This Cowboy's Son

His hand struck the counter. “You could have called anytime in those years before I got married.”

He was shaking. “I waited to hear from you. I waited and waited and waited. Why didn’t you call?”

“You could have called me.”

“You left me, Moira. It was up to you to let me know if you ever wanted to see me again.”

“Oh, Angus, I was busy.” When he would have spoken, would have lambasted her for such a flimsy excuse, Moira raised a hand. “New York is like a wild animal, absolutely voracious. It chews up young people and their hopes and dreams and spits them out ruined. I refused to be one of the ruined, one of the losers. I worked my butt off to succeed.”

Her defiance left her and she looked fragile, tired.

“Did you succeed?” he asked softly.

“Beyond my wildest dreams.”

“Was it worth it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?”

The door chime rang and Angus flinched.

Go. Get the hell out, whoever you are. I’m not finished here.

He watched Moira wipe moisture from her eyes, subtly enough that he was pretty sure the customer behind him wouldn’t notice.

He turned around. Norma Christie. Jesus, it only needed this. Crusty Christie, the biggest blabbermouth in town.

“Hello, Moira,” she said. “Angus.” She inclined her head, unbending that steel rod of a backbone enough to acknowledge him. She’d seemed old when he was young. She was downright ancient now. And judging by the spark in her eyes, just as nosy as ever.

Angus set his jaw. Moira turned around, her face composed, but he could see the strain in her eyes.

“What are you doing in here, Angus?” Norma gestured to the rose-patterned fabrics scattered around the shop. “You getting a dress made for someone? Your fiancée?”

Angus froze. What the heck was he supposed to say? That he had come in only to see Moira? When he was getting married in two weeks? Knowing Norma, she’d put an interesting spin on it and would spread it to half the town. It would crush Jenny if she heard. If there was one thing he knew about Jenny, it was that she valued loyalty above all else.

“Last time I checked,” Norma said, “the groom wasn’t supposed to order the dress for the bride. He wasn’t even supposed to see it before the wedding day.”

The dress. He’d forgotten. Moira was making Jenny’s wedding dress. How did Moira feel about that?

He couldn’t come up with a lie for Norma.

Not one goddamn word.

He saw Moira swallow, watched her pretty throat move and her full lips part.

“Angus came to pick up Jenny’s dress, but it isn’t ready yet.”

She turned to Angus and smiled. It looked like a struggle. “Tell Jenny I’ll get those pleats she wanted sewn in right away. It will only be a couple of days.”

“Will do.” Angus nodded at Norma and left the store, so frustrated his jaw hurt. He didn’t feel any better now than when he’d walked into the store. One way or another, he would find out what had happened to Moira over the years and why she’d decided to stay in Ordinary now.

And why the hell she’d never stopped loving him, yet hadn’t done a single thing about it in all these years.

MATT KNEW HE’D HEARD wrong. Jenny couldn’t have just said that the boy who’d been standing in front of him was his son. He had to have heard her wrong.

She looked serious, though.

“What?” he asked, hoping against hope that he had got it wrong. He felt light-headed, as if he was at the bottom of a deep, deep well, with only a small circle of light at the top and someone leaning over and whispering strange things. He couldn’t hear properly. “No way.”

“Yes, he’s yours,” Jenny said from the top of that long tunnel. “Born nine months and three days after the night we spent together.”

A shiver ran across the back of his neck. A wave of dizziness left his skin clammy, as though he’d just walked a mile through a thick fog.

He had a son. A child.

Whooh. He exhaled through his dry lips.

He had a child.

Christ, what was he supposed to do about it? How on earth was he supposed to deal with a child? Hoo-boy.

His feet started to itch, like he needed to run. But he couldn’t leave. He had a son.

He was the boy’s father, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Jesse looked familiar because Matt saw a more mature version of that face in his mirror every day.

He was a father.

His legs threatened to give out on him. He broke out in the kind of sweat usually caused by nightmares or rotgut alcohol.

The screen door slammed and Jesse came out with a small Tupperware container and a spoon in his hand. He sat on the top step and shoveled something into his mouth.

That little guy had sprung from his loins.

Afternoon sunlight glinted off the golden hair the boy had inherited from Matt.

Matt had inherited that from his own father—the dad who would never, not in a million years, have been voted Father of the Year.

Deserter of the Year, more like.

Or Drunk.

Or Layabout.

Or Wife Beater.

One hell of a frickin’ package.