The Secret Child & The Cowboy CEO (11 page)

“You didn't show these to Mac.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No. He's been so frail. I did wonder if maybe he knew about them already. They weren't exactly hidden. The box fell off the top shelf in the closet when I was putting things away.”

“But Mac wouldn't have snooped in Jesse's room.”

“No, I guess not.”

They both fell silent.

When Trent didn't say anything more, apparently lost in thought, she pressed him. “Do you think we should show them to him now? He's like a new man since Allen came.”

Trent frowned. “True. But if he
didn't
know about them, then the contents might give him another heart attack. And I don't know if I can risk that.”

“We can't let him change the will if he's not Allen's grandfather. It would be wrong…unethical…”

“But if bringing Allen into the family makes Mac happy, who are we to stand in the way?”

It was her turn to frown, her stomach knotted. “You made it clear six years ago that being a Sinclair is a bond all of you shared, and I didn't. My growing up here meant nothing. So what would make you soften that stance now?”

Trent's expression was inscrutable, his mouth a grim line. “Six years ago I hadn't lost my baby brother to a drug addiction. Six years ago I hadn't watched my father nearly die of a heart attack. Six years ago, I was a self-centered jackass.”

His unaccustomed humility made her uneasy. She
counted on Trent to be a rock. She didn't need his self-abnegation. Not now. Not with so much riding on the outcome of the next several days.

She glanced at her watch. The hours had flown. It was midnight—the witching hour. That dark moment when everything bad in life was magnified into a crushing burden. No longer able to sit still, she stood up and went to the window, her back to Trent.

Her breath fogged up the chilled glass. “So what do we do?” She wanted him to come to her, take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right.

But as always, Trent was not a man to be easily understood or bent to a woman's will. She sensed him watching her, but he remained where he was. “I have to think,” he said gruffly. “Too much is at stake to make any snap decisions. Will the boy take a nap tomorrow?”

The boy.
Trent still couldn't say her son's name. “Yes.” She drew a heart in the condensation on the windowpane.

“Then let's you and I take a ride in the afternoon. We'll go to the far side of the meadow…where the creek cuts through the aspen. No one will interrupt us. We'll talk and decide what to do.”

Trent was speaking matter-of-factly. Nothing in his tone or demeanor suggested a hint of passion. But unbidden, her mind jumped to memories of the night they'd shared in the cabin, and she felt her face heat. It might as well have been happening again at this very instant, so vivid was the recollection of each perfect minute.

Her moans and cries. His hoarse shouts. The rustle of the straw beneath the quilt. The snap and pop of the fire. The comforting drone of rain on the metal roof.

His touch lingered on her skin. She breathed in his crisp masculine scent. His hard body moved over her and in her. Soft sighs, ragged murmurs…pleasure so deep and swift-running she drowned in it.

She was glad they weren't facing each other. Her face would have given her away. She stiffened her spine, drawing on every ounce of self-possession she could muster. She turned to look at him and almost flinched at the intensity of his gaze.

For one blazing instant she saw raw, naked hunger beyond comprehension in his narrow gaze. A predatory declaration of intent. But he blinked, and it was gone.

Had she imagined it? Did he still desire her, or had her actions in concealing the letters destroyed the fragile bond between them?

She bit her lower lip, unsure how to proceed.

Trent's posture had relaxed somewhat. He leaned against the wall, looking tired and discouraged. Seeing him so vulnerable hurt her somewhere deep in her chest. He had taken on so much responsibility in the last few weeks. And her revelation about the letters, necessary though it was, had only added to the load he carried.

She toyed with the cord that controlled the wide-slatted wooden blinds, unable suddenly to meet his gaze. “I'll be glad to go with you tomorrow,” she said quietly. “To talk things through. But in the end, it has to be your decision, Trent. Mac is your father. You know what's best for him and your family. I think he could help us
get to the bottom of Etta's correspondence and what it means. But if you think he can't handle it, we'll destroy them and no one will be the wiser.”

He ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “This is a hell of a mess. I need to call Gage and Sloan.”

“Can they come back so soon?”

“Gage is due here in a week anyway, because we all agreed to give the old man a month of our time to help get things at the ranch back up and running. And Sloan, well, I'm pretty sure he'd come back under the circumstances. They deserve to know the truth about Jesse's problems, but I don't know if we can wait to talk to Dad about the letters.”

It hit her suddenly that Trent was planning to leave…and soon. His month was up. He'd be going back to Denver. Without her. She'd known it was going to happen…eventually. But she had deliberately closed her mind to the thought of it. It hurt too much.

She went to him and laid her head on his chest, circling her arms around his waist. “I'm so sorry, Trent.”

His hand came up to stroke her hair. Beneath her cheek she felt his heart thundering like a freight train. “Go to bed,” he said softly. “Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning.”

T
rent saddled his horse and headed out, following the route he and Bryn had taken to the cabin. But tonight Trent pushed his mount, skirting the edge of recklessness, trying to outrun the barrage of thoughts whirling in his brain. Every word of the damn letters was emblazoned in his memory. And it hurt. After all these years, his mother's betrayal hurt.

And then there was Bryn. What was he going to do about Bryn? From the moment he'd set eyes on Allen, he'd been consumed by guilt. The kid was Jesse's son, no question. Yet, six years ago they had thrown Bryn out in the street. Like she was some sort of sinner. And all along, Jesse had stood by and let it happen.

Dammit.
What an unholy mess.

Trent couldn't lie to himself any longer. He was head
over heels in love with Bryn. And it wasn't something that was going to magically go away. Hell, he'd been half in love with her for years. She was his heart, the very essence of who he was. And whatever it took, he couldn't lose her.

He'd been an ass about Allen. He didn't know much about children, and the fact that the boy was Jesse's son hit Trent hard. He was only the uncle, but the bare truth was, he wanted to be the boy's father. And if Jesse wasn't Mac's son… Good God.

And still he rode on, paying penance, seeking answers, looking for absolution.

 

Bryn barely slept. Every time she rolled over to look at the illuminated dial of the clock, only an hour had passed…sometimes less. Her whole life hung in the balance. For years she had assumed that her son would one day take his place as a Sinclair. And she had believed that such a moment would cement the fact, once and for all, that the ranch would always be her home, no matter where she actually chose to live.

Deep in her soul she recognized a connection to the land here. Perhaps it was unwarranted. Her parents had been no more than hired help on the Sinclair ranch. But that reality couldn't change the way she felt.

And Trent…dear, complicated Trent. She loved him beyond reason. Loved him enough to know that no other man would ever measure up. She didn't want to spend her life alone, but it would take a long, long time to forget the imprint Trent had made on her soul.

Jesse might have been the one who took her
virginity, but Trent had showed her what it meant to be a woman.

An early morning walk calmed some of her agitation and made it possible for Bryn to greet her son and aunt across the breakfast table with some degree of equanimity. Beverly and the nurse carried on a lively conversation. Mac's mood was jovial, and no one remarked on Trent's absence. An empty cereal bowl and coffee cup were evidence that he'd been up early.

Allen finished off his pancakes and turned, bright-eyed, toward his mom. “What are we going to do today?”

Bryn had thought about letting him explore the attic—she'd loved doing that as a child—but she worried that the dust might aggravate his asthma. He wasn't going to be content with puzzles and board games now that he was feeling better. Inspiration hit her. “Come with me,” she said. “I have a surprise for you.”

With Allen bouncing along beside her, she went to the large family room and opened the cabinet that stored all the leather-bound picture albums. Gage, Mac's second son, had developed a passion for photography early in life, and Mac had indulged him with fancy and expensive cameras, lenses and developing equipment. Mac could never have imagined in those early days how Gage's love of photography, combined with a strong wanderlust, would take him to far-flung places across the globe.

Bryn opened one of the early albums and spread it in Allen's lap. Her throat tightened as she recognized a long-forgotten photo. It was one of the rare instances
where Gage was actually “in” the picture, and Mac had been the photographer. Five children, four boys and a girl, sat on the top corral rail, their legs dangling. The three older brothers bore a striking resemblance, though Trent, probably twelve or thirteen, stood out as the eldest.

Bryn and Jesse sat side by side with the bigger kids, their arms around each other's shoulders. Bryn's hair was in pigtails…Jesse's blond head gleamed in the morning sun. All five children looked healthy, happy and carefree.

When Allen wasn't looking, Bryn took the photo and slipped it in her pocket. Soon, very soon, she'd tell him about his father. And she wouldn't lie, if possible. There were plenty of good memories to share.

She flipped the pages…showing Allen a montage of county rodeos, family Christmases, impromptu picnics on the ranch…all chaperoned by a much younger Mac. Allen drank it all in with avid interest.

The final album was smaller than the rest. Inside the front cover was a faded Post-it note in Mac's handwriting that read
For Bryn.
Every photo inside was of her parents, sometimes together, sometimes smiling alone for the camera, many times holding their little girl.

She touched one picture she barely remembered. “That's my mom and dad,” she said softly. “I wish you could have known them. But they died a long time before you were born.”

A frown creased Allen's small forehead. “Did my daddy die, too? Is that why he doesn't live with us?”

The question came out of the blue and took her breath
away. Allen had never once asked about his father. Bryn had been prepared for some time now to launch into an explanation when Allen seemed old enough to understand, but until today, he'd never questioned their nontraditional family.

She had lain many nights, sleepless, wondering how to explain to a small child that his father didn't want him. Now she didn't have to.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, desperately wanting to point to a photo of Jesse and say, “That was your dad.” But she couldn't. Not yet. Not until things were settled.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Your father died. But he loved you very much.” Perhaps God would forgive her for the lie. A son needed to know that his father thought the world of him. Even if it wasn't true.

In the way of five-year-olds, Allen suddenly lost interest in the past. “Can we go see the puppies now?” he asked, wheedling in every syllable of his childish plea.

“You bet.” She laughed. “I'll get Julio to bring them up from the barn.”

 

Lunch was a scattered affair. Bryn and Allen took sandwiches out into the sunshine to eat, spreading a quilt on the ground and enjoying their alfresco meal. It had been a long, hard winter in Minnesota, and the spring warmth was too appealing to resist. But by one o'clock, Allen was flagging. Bryn turned him over to Beverly and the nurse.

When she left her son's bedroom, Trent appeared
suddenly in the hallway, his expression somber. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, her stomach flip-flopping with nerves. “Yes.”

One of the ranch hands insisted on helping Bryn saddle her horse, though she could have done it on her own. Trent mounted a beautiful stallion and waited for her to put a foot in the stirrup and leap astride the gentle mare assigned to her. She was self-conscious about Trent watching her, but she managed not to embarrass herself.

They rode side by side in silence, crossing a meadow bursting with flowers and sporting new green in every shade. Trent had rolled up Bryn and Allen's luncheon quilt and tied it to the back of his saddle. He'd also brought along a couple of canteens of fresh water.

When they reached the creek, Trent helped her dismount and tied both animals to trees so the horses could eat and drink as needed. He spread the faded blanket and dropped the canteens to anchor the fabric against the capricious breeze.

Nearby, the crystal-clear, frigid water burbled gently over smooth stones that were as old as the mountains themselves. Trent faced her, his expression unreadable.

The breeze tossed her hair in her face. She took a rubber band from her pocket and bound the flyaway mess at the base of her neck. “Where do we start?” she asked. The calm in her voice was a complete fabrication. Her knees were the consistency of jelly, and her heart fluttered in her chest.

Trent took one step in her direction. “With this,” he said gruffly. He took her in his arms, and instantly her fear and anxiety melted away to be replaced by heat and certainty. It was a homecoming, a benediction, a warm, wicked claiming.

Did he know? Did he have any idea that she was his in every way that mattered? She met the urgency of his kiss eagerly. The hunger that consumed both will and reason no longer frightened her.

She would have followed him into hell for the chance to have him again, to know the searing touch of his hands on her damp flesh.

He was inside her jeans, his big hands cupping her bottom, drawing her tight against the hard, pulsing ridge of his erection.

“Trent. Oh, Trent.” She wanted to say more, needed to say more. But it was all she could do to remain standing.

They ripped at clothing, hers and his, unashamed to be naked beneath the gentle afternoon sun. Bits of shade dappled their bare skin.

She barely noticed when he drew her to the soft caress of the quilt. He went down on his back, taking any discomfort from the rocky ground and making it his, while she sat cradled astride his hard thighs.

His thick, eager erection was impossible to miss. It lifted boldly between them, filled with life and purpose.

The gleam in his eyes made her blush. “Stop that,” she hissed, unable to hold his gaze. She looked
around, knowing they were alone, but feeling bashful nevertheless.

He gently traced the curve of one breast, lingering to coax the nipple to hardness. “Stop what?”

The innocence in his question might have been more convincing if he hadn't simultaneously brushed his finger in the wetness between her legs. Where his touch trespassed, her body went lax and soft, ready to take him. Eager for more.

She cleared her throat. “I thought we were going to talk,” she said. It seemed as though one of them should make an effort to be sensible, but it was difficult for a woman to be taken seriously when she was sprawled in erotic abandon beneath a cloudless sky.

A shadow darkened his face for scant seconds, but he shook it off, his hands clenching her hips hard enough to bruise.

“Later,” he groaned, rolling on a condom and lifting her to align their bodies. “Watch us,” he muttered. “Don't close your eyes.”

He entered her inch by inch, and though she squirmed and shivered, her gaze never wavered from the spot where his hard flesh penetrated her. The act was as elemental as the cry of the hawk overhead, as life-affirming as the advent of new life in the wild.

He filled her completely, his mighty arms straining as he lifted her repeatedly. Her knees burned, her thighs ached. The intentionally lazy tempo drove her mad with longing. She bore down on him, squeezing, pressing his shaft so he would go faster.

But Trent Sinclair had an iron will, and his control
was frustrating for a woman whose patience unraveled with every upward thrust of his hips. She was so close to the moment of release, she held her breath.

Acting on instinct, she lightly touched his copper-colored nipples, circling them and making Trent flinch and groan hoarsely. Within her, he grew. Harder. Longer. More insistent.

She was stretched. Impaled. Held captive to the madness that drove them both to the brink of insanity. And it
was
insane. There was no future for them. No hope for a positive conclusion.

All they had was the present.

She put her hands on his shoulders. He reached behind her, and with a brutal twist of his fingers, snapped the band that held her ponytail. The long silky strands tumbled over her breasts and onto his chest. He stroked her hair with wonder and reverence in his gaze.

Then his hands fisted in the silken fall and he dragged her down so his mouth could ravage hers. Teeth and tongues and clashing breath. His sweat-slicked chest heaved, her thigh muscles quivered. He tortured them both, making them wait, drawing out the anticipation of the end until she wanted to scream at him and scratch his bronzed muscles with her fingernails, anything to hasten the promised pleasure that shimmered just out of reach.

He seized her face in his hands, his fingers sliding into the damp hair at her nape. His rapier gaze locked on hers. “You should have been mine, Bryn. He didn't deserve you. You should have been mine.” Something in
the rough, aching words made her heart hurt. But then he kissed her again, and the joy returned.

They were helpless, lost in the windswept eroticism of the moment. He laughed at her, laughed at them both. Nothing could have torn them apart. She lay on his chest, exhausted. The new angle sent tingling sensations from her core throughout her body.

His strength and stamina amazed her. He grunted and thrust more wildly. She was limp in his embrace, desperately aroused, but unable to summon the energy to sit up again.

“Tell me you want me, Bryn. I need to hear you say it.” He rolled them suddenly, coming on top of her, but bearing most of his weight on his forearms.

She licked her lips, her throat parched. “I want you.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“I need you.”

“I wish I had been your first.”

Her slight hesitation sent lightning flashing in his dark gaze, dangerous, potent.

“I was immature,” she said softly. “I think I used him to make you jealous. And I am so sorry for that. But I was never
in love
with Jesse.”

She waited for him to say he loved her. Prayed with incoherent desperation that he would say the words that would change her life forever. The simple phrase that would make all her dreams come true.

But no such words were forthcoming.

Trent's face was unreadable. He was a man in the throes of passion…nothing in his features to
express anything other than a dominant drive toward completion.

And finally, when she was boneless in his embrace, he rode her hard and took his own release with a ragged shout that echoed across the plain.