Love Inspired January 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: Her Unexpected CowboyHis Ideal MatchThe Rancher's Secret Son

by Debra Clopton

  Then why was Cody still immune? Why was Tonya shutting her out from her problems? Why did Stacy attempt to shoot daggers with her eyes? She should say “thank you” to be polite, but she wouldn’t mean it. Couldn’t sincerely accept the compliment. So she stayed silent, wondering what she’d do if Max touched her again.

  Wondering what she’d do if he didn’t.

  The heater kicked on, and the gentle whirring noise blended with the sound of the kids interacting down the hall. She edged a few more inches away, under the pretense of closing up her notes. “Let me know if you need help getting the art supplies. I could run into town tonight or in the morning for the paint and brushes. We’ll need canvases, too, and easels, unless you just want to—”

  “What happened with Cody’s father?”

  Her stomach constricted like she’d been punched. She sucked in air, but it didn’t refresh. Rather, it stuck in her nose, her throat, choked her. She coughed, lungs aching. Or maybe that was her heart.

  Max held up both hands. “I know that was left field. But I’ve been wondering for a while now, and well...I didn’t know if that was a sore subject or not. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t sound very sorry. She inhaled again, and this time, the oxygen revived. Her blood pulsed through her veins, and she twisted to face Max on the couch, pulling one of her legs up between them. If she could have this conversation from across the room without raising more suspicion, she’d try it.

  That is, if her dramatic reaction hadn’t already given her away.

  “Sore subject?” She echoed, unable to say more. If he only knew. But no, he couldn’t know, because of the typo. She pulled in her lower lip. Could Max hear her runaway heartbeat? How could she lie to him flat out? Maybe she’d been doing that for years, but doing so from a distance felt a whole lot different. Maybe she hadn’t been responsible for that typo, but she hadn’t corrected it, either. “It’s not a great one.”

  “I’ve been trying to talk to Cody about it.” Max shrugged, looking pained. Maybe the conversation was more awkward for him than she thought. Especially if Max’s feelings for her were as strong as Rachel had let on. Did he assume she’d married, or kept up her less than pure ways as she’d had with him? But he’d been her only.

  “He’s pretty shut down,” Max continued, rubbing at a callous on his palm. “I’ve hit a wall, and I thought any information you could share would help.”

  She fought back a sarcastic snort and turned it into a cough. Oh, the irony. “There’s not much to say.” Much she could say, was more like it.

  “So I take it Cody has never met his dad?”

  He was twisting the knife and didn’t have a clue. She pressed her hand to her chest, the pressure of his words as tangible as a weapon. How could she answer without lying?

  He must have taken her silence for a confirmation. “Is that your choice?” Max frowned, clearly confused. “Or the father’s?”

  Tears sprung, and she fought to keep them below the surface. “All of those, I guess.” Not true, though. The real father had had zero choice in the matter, but the choices he did make had left Emma with none. She clenched her hand into a fist. Such a complicated, confusing cycle.

  “I don’t know your situation. But I know a boy’s relationship with his dad is crucial, and that void—”

  “No!” Emma leaped off the couch, unable to sit that close another second with her secret weighing so heavily. She stared down at Max’s stricken expression, feeling her heart crumble into dust at her feet and helpless to stop it. “Just drop it, okay?”

  His features morphed into a careful, practiced mask. One she knew from experience—she donned the same one when dealing with irate clients in her office. “Look, if it’s a bad situation, I understand. But anything you can tell me about this guy—”

  “There’s nothing you need to know about him.” She had to stop this conversation now. What if she accidentally said “you” instead of “him”? The pressure building inside her head threatened to explode. She jabbed her fingers into her temples and briefly closed her eyes. “Just trust me on this. It’s for Cody’s own good.” Not that he had any more reason to trust her than she did him.

  Max rose and stood before her, reaching for her hands. She jerked them away, avoiding the hurt in his eyes. “Emma. Talk to me.”

  No. If she said anything else, she’d say too much. Especially with the tenderness in his voice, the compassion in his gaze. The sincerity in his touch.

  Time to leave.

  “I’ll be back in a bit.” She grabbed her notebook from the couch, stuck the pen behind her ear and marched to the kitchen door before she—or he—could change her mind. “I’m taking that break you mentioned.”

  Visiting her mom had never seemed so appealing.

  * * *

  Max stared out the window into the afternoon sun as Emma bolted to her car, spraying gravel in an exit worthy of a Golden Globe nod. How did they go from having a comfortably quiet time together, to a really productive talk about the campers, to Emma running out nearly in tears from the room? From the entire ranch, for that matter?

  Cody’s father must have hurt her worse than he’d imagined.

  He probably looked like a real winner, too, dredging it all up. Still, he needed to know the basics, for Cody’s sake.

  And maybe a little for his own sake.

  Max slapped his notebook closed and began gathering the pens and highlighters they’d used. Emma had chosen pink, of course. She’d always loved pink. The one time he’d brought her flowers—okay, they’d been stolen from a neighbor’s rosebush, and still had the thorns, but it still counted—he’d made sure to find pink ones. And not that pale, flimsy pink, either, that seemed like it’d fade before it could be appreciated. Emma needed bright pink. A statement color.

  The kind that stained and lingered.

  He headed for his office to put away their notes and almost ran into Mama Jeanie, who was coming out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

  “Land sakes, boy! You trying to give an old woman a heart attack?” She planted both fists on her apron-clad hips and grinned to take the sting out. “Then who would cook supper for all those kids of yours?”

  “The pizza joint in town.” He grinned back, grateful for the break from the heaviness that’d taken over the minute he’d popped the father question to Emma. He should have known better. But if he didn’t ask, how could he find out? It was hardly something to look up on Google.

  Mama Jeanie’s wrinkled but wise face slowly drifted into a frown. “I saw that new counselor, Miss Emma, tearing out of here like a rabbit from a fox.” Her dark brows wrinkled deeper as she peered up at him with expectation. “What did the fox say?”

  If anyone else had insinuated such a thing, he’d have been offended, and probably smarted off. But not to Mama Jeanie. Never to Mama Jeanie. He licked his lips, then shrugged. “Was something personal, apparently.” To put it mildly. He wondered if she saw through his attraction to Emma. The woman missed nothing. At least she stuck to the kitchen, because if she ever found that picture he’d kept of Emma and him all these years...

  “If it was personal, then why were you nosing around in it?” She inched toward him, and despite the fact that she had to be almost six inches shorter, Max felt like backing up a step.

  He resisted the urge and placed a friendly hand on Mama Jeanie’s shoulder. “I’m just doing my job.” He tried to step around her to his office, but she sidestepped with the spryness of someone half her age.

  “I do more around this camp than just cook, you know.” She crossed her arms, the dish towel dangling from two bony but capable fingers. “I observe. I listen. And I hear.”

  “You just said that.”

  “Uh-huh.” She waved her finger at him and grinned, her teeth stark white against her brown complexio
n. “Hearing and listening are not the same.” She leaned closer, and this time, he backed up. “You should try more of the latter.”

  Well that was cryptic.

  “Anyway.” She waved the towel like a white flag. “Turkey and dressing all right for the Thanksgiving dinner?”

  He blinked in an effort to keep up, feeling as winded as if he’d just run a 10k. “Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “Remember? Before this session started, you said it’d be nice to have a Thanksgiving feast the last week of camp. Before the real holiday began.”

  Oh, yeah, he had said that—especially considering several of these kids came from home situations where they might not have a traditional meal. He nodded, grateful for the subject change. “Yes, that sounds perfect. With all the usual trimmings. If we need more for the grocery budget, let me know. I’ll call the church.”

  Broken Bend Church of Grace was their biggest supporter, along with several other wealthier families in the county. He’d get whatever donations were needed—when it came to the campers, he learned a long time ago to choke off any lingering traces of his self-pride. The kids were worth it.

  “I’ve cooked on a shoestring budget for years, my boy. I’m not afraid of the challenge now.” She snapped the towel good-naturedly at him before heading back to her kitchen haven.

  Max took the opportunity to dart inside his office and shut the door. He dumped the office supplies he’d been holding onto his desk and slumped against the corner of it. The wood dug into the leg of his jeans, but he didn’t move. Mama Jeanie’s words kept playing in his head, a strange echo to Emma’s reaction to his question.

  It all meant something. But what? What wasn’t he hearing?

  Emma’s voice sounded next, as clear and vivid in his memories as the night he first told her he loved her. That had led to a more physical expression, but the words themselves—for the first time in his life—hadn’t been spoken for that reason. No, he’d meant them.

  And hadn’t stopped meaning them yet.

  There’s nothing you need to know about him. It’s for Cody’s own good.

  The panic behind her short sentences hinted at more to the story. Did that mean even Emma didn’t know who Cody’s father was? That thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. No way. Not Emma. Or was she a victim? But if she’d been attacked, why the secrecy?

  Nothing made sense.

  God, some wisdom. Discernment. Something, please. He bowed his head and prayed, but the words felt as if they didn’t filter past the roof. And then he was struck with the certainty that it didn’t matter. Whatever Emma had gone through or however she had lived in the years since they’d parted ways, it didn’t really matter.

  It didn’t change his past or current feelings for her one iota. After all, whose past was squeaky clean? His was dirty enough to make even an infomercial cleaner give up. At least God hadn’t given up on him. That was enough.

  And that was why he needed to pay it forward. Whatever it took, he would make sure Emma knew that she was still worthwhile. A treasure. Priceless. To him, and to God.

  And even to her son.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Her mom knelt in the small garden to the left of the house, digging in the dirt with the same stained, floral-print gloves she’d worn when Emma was a child. Those gloves, with the tiny rosebuds once red and now faded pink, had been a fixture in the house for as long as Emma could remember. Lying on the counter by the sink where she’d washed her hands after gardening. Lying on the floor by her Bible in the living room, where she’d shucked them before having her evening quiet time. Lying on the porch swing where she’d taken her last tea break.

  Emma watched her work for a moment, allowing the warmth of the sun on her shoulders to ease the chill of her conversation with Max. She’d almost bought her mother a new pair of gloves during her last Christmas at home, back before she left for college. Back before her father died. Back before she’d gotten involved with Max and changed her entire course of life.

  Maybe familiar wasn’t always so bad, after all.

  She shoved her keys in her pocket and crossed the front yard to stand behind her mother.

  “Emma?” Mom turned with a slight smile—or was it a grimace—and lifted one hand to shade her eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “What are you doing here?”

  The question was innocent enough, as was the tone accompanying it, but it still dug in like a burr. She fought off a wave of frustration. Couldn’t she just be visiting her mother while in town? Why did she need an explanation? She drew a deep breath, trying to convince herself it wasn’t that bad, that her defenses were just up because of Max’s probing.

  But it felt like more than that. Her mom had never treated her the same way after she’d gotten pregnant.

  Or maybe she’d never treated her mom the same way after.

  “Just taking a break.” She folded her arms against her chest, then recognized the vibe the body language gave and forced herself to lower her hands to her sides. “Max said I could.”

  No idea why she added that last part. As if she needed Max Ringgold’s permission for anything. He’d been the reason she’d wound up where she was—and Cody, too. She hadn’t asked Max for permission or help thirteen years ago, and the thought of starting now made the indignant, self-sufficient woman inside her cringe in her high-heeled career shoes.

  And made the counselor inside her realize just how many issues she still had with various factors of Broken Bend.

  Her mom rocked back, eyes narrowed, except this time it wasn’t because of the sunshine. Guess Emma’s intuition and knack for probing into others lives came from somewhere honest. “Let’s go have tea.”

  “No, Mom. You’re gardening.” She wasn’t about to interrupt her mother’s routine, or she’d never hear the end of it—whether from her family or herself. Besides, despite Mom’s strong belief, tea didn’t cure everything. She dropped to her knees in the grass instead and gestured toward the rows of seeds. “Carry on.”

  Mom adjusted one of her gloves, hesitated with another sharp glance and then obeyed, continuing to pluck weeds from the stubborn patch of earth surrounding her meticulous lines of soon-to-be-vegetables.

  Emma tentatively reached for another section of weeds, in spite of her lack of gloves, and tore the skinny green intruders from the earth. She hated to sit and do nothing, and maybe if she worked, they wouldn’t talk as much.

  No such luck.

  “How’s Cody?”

  Wasn’t that the question of the hour? She schooled her expression into an indifferent mask, not willing to let her mom know just how much was riding on the next couple weeks. “He’s as good as he can be. Making progress.”

  Mom nodded as she shifted over to the next row, the pile of discarded weeds beside her growing taller as she worked. “And the girls you’re counseling?”

  Why was everyone shooting questions from the hip today? “Doing okay.” She ripped out another, surprised at the level of stress relief the simple action brought. She might not be able to make a difference where it counted, but she could make a difference to this garden. In both appearance and substance.

  “So everyone is okay.”

  Her mom’s tone hinted at her disbelief, and Emma couldn’t blame her. But that didn’t mean she wanted to open the floodgates of confession, either. Because once the words—and the tears—started, they might not stop.

  “It’s a good thing you’re there, then.”

  Emma sat back and stretched her shoulders, bracing herself for something else hard to hear. “Why’s that?”

  Her mother continued working as if the tension between them didn’t exist. And for her, maybe it didn’t. She’d always leaned toward being oblivious. “You have a gift for making ‘okay’ turn out better than okay.”

  A compliment. Fro
m her mother. And it wasn’t even Christmas.

  Emma stared at the tiny rows of seeds, eagerly waiting to sprout. They had no idea the danger they’d been in from the weeds, no idea the death they’d be sure to experience had the gardener not come and tended them.

  Just like Cody had yet to fully grasp the ramifications of his actions. Like Max had no idea the bomb she would eventually drop on his carefully reformed world.

  Oblivious. Like she’d been before trading her innocence for a short-lived ride with rebellion. And all for the sake of what? Proving a point? Testing her limits? Escaping the supersticky label of “Good Girl”? All she’d done is trade it for another label she couldn’t tear off.

  Tears pricked her eyes, and her chest tightened. The floral print on her mom’s gloves blurred into a pastel jumble. Suddenly, she wasn’t a grown woman anymore with a successful practice in a big city. She was eighteen again, and scared, and alone—and overcome with feelings she couldn’t identify or ignore.

  Before she could stop herself, she reached out and grabbed her mother’s arm.

  Mom immediately stopped and turned, covering Emma’s bare hand with her dirty gloved one, and raised her eyebrows without speaking. The acceptance in her gaze was nearly Emma’s undoing, and she blurted out the truth for the first time in thirteen years.

  “Max is Cody’s father.”

  * * *

  Max wasn’t sure if the art expression project Emma created had been pure genius or pure torture.

  He squinted at the rows of easels before him, set up in the early-morning sunshine near the barn. They didn’t have an indoor spot in the camp big enough to house all the campers and easels at one time that wouldn’t suffer from paint splatters, so Luke and Tim spread some tarp on the grass, lined up folding chairs and let them go.

  Max paced absently behind the rows of folding chairs, hanging back to give the teens room to create while keeping an eye out for Emma. He hadn’t seen her return to Camp Hope yesterday, though he’d kept a subtle watch for her. She’d shown up at dinner as expected last night, though, relieving Faith to go home to her family. But after dinner, she’d taken the girls on to their next activity without giving him more than a passing nod. Breakfast had gone pretty much the same way.