Her Secret Cowboy. Marin Thomas
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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 puberty and—”
“Get lost, Porter,” Will said.
Isi had taken the boys into town earlier and there was no one to answer Marsha’s knock on the farmhouse door. She shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun and stared in the direction of the bunkhouse.
“Aren’t you going to go out there?” Buck asked.
“I’m going.” Will stepped outside, slamming the door behind him. The noise drew Marsha’s attention and for the first time in over fourteen years they made eye contact.
Aware Buck and Porter spied through the window and Conway stood in the barn watching, Will ignored the urge to flee and met Marsha in the middle of the yard.
“Hello, Will.”
Her voice rang with confidence and the directness of her gaze knocked him off balance. The woman standing before him was nothing like the high school girl who’d barely conversed with him. “Marsha.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
It wasn’t every day a man found out he was a father. Did she have any idea how her letter had turned his life upside down? Her expression remained neutral, but she clenched and unclenched her hands. She was more nervous than she let on. Good. She should be.
“I’m sure you have questions,” she said.
“A few.”
She squared her shoulders. He hadn’t remembered her being spirited—only shy and studious. She’d been the complete opposite of the girls he’d chased in school. The wild girls had been the only ones willing to date a guy like him.
“If you expect me to apologize—” her eyes blazed “—I’m not going to.”
She might as well have slapped him across the face with her stinging statement. Of course the pastor’s daughter considered herself above needing forgiveness.
“I had my reasons, Will, whether they were right or wrong, they were mine and I don’t regret keeping Ryan. Nothing you say or do can make me feel guilty for not aborting my son.”
“Your son?”
A pink blush spread across her cheeks. “Our son.”
“What about hiding Ryan from me? Feel any guilt over that?”
She lowered her gaze. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“The front porch.” Away from his brothers’ prying eyes. They walked past the house in silence, the intermittent breeze carrying the scent of Marsha’s perfume beneath Will’s nose—a light, citrusy smell that made him want to take off her clothes. He ground his teeth and silently cursed himself for finding her attractive.
When they reached the front yard, he spoke. “Why did you suddenly decide to tell me about Ryan?” He doubted her reason had to do with guilt, otherwise she’d have come forward years ago.
“My father’s ill.”
Stagecoach was a small town. Will’s boss happened to be a member of the Community Mission Church and had told him about the pastor’s health issues. “What does your father’s prostate cancer have to do with being truthful with me?”
“Ryan’s very close to his grandfather and when he’s gone...” She cleared her throat. “Ryan won’t have a man to look up to.”
Will was the last person on earth who should be a role model. Feeling as if Marsha had backed him into a corner, he lashed out—more from fear than anger. “Would you have ever told me about Ryan if your father hadn’t become ill?”
She stared him in the eye, which wasn’t difficult considering she was at least five feet ten inches in her boots and he was six feet in his boots. “You told me to get an abortion. You said under no circumstances did you want to be a father.”
“I was eighteen, Marsha.” He paced in front of her. “That’s what a typical eighteen-year-old guy tells the girl he got pregnant.” He hadn’t suggested giving the baby up for adoption because he was afraid he’d be just like his old man.
“I was eighteen, too. Old enough to make up my own mind about whether or not I was ready to be a mother.”
She’d avoided answering his question, so he answered it for her. “You wouldn’t have told me about Ryan if your father hadn’t become ill.”
“I would have told you...eventually.”
“You’re a liar. Buck forced your hand.” When she didn’t respond, Will said, “My brother should have told me right away when he found out.”
“I’m not here to talk about what Buck should or shouldn’t have done. I was prepared to tell Ryan about you years ago, but he didn’t show any interest in learning who his father was.”
“None at all?” The question escaped his mouth in a choked whisper.
She shook her head.
Stunned, Will closed his eyes as a memory better left buried resurrected itself. When he’d turned twelve, he’d wanted to know more about his father and had pestered his mother for information. She’d brushed off Will’s questions, but he’d badgered her until one afternoon she’d dragged him by the shirt collar to the car and drove him to Tucson.
She never said a word the entire trip until she stopped in front of a single-story home with toys strewn across the yard.
“Your father lives in that house.”
“What’s his name?”
“Henry Blythe.”
“Can I ring the doorbell?” he’d asked.
“It’s up to you.”
Will was cocky enough to believe he could handle anything, so he strolled up to the house and rang the bell. A woman answered the door and two little kids poked their heads out from behind her legs. “Is Mr. Blythe home?” Will asked.
“Yes, who are you?”
“Willie Cash, ma’am.”
“Wait here.” She shut the door in his face. He stood on the porch so long his legs became tired and he sat on the stoop. His mother waited with him—never leaving the car. After an hour Will rang the doorbell again. And again. And again. The sun set. And he waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally the door opened.
A man stood in the shadows. Will couldn’t make out his features, but his voice sounded hoarse and mean. “Go away, kid.”
Shaking in his shoes, Will asked, “Are you my father?”
“With a mother like yours, you’re not good enough to be anyone’s kid.” The door slammed in his face.
From that day forward Will hadn’t given Henry Blythe a second thought, but deep down the man’s rejection had left its mark. Will accepted that he was no good because of who his mother was—a woman who’d borne seven children—six of them fathered by different men. That Ryan had never been interested in knowing Will reminded