by Marin Thomas
Marsha took her eyes off the road for a second and glanced at her son. “Because they’re getting older and they won’t be here forever.” The forever part might come sooner rather than later for her father.
Right after Christmas her mother had phoned with the news that her father’s prostate cancer had taken a turn for the worse. The most worrisome news had been learning he’d refused all further treatment except hormone therapy. At seventy-nine, she understood his reluctance to endure a second round of radiation and more surgery. Marsha hadn’t told Ryan the seriousness of his grandfather’s health, because her parents had asked her not to.
The day she’d first learned of her father’s cancer diagnosis she’d been in a state of panic and then Buck had shown up on her doorstep. He’d been in town for a rodeo and hadn’t called ahead to tell her he was stopping by. That morning Ryan had been home. Buck had taken one look at her thirteen-year-old son and recognized the resemblance to his brother.
Marsha’s secret was out.
After Ryan left the apartment to go to a friend’s house, Buck asked if Will was Ryan’s father and Marsha had told him the truth. Buck had been stunned and angry that she’d kept Ryan a secret all these years but Marsha had begged him not to tell Will. She’d confessed that she was having difficulty dealing with her father’s cancer diagnosis and feared revealing the identity of her son’s father right now would overwhelm Ryan. Buck had reluctantly agreed to keep her secret.
One month had turned into two then three and before she knew it, a year had passed since Buck’s visit and she still hadn’t found the courage to contact Will. The news that her father had stopped fighting his cancer had forced Marsha to confront the past head-on.
Marsha understood the risks in coming clean with Will after she’d gone against his wishes to keep their child. He’d been adamant that he wasn’t ready to be a father. And she hadn’t been ready to be a mother, but the conscience of a pastor’s daughter refused to allow her to abort a baby or let her father go to his grave without knowing who’d gotten her pregnant.
Ryan turned the page on his Kindle, then asked, “What are you gonna do all summer?”
“I’m working as an online tutor for the University of Southern California,” she reminded him. Marsha taught high-school chemistry and had completed her doctoral degree a year ago and hoped to work her way into a teaching position at a university.
“Does Grandma still have her library card?”
“I’m sure she does.” Her mother paid extra for a membership to the Yuma County Library so Ryan had plenty of reading material to keep him entertained. In exchange for the use of the library card, Ryan helped his grandmother in the church garden.
Even though she’d taken precautions by never telling Buck when she was in town and avoiding cowboy hangouts and local rodeos, Marsha was surprised that she’d managed to avoid running into Will or his siblings during her two-week visits home.
She slowed the car as it approached the four-way stop in Stagecoach. The town was comprised of a handful of businesses, their brick exteriors faded by the desert sun. The main drag consisted of bars, Vern’s Drive-In, the Pawn Palace, Mel’s Barber Shop, the Bee Luv Lee Beauty Salon, where Marsha’s former high-school friend worked, José’s Mexican Diner, a Chevron gas station and a Wells Fargo Savings and Loan.
“Not much has changed since last summer,” she said.
Ryan grunted, but didn’t glance up from his e-reader.
She hoped she wasn’t making a huge mistake introducing Ryan to his father. Unlike her son, Will hadn’t cared much about school or grades. She worried that instead of seeing all the special qualities Ryan possessed, Will would find him lacking.
“Can we go to the library tomorrow?” Ryan asked.
“I’ve got plans.”
“What are you doing?”
“Meeting an old friend of mine.”
“Who?”
“A boy I went to high school with.” She turned onto the gravel road that led to the Mission Community Church. A quarter mile later she parked in front of her parents’ stucco ranch house, which sat fifty yards from the church. “Grandma’s waiting at the door.”
Marsha turned off the car, and they both got out. “Leave the luggage for now.”
“Look at you, Ryan,” Sara Bugler exclaimed. “You’ve grown at least two inches since you were here last.”
Ryan hugged his grandmother. “I’m taller than Mom now.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You look good, Mom.” They exchanged hugs. “Where’s Dad?”
“He fell asleep on the patio.” Her mother led the way through the house. “Jim, Marsha and Ryan are here.”
His face gaunt, her father sat in a lounge chair with the newspaper folded in his lap. She held his hands and kissed his cheek. “How are you, Dad?”
“Fine, daughter.” His eyes sparkled when he held his arms out to Ryan.
Marsha’s throat tightened as she watched the two men in her life hug.
“I’ve got a new word game we can play, Grandpa,” Ryan said.
“Good. I was getting tired of beating you at the old one.”
No matter what happened between her and Will, Marsha refused to regret spending the next two and a half months with her parents.
“Come in the house, dear.” Marsha followed her mother inside while Ryan remained with his grandfather. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Iced tea if you have it,” Marsha said.
Her mother poured two glasses of tea and sat at the kitchen table. After a brief conversation on how Ryan had done in school this past semester and Marsha’s tutoring job, her mother said, “You haven’t spent an entire summer here since you graduated from high school.”
“I don’t know how fast Dad’s cancer is going to progress and I...” She blinked back tears. “I want him and Ryan to have as much time together as possible.”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you two to stay so long.”
“Why? Are you concerned we might be too taxing on Dad?”
“No, your father is thrilled you’re here.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
Her mother stared at the wall instead of answering.
“You’re acting weird, Mom. What’s going on?”
“Did I tell you that the church is getting a new classroom wing built this summer?”
“You did. What does that have to do with me and Ryan?”
“Ben Wallace’s construction company won the bid.”
Marsha had gone to school with Ben. “And that’s important because...?”
“Will Cash works for Ben.”
Oh, God. She knows. “Does Dad...”
Her mother sighed. “Don’t think for a minute I haven’t beaten myself up over the years and had many heart-to-heart talks with the Lord about keeping your secret.”
“Why haven’t you told Dad?”
“I worry how he’ll take the news.”
“I was planning to introduce Ryan to Will this visit.” Her mother gasped and Marsha held up her hand. “Hear me out. Dad’s the only male role model in Ryan’s life right now. If—” when “—something happens to Dad, Ryan’s going to need a man to lean on.”
“Will Cash isn’t a suitable role model for Ryan.”
This was why Marsha had never told her parents who’d fathered Ryan. As much as Sara and Jim Bugler were God-fearing people and had raised her to show empathy and compassion for the less fortunate, Marsha had grown up hearing her parents’ occasional comments about Will’s promiscuous mother, Aimee Cash, and the wild band of ruffians she handed over to her parents to raise while she gallivanted through the state sleeping with men.
“I won’t know if Will is a suitable role model until he has a chance to show me,
” Marsha said.
“Ryan could get hurt. He’s nothing like those Cash boys.”
“The Cash brothers aren’t wild teenagers anymore—they’re grown men.” She closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Mom, I’m asking you to please not speak badly of Will. If he wants Ryan to know about the skeletons in the Cash family closet, he should be the one to tell him.”
“When is Ryan meeting Will?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You’ve told Ryan about his father then?”
“Not yet.” She’d chickened out.
Her mother took their empty glasses to the sink. “It certainly won’t be a dull summer.”
No, it wouldn’t. Marsha had a feeling it was going to be three months of fireworks—explosions she hoped didn’t all blow up in her face.
Chapter Two
Will sat on the sofa in the bunkhouse and waited for Marsha to arrive. He’d gotten home from work an hour ago and had showered and dressed in clean clothes. His chest felt as if a fifty-pound anvil rested on his rib cage and drawing air into his lungs took major effort.
He glanced at his watch. She was late.
Marsha had texted him last night, asking to meet alone this afternoon. At first he’d been puzzled, wondering how she’d gotten his number, then realized all she’d had to do was ask her father. Both Ben and Will’s cell numbers were on the construction contract with the church.
“You’re going to burn a hole in that wall if you stare at it any harder,” Buck said.
Will studied his brother who sat at the table drinking coffee. “I thought you were working today.” This was the first exchange he’d had with Buck since their confrontation over Marsha’s letter.
“Troy took off early to drive to Tucson for a car show.”
“Heck of a way to run a business.”
Buck carried his mug to the sink. “One day I’ll start my own auto-repair shop.”
“You’ve been saying that for the past two years.” Porter flipped through the pages of an American Cowboy magazine.
“You don’t have a job right now so you don’t get to comment.” Buck swatted Porter upside the head.
“Hey, don’t mess with the hair.” Porter smoothed his hand over his golden-brown locks. “Rodeo is a job.”
“It’s employment only when you win, which you don’t do often,” Buck said.
Will went back to staring at the wall. Not even his brothers’ bickering distracted him from the feeling of impending doom that had nagged him since Marsha’s text.
“Mack’s too busy at the dude ranch to rodeo on weekends,” Porter said. “I need a new roping partner.” He tore a page from the magazine, wadded it into a ball and threw it at Will, pinging him in the shoulder. “Want to team rope with me this Saturday at the Midway Rodeo?”
Will didn’t rodeo much anymore, because he often ended up working seven days a week to finish a construction job. “What about horses?”
“Greg Patterson said he’d bring an extra pair if we give him a cut of the winnings.”
“You that confident we’re gonna win?” Will asked.
Porter chuckled. “No.”
“Count me in.” Will needed an outlet for his anxiety.
The rumble of a car engine drifted through the bunkhouse walls and Will bolted to the window. A red Honda SUV pulled into the yard.
“Let me see.” Porter pushed his way between Buck and Will. “When did she get boobs?”
Will gaped at the woman who stepped from the car. This was not the Marsha Bugler he’d taken to the prom his senior year.
“Show some respect, Porter.” Buck elbowed his brother. “She’s the pastor’s daughter.”
Will soaked in the sight of his son’s mother. Marsha was tall, and the tight, faded jeans and fancy cowgirl boots emphasized her long legs. Shoot, he couldn’t recall what shoes she’d worn to the prom, never mind the color of her dress. Golden curls fell over her shoulders and the black V-neck T-shirt showed off her generous breasts. The curls were familiar but not the boobs—their groping in the pickup had been done with most of their clothes on.
“They might be fake,” Porter said.
Marsha stumbled when she walked up the porch steps. The way her breasts jiggled settled the matter—they were real.
“I heard that some women go through a second puberty and—”
“Get lost, Porter,” Will said.
Isi had taken the boys into town earlier and there was no one to answer Marsha’s knock on the farmhouse door. She shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun and stared in the direction of the bunkhouse.
“Aren’t you going to go out there?” Buck asked.
“I’m going.” Will stepped outside, slamming the door behind him. The noise drew Marsha’s attention and for the first time in over fourteen years they made eye contact.
Aware Buck and Porter spied through the window and Conway stood in the barn watching, Will ignored the urge to flee and met Marsha in the middle of the yard.
“Hello, Will.”
Her voice rang with confidence and the directness of her gaze knocked him off balance. The woman standing before him was nothing like the high school girl who’d barely conversed with him. “Marsha.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
It wasn’t every day a man found out he was a father. Did she have any idea how her letter had turned his life upside down? Her expression remained neutral, but she clenched and unclenched her hands. She was more nervous than she let on. Good. She should be.
“I’m sure you have questions,” she said.
“A few.”
She squared her shoulders. He hadn’t remembered her being spirited—only shy and studious. She’d been the complete opposite of the girls he’d chased in school. The wild girls had been the only ones willing to date a guy like him.
“If you expect me to apologize—” her eyes blazed “—I’m not going to.”
She might as well have slapped him across the face with her stinging statement. Of course the pastor’s daughter considered herself above needing forgiveness.
“I had my reasons, Will, whether they were right or wrong, they were mine and I don’t regret keeping Ryan. Nothing you say or do can make me feel guilty for not aborting my son.”
“Your son?”
A pink blush spread across her cheeks. “Our son.”
“What about hiding Ryan from me? Feel any guilt over that?”
She lowered her gaze. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“The front porch.” Away from his brothers’ prying eyes. They walked past the house in silence, the intermittent breeze carrying the scent of Marsha’s perfume beneath Will’s nose—a light, citrusy smell that made him want to take off her clothes. He ground his teeth and silently cursed himself for finding her attractive.
When they reached the front yard, he spoke. “Why did you suddenly decide to tell me about Ryan?” He doubted her reason had to do with guilt, otherwise she’d have come forward years ago.
“My father’s ill.”
Stagecoach was a small town. Will’s boss happened to be a member of the Community Mission Church and had told him about the pastor’s health issues. “What does your father’s prostate cancer have to do with being truthful with me?”
“Ryan’s very close to his grandfather and when he’s gone...” She cleared her throat. “Ryan won’t have a man to look up to.”
Will was the last person on earth who should be a role model. Feeling as if Marsha had backed him into a corner, he lashed out—more from fear than anger. “Would you have ever told me about Ryan if your father hadn’t become ill?”
She stared him in the eye, which wasn’t difficult considering she was at least five feet ten inches in her b
oots and he was six feet in his boots. “You told me to get an abortion. You said under no circumstances did you want to be a father.”
“I was eighteen, Marsha.” He paced in front of her. “That’s what a typical eighteen-year-old guy tells the girl he got pregnant.” He hadn’t suggested giving the baby up for adoption because he was afraid he’d be just like his old man.
“I was eighteen, too. Old enough to make up my own mind about whether or not I was ready to be a mother.”
She’d avoided answering his question, so he answered it for her. “You wouldn’t have told me about Ryan if your father hadn’t become ill.”
“I would have told you...eventually.”
“You’re a liar. Buck forced your hand.” When she didn’t respond, Will said, “My brother should have told me right away when he found out.”
“I’m not here to talk about what Buck should or shouldn’t have done. I was prepared to tell Ryan about you years ago, but he didn’t show any interest in learning who his father was.”
“None at all?” The question escaped his mouth in a choked whisper.
She shook her head.
Stunned, Will closed his eyes as a memory better left buried resurrected itself. When he’d turned twelve, he’d wanted to know more about his father and had pestered his mother for information. She’d brushed off Will’s questions, but he’d badgered her until one afternoon she’d dragged him by the shirt collar to the car and drove him to Tucson.
She never said a word the entire trip until she stopped in front of a single-story home with toys strewn across the yard.
“Your father lives in that house.”
“What’s his name?”
“Henry Blythe.”
“Can I ring the doorbell?” he’d asked.
“It’s up to you.”
Will was cocky enough to believe he could handle anything, so he strolled up to the house and rang the bell. A woman answered the door and two little kids poked their heads out from behind her legs. “Is Mr. Blythe home?” Will asked.
“Yes, who are you?”
“Willie Cash, ma’am.”
“Wait here.” She shut the door in his face. He stood on the porch so long his legs became tired and he sat on the stoop. His mother waited with him—never leaving the car. After an hour Will rang the doorbell again. And again. And again. The sun set. And he waited. And waited. And waited.