The Secret Child & The Cowboy CEO (10 page)

Trent went in search of Bryn. He found her huddled in a quilt on the front porch swing. The night air was crisp and the stars numbered in the millions. He sat down beside her and pulled her against his chest. “He'll be okay, Bryn. Try not to worry.”

She shrugged. “It's what mothers do.”

“Did you ever think about getting an abortion?”

She didn't answer for a long time, and he wondered if he had offended her. “I'm sorry. That was very personal.”

She tucked the quilt more tightly around her neck. “No, it's okay. Honestly, I don't remember ever thinking of that as an option. I'd wanted for so long to be a real Sinclair. You five were the only family I knew. I had a hazy memory of meeting Aunt Beverly, but the ranch and you and Mac and your brothers were my real family, at least in my heart. So when I realized I was pregnant, my first emotion was joy.”

“But that didn't last long, thanks to us.”

“I knew Jesse and I were young, but we were in a better position than most kids our age. Finances wouldn't be an issue, and we had all of you to support us.”

“So you intended to keep the baby all along.”

“Yes. I assumed Jesse would be happy. But that was naive. He wanted to be with me because he thought
you
wanted me. A baby made everything too real. So he lied.”

“And we believed him.”

“Yes.”

“What did your aunt do?”

“She was wonderful from the beginning. No questions, only her unconditional love and support. Which was amazing, because I was almost a stranger to her. She did want to sue Jesse for child support, but I convinced her not to.”

“Was she financially comfortable?”

She put her head on his shoulder, her body limp. “No, not really. But I held out this faint hope that one day I'd be able to reconcile with all of you, and I was afraid if we sued for child support, you'd hate me.”

“Ah, Bryn.” He held her close, feeling sick to his stomach as he realized anew how badly the Sinclair clan had played their part in this scenario. She had believed herself to be one of them, and they had tossed her out on the proverbial street.

Bryn yawned hugely as he stroked her hair. He nuzzled her cheek. “You need some rest, Bryn. It's been a tumultuous forty-eight hours.”

She yawned again. “I know.”

The memory of all that had transpired between them hovered in the sudden awkward silence.

Bryn stumbled to her feet, nearly tripping on the quilt. He scooped her up in his arms, bedding and all.

“Trent…” she protested halfheartedly.

“Let me pamper you,” he muttered, holding her close. “Relax. I've got you.”

He carried her all the way to her bedroom and laid her gently on the bed. She was already in her nightgown, and her hair was clean and damp from her shower.

He smoothed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I want to stay with you tonight.”

The only light in the room was a dim lamp on the bedside table. But he could see her expression clearly. “Trent, I don't think I can—”

He bent to kiss her. “I'm not talking about sex. Give me some credit. I only want to hold you, I swear.”

She nodded. For a moment, shy pleasure replaced the worry in her eyes. She scooted over on the mattress, making room for him. He shed everything but his knit boxers and climbed in beside her. It would be hell not to make love to her, but she needed him tonight, and he was going to be here for her. He had a lot to atone for, and maybe this would be a start.

She nestled in his arms as if they had been lovers for years. The pain in his chest returned, and he rested his chin on her head, inhaling her scent and keenly aware of her soft body and silky skin. He cared for her. Bone deep. It had begun as an invisible tie between them as she grew up. And when she reached womanhood, he'd known deep in his psyche that he wanted her.

But he hadn't been smart enough to understand that some opportunities weren't always available. His ambition and drive to succeed had taken precedence. As an arrogant young buck out to conquer the world, frequent sex had been available and plentiful. Perhaps in the back of his mind he'd assumed Bryn would always be waiting.

It would never have occurred to him to try and win her from Jesse. He loved his little brother too much. But he'd been well acquainted with Jesse's attention span, and he knew, even then, that one day in the near future Bryn would be free. Jesse didn't have it in him to settle down with one girl.

But nothing had turned out like it should.

Bryn cared for him now, he knew that. Otherwise she never would have let him make love to her. But a mother's love and loyalty were fierce commodities, and she would stand by her son first and foremost.

Whether Trent had a shot at convincing her he would welcome Jesse's son was by no means a sure thing. And honestly, he had qualms about being a dad. His own father had lived by the “make 'em tough” model, but Trent doubted that was what Bryn wanted for her son.

And what if Trent had children of his own? Would he be able to love Jesse's son in the same way? He and his family had hurt Bryn in the past. It would be inexcusable to compound that mistake.

Bryn moved restlessly, turning in his arms to find his lips. She moved her mouth over his drowsily, murmuring her approval when he slid his tongue between her lips and deepened the kiss.

His shaft hardened, but the lust he felt was overlaid with a patina of contentment, seemingly an odd match-up, but true nevertheless.

He wanted her, but the need to protect her was stronger.

As she lay on her side, her breast nestled in his palm. He felt its weight and ached to undress her and caress
her everywhere. She had become as necessary to him as breathing, and for once in his life, he didn't have a course mapped out. He didn't know if determination was going to be enough. No business model existed to tell him what a woman was thinking. No amount of money could buy her trust.

And there was still a secret between them…something she was hiding.

She fell asleep, her breathing slowing to a gentle rhythm. He reached for the lamp and plunged the room into darkness.

It was hours before he slept.

B
ryn woke with a dull headache and a sensation that something was wrong. Then it all came flooding back. Her aunt's phone call. Her son's illness.

She scrambled out of bed and dressed haphazardly, pulling her hair into a messy knot on top of her head. It was almost nine. For God's sake, why had Trent let her sleep so long?

She made her way to the kitchen, dialing her cell phone as she walked. Mac was there, drinking coffee, looking old and tired. Corralling Jesse would have been his main focus for many years, a drain on his time and energy. With Jesse gone, and once the grief dulled, surely Mac would regain his customary vigor.

She clicked her phone shut and paced. “Beverly's
not answering her phone. What if something has happened?”

Mac reached for her hand as she passed his chair for the third time. “Relax, Brynnie. The plane is in the air. They'll be landing in a little under two hours. And all reports are good.”

Bryn couldn't sit still. She went to the sink and stared blindly out the window. Allen was on the way…and Beverly. Now if only Gage and Sloan were here, she would have everyone she loved under one roof.

When she had herself under control, she sat at the table. The cook set a scrambled egg and some toast in front of her. Bryn was too excited to eat, but she forced herself to get it down. Mac passed her a section of the morning paper. One of the ranch hands' jobs was to make a run into town early every weekday to pick up the three papers Mac devoured without fail. It was an expensive habit given the gas consumption, but Mac refused to read newspapers online, though he was fairly computer savvy.

Bryn was too jittery to concentrate on the printed words for long. “When should we leave?”

Mac grinned. “Trent's going to bring the car around in thirty minutes or so. Think you can be ready?”

She punched him on the arm. “Very funny.”

 

The trip to the airport lasted forever. Trent drove, of course, and he and Mac sat in the front seat talking ranch business. Trent had kissed her briefly when he appeared, but there hadn't been time for anything more personal or intimate. Bryn sat in the rear, her legs tucked
beneath her, and leaned her head against the window, watching the world go by.

She loved Wyoming. And as much as she missed her son and her aunt, she wouldn't have traded this time for anything. Being home—and it
was
home—had healed the dark places inside her. She didn't know what the future would bring, especially because of the unrevealed letters, but it was enough to be here for the moment and to know that Mac and Trent no longer mistrusted her.

There had been no overt apologies, no verbal acknowledgment that Jesse had lied repeatedly, but she sensed in Trent and Mac a softening, a willingness to listen.

Soon, maybe tonight or tomorrow, she would pull Trent aside and show him the letters, even if it meant finding out that Allen wasn't a Sinclair. Trent, as Mac's eldest son, would have to make the decision about whether or not to let Mac see what his ex-wife had written to Jesse. And after that, who knew what would happen.

They pulled in to the parking lot of the small Jackson Hole airport and parked. Mac stayed in the car, but Trent and Bryn got out and leaned on the hood, hands over their eyes as they watched for landing aircraft. Prop planes were common. Occasionally a larger, commercial airliner.

But it was the sleek, small jet with the blue-and-green stripe and the Sinclair logo that caught Trent's attention. “That's it,” he said. He tapped on the window. “C'mon, Dad.”

Bryn walked on shaky legs, Trent and Mac at her side.
This was more than just a normal visit. A new Sinclair was about to step foot onto the land of his heritage. And if he wasn't a Sinclair by blood, he was still Jesse's son.

She waited impatiently in the small concourse. Another jet had landed moment's before, and Bryn had to clench her fists and bide her time as the stream of tourists meandered inside from the tarmac.

At last Bryn saw the familiar outline of Aunt Beverly's gray head, with its short, tight curls. Her heart leaped in her chest. An unfamiliar woman in a white uniform walked at Beverly's side, but it was the third member of the entourage who spotted Bryn first and shouted at the top of his lungs.

Allen broke free of Beverly's hold and, despite her admonitions to go slowly, raced forward. “Mommy, Mommy!” His face was aglow.

She ran to meet him, scooping him up in a tight hug as she went to her knees. “Hello, my little sweetheart. I've missed you so much.” He smelled of sweat and peanut butter and little boy.

He suffered through a moment of Bryn scattering kisses on his freckled cheeks, but then pulled away impatiently, already asserting his manly independence even in the middle of a reunion. His skin was pale. Dark smudges beneath his eyes emphasized his pallor, but he had certainly recovered his high spirits.

“Who are they, Mommy?” He tugged her to her feet and looked past her with curiosity.

Tears clogged her throat and she had to try twice to speak. “That's Trent and his father, Mr. Sinclair.” She
lowered her voice to a whisper. “Remember how I taught you to shake hands.”

Allen grinned at the two strange males, his head cocked slightly to one side as he held out his tiny palm. “Very nice to meetcha.”

Trent stood silent, unmoving, his features carved in stone.

Mac rubbed a hand across his face. “Oh, my God.” He took Allen's outstretched hand and pumped it. “Welcome to Wyoming, son.”

A
fter that, chaos reigned. They all made their way outside. Aunt Beverly and Allen were installed in the backseat with Bryn. Trent hadn't missed a trick. The booster seat he had purchased for Allen was exactly the correct size and model.

The nurse rode behind in a rental car with a hired driver. All the bags went with her, as well.

By the time the caravan got back to the ranch, Bryn was frazzled. Allen was hyperexcited, Aunt Beverly was exhausted and Trent had yet to say more than a couple of terse words to anybody.

Mac was the one to show the new arrivals to their quarters and to help Bryn get everyone settled in. She was pleased that Allen's room was so close to hers. Even with two other caregivers watching out for him—one
highly trained—she liked knowing that her son was where she could check on him during the night.

Lunch was quick and simple, sandwiches and fruit. Allen begged to explore the ranch, but the three women who controlled his fate insisted on a nap.

Mac took pity on the boy. He smiled down at him, his eyes misty. “How about I tell you a couple of stories about your—” He stopped short, sending Bryn a visual SOS. His face creased in distress.

She ruffled her son's blond hair, automatically trying to smooth the eternal cowlick. “Mac raised four sons on this ranch, Allen. Trent was one of them. I'll bet Mac can tell you lots of great stories about the trouble they got into.”

That seemed to convince Allen, and the old man and the young boy wandered down the hall to Allen's new bedroom.

Which left Bryn and Aunt Beverly alone in the kitchen. Trent had disappeared, and the nurse was taking a much-deserved hour for herself.

Beverly hugged Bryn for the dozenth time. “I missed you, honey. The house was empty without you.”

“I missed you, too. Did Allen really do okay…until he got sick?”

“He was a sweetheart.” Beverly eased into a chair at the table. “I'm stiff from the plane ride, even if it was the equivalent of being treated like a queen. Good grief, Bryn. These folks have some serious money. They should have been helping you all these years.”

Bryn bent her head. “It was complicated.” Aunt Beverly knew most of the story, though she had no clue
that Bryn had harbored a crush on Trent. She sat down beside her aunt. “Mac hasn't said so, but I can tell from his face that he thinks Allen is Jesse's son. He practically melted, just like a doting granddad should.”

Beverly extended her feet, clad in sensible walking shoes, and stretched. “How long will we be staying?”

Panic welled in Bryn's chest. Mac was back in fighting form. Once Allen had a chance to immerse himself in ranch life and the nurse declared him fully recovered, there would no longer be any reason for Bryn and her son to stay.

Which meant Bryn had to confront Trent with the letters. Soon.

And that was problematic, because Trent had reverted to the coolly reserved, impossible-to-read man she had first encountered in Mac's sickroom when she arrived. She no longer detected hostility from him, but his utter lack of emotion was even worse.

He either refused to believe the evidence of his own eyes, or he had no interest in getting to know his nephew.

When Allen woke from a long nap, he was grumpy, but a juice box and a cookie soothed him. The nurse checked him over, and soon, Mac and Bryn were on horseback, with Allen—wearing a mask as a precaution—riding in front of his grandfather. They covered a lot of ground, and Mac's transformation was miraculous. No longer an invalid, he was suddenly hale and hearty again, his skin a healthy color and his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

At one point when Allen was occupied playing with
puppies on the front porch, Mac took Bryn's arm. “We need to talk this evening.”

Bryn nodded solemnly, a lump in her throat. “Okay. After I get Allen settled for the night, I'll come find you.”

“Trent will need to be there, also.”

She nodded again, but couldn't think of a thing to say. Trent's feelings on the subject of Jesse's son were an unknown quantity.

Allen tired quickly. They whisked him back to the house and Beverly occupied him with a simple board game while Bryn talked to the nurse. The prognosis was promising. They would have to be vigilant about inhalers and the like, but there was a very good chance Allen would outgrow the worst of his asthma.

 

After dinner Allen was allowed to watch one of his favorite Disney DVDs, and then it was bedtime.

When Bryn entered Mac's office a short while later, he was already there. And so was Trent. Mac greeted her with a smile. Trent barely noticed that she'd entered the room. He sat in front of the computer, his forehead creased in concentration as he studied the screen.

For a moment she flashed back to that dreadful day six years ago. But she was not here to plead her own case on this occasion. She was an advocate for her son. Bryn wanted nothing for herself from the Sinclairs unless it was freely given. Not money, not love, not anything.

Mac motioned for her to sit in the big, comfy armchair. It was a man's chair, and it dwarfed her, but she complied. Still, Trent remained apart from the
conversation. Mac reached in a drawer and pulled out a five-by-seven silver frame.

He handed it to Bryn. She stared at it, but it took a few moments for understanding to click. The birthday cake in the picture was decorated with five candles. And the gap-toothed birthday boy with the wide grin and the cowlick was Jesse.

He could have been Allen's twin. Her throat tightened. “I don't know what to say.”

Mac's eyes glazed with wetness, but he coughed and tried to cover his emotion. “I think you know how sorry we are for what happened six years ago, but Trent and I want to make a formal apology and ask you to forgive us. Isn't that right, Trent?”

Finally, Trent revolved and faced her, his expression unreadable. “Yes, of course.”

Bryn squirmed in the chair, bringing her knees up beside her in an effort to get comfortable. For years she had thought an apology was what she wanted, but now that the time had arrived, she realized that it changed nothing. “I appreciate the thought,” she said slowly. “But I understand why you did what you did, especially Trent. Jesse was the light of this family…the heart and soul. You all poured your love into him, and it would never have occurred to you that he was capable of such barefaced lies.”

Mac scowled. “Trent can be absolved on that account, but even back then I realized that Jesse's sweetness and compliance was an act. I was trying to protect him and you, too, Bryn. But I handled it badly. If I had encouraged you to stay and had challenged Jesse to own
up to the truth, I'm convinced that things would have gotten very ugly, very fast.”

“So you sent me to Beverly.”

“Your mother spoke highly of her older sister, and after you ran out of the study that day, I contacted Beverly to explain the situation. We both agreed that you needed to be with a woman during your pregnancy.” He came over to the chair and laid a hand on her shoulder. “But it wasn't that I didn't love you, darlin'. I never stopped loving you.”

Bryn reached up to stroke his hand. “Thank you, Mac. And I'm sorry I was such a brat and sent all your presents back.”

He grinned. “They're in a closet in my bedroom. You're welcome to them.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Ooh…an early Christmas. I might have to take you up on that.”

Mac sobered. “Allen is your son, and any decisions about his future are up to you. But I want you to know that I already have my lawyers preparing the paperwork to make him a legitimate heir to my estate.”

Bryn looked at Trent, begging him without words to say something, anything.

He was stoic, watchful.

Her stomach churned with tension. What did Trent's silence mean? Was he angry? Would he challenge the will?”

She straightened. “I assume you'll want to do DNA testing to establish the relationship between Jesse and Allen.”

Mac snorted. “Allen's a mirror image of Jesse at that age. Any fool can see it. I don't think we need a test.”

At long last, Trent spoke up. “It might be important to the boy one day to have the proof positive. So no one can ever doubt him.”

Bryn's heart sank. Trent still wasn't sure she was telling the truth. “Does this mean you don't believe me, Trent?” She had to know.

Impatience darkened his features. “Of course I believe you, Bryn. Even before I saw the boy I believed you. But I deal in legalities, and it never hurts to dot the
i's
and cross the
t's.
”

She nibbled her lower lip, not at all certain what was going on inside his head. It seemed as though he couldn't even bring himself to say Allen's name. Was he angry that Bryn had borne Jesse's child?

Mac raked a hand through his thick silver hair. “Today was a big day, and I'm almost as wiped out as the kid. I'll say good night. See you both in the morning.”

His departure left an awkward silence in the room. Bryn had hoped to approach Trent in a better mood when she revealed the letters, but the time had run out. No wills could be notarized, nor big declarations made, until the truth about the letters from Etta came to light.

She took a deep breath. “Trent, there's something I need to show you. Something important.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“It will be easier if I show you. It will only take me a minute. Please wait here.”

His gaze followed her out of the room, and she went rapidly to extract the shoe box from its hiding place.

When she returned, Trent hadn't moved. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What is that?”

She held the box to her chest. “Not long after I arrived—the day you took your dad to the doctor and I was here alone—I realized that Jesse's room had not been cleaned since his death. I did some laundry…straightened up the mess. And in the process, I found a box of letters written to him by Etta. As far as I can tell, they started arriving about the time he turned sixteen.”

Trent's eyes blazed with emotion, and he took the box from her hands with a jerk. “Let me see that.”

She hated showing them to him, knowing it would cause him pain. “They're bad, Trent…wicked in cases…and cruel. Perhaps Jesse's self-destructive behavior was being fueled by something none of us knew anything about.”

Trent reclaimed his original seat at the desk and opened the box. He riffled through the contents for maybe ten seconds before selecting an envelope and extracting the enclosed piece of notepaper. As he read it, his scowl blackened.

She could only imagine what he was thinking. She, herself, had been shocked and dismayed the first time she had read the letters. How much worse would it be for Trent, knowing that his own mother had been so intentionally mean-spirited?

No, it was actually worse than that. A child was supposed to be able to know that his parents loved
him unconditionally. Jesse would have been better off thinking that his mother had left for parts unknown and was never coming back. Desertion was a terrible blow to a vulnerable boy. But in writing the series of notes designed to manipulate Jesse's fragile emotions, Etta had moved from abandonment to deliberate harm.

Trent read every word of every letter. Bryn sat in silence as the clock ticked away the minutes. The house was quiet. Everyone else had gone to bed. Trent's face was terrible to see. His shoulders slumped, his skin grayed, his lips tightened.

When he finished the last one and turned to face her, his eyes were damp. She had expected him to be angry…and perhaps that would come…later. But at this precise moment, he was in so much pain, he was unable to hide it, even from her.

He swallowed hard. “Why? Why would she do such a thing?”

Bryn clasped her hands in her lap, searching in vain for the right words to ease the torment etched on his face. “I don't know, Trent. Maybe she thought that if she could worm her way back into Jesse's life, Mac would let her come home.”

He dropped his head in his hands, elbows on his thighs. “Jesse must have been so confused, so torn. He adored Dad, but she insinuated—”

Trent had seen it, too. Bryn squeezed the arms of the chair. “Etta made it sound as if Mac wasn't Jesse's father.” The words scraped her throat raw. “And if that is true, then Allen is not a Sinclair. Not at all.”

Trent was so still, he worried her. She went to him
and put her arms around his neck from behind. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered, putting her cheek to his. “She was your mother. I know this hurts.”

He shrugged out of her embrace and got up to pace, his hands shoved in his pockets. She took the seat he had vacated and wrapped her arms around her waist, trying not to let him see how upset she was. Trent had enough to deal with at the moment without comforting her.

Intense emotion blasted the air in unseen waves. He ranged around the small space like an animal trapped in a cage. He paused finally and leaned against the wall, fatigue in every line of his posture. “Why didn't you show them to me when you first found them?” he asked dully.

“I was afraid. Afraid of hurting Mac…hurting you.”

“Afraid of losing your quarter of the Sinclair fortune?”

Her actions hadn't been blameless. She shouldn't have been surprised by the question. But Trent's question sliced through her composure and left her bleeding.

“Fair enough. I understand why it might look that way. But I was always going to show you these eventually. I had to. You deserved that from me. Because sometimes the only way to help with grief is to find answers.”

“Did you think about destroying the letters?”

“No,” she said bluntly. “I would have had to live with guilt for the rest of my life. I
want
Allen to be a Sinclair, but only if it's true. If Jesse was not Mac's son, we'll deal with it somehow.”