Fortune's Secret Child

“Wait a minute!” Shane reached out and grabbed her arm, bringing her to a halt. Her words and tone may have been angry, but he also heard what was underneath. He heard the hurt and knew he had been the cause of it. That knowledge weighed uncomfortably on his conscience. He was not proud of what he had done to her six years ago and, in particular, the way he had done it. He had never been able to forgive himself for hurting her the way he had. Was it too late to make things right? He didn’t know. He suppressed a sigh of despair. He didn’t know much of anything at the moment.

She jerked her arm free of his grasp and turned a defiant stare on him. She spit out her words, along with her hurt and anger. “What now? Isn’t first thing in the morning soon enough for you? Do you want us out of here tonight?”

“No. That’s not it.” He backed away from her anger and her surprisingly aggressive behavior. “It’s your arm...” His manner softened. “Let me take a look at that abrasion.”

Cynthia glanced at the scrape just below her elbow. What little composure she still possessed was slipping away faster than she could keep control of it. She had to get away from him. From his far-too-tempting presence. She snapped out her words. “It’s nothing.”

Shane grasped her arm again, this time gently, as he changed from the strong and determined Shane Fortune to the compassionate and caring Dr. Fortune. His soothing voice elicited the type of patient confidence that made him so successful and popular at the hospital. “At least let me put some antiseptic on it.”

He tugged until he felt her relent. He slid his fingers down her arm, took her hand in his, then led her across the kitchen. The warmth of her skin spread through his body, rousing a combination of emotions unlike any he’d ever experienced. It was all very confusing and unsettling. He tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.

He opened a cupboard and grabbed a package of cotton balls and a bottle of antiseptic. She flinched and her muscles tensed as he applied it. His soothing voice carried his concern. “Does this hurt?”

“No...it stings a little, that’s all.”

It was as if all the fight had suddenly gone out of her and a crisis had passed. He continued to cling to her hand. He had never forgotten the sensual feeling he got from touching her, yet the tingling sensation emanating from his fingertips and continuing up his arm carried all the excitement of something new and wonderful. The sensation both thrilled and disturbed him.

Cynthia worked her hand out of his grasp without actually jerking it away. His touch stirred up emotions and needs she thought she’d safely buried away. She tried to physically distance herself from his commanding presence and his tempting allure, which made her pulse jump and her blood race. She put as much confidence into her voice as she could muster. “As I said, my son and I will be out of your house first thing in the morning.” She turned and practically ran from him.

“Cynthia, wait.” He watched helplessly as she left the kitchen and started up the stairs, ignoring his words. He stood motionless, rooted to the spot, as the most exciting and tantalizing woman he had ever known walked away from him just as he had walked away from her six long years ago.

He didn’t have a clue what to do. Shane Fortune—the man whose life was totally under control, the man who knew exactly where he was going and what he was doing, the man whose commanding presence inspired confidence in everyone around him—was at a complete loss. He stared at the spot where she’d been standing just a moment earlier, an escalating sense of loss tugging at his consciousness, revealing the emptiness that lived inside him. He realized he had no one to blame but himself.

He and Cynthia had met in graduate school. He thought back. She had been part of his life at a time when he had been trying to deal with inner turmoil about his dual heritage and his place in the overall scheme of things. He had struggled to find his own identity in a life that straddled two worlds—the one on his grandfather’s side, with the wealth and prestige of the Fortune family, and on the other side the Native American culture of his Tohono O’odham grandmother. He’d been positive that Cynthia would never be able to fit into that divided world, especially when he didn’t know where or how he fit into it himself. It had been a time of pent-up anger and inner turmoil, which he had successfully kept hidden behind a facade of strength and control.

There had never been any confusion about his career. Unlike his brother and two cousins, he had made the decision not to work in the family-owned company, Fortune Construction. Being a doctor was what he had always wanted. His personal life, however, had been a mass of confusion and contradictions. No one really knew what he was going through back then. He had managed to keep his turmoil well hidden from everyone who knew him, including his family and Cynthia McCree.

A small spot of warmth, fueled by a long-suppressed emotional need, flickered to life. He did know one thing for certain—no matter how dark something had seemed to him, all his problems would disappear when he held Cynthia McCree in his arms. It had taken several months of stubborn denial and agonizing over what he had done before he finally admitted to himself that by leaving her he had made a colossal blunder, missed her very much and wanted her back in his life.

He had eventually swallowed his pride and asked her father where she had gone. He vividly recalled Robert McCree’s angry words. Don’t you think you’ve already hurt her enough? I told her no good would come of associating with you. If she wants to talk to you, she knows where to find you. Everyone knows where to find the illustrious Fortunes. The words had been cloaked in bitter sarcasm and they had hit their mark. They left him with a gaping hole in his life that had never been refilled.

He shoved aside the unpleasant memories and turned his attention to his now cold dinner. He stared at it, emitted a sigh of resignation, then put it in the refrigerator. What had been hunger pangs an hour ago had turned into uncertainty about what would happen in the morning. He busied himself with the physical activity of cleaning up the kitchen and restoring everything to its proper place. The memories continued to linger in his mind, mixing with thoughts of what the immediate future held.

He left the kitchen and started up the stairs toward his bedroom. He paused at the top of the staircase. The doors were closed at two of the four guest bedrooms. One of them was Cynthia’s and the other was her son. He stopped outside the closed doors and listened for a moment. A deep disappointment had jabbed at his consciousness when she said she had a son. He continued down the hallway to his bedroom suite. A strange sense of loss overcame him as the disappointment turned to sadness.

Cynthia heard the soft footsteps outside her bedroom. She held her breath and waited in the darkness. Tears welled up in her eyes and a terrible foreboding settled over her. Would he open the door? She finally heard him move away. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on getting some sleep, but to no avail. Her efforts only produced an image of Shane’s handsome features and the memory of many nights of heated passion. He’d been the man she thought she’d be with for the rest of her life, a love she thought would live forever. Then her entire life had come crashing down around her.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut in an attempt to drive the image from her mind. He had rejected her, and even after all these years the pain was still very real. But that was not the most compelling issue at hand. Seeing him again had done more than resurrect heated desires and inflamed emotions. It had shoved her greatest fear to the front of the line, an all-consuming dread that nearly paralyzed her with fright. A sick churning tried to work its way up her throat. Her most closely guarded secret must be protected at all costs.

She could never allow Shane Fortune to know that he was the father of her son. She had to do everything in her power to make sure Bobby was not subjected to the same emotional upheaval she had been through, followed by the inevitable painful rejection.

Shane had terminated their relationship before she knew she was pregnant. He had rejected her, cut her out of his life with a finality that left no room for questions. It was an action that had slammed the door shut on any possibility of a discussion about what had gone wrong. For a long time she questioned herself about what she’d done that had driven him away. It wasn’t until after her son was born that she stopped blaming herself for a decision that was entirely Shane’s.

Cynthia knew she could not avoid running into Shane after she moved back to Pueblo, but she never dreamed it would be in such a dramatic and unsettling manner. She had only given superficial thought to what she would do when she did run into him, without speculating too much about the circumstances. The situation now dictated that she needed to make some hard decisions.

Did she owe Shane the opportunity to know his son? Was it possible to reveal the truth without Bobby being an innocent pawn caught in the middle? Could she prevent her son from being hurt the way she had been?

All she had were questions—and her fears. She had no answers.

Two

Shane paused at the top of the stairs. The house was quiet, just as it was every morning, only today was different. He was not alone in the house. Apparently Cynthia and her son were still asleep. He couldn’t suppress a little snort of resentment. A decent night’s sleep was more than he’d been able to accomplish. He had tossed and turned after going to bed, waking every thirty minutes or so. He didn’t know what the morning would bring and wasn’t at all sure he was prepared to face it.

Heading for the den, Shane intended to open the sliding doors and let in the fresh morning air. He hadn’t taken more than two steps across the room when he came to an abrupt halt. A little boy lay sprawled on his stomach in front of the bookcase. It was a sight that gave him quite a start, grabbing his senses as much as his attention. He’d assumed her son was two or maybe three years old. This boy appeared to be about five.

A hard jolt of an indecipherable something shot through his body, leaving an uncomfortable sensation in its wake, a possibility he refused to consider. She must have gotten pregnant immediately after their breakup. She had gone from him straight to another man’s bed. A spark of rancor ignited, but was quickly extinguished by an overriding reality. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had driven her into another man’s arms—someone who had gotten her pregnant, then deserted her. It was an unsettling thought, and he felt something between guilt and anger.

Shane studied the boy for a moment. He was dressed in pajamas, his light brown hair still sleep-tousled. He had surrounded himself with every one of Shane’s Native American artifacts that had been within reach on the shelves. He seemed to be absorbed in a book, carefully studying each picture before turning the page to the next.

A moment of sorrow swept over Shane. Cynthia’s son looked so much like her. He wondered how things might have turned out if he hadn’t— He clenched his jaw and bit off the rest of the errant thought. The past couldn’t be changed. It served no purpose to speculate.

The little boy looked up at him, as if suddenly aware of his presence. The sight pulled at Shane’s heart and left him momentarily speechless. The boy had his mother’s eyes, the same iridescent blue. Shane knew he should say something, but didn’t know what. Bobby solved the problem by speaking first.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Shane Fortune. This is my house. I live here.”

“My name’s Bobby McCree.” He showed an open curiosity, with no signs of apprehension about Shane’s presence.

Bobby McCree. Well, that took care of whether Cynthia had ever been married to the boy’s father. Realizing that left him every bit as unsettled as having her in his house and knowing she had a son.

The little boy continued to look up at him as if waiting for him to say something. Shane ran a hand across the back of his neck in an attempt to still the uncomfortable shiver, but it didn’t help. He had developed a real bond with children and had no problem relating to them. He had spearheaded an entire hospital construction project solely for the benefit of Native American children, but at that moment he felt at a total loss for words. Too many conflicting thoughts and feelings raced through him. There’d been too many surprises all at once.

“So...Bobby, what’s your book about?” He crossed the room as the boy rolled over, then scrambled to his feet. Bobby held up the book so Shane could see it. He was surprised to find that it didn’t belong to Bobby, but came from his bookshelf, a volume of photographs depicting reservation life. Some of the photographs were over a hundred years old and others were modern. It was not the type of book he thought would have grabbed the attention of someone Bobby’s age.

Shane took a closer look at the various items strewn around the den. In addition to drums, masks, baskets and other Native American artifacts, Bobby had scattered some of his toys on the couch and floor. There was a bright red fire truck, a police car, Old West action figures, building blocks and a couple of children’s books. He again thought it odd that Bobby would ignore his own books and toys in favor of Shane’s book of photographic studies.

“Do you like the pictures?”

“Yeah, they’re neat.” Bobby’s captivating grin showed a missing front tooth.

“Are you hungry? Do you want some breakfast?” As awkward as the situation was, Shane could not deny the affinity he felt toward Cynthia’s son. His curiosity about Bobby’s father was again piqued. What kind of man would desert his own child—if that’s what really happened.

A frown wrinkled Bobby’s forehead. “My mommy always makes me breakfast. Do you know how to make breakfast?”

“I think I can handle it.”

Bobby closed the book and carefully put it back in the bookcase in the same spot he had found it. He ran across the den and straight to the kitchen. Shane followed the boy, but stopped in his tracks at the kitchen door. What had been neat and tidy when he went to bed was now a disaster area.

Bobby had obviously been in the kitchen before Shane had come downstairs. He had pulled a chair next to the counter to climb up and open the cupboard. A carton sat on the table next to a dirty glass, and a puddle of spilled milk had dripped on the floor. He had also tried, it appeared, to take a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator, but had sloshed half of it on the floor between the refrigerator and the kitchen table. Apparently he’d ended up settling for a couple of cookies, as evidenced by the lid from the cookie jar shoved across the counter toward the sink and the trail of crumbs on the floor.

“It looks like you tried to make your own breakfast.” Shane gazed at the boy, not sure whether to be irritated or amused. “Don’t you think we should clean up this mess before we start something new?”

Bobby stared sheepishly at the floor before looking up at Shane. He answered in a quiet voice, “I guess so.”

Shane set about cleaning the kitchen with Bobby doing his best to help. As much as he tried to stay neutral in his thoughts, every time he looked at the boy he saw Cynthia. A soft warmth enveloped his heart and spread through his chest. He again wondered about Bobby’s father and what had happened between him and Cynthia. Those same thoughts tried to wander to what might have been, but he refused to play that game.

As soon as the kitchen was presentable, Shane set about fixing breakfast. He put the various items on a tray and carried it out to the patio, setting it on the table. Bobby followed him, pausing long enough to pick up the fire truck from the den floor. He set the truck on the table, then climbed onto the chair. Shane sipped his coffee and studied Bobby as the boy took a big drink from his glass of milk, then gulped his orange juice.