Apparently, she’d become an accountant. That wasn’t surprising. She’d been a good student when she’d been in high school, which was one reason her father had made such big plans for her.
So why was she here, when she could be helping her wealthy old man run one of the biggest berry farm operations in Texas?
Uncle George mentioned that she’d broken her engagement recently. Why? And who was the guy she’d planned to marry? Did he work for or with her father?
George said he hadn’t quizzed her, which seemed doubtful since he’d always had a soft spot for her. He also had a way of getting people to open up and tell him things without the need to ask.
Either way, something wasn’t right.
Matt glanced across the table at Emily, who was stirring her carrots with a fork, trying to make it look like she’d actually eaten her veggies.
She was a cute kid, petite and dark-haired like her mother. He still wondered about her dad. And Matt was determined to learn more. Uncle George wasn’t the only one in the family who was adept at ferreting out information indirectly.
“Emily,” Matt said, first making eye contact with the girl before shifting his focus to her mother. “I think it’s cool that you’re in the 4-H. When I was in school, I knew a couple of kids who were in the 4-H, but they were older than you. Isn’t there an age requirement?”
Miranda stiffened.
“I’m old enough,” Emily said. “People sometimes think that I’m younger than I am because I’m small for my age, just like my mom. When I joined, the lady who signed me up wanted to put me in Cloverbuds, but that’s for kids who are five to seven.”
“So you just made it, huh?” Matt smiled at the child, then turned to her mother, whose lovely tanned complexion had paled.
“My birthday’s on August third,” Emily said, a grin dimpling her cheeks, her eyes bright. “I’m going to be nine.”
It didn’t take a CPA to do the math. Miranda left town nine years ago last October, which meant she must have been pregnant at the time. And if so, that meant... Matt’s hand fisted and his eyes widened.
Emily was his.
* * *
Matt knew. And he clearly wasn’t happy about the secret Miranda had kept from him.
What little dinner she’d eaten tonight churned in her stomach, swirling and rising as if it had nowhere to go but out. Thankfully, she was able to hold it down. She placed her hand on her stomach, only to feel her growing baby bump. But this was one bout of nausea she couldn’t blame on pregnancy. Her morning sickness had passed more than a month ago.
The frown on Matt’s face and the crease in his brow suggested it was taking every bit of his self-control not to...
Not to what? Throw something across the room like Gavin once did when he’d come across a mess Emily had left in his family room?
This time, it was Miranda who’d made a complete mess of things. But Matt wasn’t like the man she’d nearly married, the marital bullet she’d dodged.
At least he hadn’t been like that in the past.
“Guess what.” Emily speared a potato, but rather than lifting her fork, she smiled and directed her words at Matt. “Uncle George said I could have my birthday party here.”
“He did, huh?” Matt’s demeanor, so stiff and strained moments ago, seemed to soften ever so slightly. His expression did, too, although it was unreadable. “Is your dad coming?”
Miranda’s lips parted. She wanted to respond for the child, but the words wouldn’t form. The time had come to tell Emily about Matt and vice versa, but Miranda wasn’t sure what to say in front of an audience. Especially this one.
“No, he can’t. Because my dad died when I was a baby.”
Matt shot a fiery look at Miranda. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. She saw the anger, the pain, the accusation in his eyes.
She wanted to defend herself, to tell him that Emily hadn’t gotten that idea from her. She must have come to that conclusion on her own. Instead, she watched as Matt got to his feet, wincing as he reached first for his cane with one hand, then stacked his glass and silverware on his empty plate with the other.
As he started for the sink, Miranda pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “Don’t worry about clearing the table or doing the dishes.”
He glanced over his shoulder, his glare enough to weld her to the floor, the silent accusation enough to suck the air out of the room.
“I’ll explain later,” she said, her voice soft, wounded.
“Don’t bother.” He rinsed his plate and placed it in the sink. Then he left the kitchen, his cane tapping out his anger, disappointment and who knew what else in some kind of weird Morse code.
This was so not the way she’d intended to tell him,
She stole a peek at George, his craggy brow furrowed, his tired blue eyes fixed on Emily. She knew that the sweet but crotchety old man had put two and two together the minute he spotted Miranda and Emily standing on his front porch. He hadn’t asked any questions or judged her. He’d merely stepped aside and welcomed her, his so-called niece, and her daughter into his cluttered but cozy home. Then he’d done his best to make them feel comfortable and told them they could stay as long as they wanted.
God bless that man to the moon and back.
“Emily.” Miranda sucked in a deep fortifying breath, held it for a beat, then slowly and quietly let it out. “What makes you think your daddy died?”
Emily bit down on her bottom lip and scrunched her brow as if struggling with the answer. Finally, she lowered her voice and sheepishly said, “Abuelito told me.”
Miranda winced. Her father had overstepped once again, although he hadn’t done so in years. Not since Emily was a baby and Miranda had finally put him in his place. Or so she’d thought.
“Honey,” Miranda said, “if you had questions about your father, you should have asked me.”
“I would have, but Abuelito said you didn’t like to talk about my father because it made you sad. So it was better if we forgot about him.” Emily glanced down at her half-eaten meal, her long pigtails dangling toward her plate, and bit down on her bottom lip again. After a couple of beats, she looked up, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.”
Miranda’s feelings were a mess, but that wasn’t Emily’s fault. “No, honey. You didn’t hurt me. I’m just sad that you were afraid to talk to me about your father. I’d wondered why you didn’t ask, and now I know. And no matter what anyone might say, you can always come to me with your questions.”
“About my dad?”
“About anyone and anything.” Miranda glanced across the table at Uncle George. “Would you mind if I let you and Emily wash the dishes alone tonight?”
“Of course not.” He blessed her with an affectionate smile, then turned to Emily and winked. “I know where your mama hid the chocolate chip cookies. And there’s a brand new carton of vanilla ice cream in the freezer.”
Miranda didn’t usually let Emily eat sweets this close to bedtime, but she would gladly make an exception tonight. If the two dishwashers wolfed down a dozen cookies and a gallon of ice cream, she wouldn’t complain.
After rinsing her plate in the sink, Miranda left the kitchen and headed down the hall until she reached Matt’s bedroom. She held her breath, then knocked lightly on the door.
As footsteps, punctuated by the heart-wrenching tap of his cane, grew