“Sit down before you fall out and a wheel rolls over you,” Steve said roughly, and reached over to set the brake.
She glared at him. He could smell her now that he was so close, the woman-smell of fresh-washed clothes, soap and a faint powdery fragrance.
“Steve…” Her voice faltered and she took a deep breath to steady it. “When Sheriff Blaine came out to tell us that you had come back, I didn’t want to see you again. I just didn’t see the point in it, in raking up old memories.”
“So what changed your mind?” He watched her closely. He had always been able to tell when something was bothering her. She got fidgety, like she was now, plucking at her skirts, restless fingers moving from her gown to her hair, hands fluttering like sturdy birds in the air.
“Martin changed it. He said…he said you should know, that it wasn’t right to keep such a thing from a man. Even when I told him that you wouldn’t care, that you didn’t even want the two you already had, he—Well, he’s a good man, and he says I must do the right thing. He left it up to me.” Her mouth twisted slightly. “He knows that I always want to live up to his high expectations of me.”
Steve was quiet now, and wary, his blue eyes narrowed and watchful as he waited, sensing before she said it what she would tell him.
“You—I—we have a son, Steve. And I knew about it before you left. I kept it from you because you had told me that you weren’t cut out for parenthood. There. I’ve said it. You’re free to hate me now for not telling you.”
Carefully, he took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and tossed it to the ground. “How does Martin feel about him?”
Apparently, it wasn’t the question she’d expected him to ask. She folded her hands in her lap, knuckles white with strain.
“He adores him. And Matthew adores his father. Martin is his father, Steve, in every way but one.”
“I’d like to see him.”
All color drained from her face, leaving it ashen. She began to shake her head, her voice a kind of moan.
“Nooo…he’s too little to understand!”
“Then it won’t hurt if I meet him. He doesn’t need to be told anything but that I’m a visitor. Christ, Beth, it’s the least you can do after not bothering to tell me about him!”
Her eyes flashed. “Not bothering? You told me you have twins, a boy and a girl, that you had never bothered to even see! Why should I think you’d feel any differently about this child?”
“You shouldn’t.” He eyed her a moment, then said, “You married Burneson because you knew you were pregnant.”
“I would have married him anyway, I think. I always knew, deep down, that you weren’t the kind of man to stay around, to make a family and a life. You only confirmed it.”
“This may not make any difference to you, but I thought about my children after I left you. I found out my wife was alive after all, and that she’d taken them with her to Europe. I went after them. Hell, I think I might have known I was going after her, too, but at the time all I could think about was that I hadn’t even met my children and I’d lost them.”
“Your wife is alive? You must have been very happy to hear that.”
Steve laughed ruefully. “I didn’t know if I wanted to kill her myself or was relieved she wasn’t dead. I did know I wanted my children. Laura and Franco. They’re beautiful, smart and just mischievous enough to escape sainthood.”
A faint smile curved her mouth. “I have three now. Two boys and a girl.” She put a hand on her belly and he saw that it was rounded, swelling out the front of her dress. “And another one on the way. Odd to think now that I once thought I was barren.”
“Will you let me see him, Beth?”
It was said quietly, and the smile faded from her mouth to leave her expression strained. After a moment she nodded, and blew out a heavy breath.
“Yes. Yes, you may see him.”
He followed her to the Burneson spread, a modest but thriving operation, with outbuildings and a two-story main house protected by fences on two sides, and a high cliff on the back side.
As if he’d expected them, Martin Burneson came out to meet them, a dark-headed boy in his arms. The child was squirming slightly, impatiently demanding to be allowed to go and play with Pedro and Fidelito.
“In a moment, Matt. We have a visitor. Remember your manners.”
Steve dismounted, aware of Elizabeth anxiously watching him as he moved toward the child. Martin had set him down, and now held out his hand to Steve.
“You’re welcome for a short visit, Mr. Morgan.”
He nodded understanding and shook Burneson’s hand. When he turned, the boy, a sturdy youngster with dark-blue eyes and surprisingly long lashes, held out his hand in a perfect imitation of Burneson.
“How do you do, sir?”
It was said with a slight air of impatience, the blue eyes cutting toward the side of the house where a small Mexican boy was playing with a large, shaggy dog.
Steve shook his hand solemnly. He recognized some of Franco in the boy, in the set of his eyes and the dark hair and skin.
“I have a son a lot like you,” he said, and smiled at the look of polite disinterest the boy gave him. “Maybe you can meet him one day.”
“That would be very nice, sir.” Obviously having gone the full extent of his social duties, Matthew glanced up at Martin. “May I go now to play with Pedro, Papa? He’s been waiting on me for a very long time.”
“Yes, son. You did well.”
With a glance of
