he found out.”

“I’m not here to talk about what Buck should or shouldn’t have done. I was prepared to tell Ryan about you years ago, but he didn’t show any interest in learning who his father was.”

“None at all?” The question escaped his mouth in a choked whisper.

She shook her head.

Stunned, Will closed his eyes as a memory better left buried resurrected itself. When he’d turned twelve, he’d wanted to know more about his father and had pestered his mother for information. She’d brushed off Will’s questions, but he’d badgered her until one afternoon she’d dragged him by the shirt collar to the car and drove him to Tucson.

She never said a word the entire trip until she stopped in front of a single-story home with toys strewn across the yard.

“Your father lives in that house.”

“What’s his name?”

“Henry Blythe.”

“Can I ring the doorbell?” he’d asked.

“It’s up to you.”

Will was cocky enough to believe he could handle anything, so he strolled up to the house and rang the bell. A woman answered the door and two little kids poked their heads out from behind her legs. “Is Mr. Blythe home?” Will asked.

“Yes, who are you?”

“Willie Cash, ma’am.”

“Wait here.” She shut the door in his face. He stood on the porch so long his legs became tired and he sat on the stoop. His mother waited with him—never leaving the car. After an hour Will rang the doorbell again. And again. And again. The sun set. And he waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally the door opened.

A man stood in the shadows. Will couldn’t make out his features, but his voice sounded hoarse and mean. “Go away, kid.”

Shaking in his shoes, Will asked, “Are you my father?”

“With a mother like yours, you’re not good enough to be anyone’s kid.” The door slammed in his face.

From that day forward Will hadn’t given Henry Blythe a second thought, but deep down the man’s rejection had left its mark. Will accepted that he was no good because of who his mother was—a woman who’d borne seven children—six of them fathered by different men. That Ryan had never been interested in knowing Will reminded him of the shame he carried.

Feeling like a cornered animal Will lashed out, “What do you want from me?”

Marsha backpedaled. “If you don’t want to meet your son, say so and we won’t interfere in your life.”

“It’s easy to paint me the bad guy, isn’t it?” He pointed his finger. “You want everything on your terms and you expect me to be grateful that you’re allowing me to see my son.”

“You don’t know what it was like to be in my shoes—eighteen, pregnant and...” She rubbed her temples as if she had a headache. “I didn’t come here to argue with you. Go ahead and hate me. I don’t care.”

Will might have believed her if her voice hadn’t cracked.

“What matters now is doing what’s best for Ryan,” she said.

Damn, he admired her spunk. To his knowledge his mother had never stood up to any of his siblings’ fathers the way Marsha stood up to Will. Maybe the outcome of his confrontation with Henry Blythe would have been different if his mother had accompanied him to the door that afternoon.

“Do you want to meet your son or not?”

“Of course.” The words sounded sure, but deep down Will was terrified.

“When?”

“There’s a rodeo in Midway on Saturday. I told Porter I’d team rope with him. You and Ryan could meet us there.”

“What time?”

“One o’clock,” he said.

“Fine.”

“Are you going to tell Ryan about me before Saturday?”

“Yes.”

He’d like to be a fly on the wall during that conversation. “What have your parents got to say about all this?”

“I didn’t tell them you were Ryan’s father.”

Now he knew why the pastor had never shown up at the pecan farm with a shotgun, demanding he do right by his daughter.