This Cowboy's Son

Thirty-five years later, the thought of Moira still had the power to move him.

They needed to talk.

Dresses made from rose-printed material hung in the shop window. Lavish. Like Moira.

Since she’d come home for her mother’s funeral, Angus had seen her only from a distance. She hadn’t left town afterward, though, as he’d expected her to.

Yesterday, he’d heard that she’d taken over her mother’s business in town.

He had to see her.

I’m not ready.

You’ve left it long enough. Get it done.

He exhaled until there was nothing left in his lungs but regret.

He grasped the knob of the front door. Forcing himself to push it open, he stepped inside, setting off a chime somewhere above his head.

The interior was dim after the bright sun outdoors, so he stood still to let his eyes adjust—and to give himself time to steel his heart.

Dresses lined one wall. The other wall was bare.

“I’ll be right with you,” a musical voice sang out from behind a curtain at the back of the store, deeper and huskier than he remembered from his youth, but still instantly recognizable.

It stirred memories. Desires.

The curtain flew aside and Moira stepped into the room, smiling.

She stopped when she saw Angus, the smile fading from her pale face. He drank in the sight of her. The wide neckline of her dress bared her white shoulders. She’d been a wisp of a girl back then, with breasts too big for her frame. She’d grown into a woman, and age had added substance to the rest of her body.

Lord, what a woman. He had it bad for her. Still.

He curled his fingers into fists.

Don’t touch. You’ve got a good woman at home you’re going to marry in two weeks.

Then what are you doing here?

Clearing the air.

He stepped toward her.

She stiffened. “What are you doing here?”

He stopped. The air around her swirled with tension and the scent of her rose perfume.

“Hel—” His voice didn’t work, came out as a deep croak. He swallowed and tried again. “Hello, Moira.”

“I asked you what you’re doing here.” Her tone was no longer musical, but thin with distress.

“I thought we should meet. Privately. Before we have to do it in public.”

“At your wedding.” Her mouth was flat. “I don’t plan to attend.”

He heard the resentment in her statement and his temper flared.

“You’ve got no right to be bitter. You left me.”

“I know what I did.” He wasn’t sure what emotion ran through her voice. Was there regret beneath the anger? He hoped so, hated like crazy to think he’d been the only one in love all those years ago.

“She’s so young. Do you love her?”

He couldn’t lie. “No.”

Her green-eyed gaze shot to his face.

“I care for her, though,” Angus continued. “A lot. She’s a good woman.”

Moira fingered the ribbon on a hat on a table. “But if you don’t love her, why marry at all—especially someone so young?”

“Children.” His voice shook with fury. “They should have been yours. Ours. They should be full-grown and working our ranch.”

“Yes,” she hissed, whirling away from him. She placed her hands on the counter and hung her head, the nape of her exposed neck unbearably vulnerable.

“Why did you come back?” he asked. Why are you here to turn my life upside down?

She refused to look at him, so he studied the top of her head and the once-scarlet hair that had faded to the color of a copper samovar.

“I came home for Mother’s funeral last month, and decided to stay.”

“Why?” he asked. “There was a time when you couldn’t wait to shake the dust of Ordinary off your shoes.”

Moira glanced up at that, but her gaze skittered away and she shrugged. The neckline of her dress slipped lower on one shoulder. Her porcelain skin used to fascinate him, white and flawless against the calluses of his tanned rancher’s hands. Judging by the tremor running through him, she still bewitched him.

With careful movements he stepped closer to her.

“Was it only me in love all those years ago?” he asked. “Did you ever love me?”

She clasped her hands, but he could still see them trembling. “Always. I’ve never stopped loving you,” she blurted defiantly. “Make of that what you will.”

It felt as though a slab of concrete had fallen on him, crushing his chest. “But— You never wrote. Never called. I never heard from you.”

Angus gently touched her arm and she pulled away from him.

“Of course I didn’t write,” she answered. “You married another woman.”

“Did you think I’d stand around? I waited for you to come home. I waited for three years.”