Welcome Home, Cowboy

by Karen Templeton

  “Depends on the situation, I suppose.” She set the drink back on the table, adding softly, “Children know when they’re not wanted.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Her gaze still steady, still threatening to suck him back in, she frowned, like she wasn’t sure she should say what she was thinking. “Before you go, you need to know something.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “That this is your home, Cash. Always will be. Wherever life leads you, whatever you decide to do…” She patted the porch railing. “This is here, waiting for you.”

  “No, Emma, the house is yours, fair and square—”

  “I’m not talking about the house, I’m talking about family. Belonging. I know, it’s crazy, and if you’d asked me two months ago whether I’d even be thinking in terms of letting another man into my life, into my kids’ lives—”

  “You’re right, it is crazy,” he said, wanting this conversation to die. Now. “About as crazy at it gets. Because I don’t belong anywhere.”

  “And what makes you so all-fired sure about that?”

  “Because…” He glanced away, dodging that infuriatingly calm gaze. “I didn’t know what to expect when I came back here. Didn’t even know what I was looking for. The missing pieces to who I was, I suppose—”

  “And did you find them?”

  He looked back. “I don’t know. Not yet. But I told you up front I didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want to be ‘part of the family.’ Okay, maybe I saw a chance to make a difference in somebody’s life in a way I never had before, but for damn sure I didn’t expect…”

  The words wilted in his throat.

  “To bond?” Emma finished for him.

  Cash crossed to the other side of the porch, leaning hard on the railing, watching, against the endless sky, the piñons sway in the lilac-scented breeze. “Dammit, Emma—being here it’s like getting sucked into a dream. A dream where I’m pretending to be somebody else. As nice at it is, it’s still a dream. And dreams end. Always.”

  At her silence, he looked over his shoulder to see her watching Skye, her tender gaze on her son sending pain shooting through him.

  “In my head,” he said through a tight throat, “I get what happened with my father. That it had nothing to do with me. But like I said, the scars go deep. Real deep. No, listen,” he said when she opened her mouth. “Honey…I’ve screwed up every relationship I’ve ever had. I don’t know why, or how, but I do. I mean, come on—doesn’t it tell you something that my ex didn’t even see fit to tell me I had a son until now?”

  “Yeah. That she’s an idiot.”

  A dry laugh shot from his mouth. “You don’t think anybody’s an idiot.”

  “I’ll make an exception in this case,” she said, walking toward him, her arms folded across her ribs. “There’s no way you would’ve messed up your relationship with your own child, I don’t care what you were going through at the time.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Says the man who’s turning his own life on its head for a child he’s never met. Yep, you’re gonna make a lousy father, all right.”

  Cash blew out an exasperated breath. “Taking the obvious first steps doesn’t mean the rest of it will fall into place. That we’ll hit it off. Or hell, even like each other.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake…he’s seven, Cash! If the way Hunter and Zoey took to you is any indication, I doubt his liking you is going to be an issue—”

  “Depends on what his mother’s told him about me, doesn’t it?”

  “Man, do you know how to set up roadblocks for yourself or what?”

  “Better than setting myself up for disappointment.”

  Releasing a breathy, humorless laugh, Emma shook her head. “Okay…I’m just gonna say this. Maybe a couple of months isn’t much in the scheme of things, but it’s long enough to convince me that the Cash I know? Isn’t the Cash you’ve convinced yourself you are.”

  “Emma, don’t—”

  “No, let me finish. Since you’re leaving anyway, it’s not like I’ve got anything to lose. It’s not that you don’t belong anywhere, Cash, it’s that you don’t believe you do. Big difference. I said you had a home here, and I meant it. Will always mean it. But as long as you hang on to the belief that you don’t—or that you’re not really good, or worthy of having somebody love you—nothing I or anybody else can say or do is gonna convince you otherwise. You’re the only one who can fix you. Which isn’t gonna happen until you’re ready to be fixed.”

  As a thunderstorm of emotions pelted him, she closed the space between them to lift a hand to his face, all that honesty and goodness in her eyes likely to tear him to pieces. “The man who writes those songs that used to turn me into a blubbering mess…nobody can fake those feelings. Just like there was nothing fake about what went on between us the other night. But you gotta love yourself, honey, before you can feel anybody else’s love.” Her forehead creased, she soothed a thumb over his cheek. “Like mine.”

  Cash felt like all the air had been siphoned out of his lungs. “You don’t love me, Emma.”

  “Oh? Says who?”

  “Me. Because you’re too smart to love something that doesn’t exist, to love somebody who’s only—”

  “A stand-in for Lee? You’re right, I am. But then, since I never, not once, thought of you as a substitute for my dead husband, that’s your problem, not mine. I love you, not Lee’s memory. So deal.”

  Furious, confused, Cash swept past her and down the porch steps, nearly to the car when she called after him.

  “Just promise me one thing.”

  Against his better judgment, he turned back. “And what’s that?”

  “That you’ll try. With your boy.”

  Their gazes battled it out for a long moment before, with a sharp nod, he got in his car and drove off.

  Away from something he should’ve never let himself get tangled up with to begin with.

  Emma was still doing the catatonic thing on her porch when, an hour after Cash left, Noah Garrett drove up in his supermacho truck, an event which prompted Bumble to lift his head in mild curiosity and Emma to realize the emotions she’d kept a lid on from the moment Cash showed up were backed up in her throat, ready to erupt.

  Almost like he understood he needed to tread carefully, the young man tentatively approached, muscles on full display underneath the black T-shirt tucked into his camouflage carpenter pants.

  “Afternoon,” he said with a nod. Afraid to speak, Emma nodded back. Noah licked his lips. “Uh…Cash left a message? That I needed to set a time with you when we could start the remodel?”

  “I’m sorry,” she got out before snatching up the baby and hoofing it back into the house, where the slam of the screen door behind her probably didn’t muffle her sobbing one tiny bit.

  Chapter Twelve

  As many times as Cash had played Dallas, he didn’t know the city at all. So even with his GPS system it took a while to find Francine’s house, tucked deep in a suburb north of the city proper. Place looked decent enough, he supposed, at least from the outside. Typical brick-façade, ranch-style house, live oak in the grassy front yard. Kid’s bike lying on its side on what passed for a porch.

  Cash had to force himself to breathe. His first Super Bowl halftime gig hadn’t made him feel this close to puking. Unfortunately, no more an option now than it had been then.

  The white, scrolled-iron screen door swung open before he was halfway up the walk. “You made good time,” Francine said, unsmiling. She didn’t look a whole lot different, except for maybe being a mite heavier. Still the same shaggy blond hair, fake tan and perfect makeup, the same preference for shrink-wrapped clothing—in this case white shorts and a blue top that showed more than a sliver of midriff. Still pretty, to be honest.

  Long as you didn’t scratch too deep below the surface.

  “Go on in. Wesley’s down the street with a friend, I’ll go get him.”


  When she passed, her flip-flops slapping against the cement walk and her perfume about to choke him, it struck Cash how much he dwarfed her. He’d forgotten, how often he’d taken up with small gals who’d giggle and tell him how big and strong he was.

  Hell.

  Once inside, he glanced around the dimly lit living room, the shades drawn against the summer heat even though air-conditioning purred through the vents. Like Francine, the place was neat. Orderly. Devoid of clutter. And animal hair, he thought with a tight smile, remembering she was allergic—

  “We’re back,” she announced, making Cash jump. He turned, breath frozen in his lungs as he laid eyes on his son for the first time. The boy stared back, slate-blue eyes steady underneath a grown-out buzzcut that, along with the too-big front teeth, made him look a bit like a hamster. “This here’s your daddy, honey,” Francine said, and Cash heard the nerves in her voice. His eyes swung to hers—was she having second thoughts? But like she’d read his mind, she shook her head, then said, “This is Wesley. Well, go on, honey—say hi.”

  Shrinking farther into his mother, the boy shook his head, confusion puckering his brow. “You’re not my daddy. Daddy went away for a little bit, but he’ll be b-back,” he said, his bravado no match for his quivering chin.

  And in that instant, the crack Emma’d left in his heart opened a little more.

  Only this time, there was no closing it back up. No keeping out the fear, the helplessness. The sense that another person held your happiness in his hands. His big, scared eyes.

  That, likewise, you held his happiness in yours. Because, despite the nearly crushing terror that comes from suddenly confronting your worst fear, Cash instantly knew nothing else mattered except this little boy.

  Nothing.

  “I told you, honey,” Francine said, “Danny’s not coming back. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it’s true.”

  Tears overflowing dark lower lashes, Wesley shook his head, his quiet, “No,” filling Cash with something close to rage.

  His heart thundering, he crouched in front of his son, barely able to get out, “It’s nice to meet you, Wesley,” past his knotted throat.

  The boy jerked away and ran to the patio door, bouncing it open before streaking into the backyard. Calmly, Francine walked over, closed it again. “He’ll be okay. Soon as he has a minute to get used to the idea.”

  “He needs a helluva lot more than a minute! For God’s sake, Francine—how can you even think about dumping him?”

  She spun around, her mouth open. “You’re his father! How is that dumping him?”

  “What else would you call handing him over to a complete stranger?”

  Huffing out a breath, his ex dropped onto the blue-and-beige tweed sofa, her head in her hands. “Because I suck at being a mom, okay? It wasn’t so bad when…before Danny left, but…”

  She sprang back up, heading into the open kitchen to mess around with something on the stove. “Wes isn’t a bad kid, I know that, but…it’s like I have no patience with him. Every little thing he does sets me off. I know I yell at him too much. And now that it’s just us, it’s only going to get worse. I can’t quit work, so I’m exhausted when I get home, and here’s this kid who needs me.” She turned, apology in her eyes. “I’m no good at being needed, Cash. No good at all. Which you know.”

  “So what was all that about wanting a kid when we were married?”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Damn straight I’m mad!” Cash’s pointed finger jabbed toward the door. “He’s not a pair of shoes that don’t fit! He’s your child—!”

  “I didn’t know it would be like this, okay? That it would be so…hard.” She faced the stove again, rattling the lid back on the pot. “I’m sorry!”

  Frustration and red-hot fury roared through Cash, egging him dangerously close to a line he’d sworn never, ever to cross. Struggling for control, he snapped his head toward the kitchen window to watch a crouching Wesley poke at something with a stick.

  My son, he thought, and the anger flared, crested…began to retreat. “Look…the kid’s obviously well cared for, so I doubt you’re nearly as bad as you think you are.” Heh. Sound familiar? Ignoring the voice, Cash looked over at her. “Maybe you could take some parenting classes. Or if it’s money issues stressing you out, I’ll give you whatever you need so you wouldn’t have to work—”

  “Babe, you’re not getting it. I don’t want to be around him more.”

  “Holy hell, Francine,” Cash said on a drained sigh. How had he spent three years of his life with this woman? “Do you even love him?”

  To his shock, she teared up. “In my own messed-up way, I think so, yeah. Which is why I want you to take him.”

  “Even though you didn’t see fit to tell me about him before this.”

  Shrugging, she fiddled with the wooden spoon. “I was mad at you. Stupid mad. And I thought Danny would give me something you wouldn’t. Or couldn’t. I swear I didn’t know I was pregnant when I left.” Her mouth pulled tight. “Then, when I found out, I honestly didn’t know if you or Danny was the father. Although I guess I suspected it was you all along.”

  “And exactly when did it occur to you to find out for sure?”

  The spoon abandoned, Francine combed her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t. I mean, I was going to, but…” She sighed. “The truth is, things’ve been weird between Danny and me for some time. About six months ago he started going on about how he didn’t think Wes was even his. So when I was at work one day he took him and had a DNA test done.”

  “And I should believe you, why?”

  After a moment’s stare, she pushed past him to the living room, where she pulled an envelope out of a desk drawer. A second later, she smacked it into Cash’s hand. He glanced at the papers inside, then said, “This only proves Danny isn’t Wesley’s father.”

  “I know. But I swear you and Danny were the only possibilities. Although feel free to check yourself if you don’t believe me. Yeah, I cheated on you. But I’m not a tramp.”

  No way was he going anywhere near there. “You even consider how your…decision might damage the kid?”

  “And I’m telling you he’d suffer a lot worse if he stayed with me. Okay, I suppose it’ll hurt for the moment, but in the long run…trust me. This is better. He’ll get over it. Get over me. Besides, like I keep saying…stranger or no, you’re still his father.”

  Although God knew logic had never been Francine’s strong suit, this was prize-winning even for her. “You walked out on me, remember? So what makes you think I’d make a better parent than you—?”

  The patio door crashed open again and Wesley stormed back into the house, flushed from the heat, only to come to a dead stop when he saw Cash, like he’d forgotten he was there. Immediately he looked to Francine.

  “C’n I play in the sprinkler?”

  “Sure, go get your swimming trunks on,” she said, and he barreled down the hall, yelling at the top of his lungs. Francine winced. “Lord, why don’t kids come with volume control?”

  Even though Emma had virtually said the same thing about her own, there’d been love and good humor cushioning her words, whereas Cash could only hear acid in Francine’s. Enough to provoke a bad taste in the back of his throat.

  “Fine. I get it. But cutting you out of his life entirely…not gonna happen. And don’t even think about arguing or I will turn around and walk out of this house.”

  Fear bloomed in her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

  True. But she didn’t know that. “I let you go without a fight, didn’t I? So I’m thinking you might not want to chance it.”

  His trunks on, Wesley caromed back down the hall and out the patio doors. A second later water shot ten feet into the air from the sprinkler and Wesley shrieked in feigned shock.

  “So what’re you proposing?” Francine asked at last.

  “First off, I’ll get a suite or apartment or something close by so I can come over every day unti
l Wesley gets used to me. Until he trusts me—”

  “You’d stay in Dallas?”

  The very question that’d plagued him since he’d found out about Wesley. Damn, this whole thing was like putting together a puzzle without the picture. One piece at a time was all he could commit to. “If I have to.”

  “But…what about your career?”

  Sidestepping the jibe, he said, “This is all about Wesley, Francy. Not you, not me. Wesley. When he’s ready, and only when he’s ready, then I’ll take him by myself—”

  “Meaning, when you’re ready?”

  Leaning one wrist on the edge of the counter, Cash said softly, “You’ve got some nerve trying to lay a guilt trip on me.”

  Francine blinked, then frowned. “You’ve changed.”

  He almost smiled. “That good or bad?”

  “I haven’t decided,” she said, turning back to the stove. “But I suppose you may as well stay for dinner. The sooner we get this get-acquainted business started, the better. I still can’t cook worth crap, but I haven’t killed anybody yet.”

  Letting her get on with it, Cash returned to the window, watching the boy. Oh, yeah, he’d changed, all right.

  In ways that were scaring the hell out of him.

  “Have you even heard from Cash since he left?” Jewel asked over the roofers’ blunted, off-sync hammering as she loaded a bushel of cabbages onto the back of Lee’s old pickup, parked between the fields. By July Emma was not above commandeering any bodies she could find to get the first major wave of crops harvested; fortunately, both Jewel and Patrice were totally on board with exchanging a few hours of manual labor for fresh fruits and veggies.

  “No,” Emma said in a low voice, cradling the baby in his sling while keeping one eye on Hunter some twenty or so feet away as he methodically picked green beans, inspecting each one before he put it in his basket. Zoey was off with Patrice, picking strawberries. Both kids had been mopey as all get-out after Cash first left, so Emma’d resorted to hours of hard labor to wear them out too much to think about it. After all, if it worked for her, why not her kids?