Marin Thomas - Her Secret Cowboy

“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 him of the shame he carried.

Feeling like a cornered animal Will lashed out, “What do you want from me?”

Marsha backpedaled. “If you don’t want to meet your son, say so and we won’t interfere in your life.”

“It’s easy to paint me the bad guy, isn’t it?” He pointed his finger. “You want everything on your terms and you expect me to be grateful that you’re allowing me to see my son.”

“You don’t know what it was like to be in my shoes—eighteen, pregnant and...” She rubbed her temples as if she had a headache. “I didn’t come here to argue with you. Go ahead and hate me. I don’t care.”

Will might have believed her if her voice hadn’t cracked.

“What matters now is doing what’s best for Ryan,” she said.

Damn, he admired her spunk. To his knowledge his mother had never stood up to any of his siblings’ fathers the way Marsha stood up to Will. Maybe the outcome of his confrontation with Henry Blythe would have been different if his mother had accompanied him to the door that afternoon.

“Do you want to meet your son or not?”

“Of course.” The words sounded sure, but deep down Will was terrified.

“When?”

“There’s a rodeo in Midway on Saturday. I told Porter I’d team rope with him. You and Ryan could meet us there.”

“What time?”

“One o’clock,” he said.

“Fine.”

“Are you going to tell Ryan about me before Saturday?”

“Yes.”

He’d like to be a fly on the wall during that conversation. “What have your parents got to say about all this?”

“I didn’t tell them you were Ryan’s father.”

Now he knew why the pastor had never shown up at the pecan farm with a shotgun, demanding he do right by his daughter.

“My mother suspected it was you a while ago.” The corner of her mouth curved upward. “Ryan looks like you.”

Her words barely registered with Will as he stared at her mouth. Blame it on his confused emotional state but right now all he wanted to do was taste Marsha’s kiss. Why he’d want to kiss the woman who’d betrayed him was a mystery, but there was no denying her presence was causing a spike in his testosterone levels.

“Are you okay?” She frowned.

“I’m fine.” Pull it together, man. “Your mother didn’t share her suspicions with your father?”

“No.”

He didn’t envy Marsha the task of breaking the news to the pastor—the man had never held the Cash family in high esteem. Working at the church next week would prove interesting.

When they walked to Marsha’s car, Will said, “In case no one told you...I work for Ben Wallace’s construction company and we’re—”

“I heard.” She opened the driver-side door. “I’m sorry if I came off... I didn’t mean to be...” She nibbled her lip. “I’m worried about my father.”

Unlike Will, Marsha had a good relationship with her parents and he sympathized with her having to deal with the pastor’s illness. “See you Saturday,” he said. Her car had no sooner disappeared from sight than all three of his brothers appeared at Will’s side.

“Well?” Conway said. “Are you positive you’re Ryan’s father?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?” Porter asked.

“Marsha’s bringing him to the rodeo on Saturday.”

“Want me to tag along?” Buck asked.

“No, thanks.” The last thing he needed was to overwhelm Ryan with all his uncles. “Porter, we’re taking separate vehicles. I’ll meet you in Midway.”

“Whatever works best for you.” Porter nodded toward his truck. “Buck and I are heading into Yuma to grocery shop. You got any requests?”

Will shook his head. Once his brothers peeled out of the yard, Conway spoke. “You okay?”

“I don’t know the first thing about being a father.”

“I didn’t either,” Conway said.

“How’d you figure it out?”

“You learn as you go.”

That sounded risky.

“My advice is to not push yourself on Ryan. Let him call the shots.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“It’s not. And as soon as you think you understand your kid, they do something that takes you by surprise.” Conway retreated to the barn, leaving Will alone with his misgivings.