The Rancher's Secret Child

by Brenda Minton

  With Marcus watching, Lissa let go of Oliver’s hand and the boy slipped away from her. Her heart clenched in agony as she realized this might be the beginning of losing the child she loved so very much.

  Oliver took the brush and Marcus lifted him, telling him to run the brush down the horse’s neck.

  “Put pressure on it,” he said, in that gruff whisper of a voice, “or it tickles and horses don’t like to be tickled.” Oliver grinned at that and pushed the brush down the horse’s neck.

  Marcus continued to hold Oliver. He spoke quietly to his son, words that Lissa couldn’t hear.

  Tempted as she was to move closer, she stood there, waiting. He seemed content to ignore her and focus on Oliver. The two looked like father and son, dark heads together as Oliver leaned close to hug the horse.

  “I think we can turn him out to pasture,” Marcus said as he returned Oliver to the ground.

  “And we should finish our discussion,” she inserted.

  “There’s an old tire swing,” Marcus told Oliver. “Want to try it out?”

  “Is it safe?” Lissa asked.

  “It’s safe.” Leading the horse to the door at the rear of the barn, he opened it and turned the horse loose. He stood there a moment, a dark silhouette against the sun, as the horse trotted a short distance away and then dropped to roll on the ground. A cloud of dust billowed around the big horse as he stood and shook like a dog. Next to her, Oliver laughed at the sight.

  Marcus once again faced them, his expression still and composed. He held out a hand to Oliver. “Let’s go check out that swing.”

  Lissa followed them outside into bright May sunshine. The house that lay a short distance from the barn was an older farmhouse, two stories with a long front porch. Beyond the house was a creek, the waters sparkling and clear.

  The homestead looked a bit run-down, with faded siding, patched sections on the roof and a board over one window. It could have been any house she’d known growing up in poor neighborhoods, but instead it seemed peaceful. Maybe it was the location, with the stream, the rosebushes that had taken over and the green fields in the distance.

  Thinking about the house pulled her back to her own troubled past, to the abuse with her drug-addicted mother. Life before foster care and the Simms family. She and Sammy had lived their teen years with Tom and Jane Simms.

  “It took me a while to find you,” she told him as they walked in the direction of a big tree with limbs that stretched out like an umbrella, shading the yard of the old house.

  “That’s the whole idea, being hard to find.”

  He helped Oliver onto the swing and gave it a push. “We’re going to sit on the porch. You’ll be okay here.”

  Oliver grinned big. “It’s fun here.”

  “Yeah, it is.” He gave the boy one last look and headed for the house.

  He didn’t turn back to see if she followed. Lissa tried not to let that hurt. She wasn’t here for herself. But it mattered, whether or not he was good and if he was caring. Oliver needed a real father, someone to look up to. Someone who would be there for him.

  She stepped onto the front porch and glanced around. It needed paint and a few boards had to be repaired. There were chairs and an old dog sleeping in a worn-out dog bed. The animal lifted his head to give them a once-over.

  “Lucky isn’t much of a guard dog,” Marcus told her as he pointed to a chair. “He’s been following me around the country for the past ten years. He’s half-deaf and nearly blind.”

  Lissa thought the dog was a piece of the puzzle that was Marcus Palermo. The black-and-brown hound dog fixed soulful eyes on his master and then her. They must not have appeared too interesting, because he yawned and fell back to sleep.

  “Why is his name Lucky?”

  “He got hit by a car when he was a puppy. I found him on the side of the road and nursed him back to health and he’s been Lucky ever since,” Marcus explained as he sat on the edge of the porch. “About the boy. Are you dumping him here, like he’s a stray? Or do you want money?”

  “He is not a stray. He’s a little boy and I love him. I’m here to see if you’re ready to be a part of his life.”

  “You make it sound like I was given a choice and rejected him.”

  “Sammy gave me the job of making sure you are ready to be a dad.”

  “Make sure I’m ready?” A cold thread of anger sharpened the words. He was no longer the easygoing cowboy he’d been moments ago. When she looked up, his gaze was on her, as glacial as his words.

  “Sammy didn’t know if you would want to be a father. She also didn’t know if you would be able.”

  “I see. I guess I do have more negatives than positives. Bad-tempered, 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.”
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  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.

  Chapter Two

  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 long, graying hair pulled back in a braid. Today she wore jeans, a T-shirt and her apron. She’d obviously been at the café she owned before heading to his house on whatever mission had brought her.

  Marcus sighed. He wasn’t fooling himself. He knew what had brought her out here. The same thing that had kept him up all night and had him doubting himself this morning.

  “Aunt Essie, I just made coffee.”

  She had a spatula in her hand. She must have carried it out of the café with her, but she went ahead and waved it in his face.

  “You!” After decades in America, her Brazilian accent was normally undetectable, but today was a different story. “You’ve pulled stunts in your life, but this? Oh, I should paddle you, Marcus Palermo.”

  He drew in a breath and exhaled. She could only be talking about one thing. Or one person. “How’d you find out?”

  “Yesterday afternoon Mindy rented a room above her store. The young woman showed up with a boy that looked a lot like you and Alex when you were little. This morning that young lady came in my café, and wasn’t I surprised?” She waved the spatula a little too closely to his face. He grabbed it from her hand and tossed it onto the counter.

  “Imagine my surprise when she showed up here,” he countered.

  “So you sent her on her way as if the boy, your flesh and blood, doesn’t matter.”

  He recoiled at the way she described his decision and her eyes narrowed, as if she’d spotted a chink in his armor.

  “What, Marcus, you don’t want to take responsibility for your actions?” she demanded. She’d been more a parent to the Palermo offspring than their own mother and father, and he wasn’t surprised by her questions. He wasn’t even offended. Truth was, he did feel guilty.

  “I sent her away because the boy does matter,” he told her as he spun on his heel and walked back to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “There you go, shutting yourself off, acting as if none of this concerns you. As if you don’t have emotions.”

  “It concerns me,” he said as he poured her a cup of coffee. She took it and gave him a long look. “What about this concerns you?”

  Wrong thing to say. He knew it when she moved closer, her lips thinning with displeasure.

  “What concerns me is that there is a boy in need of a father and you’re acting as if it isn’t your responsibility.”

  “I’ll support him. I’ll give him whatever he needs.”

  “But not your time. Or your love. The two most important things you can give a child.” She started to ramble in Portuguese, which he spoke little of.

  He poured coffee in his favorite mug and tried to ignore the memories that the cup evoked. He hadn’t even thought about it when he’d pulled it from the cabinet. Sammy had given him the mug with the verse from Lamentations, about God’s mercy being new every morning. She’d wanted him to remember that each day was a fresh canvas. He guessed that might be one reason he loved mornings. They did feel new. A fresh start. Every day.

  New, even though the old baggage kind of held on and wasn’t easy to be rid of.

  It bugged him that he’d pulled that mug out of the cabinet. He looked up, wondering if God was telling him something and wishing He hadn’t bothered.

  “He’s your son, Marcus. That’s as clear as that ugly nose on your face.” Aunt Essie had resumed English, like someone had pushed a switch.

  “My nose isn’t ugly,” he replied. “And that
boy deserves better than a dad who might or might not be his own father’s son. I won’t do that to any woman or any child. That’s why Sammy kept him from me. I don’t know why she made the decision to have his guardian introduce him to me after she was gone.”

  A wash of grief flooded him, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes that he’d regret later. Aunt Essie’s expression softened and she put a hand on his arm, giving a light squeeze.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you cared about her.” Essie patted his arm. “You are Jesse Palermo’s son, but that doesn’t mean you are going to be the same kind of father he was. You are your own person. And if there was good in him, I prefer to think that’s what you have in you. My nephew wasn’t a bad man. Power and alcohol changed him.”

  He closed his eyes, willing away the dampness. He didn’t cry. His dad had beat the tears out of him years ago with the old phrase that he’d give him something to cry about. After a few good, sound beatings, he’d no longer cared to find something to cry about.

  “I did care about her, but together we were combustible. It wasn’t a good thing, the two of us. Two kids with similar pasts and a lot of anger. We were both getting our acts together. She was further along that path and she didn’t want to be pulled backward.”

  “Okay, so the two of you didn’t work. That isn’t the boy’s fault. The woman is at the café with the boy, Oliver. And I refuse to let you throw this away. He’s your son. He needs you.” She gave him a quick hug. “And I think you need him. You have ten minutes to get your act together and get to town.”

  She left with one last warning to do the right thing. He’d tried to tell her that yesterday he’d done the right thing. He’d sent Oliver off to live a life with a woman who obviously loved him. A woman who seemed to know how to be a parent.

  A woman who had sparked something foreign inside Marcus. She’d looked at him with those sky blue eyes of hers, and she, too, had challenged him to do the right thing. And he’d wanted to.