Cowboy Brave

by Carolyn Brown

  Her mom grabbed her wrist before she made it to the door. “Because this happened ten minutes ago. I knew you were either an hour away or already heading back, so I figured we’d wait for you. I wasn’t expecting…” She trailed off.

  Ava glanced back over her shoulder at Jack, who gave her mother a polite nod. “Evening, Mrs. Ellis.”

  Her dad was the first through the door, baseball bag over one shoulder and Owen’s backpack over the other. He kissed Ava on the cheek, but his jaw tightened when he laid eyes on Jack.

  “Be nice,” she insisted in a whispered plea.

  And then she was stooping to hug her son while fending off a very excited Labrador. She pressed her cheek to his, letting out a relieved sigh when he felt cool to the touch.

  “I don’t think you have a fever, bud. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

  Owen shrugged. “It kind of comes and goes. I think I maybe didn’t eat enough for lunch today.” He wrapped his arms around her neck and squeezed tight. Not that he wasn’t an affectionate boy, but something felt different.

  She kissed him and finally backed away so the dog could get his fill, and in seconds Owen was on his back, laughing as Scully lavished him with slobbery, wet kisses.

  Ava’s dad dropped the bags in the small entryway and walked straight past Jack into the kitchen. She turned to her mom, who pulled her back to where Jack stood so Owen couldn’t hear above his own giggles.

  “He’s missed you,” she said. “You’re doing a good thing—helping out with the Everett vineyard”—she smiled at Jack—“but you’ve missed both practices this week. Plus, you’re out the door as soon as the bus comes each morning, and you barely make it back before sundown.”

  Ava’s heart sank. It had only been five days, but her mom was right. This was the least present she’d been as a mother in all of Owen’s life, and the guilt seeped into her bones.

  “It’s my fault,” Jack said. “I took you up on your offer without realizing the sacrifice. It was never my intent to take you away from your son.”

  “Jack!” Owen called, springing to his feet once the dog set him free. “Mom said you read the Sports Illustrated article about the pitcher for the Dodgers. Do you think he’ll get them back to the Series this year?”

  Ava stepped back, allowing her son into their small huddle, and she watched the warm smile spread across Jack’s face.

  “Sure as hell doesn’t hurt their chances. Does it?” he asked, giving Owen’s baseball cap a friendly swat. “Might even win it this time.”

  “Sure as hell doesn’t,” Owen parroted, and at this Ava raised her brows at both boys.

  “Language, you two.” But she couldn’t help smiling as well.

  “I hear he’s got a wicked curveball,” Jack said.

  Owen nodded. “I’m still trying to figure that one out. Maybe you could show me sometime? Mom said you were a good pitcher.”

  It was Jack’s turn to raise a brow. “Good?” The corner of his mouth quirked into a grin, and Ava wondered if he knew how gorgeous he was when he did that. “Just good?”

  She laughed and backhanded him on the shoulder. “I never had the pleasure of seeing you in action. I had to take your word for it—and trust that whole scholarship situation.”

  Ava inwardly winced at the possible memories this would bring up, but Jack’s smile never faltered.

  “Sure, Shortstop. Sometime sounds good. But I should let you all get settled in for the night.”

  Owen grabbed his bag from where his grandpa had set it on the ground. “Or we could do some pitching practice while Mom makes dinner?” He glanced at his mom and grandma. “I’m feeling a little better,” he said, then bit his bottom lip.

  Ava’s heart squeezed so tight at her son’s pleading eyes—eyes so much like his father’s. She wouldn’t ask Jack to stay. He had to want it. He had to want to spend time with his son.

  Jack crossed his arms and tilted his head toward the ceiling, heaving in a breath before his eyes met hers. How many times had she seen Owen do the exact same thing whenever he needed to think? It only hit her now that the gesture wasn’t solely her son’s. It was Jack’s, too.

  “I can head out when dinner’s ready,” he said.

  Her mom patted him on the shoulder and smiled. “Or you could stay.”

  “If you want,” Ava blurted. “No pressure. I was going to grill some chicken. Whip up a salad. Nothing fancy.”

  Owen watched them both expectantly. Jack tilted his head down to take in his own appearance.

  “Let me just grab a clean shirt from my truck.” He shifted his gaze to Owen. “I think I have a glove somewhere in the back of the cab, too. You got a handful of balls?”

  Owen grinned from ear to ear.

  “All right, then. How about you go on out back and get us ready while I grab my stuff and clean up real quick.”

  Owen shot his fist in the air and whooped as he ran through the kitchen and out the back door, Scully following at his heels. Jack headed out front to his truck, a smile still spread across his own face as well.

  Ava’s heart swelled. “Doesn’t look like he has much of a tummy ache anymore,” she said.

  “He just missed his mama.” Her mother gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Bradford?” she called toward the kitchen where her dad was, no doubt, sulking. “Let’s leave the kids to their dinner.”

  Her dad emerged, his jaw set as firm as it was when he first entered the house.

  “Come on, Dad.”

  He grunted. But this was not acquiescence. She knew that look. It was the one she got when she backed into the mailbox the year she got her license—the one he gave to every boy who rang their doorbell throughout her high school career—except golden boy Derek Wilkes. It was the look that asked, What do you have to say for yourself? But it was a rhetorical question. Because Bradford Ellis had the answer. He always had the answer.

  “This is a mistake, Ava.” His voice was steady. Even. The way he spoke when he knew he’d already won the argument. So she decided not to disagree.

  “Then it’s my mistake to make.”

  He let out a bitter laugh. “You’re a lovesick teenager again, running around behind our backs with a boy you know isn’t good enough for you.”

  “Dad.”

  He crossed his arms. “You gonna deny sneaking around with a boy who couldn’t even take you on a proper date?”

  Ava’s eyes burned, and she could feel the heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. “He was in a cast for the first two months I knew him.”

  Her father shook his head. “You didn’t answer the question. If I had nothing to worry about with you dating Jack Everett, why’d you hide it from us? Why did he let you?”

  A throat cleared, and everyone’s attention volleyed toward the front door where Jack stood with a clean T-shirt thrown over his shoulder and a baseball glove under his arm.

  “Because she knew you thought the son of an abusive alcoholic might hurt her someday. And you were right.”

  “Jack. Don’t,” she said, her voice wavering. “You didn’t know about Owen.” She turned to her parents. “He didn’t know.” Not that it mattered telling them this now.

  He had hurt her without even knowing it, broken her heart—she’d thought—beyond repair. But she’d done the same to him.

  “He never raised a hand to me, Dad. He never would. Not to Owen, either.”

  Her father narrowed his eyes. “You’re letting your infatuation with this boy blind you again. It’s my job to protect you. Maybe he never laid a hand on you, but you saw what he did to the Wilkes boy. You saw what he’s capable of. You think you can guarantee there’s no risk of that happening again?”

  “Bradford—” her mom started, but he held his hands up in surrender.

  “I’ve said all I need to say. Even if she’s right, he can still hurt her in other ways. We helped put the pieces back together the last time he left her. We’ll be here to do it again. Just remember that it’s not only y
our heart he’ll break,” her father said. “That boy’s already taken a liking to him. What’s gonna happen to Owen if he finds out the truth and then Everett leaves you both?”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Ellis,” Jack said, “it’s up to Ava and me how to proceed with Owen from here.”

  Ava’s mom kissed her on the cheek and then hooked her elbow with her father’s, practically dragging him toward the door.

  “The hell it is,” he said to Jack through gritted teeth. Then her parents were gone.

  Jack stood, motionless except for the pulsing muscle above his jawline.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, moving toward him with measured calm, as if he was an animal she might scare off and send running. “He’s scared for me—for us. I don’t condone his treatment of you, but he doesn’t know how to do the protective thing without being a total asshole.”

  She was hoping to coax a smile from him, but she failed.

  “Jack.” She stood right in front of him now, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. She could count his breaths—see how each held a slight tremor. She cupped his cheeks in her hands, and he closed his eyes. But still he said nothing.

  So she did the one thing she knew she could do to make him react. She stood on her toes and kissed him.

  “Ava,” he finally whispered against her, the sound of his voice both an admonishment and a plea.

  “He doesn’t know you,” she said, her lips still moving against his. “And that’s on me. Maybe if I’d been up front from the beginning, the whole Derek incident never would have happened. At the very least I should have told them who the father was and why I pushed you to leave—” She felt the tears prick at the backs of her eyes.

  He stepped back and pressed a thumb to her cheek where the first one had sprung free. “But you were too much of a mess to do that,” he said. “They had to pick up the pieces because of me.”

  “Because of us,” she corrected. “What happened ten years ago, that’s on me, too.”

  “But the Derek incident did happen. So did Walker’s birthday and me telling my pregnant girlfriend I never wanted to be a father. And then you coming to find me in L.A.?” he added. “Shit.”

  “They don’t know about L.A.,” she said.

  “You dealt with that on your own—coming to tell me about Owen and then thinking I was marrying someone else? I am the asshole your father thinks I am.”

  She shook her head. “You’re just someone who’s still trying to put his own pieces back together. Go,” she said, nodding toward the back door. “He’s waiting for you.”

  He sighed heavily and strode past her, pulling his dirty shirt over his head before tossing on the new one. And for those few moments when his torso was bare, Ava simply stared at the beautiful man he’d become and wondered if he even wanted those pieces back in place, or if he’d already convinced himself that broken was how he’d stay.

  They’d eaten outside, unable to pull Owen from his baseball glove for too long. Then he and Jack had continued practicing their curveballs until past sundown.

  Now Ava looked over her shoulder to where Jack stood in the frame of Owen’s bedroom door, watching her tuck their son into bed.

  “You want me to sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle,’ little man?”

  Owen squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “I’m not a baby, Mom.”

  Her heart constricted in her chest. “You’re right,” she said. “Maybe you’re getting too old for this.” She kissed him on the forehead and willed herself not to lose it in front of Owen and Jack.

  So he wasn’t a baby anymore. So he didn’t need her to sing to him. Fine. She’d be fine.

  “Goodnight, bud.” She stood from the side of his bed and turned toward the door where Jack waited with brows raised.

  “Wait,” Owen said, reaching for his mom’s hand. “Maybe—just tonight. If you really want to.”

  Ava blew out a breath. “I really want to,” she said, a dopey grin spreading from ear to ear. She crawled in bed beside him and softly sang the words she’d been singing since the very first time he fell asleep on her chest in the hospital almost a decade ago.

  When she was done, Owen’s eyes were closed, and his breaths were long and deep. So she slid quietly from the bed and turned toward the door—and Jack.

  “Love you, Mom,” her son said dreamily.

  “Love you, bud.”

  “Goodnight, Jack. Thanks for the curveball help.”

  “Night, Shortstop,” Jack said, a hesitant smile playing at his lips.

  The dog lumbered in past them and hopped onto Owen’s bed, stretching across the boy’s feet, his paws dangling off each side.

  She grabbed Jack’s hand and pulled him down the hall and then the short flight of stairs until they were in the small entryway, Ava leaning against the front door.

  He ran a hand through his hair, then crossed his arms as he inhaled, head tilted up.

  “Ah,” she said. “The thinking pose. Ya gonna let me in on what’s going on in that private place of yours?”

  He dropped his head so his gaze met hers. “Stay with me next week,” he blurted, and her eyes widened.

  “I—I can’t. I told you…it’s Owen’s spring break, and I’ve been gone too much already. I can’t just—”

  “Both of you,” he said. “Or…all three of you. I mean, Scully too. We’ll work on the vineyard, and Owen and I can perfect his slider.”

  Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. It was Jack who couldn’t seem to stop talking now.

  “I’ll move my shit to the bedroom upstairs so you and Owen can have the guest room. But if it will be too weird for him—for both of you, I get it. It’s actually probably the worst idea I’ve ever had so—”

  “What does this mean?” she asked warily. “If Owen gets attached to you…I don’t like agreeing with my father, but he’s right. It’s already happening.” It was for her, too.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what the hell it means other than I hate the thought of not seeing either of you next week. But you’re right. It could be confusing to Owen. And you. Shit. A couple of hours ago I was ready to do what I thought was the right thing and step back—keep you both safe from getting hurt again but—”

  There he went again—trying to do the right thing. The only problem was she had no idea what right meant for their situation.

  “But Owen might not be the only one forming an attachment,” she said as realization bloomed.

  It was, very possibly, the worst idea. But this was a chance for Owen and his dad to really connect—for Jack to see the kind of father he could be, even if from afar.

  It was her chance to figure out how to reconcile these new feelings for the first boy she’d ever loved with the fact she’d soon say good-bye to him again.

  But for right now, she simply kissed him.

  “Is that a yes?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she whispered back, her lips still on his, and then kissed him again to shut them both up because she knew. Verbal vomit was a mess that was almost impossible to clean up, and she didn’t want either of them to say anything more.

  Because she didn’t want either of them to change their minds.

  He relaxed into her, his hands gripping her hips, and she could feel him smile against her lips.

  “You made his night, you know,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything in response other than claiming her lips with his again. He didn’t need to. She’d watched them both all night, the boy and the man. She’d even go out on a limb and say that Jack had enjoyed himself as much as Owen had.

  It didn’t matter what Jack thought he was or was not capable of because Ava had seen it right there in her own backyard.

  Jack Everett was a father, and he could be a damned good one if he’d only see himself the way she saw him.

  Well, now she had a week to prove it.

  Except his tongue slipped past her lips, and all her bones turned to jell
y. She had to stop kissing him before her brain did, too.

  “You should…probably…”

  But he’d taken her pause in kissing him as an opportunity to trail his lips down her neck, his stubble scratching her skin in a way that made her knees buckle. If she didn’t stop him now, before he got to her breast, she’d let him take her right on the entryway rug.

  “Not here,” she said before it was too late.

  He backed away, brows raised in question, but he was otherwise completely composed.

  “How the hell do you do that?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  She blew out a breath and placed her hands on her hips, even as her taut nipples were about to slice holes through her shirt. “How do you liquefy my bones and then stand there as if you weren’t about to have your way with me up against my front door?”

  One corner of his mouth quirked up. “You gonna catch me if I go weak in the knees?”

  She swatted him on the shoulder. “That’s not the point,” she pouted. “As soon as you leave I’m going to have to take a really cold shower and think about doing my taxes or something.”

  He leaned forward like he was going to kiss her but instead let his lips brush against her ear.

  “I could do your taxes,” he murmured.

  She groaned and slipped out from under his arm. “I just—we can’t. Not here. Not yet. Owen could come down those steps at any second, and I don’t want to have to explain us before I can—you know—explain us.”

  Because how could she explain to her son what she didn’t understand herself?

  Jack pressed his lips together and nodded slowly. Then he kissed her on the top of the head. “Your father’s right. Sneaking out after curfew didn’t count,” he said. “Maybe ten years too late, but I’d like to make up for it.”

  She reminded herself that proper date or no, their lives were headed in opposite directions, with Owen the only true anchor between them. But it was no use. She was falling for this man, and if she stopped kidding herself, maybe she’d be able to admit that she’d never quite gotten back up from the first time she fell.

  “I’d like that,” she admitted, but she kept the rest of her thoughts to herself. Maybe the father-son bond could span the miles between one coast and another, but her heart wouldn’t withstand that distance.