Her Secret Cowboy. Marin Thomas
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tired of beating you at the old one.”
No matter what happened between her and Will, Marsha refused to regret spending the next two and a half months with her parents.
“Come in the house, dear.” Marsha followed her mother inside while Ryan remained with his grandfather. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Iced tea if you have it,” Marsha said.
Her mother poured two glasses of tea and sat at the kitchen table. After a brief conversation on how Ryan had done in school this past semester and Marsha’s tutoring job, her mother said, “You haven’t spent an entire summer here since you graduated from high school.”
“I don’t know how fast Dad’s cancer is going to progress and I...” She blinked back tears. “I want him and Ryan to have as much time together as possible.”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you two to stay so long.”
“Why? Are you concerned we might be too taxing on Dad?”
“No, your father is thrilled you’re here.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
Her mother stared at the wall instead of answering.
“You’re acting weird, Mom. What’s going on?”
“Did I tell you that the church is getting a new classroom wing built this summer?”
“You did. What does that have to do with me and Ryan?”
“Ben Wallace’s construction company won the bid.”
Marsha had gone to school with Ben. “And that’s important because...?”
“Will Cash works for Ben.”
Oh, God. She knows. “Does Dad...”
Her mother sighed. “Don’t think for a minute I haven’t beaten myself up over the years and had many heart-to-heart talks with the Lord about keeping your secret.”
“Why haven’t you told Dad?”
“I worry how he’ll take the news.”
“I was planning to introduce Ryan to Will this visit.” Her mother gasped and Marsha held up her hand. “Hear me out. Dad’s the only male role model in Ryan’s life right now. If—” when “—something happens to Dad, Ryan’s going to need a man to lean on.”
“Will Cash isn’t a suitable role model for Ryan.”
This was why Marsha had never told her parents who’d fathered Ryan. As much as Sara and Jim Bugler were God-fearing people and had raised her to show empathy and compassion for the less fortunate, Marsha had grown up hearing her parents’ occasional comments about Will’s promiscuous mother, Aimee Cash, and the wild band of ruffians she handed over to her parents to raise while she gallivanted through the state sleeping with men.
“I won’t know if Will is a suitable role model until he has a chance to show me,” Marsha said.
“Ryan could get hurt. He’s nothing like those Cash boys.”
“The Cash brothers aren’t wild teenagers anymore—they’re grown men.” She closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Mom, I’m asking you to please not speak badly of Will. If he wants Ryan to know about the skeletons in the Cash family closet, he should be the one to tell him.”
“When is Ryan meeting Will?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You’ve told Ryan about his father then?”
“Not yet.” She’d chickened out.
Her mother took their empty glasses to the sink. “It certainly won’t be a dull summer.”
No, it wouldn’t. Marsha had a feeling it was going to be three months of fireworks—explosions she hoped didn’t all blow up in her face.
Chapter Two
Will sat on the sofa in the bunkhouse and waited for Marsha to arrive. He’d gotten home from work an hour ago and had showered and dressed in clean clothes. His chest felt as if a fifty-pound anvil rested on his rib cage and drawing air into his lungs took major effort.
He glanced at his watch. She was late.
Marsha had texted him last night, asking to meet alone this afternoon. At first he’d been puzzled, wondering how she’d gotten his number, then realized all she’d had to do was ask her father. Both Ben and Will’s cell numbers were on the construction contract with the church.
“You’re going to burn a hole in that wall if you stare at it any harder,” Buck said.
Will studied his brother who sat at the table drinking coffee. “I thought you were working today.” This was the first exchange he’d had with Buck since their confrontation over Marsha’s letter.
“Troy took off early to drive to Tucson for a car show.”
“Heck of a way to run a business.”
Buck carried his mug to the sink. “One day I’ll start my own auto-repair shop.”
“You’ve been saying that for the past two years.” Porter flipped through the pages of an American Cowboy magazine.
“You don’t have a job right now so you don’t get to comment.” Buck swatted Porter upside the head.
“Hey, don’t mess with the hair.” Porter smoothed his hand over his golden-brown locks. “Rodeo is a job.”
“It’s employment only when you win, which you don’t do often,” Buck said.
Will went back to staring at the wall. Not even his brothers’ bickering distracted him from the feeling of impending doom that had nagged him since Marsha’s text.
“Mack’s too busy at the dude ranch to rodeo on weekends,” Porter said. “I need a new roping partner.” He tore a page from the magazine, wadded it into a ball and threw it at Will, pinging him in the shoulder. “Want to team rope with me this Saturday at the Midway Rodeo?”
Will didn’t rodeo much anymore, because he often ended up working seven days a week to finish a construction job. “What about horses?”
“Greg Patterson said he’d bring an extra pair if we give him a cut of the winnings.”
“You that confident we’re gonna win?” Will asked.
Porter chuckled. “No.”
“Count me in.” Will needed an outlet for his anxiety.
The rumble of a car engine drifted through the bunkhouse walls and Will bolted to the window. A red Honda SUV pulled into the yard.
“Let me see.” Porter pushed his way between Buck and Will. “When did she get boobs?”
Will gaped at the woman who stepped from the car. This was not the Marsha Bugler he’d taken to the prom his senior year.
“Show some respect, Porter.” Buck elbowed his brother. “She’s the pastor’s daughter.”
Will soaked in the sight of his son’s mother. Marsha was tall, and the tight, faded jeans and fancy cowgirl boots emphasized her long legs. Shoot, he couldn’t recall what shoes she’d worn to the prom, never mind the color of her dress. Golden curls fell over her shoulders and the black V-neck T-shirt showed off her generous breasts. The curls were familiar but not the boobs—their groping in the pickup had been done with most of their clothes on.
“They might be fake,” Porter said.
Marsha stumbled when she walked up the porch steps. The way her breasts jiggled settled the matter—they were real.
“I heard that some women go through a second