His child.
His son.
By damn, he was a father.
Of a fine-looking boy, too. When he’d first laid eyes on the kid, he’d been awestruck, thinking Logan couldn’t be his flesh and blood. No way could he and Connie, out of the misery of their marriage, have produced a tiny being so perfect. Hence, the kid had to have come from someone else’s loins.
Then just as quickly Cal’s negative thoughts turned a bit positive when he remembered a baby picture of himself he’d found at the ranch. Logan did resemble the kid in the picture.
Screw DNA testing; he didn’t need that. Logan was his kid.
Still shaking, Cal swiped the sweat from his brow and above his lip. He remained too shaken to drive toward the small cabin that served as his home. His gaze searched for his foreman, Art Rutherford, who was usually out and about taking care of chores. When Cal didn’t see Art or his vehicle, relief flooded through him.
Right now he didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. He had some serious thinking to do. Since he’d lied to Emma Jenkins, he might as well see where that took him. Maybe if he wormed his way into her good graces, she would let him see the kid. In doing that, he had to know he might run head-on into her father, who would immediately recognize him, and the gig would be up.
If that happened, he’d devise plan B. That was his boy and no one was going to take Logan away from him.
“Whoa, brother,” he said out loud, “Don’t go gettin’ too big for your britches.”
While getting his son, having something of his own for the first time in his life, might be his top priority, he had to ask himself a brutal and honest question. How equipped was he to become a parent? He had a ton of emotional baggage weighing him down, which certainly didn’t make him parent material.
The Jenkinses knew that and were sure to use it against him. Both father and sister hated him with a passion. To add insult to injury, Connie’s sister had built a smoldering fire in his loins.
Not a good thing.
Though a chill of foreboding shot through him, Cal couldn’t ignore this emotional upheaval. Like it or not, seeing Emma today had made him think thoughts he hadn’t had since he’d returned from Central America. But Emma was different. She fascinated him because she had no idea how attractive, how sexy, she was.
He’d never met a female who seemed as unaware of herself as she was. There was nothing artificial about her, no desire to be noticed. She reeked of sexuality, with a fragile innocence that any man in his right mind would have found appealing.
Any man but him, he told himself savagely. He wasn’t about to get involved with any woman, especially not his ex-sister-in-law, who had every intention of taking his child away from him.
So what was he doing counting the days until he could return to the nursery?
Four
“Ms. Jenkins, this is a disaster. Plain and simple.”
And you’re a bitch. Now where had that ugly thought come from? Emma asked herself, appalled at the direction her mind had taken. Granted, Sally Sue Landrum was a pain in the rear, but she hadn’t earned the title of bitch. Not yet, anyway.
“No, it’s not a disaster, Sally,” Emma rebutted with all the patience she could muster. “I told you I’d have your landscaping finished today, and I intend to keep that promise.”
Sally pursed her full lips, placed her hands on her tiny waist and glared at Emma. “That won’t happen without plants.”
“I’ll get the plants.” Emma’s tone held conviction, even though she wasn’t sure she could follow through, which would indeed be a disaster.
She didn’t take many private jobs because her daddy kept her so busy with his projects. But there had been a lull in her business right now, so when her friend Sally had called and practically begged her to landscape the grounds of her new multi-million dollar home, Emma had said yes.
Actually, she’d been thrilled, seeing a home as something different, and as a challenge. At the moment, with Sally glaring at her, she was beginning to rue the day she’d taken the job.
Dammit, the supplier had told her just yesterday the plants she’d ordered would be in. So far, that hadn’t come to fruition. She’d called other suppliers, but none could fill her need. To make matters worse, Sally was having a big open house to show off her new mansion, which put that much more pressure on Emma.
“Sally, go back inside and do whatever it is you do,” Emma said into the hostile silence, “and let me handle things on this end.” She paused and forced a smile. “Please.”
Sally was having no part of Emma’s smile; that was apparent by the tightening of her lips. “You’re my friend, Emma. You of all people, I thought I could count on.”
“You can.” Emma’s tone was terse. “Again, just leave me alone and let me do my job. Everything will be all right.”
“It had better be.”
With that, Sally flounced around and marched back into the mansion, slamming the door behind her. Emma breathed for the first time since she’d been accosted by her friend and client, then reached for her cell phone and dialed her main supplier.
“Fred, this is—”
“I know who it is.”
“Have my plants come in yet?”
“Yes, praise the Lord.”
Emma wilted on the spot, the relief washing through her was so acute.
“Thank you, Fred.”
“Don’t thank me.”
“Why not?”
“Thank Bubba McBride. He’s the one responsible.”
“Oh?” she said inanely, her heart pounding slightly harder, which was crazy. Even the man’s name had an effect on her. This foolishness had to come to an end.
“He volunteered to go after them, and I told him to hit the road.”
Following another deep, settling breath, Emma said, “When do you expect him back?”
“He’s on his way to the estate, even as we speak.”
“I owe you, Fred. And Bubba,” she emphasized before snapping her cell shut.
It was then that she heard the squeal of brakes. Whipping around, she watched Bubba bound out of the truck and saunter toward her. She tried not to react to his dark, menacing good looks, but nothing short of another miracle would’ve stopped that.
At the moment, she was fresh out of miracles.
“Hiya,” he said in that low, sexy voice that scraped across her skin like fingernails over a chalkboard. Emma shivered. And that look in his eyes—she couldn’t ignore that either.
For a moment, she stiffened under that gaze, more potent than the sun bearing down on her head. Then her sanity came to her rescue. No matter how captivating he might be—and she couldn’t deny that he was—she wasn’t interested.
Then why was she fixated on the width of his muscled shoulders and the span of his six-pack abs? She dared not look any farther south, already knowing the power he packed there.
“Hi yourself,” she responded but not before swallowing hard, feeling suddenly like a teenager meeting a new beau. God, how corny—and ridiculous. She was a grown woman with a child. Where were her good sense and her pride?
Pulling herself together, Emma wiped the answering smile off her face and said in her most businesslike tone, “I spoke to Fred and he told me what you did. Thanks a lot.”
A mocking smile