To Claim His Own

However, there were days, like this one, when she made the opportunity to wander through her domain and smell the roses—so to speak—and tweak plants, wallowing in self-satisfaction over what she had accomplished.

Of course, her father had had a lot to do with the success of Emma’s Nursery. He had given her the capital to get started several years ago—capital that she’d already paid back. But it had been her hard work that had built the business to its present success. Once she made up her mind about anything that was important to her, she wouldn’t give up or give in.

“You’re stubborn and hard-headed to a fault, girl,” her daddy was always telling her, though she knew he admired her tenacity because he was the same way.

“Yeah, girl, you’re a chip off the old block.”

Thinking of her dad, Patrick, brought a wobbly smile to Emma’s lips. While she certainly hadn’t been the fair-haired daughter—Connie had held that honor—at least she, Emma, had always had Patrick’s respect.

He’d made millions in his construction company and was three years past retirement age, but he wouldn’t have any part of retirement. That word wasn’t even in his vocabulary. Work and his grandson were what Patrick lived for.

Thinking about Logan strengthened Emma’s smile. More than any career, that baby was what she lived for, as well. He was everything to her, made her life complete.

At thirty-five she was still single and saw no reason to change that, especially now that she had legal guardianship of her sister’s child. Oh, there had been a few men in her life, even one special man whom she could have probably married if circumstances had been different. They hadn’t been, but she had no remorse or regrets.

If she never had anything else but her work and her sister’s child, she would be content forever.

Yeah, life was good and she saw nothing in her future to change that.

“Hey, girl, how’s your morning going?”

Emma turned and smiled, but not before stripping off her gloves and giving her daddy a big, sunny smile. “Great. How ’bout you?”

“I’m okay.”

Patrick didn’t sound or look it, which put a tight squeeze on Emma’s heart. Ever since Connie had been killed in a motorcycle accident, she’d become fearful of the unexpected. When Patrick Jenkins was anything other than his calm and collected self, then something was amiss.

This morning she sensed something was definitely amiss. For a few seconds, fear rendered her immobile. However, she tried not to let her anxiety show as she stood on her tiptoes and greeted Patrick with a kiss on his leathery-skinned cheek.

Continuing to hold her council, Emma stood back and looked up at him. At sixty-eight, he was a tall, strapping fellow with a spring in his step.

For years he’d worked alongside his men in the hot boiling sun on the construction sites. Hence, his skin bore the mark of the harsh East Texas sun. Wrinkles were grooved deeply in his face and around his eyes; he always seemed to squint as though still trying to block out the sun. His dark mane was thick and without any gray.

Patrick was a good-looking man and had had more than one opportunity to remarry, but he hadn’t. When Emma’s mother had died of cancer several years back, Patrick hadn’t been interested in remarrying, though Emma hoped that might change. Now that Logan had come into their lives, she seriously doubted it.

The baby was Connie’s son and that made him even more special. Patrick had adored his baby daughter and was convinced she could do no wrong, even though she went against his wishes and married a man from the wrong side of the tracks whom he had severely disapproved of. Connie’s untimely death had affected him more severely than her mother’s.

“Got any coffee made?” Patrick asked into the growing silence.

“Sure.” Emma pitched her gloves aside and headed toward the small brick building that housed her office and gift shop.

After entering the large, airy room that smelled of fresh-cut flowers, Patrick pulled up short as a broad smile covered his face. “What’s he doing here?”

Emma’s gaze followed his to the pallet on the floor where her eighteen-month-old nephew lay sleeping, the ear of his worn teddy bear, Mr. Wiggly, tucked in the baby’s mouth.

“He was running a little temp this morning and didn’t want me to leave him.” Emma broke off with a shrug.

“So you and Janet are taking turns seeing about him.” Patrick hadn’t asked a question, but rather made a statement.

“Right, although I really don’t like bringing him to the shop.”

“Once in a while doesn’t hurt anything.” Patrick continued to peer at his grandson, a worshipful look on his face.

“Except give him the idea he can wrap me around his finger and make a habit of it,” Emma countered, also giving Logan an indulgent grin.

Patrick snorted. “That’s a given.”

Emma gave her father a look. “I know I’ve spoiled him rotten, but you’re a fine one to be talking.”

“Hey, you don’t hear me arguing. It’s like the pot calling the kettle black, I know.”

Emma flipped him a grin as she got two cups and filled them with coffee. Once they were seated, they sipped in silence and watched the sleeping child.

Finally, over the rim of her cup, Emma stared at her father. “I sense this isn’t just a social call.”

“It isn’t,” Patrick admitted with gruff bluntness.

Emma was a bit taken aback, feeling another surge of fear. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. At least I hope not.”

“Then what’s got that look on your face?” Emma pressed.

“Cal Webster.”

Emma’s hands began to tremble. Before she spilled the contents of the cup, or, better yet, dropped it on the floor, she set the cup down and stared at Patrick through wide, horrified eyes. “What about him?”

“He’s back in town.”

Patrick said the word he as though it were contaminated.

Emma’s hand flew to her heart at the same time her gaze bounced back to the baby who remained sound asleep. “Oh, my God,” she finally wheezed.

Patrick rose, then sat back down.

It had been a long time since she’d seen her father so agitated—not since the day of Connie’s senseless death. He really hadn’t been agitated then. Devastated was a better word. And furious, too—the same fury she saw twist his features now.

“Dad—” The saliva dried up in her mouth, making further speech impossible.

“I don’t think there’s cause for panic,” Patrick said in that same gruff tone. “Not yet, anyway.”

“How can you say that?” Emma’s voice rose several decibels.

“I heard the news from a friend who actually saw him about town.” Patrick paused and gave Emma a direct stare. “I don’t think he knows about Logan.”

“You don’t think?” Emma stood and began pacing the floor, feeling as if jumping beans were having a field day inside her. “Think is not definitive enough for me.”

“I’m working on it, Emma. Just give me time. But from what I know of Cal Webster, if he had the slightest suspicion I had his son, he would’ve already knocked on my door.”