Marin Thomas - Her Secret Cowboy

“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 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?”