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She glanced at the clock. “Aren’t you getting tired?” she asked Peter, who had grown bored with standing and had crawled over to his favorite toy, a plastic piano that played the most irritating electronic tunes when he hit the big, primary-color keys. To answer her question, he grinned and began pounding.
Christie hoped they didn’t have any close neighbors tonight who objected to her baby’s piano music.
She was going to call Cal at the ranch later and arrange a meeting. There was no sense in putting off the news any longer. Perhaps they could have lunch in a public place, like that steakhouse she’d gone to with Toni. Or the cute little café in town, although that would be much more public and people might be able to hear their conversation.
That was her big fear—that Cal would find out about Peter from someone else. That’s why she’d been very careful to mention she was a widow, and not to act too interested in Cal when she’d talked to others. She’d developed a friendly relationship with Troy’s fiancée, Raven, although she’d never told the other woman about Peter. They’d only talked on the phone. She’d tried to be very careful and respectful of Cal’s privacy, just as she would have wanted had she been in the same situation.
Not that she’d ever expected to be a single parent. Or to have her own biological child.
Peter quit banging on the piano and rubbed his eyes.
“Time for your bottle? Ba-ba?” she asked, pushing up from the chair and scooping him off the floor. With Peter on her hip, she went to the little kitchen area of the motel room. As soon as he saw the bottle of powdered formula, he waved his arms and started saying, “Ba-ba-ba.” That was his word for bottle. He also said, “Ma-ma-ma,” but Christie wasn’t sure if that was a true mama word or just sounds.
Maybe someday soon he’d learn to say “da-da.”
She fed Peter, changed his diaper, then sang to him a little until his eyes closed. Within minutes he was sound asleep in his portable crib.
And Christie had no more excuses to keep her from calling Cal.
AFTER A QUESTIONABLE DINNER of some family favorites and some new-age greenery, all Cal wanted to do was retreat to his bedroom, lie on his familiar mattress and watch a little sports. Mavericks, Rangers, Stars—whatever was in season was fine with him. He probably wouldn’t have gone to Dewey’s even without the planned dinner and company. He’d spent thirty-five years nearly alone, and the past eighteen months surrounded by troops twenty-four hours a day. He just needed some time to himself.
Tonight, several of his neighbors—along with the guy leasing the pasture for his free-range chickens, a nuisance if Cal ever heard one, and Brian Wilkerson, the man who leased the pasture and the new barn for organic dairy cows—had come to share coffee and dessert. Brian came to the ranch twice daily to feed and milk the cows. The only animals the Rocking C owned were the few Herefords Troy had saved from the original herd, a handful of laying hens, horses and a pasture of overgrown, scraggly bison. The ranch hardly looked the same as when they’d raised nothing but regular beef cattle.
Besides Troy’s fiancée, Cal had met another new town resident, his lawyer’s bride, Scarlett. She was cute in a quirky kind of way, but definitely not his style. She wouldn’t make a good ranch wife. James seemed crazy about her, though.
He nudged off his boots, kicked them in the direction of the closet and settled back on the bed. His bedspread was one of those thin cotton ones with ridged lines, brown just like the trim on the house used to be. He’d missed that damned bedspread. At least Troy and Raven hadn’t thrown it out, even though it was a little threadbare in spots.
He’d barely gotten into the bottom of the first inning of the Rangers game when Raven knocked on the door. “You have a call,” she said through the closed door.
He swung his legs off the bed and opened the door. “I hope this isn’t a solicitation. I don’t want a credit card or a cell phone.”
“No, it’s not one of those. I think you might want to take this call.”
“Yeah?” He took the phone from Troy’s fiancée, who looked as though she knew something he didn’t. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said, and shut the door.
He settled back on his bed. “Hello,” he said, wondering who would call him his first night back. Probably one of his friends from the feed store who hadn’t come for coffee.
He thought perhaps the caller had hung up, but then a woman’s voice said, “Cal?”
“Uh, Christie?”
“Yes! I’m so glad you remembered.”
“How could I forget?” How, indeed. She’d been every man’s dream of a great weekend. Tall, blond, built, fun, smart and sexy. Very sexy. They’d met at the Barnes & Noble in Fort Worth’s Sundance Square on the Friday afternoon before his unit was scheduled to deploy. They’d both carried the same recently released biography and had ordered coffee at the attached café. He’d told her the truth—that he was a rancher who was in the reserves, called up for active duty and set to leave the next week. As far as he knew, she’d told him the truth—she was a widow who lived in Fort Worth and worked in marketing.
They’d spent one fantastic weekend together. He’d never expected to hear from her again, not that he minded she’d called him tonight.
Unless she was some kind of weird stalker…
“What’s up, Christie?”
“I’d like to see you, Cal. Maybe tomorrow for lunch?”
“In Fort Worth? I just got home and—”
“No, I’m nearby, in Graham. I could meet you at Dewey’s, or, if you’d rather, we could meet in Graham. There are several restaurants here.”
“Yeah, I know, but…I don’t want to be rude, but what are you doing here?” She seemed to know her way around already.
“I…I just need to see you. I have something to tell you.”
“Tell me now.”
“I can’t. I need to see you.”
“I’m not real fond of surprises, Christie.”
“Yes, I can imagine you’re not, but this is one of those times when you’ll just have to trust me.”
“Or not.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, and he kind of regretted cutting her off at the knees. In a low voice, she said, “Please, Cal.”
He paused for a moment, then asked, “You’re not dying or anything, are you?”
“No! I’m fine.”
“No illnesses that you want to tell me about?” He knew he didn’t have anything, since he’d had about a dozen physicals since their weekend together.
“Absolutely not.”
Well, hell. His curiosity was piqued. “All right,” he said. “Noon at Dewey’s.”
“We…I’ll be there.”
“We what?”
“Nothing. We just need to talk. I’ll see you at noon. Good night, Cal.”
“Good night.”
He ended the call and sat there on the edge of his bed, wondering what the hell was up. What couldn’t she tell him over the phone? Or had that been just a ploy to get him to meet her? She didn’t have to resort to games. He would have been glad to see her for a replay of their time together. She’d had some tough luck in her life, though. Her husband had been killed in an accident, and she couldn’t have kids. That would be hard for any woman to handle, but she’d shown an inner strength when she’d told him a little about her past.
She’d been one special woman.
Maybe she still was. Maybe he was worrying too much, but he’d learned to be cautious. He’d trusted his brother to take care of the family ranch, and Troy had changed everything. He’d trusted the military to let him out when his time was up, and they’d extended his duty.
What else could possibly happen?
CHRISTIE ARRIVED EARLY, requested a booth near the back and tried not to show Peter how nervous she felt. She settled him in the wooden high chair and spread a handful of finger food on the table in front of him. Oblivious to her worries, he babbled and grabbed a handful.
She would have preferred finding a babysitter for Peter, but she knew so few people: Toni Casale on a professional basis, Raven York via the telephone, the daytime front-desk clerk at the motel in Graham. She didn’t know any of those women well enough to ask them to watch Peter while she went to lunch with Cal. Besides, they might not be good with children.
Maybe she should go ahead and hire a nanny. She rarely felt she needed one, but with the upcoming renovations on the motel, perhaps it would be wise to have a professional available to watch the baby. He was crawling and nearly walking, and getting into everything. She had to settle down, perhaps even find a house in Brody’s Crossing for a few months until the owner’s suite at the motel could be finished.
Unless, of course, Cal absolutely pitched a fit, rudely and publicly denounced her and his son and told her to get out of town.
Would she listen? Her first instinct was no, she would fight. But for what? If he was insistent that he didn’t want to acknowledge Peter, maybe they would be better off without him in her son’s life. She didn’t have to stay in Brody’s Crossing. Her nice condo in downtown Fort Worth waited for her, if she chose to move back, or she could buy a house in the suburbs. She wanted to give Cal a chance for all their sakes, but only if he wanted to be a positive part of Peter’s life. A bad father was worse than no father at all, in her opinion.
Her own father hadn’t been bad, but he hadn’t been nurturing and kind, that was for sure. When she’d done something he approved of, however, he’d been generous with his attention and his money. His love, as he defined the emotion, had been conditional.
Oh, why was she worrying so much? Cal would be here soon, and she would know almost immediately how he’d react to the news that they’d created a son together.
“Ba-ba-ba,” Peter demanded, banging on the table, scattering finger foods.
“Are you ready for your bottle already?” she asked. “Okay, Mommy’s hurrying,” she said, digging in the diaper bag on the seat beside her. Once she found it, she motioned the waitress over. “Could I get some warm water, please?”
“Of course. What can I get you to drink?”
“Iced tea would be fine,” Christie replied, fishing for the terry-cloth bib she kept for Peter’s feedings. “Here it is,” she said to the baby, and held it up for him to see.
And sat frozen in place. Standing behind Peter’s high chair was the man she’d known for only three days. He wore a plaid Western shirt, jeans and a stern expression on his handsome face. He stood tall and seemed lean, yet more imposing, his shoulders broader. He should have been a stranger, but he seemed so familiar.
That’s because you look at a baby version of his face every day.
“Cal,” she whispered.
“Christie,” he replied, his face tight. An angry red scar cut across his temple, between his eye and his hairline. “What’s going on?”
“Lunch,” she said, motioning to the other side of the booth.
He sat down, stiff and distrustful, and eyed Peter as if he’d never seen a baby before.
“Cal, this is Peter,” she said, and the baby turned his head toward her and grinned when he heard his name. “He’s—”
“Here’s your hot water,” the waitress said, “and your tea.” She set both on the table. “Oh, hi, Cal. Welcome home. What can I get for you?”
He looked as if he were trying to force a smile for the waitress, but the gesture came out more of a grimace. He must really be upset.
“Iced tea, please, Twila,” he said, then added as soon as the girl left, “and maybe I should have a beer or a shot. What do you think, Christie? Do I need a drink?”
“I don’t know, Cal,” she replied, getting a bit irritated. “I suppose that depends on how well you take the news that you’re a father.”
Chapter Two
Christie hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but he’d acted so…sarcastic. Sure, this was a surprise, but he didn’t have to imply he needed to be drunk before finding out he was a father.
Now he was slightly pale, making the scar on his temple stand out even more. He stared at Peter, and the baby stared back, so she took the opportunity to mix the powdered formula with the warm water the waitress brought for his bottle.
Finally, she got the temperature of the formula right and glanced up. Cal was now staring at her. “You aren’t breastfeeding.”
“No, I couldn’t. I tried, but it doesn’t always work out.”
He looked at her as if it were her fault her milk hadn’t come in. Fine. What did he know about babies, anyway? He might know a lot about calves, but Peter didn’t have four legs, and she didn’t have an udder, and Cal wasn’t going to make her feel as if she were less of a mother because she couldn’t nurse her son.
“You’re sure he’s mine?” Cal asked.
“Oh, that’s a typical male question,” she said, popping the nipple into Peter’s mouth. “Of course I’m sure he’s yours. We can have a paternity test at any time, although I think that by looking, you can see who he resembles.”
“What happened to ‘I can’t have children’?”
“Obviously, the doctor I saw in Europe was wrong. Or maybe he told me I couldn’t have children because of my husband. I don’t know! His English was terrible and I don’t speak Italian. At the time, all I knew was that I would never be a mother.”
“Not the case,” he mumbled.
“No, and despite your obvious opinion of the situation, I’m thrilled to have Peter.”
“Would that be Calvin Peter Crawford V?”
“No, that would be Peter Simmons Crawford. I took the liberty of giving him your last name and listing you as the father on the birth certificate, although if you don’t want to be a part of his life, his last name can always be changed. He’s too young to know the difference, and quite frankly, I don’t need child support and Peter doesn’t need the influence of a reluctant father.”
Cal stared intently at the baby as Peter took his bottle, sitting up in the high chair as he now preferred. Gone were the days when he automatically snuggled into her arms and let her feed him. Now he was all about independence. In a few more months, she suspected he’d begin saying, “No, I’ll do it myself!”
“He might not know the difference, but I do. I’ll know. I’ll know I missed seeing the first months of my son’s life. Missed naming him after my father and grandfathers. So he’s what, nine months old?”
“Nine months last Wednesday.” She took a deep breath. “And even if you’d known about him, you still would have been away. They don’t give a leave because you discover you’re going to be a father.” She knew because she’d checked.
“No, but I could have seen his pictures. I could have done…something.”
“I took tons of photos. I have them all for you, including the ultrasounds.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Christie? Write me a letter, an e-mail, or call the ranch?”
“I did call the ranch, but I wasn’t about to tell your brother or Raven before I told you. Frankly, I didn’t think it was any of their business. I wanted to tell you in person. I didn’t think this was something you should find out in a letter or e-mail when you were thousands of miles away.”
Cal sat there even after the waitress brought his iced tea and Christie told her they’d order in a few minutes. He sat and watched Peter struggle to hold his bottle, then hurl it across the table when he didn’t get it tilted at the right angle to get the formula out. Christie handed the bottle back to her son, and soon he found the right angle and began to suck greedily.
When Peter was just about finished, he hurled the bottle in Cal’s direction again. Cal caught it, and when he looked back at Peter, the baby was grinning. He banged his little fists on the table and looked so adorable that Cal smiled back. They stared at each other, and Christie’s heart skipped a beat.
She wished she had her camera. She wished she’d thought to document father meeting child.
“I have a son,” Cal said softly.
“Yes, you do.”
And to complete the moment, Peter squealed and threw a Cheerio at Cal.
