She glanced at him with an odd expression he couldn’t quite pin down.
“They were as opposed to our marriage as your family was, remember? They never held with marrying someone from a different world. My daddy said only grief could come from that.”
“Looks like he was right, doesn’t it?”
Her chin lifted, looking considerably more stubborn than he remembered. “I have Sammy. I don’t consider that a source of grief, no matter what.”
“Sammy.” He didn’t even know his son’s full name. “What’s the rest of it?”
She didn’t look away. “Samuel Tyler Caldwell, like mine.”
It struck him, then, a fist to the stomach. He had a son. Somehow, he had to figure out how to deal with that.
“Didn’t he ask questions about his father?”
She winced. “Of course he asked. Any child would.”
“And did you bother telling him the truth?”
“Sammy knows his father’s name. He knows our marriage ended because we weren’t suited to each other.”
It was what he believed himself, but it annoyed him to hear her say it. “Why does he think I never came around?”
“When he asked, I told him you had to work far away.” For an instant there was a flicker of uncertainty in her face. “Eventually he stopped asking. He gets plenty of masculine attention. My father, my brothers, my cousins—he doesn’t lack male role models, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It hadn’t been, but now that she said it, he knew the sprawling Caldwell clan would take care of its own. But Sammy was his son. He didn’t know what that was going to mean yet, but it had to mean something.
“I’m his father.”
She crossed her arms again, as if she needed something to hang onto. “He doesn’t have to know you were here. You can leave, and we’ll go back to the way things were.”
“I don’t think so, Miranda.”
“Why not? You don’t want to have a son.”
“Maybe not, but I have one. I’m not just going to walk away and pretend it never happened.”
She took a breath, and he seemed to feel her gathering strength around her.
“If you mean that, then I’ll have to tell him you’re here.”
His world shifted again. He had a son. Soon that son would know Tyler was his father.
Chapter Two
Had she ever felt quite this miserable? Miranda sat on the porch swing, staring across the width of the inland waterway at the sunset over the mainland. Maybe, when she was eighteen and discovering that she couldn’t function in Tyler’s world. And that her fairy-tale marriage wouldn’t survive the strain.
At the sight of Tyler standing in the hallway that afternoon, all the pain of losing him had surged out of hiding. Tyler was back—Tyler knew about Sammy. Somehow she had to come to terms with that.
This old swing, on the porch that stretched comfortably across the front of the inn, had always been a refuge. It wasn’t today.
She closed her eyes, letting the sunset paint itself on the inside of her lids. Lord, I don’t know what to do.
No, that wasn’t quite right. She knew what she had to do. She had to tell Sammy his father was here, before her son heard it from someone else. She just didn’t know how.
Please, Lord, help me find the words to tell Sammy without hurting him. Panic gripped her heart. Don’t let Tyler’s coming hurt him. He’s so young.
Certainly there weren’t any easy words for this situation. Telling her family that Tyler was here had been difficult enough—telling her son would be infinitely worse.
Her mother had been comforting, her father rigidly fair, silencing the angry clamor of her three brothers, who wanted to dump Tyler into the deepest part of the channel. Her sister, Chloe, married now, hadn’t been present, but she’d undoubtedly join them as soon as she heard.
Her father had been firm. Tyler had a right to see his son, Clayton Caldwell had said. They’d have to put up with it, for Sammy’s sake.
That had been the only thing that would make the twins and Theo behave, she suspected. David and Daniel considered themselves substitute fathers, while Theo had always been a big brother to his ten-years-younger nephew. None of them would do anything to hurt Sammy.
She rubbed her forehead tiredly, then tilted her head to stare at the porch ceiling, painted blue as the sky. She cherished her family, but coping with their reactions had made it impossible for her to work through her own feelings about Tyler’s reappearance.
Maybe she wouldn’t have been able to, anyway. Just the thought of him seemed to paralyze her with shock.
“Momma?” Sammy pushed through the screen door and let it bang behind him. “Grandma says you want to talk to me.”
She forced down a spurt of panic and patted the chintz-cushioned seat next to her. Please, Lord.
“Come sit by me, sugar. We need to talk.”
Sammy scooted onto the swing. Those jeans were getting too short already, she noticed automatically. He was going to have his father’s height.
His face clouded. “I studied for my arithmetic test. Honest.”
She was briefly diverted, wondering how Sammy had done on that test. What she had to tell him made arithmetic unimportant for the moment.
“I know you did.” She ruffled his hair, and he dodged away from the caress as he’d been doing for the last year or so, aware of being a big kid now. For an instant she longed to have her baby back again, so that she could savor every single experience.
Tyler had missed all those moments. Tension clutched her stomach. Was he angry about that? Or just angry that she hadn’t told him about his son?
Sammy wiggled. “Is somethin’ wrong?”
“No. I just need to tell you something.” She hesitated, searching for the words.
“Somethin’ bad?”
Sammy must be picking up on her apprehension, and that was the last thing she wanted. She forced a smile. “No, not bad. Just sort of surprising.”
Say it, she commanded.
“You know the man who was here this afternoon, when you got home from school?”
He nodded.
She took a breath. “Well, that was…Tyler Winchester.”
Sammy jerked upright on the swing. “My father?”
“Your father. He came to see you.”
Her son’s small face tightened into an expression that reminded her of his grandfather’s when faced with an unpalatable truth. “He never wanted to before.”
“Sugar…” He didn’t know about you. Her throat closed at the thought of saying that. She ought to, but she couldn’t.
“He wants to see you,” she said finally. “He wants to get to know you.”
Sammy slid off the swing and stood rigidly in front of her, his solemn expression at odds with his cartoon-character T-shirt. “When?”
“Maybe tomorrow after school?” She made it a question. “If that’s okay with you.”
“I’ll think on it.” That was what her father always said when presented with a problem. I’ll think on it.