Toben felt numb all over. “Rowdy?” He swallowed, unable to breathe, to think, to process what the hell she was saying.
“That was Rowdy,” she repeated, her irritation mounting. She looked ready to rip into him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Poppy. But if you’re trying to tell me I’m a...father...” He sucked in a deep breath, his chest hurting so much he pressed a hand over his heart. “Don’t you think you waited a little long to tell me I have a son?”
Poppy hit Ignore on her phone and shoved the pillow she was holding into a newly purchased, newly laundered pillowcase. Mitchell would call back. He always called back. He was reliable—that was one of the reasons she appreciated him. But talking to Mitchell would lead to tears or anger, neither of which she needed right now. She had to figure out how she was going to tell Rowdy that his father was here. And that his father wanted to meet him.
She gritted her teeth and patted the pillow with more force than needed, still trying to wrap her head around Toben’s disbelief that morning.
“I told you. I sent you letters. Letter after letter. Left messages with every woman that answered your phone—left messages so you could reach me,” she’d said, the remembered humiliation tightening her throat. “And you sent me an autographed picture.”
He’d gripped the counter, his hands white-knuckled. “Poppy, come on. You can’t honestly believe I’d—”
“Why not? Don’t tell me to come on. I was the only woman you hadn’t slept with on the circuit. What sort of expectations should I have had of you?” Her whisper rose. She glanced at the door, hoping the kids couldn’t hear. She started again, softly, in control. “None. Your picture confirmed it. I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it.”
“Rowdy is my son?” He stared at her, his jaw tight and his blue eyes raging. “A son I have every right to know.”
She was stunned. “Now you want to know him?”
“I didn’t know he existed until two minutes ago. If I had, you can be damn sure he’d have had his father in his life. He will now. You tell him and you call me. Tonight.” He slammed a business card onto the countertop and stormed out of the shop.
He’d seemed sincerely upset. So much so that she felt a twinge of remorse. No, dammit, she wouldn’t feel regret. She’d tried to reach him—again and again. She hadn’t wanted to raise Rowdy alone. But Toben had never reached out to her. Was she supposed to have tracked him down so he could tell her to her face he didn’t want anything to do with their son?
No. She’d pulled herself up and kept going. She’d had no choice.
“Mom,” Rowdy called from down the hall. “Can I paint it black?”
She laughed. “Your room?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Um, no. That’d be a little too dark.” She shook out the blanket, wincing at the tug in her side. Most days it wasn’t so bad, but sometimes when she turned suddenly, there was still pain. Stretching carefully, she finished making up her bed, thankful she’d had the movers unload everything the day before. Moving boxes and clutter aside, it was nice to have their things in one place. The small house already offered the promise of home for her and Rowdy.
“What about orange?” he called.
She left her bedroom and wandered down the hall to the room Rowdy had claimed. He was standing in the middle of the space, hands on his hips, considering.
“Why orange?” she asked. The house needed a lot of work—a lot. But in time they’d make it their own.
“I like orange.” He smiled at her.
“I like pink, but I’m not painting my bedroom that color.”
He laughed. A flash of Toben sprung to mind. The resemblance between father and son was astonishing. The only difference was Rowdy’s hair and eyes—brown like hers, not his father’s golden locks and blue eyes.
“Maybe one wall. Maybe. Let’s settle in a little first, okay? For now, you’ll have to survive with white walls. Maybe orange curtains?” She hugged him. “Where are your cousins?”
“Guest bedroom, watching movies or playing video games or something.” He shrugged. “When will Cheeto get here?”
Neither one of them liked to be parted from their horses long. “Mitchell’s bringing them up tomorrow,” she reminded him.
Rowdy sighed. “He’s probably missing me.”
“I know he is.” Her son loved his pony. And his pony loved him right back. He followed Rowdy all over, more like a dog than the sturdy spotted pony he was. “You got a minute?” she asked.
He nodded. “Shoot.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m not sure how to tell you this. So I’m just gonna say it, okay?”
“You and Mitchell are getting married?” he asked, a slight frown on his face.
“What? Why would you think that?”
“You were gonna marry him. Dot says he still wants to marry you,” he said. “Real bad. That’s why he’s always around.”
“And he knows I don’t want to get married. Ever. To anyone. He’s my best friend, that’s all.” She waited.
“I feel bad for him, Ma.” Rowdy stared up at her.
“Oh, well, if you feel bad for him, then I’ll marry him,” she teased.
Rowdy laughed. “I don’t want you to marry him. I like him but...”
Exactly. She liked him, valued his friendship, but there was no spark there. She and Mitchell had tried, hoping their friendship could grow into something more. But his proposal had been prompted by her pregnancy and Mitchell’s goodness. His wife had just left him, and he’d been devastated and grieving. And Poppy had needed help. They’d realized it was a mistake a few months later. But instead of losing a fiancé, she’d gained a best friend—one who told it like it was, one she could call if she needed help or share a beer with at the end of a long day. He’d been a fixture since before Rowdy was born. As her friend, nothing more.
She sank onto the corner of his bed, putting thoughts of Mitchell aside. She took a deep breath, smiled and said, “No, what I want to talk about has nothing to do with Mitchell.”
“Okay,” he said, sitting beside her.
“I’ve told you a little about your dad,” she said, her throat constricting.
“Toben Boone.” He smiled up at her.
“Well...” She tucked one of his curls behind his ear. She couldn’t say it... The words stuck in her throat.
“He okay?” Rowdy asked, his brown eyes going wide with concern. “Something happen to him?”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “He’s here.”
Rowdy jumped up. “Here? In Stonewall Crossing? Is that why we moved here?”
“I didn’t know he was here. I lost track of him a while back.” Because she’d stopped looking for him, stopped hoping he’d change his mind and want to meet his son.
“Does he know I’m here? Have you talked to him?” Rowdy was so excited he was practically bouncing.
“I have.