The Rancher's Secret Child. Brenda Minton
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dysfunctional and a recovering drunk. Not much hope in all of that.”
“She loved her son and wanted him safe.” Lissa didn’t add that she wanted Oliver safe. She wanted to protect him and make sure his future was secure.
“So you think I should have to jump through your hoops in order to be his dad? Because the way I see it, I could just take you to court.”
She knew that, but on hearing him say it, emotion rolled through her, settling in the pit of her stomach and making her heart ache. Her gaze settled on Oliver as he worked to keep the swing moving.
“It would be unfair to Oliver to do this without taking time to allow him to get to know you. To bond with you. I need to know that you’re responsible and that you’ll be a good dad.”
“You need to make sure I’m not my father,” he said without animosity, as if he was removed from the situation with his father, a known cult leader.
“Okay. Yes. And I do have legal custody.”
“I’m going to be honest here. I don’t think you should leave him with me.” He glanced her way and then his attention turned to Oliver. “He seems like a good kid. Anyone in their right mind would want him. I know you want him. And, well, I don’t want to mess that little boy up. He’s already had it rough. Why make things worse for him?”
“Because he’s yours,” she pointed out. “Because he deserves to know he has a father.”
“Not everyone knows how to be a father. Some people don’t deserve the title.”
Marcus watched as the little boy got off the swing, gave it a push and then struggled to climb back on the moving tire. The dog suddenly took interest in his surroundings and the visitors. He stood, shook from head to toe and trotted off the porch and across the yard to Oliver.
The rangy old dog, some type of coon dog, she guessed, obviously held more appeal than the swing. Oliver jumped, rolled across the ground and then giggled as the animal licked his face.
“Lucky. Enough.” Marcus whistled. The dog stopped licking, but he didn’t return to the porch. Instead, he plopped on his belly and stretched out next to his new friend.
“You should give yourself a chance.” She found herself uttering the last words she’d wanted to say to him.
He scoffed. “No, I don’t think so. Give myself a chance to what? Mess that kid up? He’s happy. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Don’t you want him to know that you’re his dad?”
He pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the post. “No. I don’t want him to know. I’m sure you know plenty about my family. I told myself a long time ago that I wouldn’t be a part of continuing the family line.”
“And yet you did. That little boy is your family.”
“And he’s got you. You look like a perfectly normal, responsible adult, and you love him. If it’s money you’re worried about, he isn’t going to go without. I’ll make sure of that.”
She glared at him. “Money doesn’t replace a parent or parents, Mr. Palermo.”
He met her gaze with a fiery look of his own. “I’m Marcus. Mr. Palermo was my father. And that’s a good enough reason for you to take the boy and go.”
She stood and walked past him, her shoulder brushing his. He didn’t make a move to chase her down and stop her. She kind of wished he had, because she thought if he’d give himself a chance, he had a shot at being a good dad.
Oliver resisted when she told him they had to leave, but Marcus Palermo had already gone inside. What kind of man could turn his back and walk away without even offering a goodbye to his child? She knew the answer. A man who had been damaged, just as Sammy had warned. A man who didn’t want to look too closely at what he was turning his back on.
She considered pounding on his door, demanding he care. But a person couldn’t be forced to care. She’d learned that lesson at an early age.
The next morning, Marcus woke with regrets. He stumbled to the kitchen and poured water into the coffeemaker before heading out the back door to the one thing he’d actually done to the old farmhouse. He’d added a porch with a swing, and he spent many a morning there watching the sun come up.
Nothing said home like a porch swing.
He loved the start of a new day when the sky turned from inky black to gray, and then that big orange ball peeked up from the horizon, the colors bursting forth like God sweeping a whole handful of crayons across the sky. Not that he would have shared that thought with anyone. No one knew how he felt about faith or life or art.
Art, another of his ventures and something he kept hidden in the upstairs bedroom, away from prying eyes.
He had a son. He had rejected the boy and it had cost him. Last night he’d lain awake thinking of that little boy’s eyes, his face. He’d been a funny kid, rolling on the ground with Lucky. Marcus thought of his nieces, Issy and Jewel. With a sigh, he took a seat on the porch swing and buried his face in his hands. Father, if it is Your will, take this cup from me.
Jesus had uttered those words in the Garden of Gethsemane just before he was taken into custody. He guessed having a son didn’t quite match up to what Jesus had been about to endure. But what Jesus had done had been the ultimate act of obedience, of giving himself up for others.
Marcus could admit to being torn. He had given his son up because he felt he wasn’t the dad Oliver needed. He wasn’t what any kid needed. It hadn’t been easy to watch his son take hold of someone else’s hand and walk away. Like a coward, he’d headed inside so he wouldn’t have to meet the boy’s dark and questioning eyes.
Oliver would be better off without him. He’d be better off with the woman, Lissa Hart. She seemed decent. She seemed to care. She would meet a good, honorable guy, get married, and they’d be a family. He’d meant to make himself feel better with the thought; instead, he felt worse. His son would be someone else’s family.
He leaned back in the swing as the sun peeped up over the eastern horizon, and he called himself a fool. He knew better than anyone that appearances were an illusion. His dad had been the master of the game, creating a facade that fooled people until they were too far into his web to escape. His own family had been victims of the deception.
Jesse Palermo’s wife, mother to his children, had preferred walking away from her own flesh and blood to staying with a madman. Marcus bore the scars of his dad’s abuse—his broken voice, the jagged line down his cheek and the emotional baggage.
His sister Lucy and his twin, Alex, had worked through their pain and married. Their youngest sister, Maria, seemed to have survived. Only because she’d been a little girl when Jesse died.
Marcus had been drifting for the past ten years or so, since their illustrious sire had died on the back of a bull he’d challenged Alex to ride. Marcus had made some money, sowed his wild oats and done his best to outrun the past. And he had a son. A boy named Oliver. A boy who would be better off without Marcus, because the only thing Marcus knew about being a father was what his dad had taught him. Jesse Palermo had beaten his children. He’d controlled his family and his congregation. He’d ruined every life he’d come in contact with.
A car barreled down his drive, tossing up dust and invading the early-morning peacefulness. He groaned when he recognized the old International wagon. His aunt Essie’s pride and joy. It wasn’t quite seven in the morning, so he doubted this was a pleasure visit. He headed inside for whatever lecture happened to be forthcoming. His skin was thick and she’d told him on more than one occasion that so was his head.
She met him on the front porch. Knocking on the door to seventy, she was a spitfire with