The Secret Child & The Cowboy CEO (3 page)

Back in Minnesota she and Beverly and Allen walked each evening when the weather was nice. The two women enjoyed the exercise, and it was good for Allen to use up some of his energy before bedtime.

Bryn missed her baby. He hated it when she called him that. He was five and would be starting kindergarten in the fall. She wasn't ready. Maybe because it pointed out the fact that he wouldn't always need her. He'd go off to college and meet some scary girl who would take him away for good.

She laughed softy at her own maudlin thoughts. She was twenty-four years old. She was two semesters away from finishing a degree in communications, and as soon as she was able to return home, she would fall back into her familiar, comfortable routine. She had her whole life ahead of her.

So why did she feel despondent?

The answer was simple. She wanted Trent to trust her. To ensure Allen's future, she had no choice but to insist on a paternity test. But everything inside her rebelled at
that thought. She didn't want a litigious battle with the Sinclair family.

She wanted Mac, Trent, Gage and Sloan to admit that she was one of them, blood or not. She wanted an apology. She wanted to see more in Trent's face than suspicion and anger.

Her daddy used to say, “Men in prison want out.” So what?

She was sitting on a bench, packages tucked beside her, when Trent returned. Without speaking, he got out, opened the trunk and waited for her to put her shopping spoils inside.

Then he faced her across the roof of the car, his expression stoic. “Where would you like to eat?”

Bryn's temper had a long fuse, but his manner was insulting. She glared at him. “There's a sandwich shop on the corner. We can grab something and eat on the way home…so we don't waste any time.”

Her sarcasm hit the mark. He opened his mouth and shut it again, displeasure marking his patrician features. “Fine.”

Twenty minutes later, they were on the road. Bryn chewed a turkey sandwich that felt like sand in her mouth. Finally, she gave up and wrapped most of it in the waxed paper and stuffed it in the bag.

Trent had finished his without fanfare and was sipping coffee and staring out the windshield in the dwindling light. Encountering large wildlife on the road was always a hazard, but Trent was a careful driver and Bryn felt perfectly safe with him.

She chewed her lip, wishing she could go back in time
and erase every stupid thing she'd ever done. Including the day she invited Trent to take her to the prom. Trent had said no, of course. Bryn had cried her eyes out behind the barn, and Jesse had come along to comfort her.

In retrospect, she suspected Jesse's motive, even from that first moment, had been troublemaking.

When the silence in the car became unbearably oppressive, Bryn put her hand on Trent's sleeve. “I'm really sorry about Jesse. I know you loved him very much.” She felt the muscles in his forearm tense, so she took her hand away. Apparently even brief contact with her disgusted him.

Trent drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his profile bleak. “I still can't believe it. He was such a good kid.”

“You weren't around him much in the last several years, though. He changed a lot.”

“What do you mean?” The words were sharp.

“Didn't you wonder why he never graduated from college?”

“Dad said he had trouble settling on a major. He was restless and confused. So he switched schools several times. Apparently he decided he wanted to get more involved with the ranch.”

Bryn groaned inwardly. It was worse than she thought. Mac clearly must have known about Jesse's problems, but apparently he had done a bang-up job of keeping that information from his other three sons.

Did Bryn have the right to dispel the myths?

She thought of little Allen, and the answer was clear.

“Trent—” she sighed “—Jesse got kicked out of four universities for excessive drinking and drug use. Your father finally made him come home to keep an eye on him.”

The car swerved, the brakes screeched and Bryn's seat belt cut into her chest as Trent slammed the car to a halt at the side of the road. He punched on the overhead light and turned to face her. “How dare you try to smear my brother's memory…. You have no right.” His dark eyes flashed, and the curve of his sensual lips was tight.

She wouldn't back down, not now. “I'm sorry,” she said softly. “I really am. But Mac has done you a disservice. Perhaps you could have helped if you had known.”

Trent's laser gaze would have ripped her in half if she hadn't known in her heart she was doing the right thing. Pain etched his face, along with confusion and remorse, and a seldom-seen, heart-wrenching vulnerability—at least not by Bryn.

He ran a hand through his hair. “You're lying again. How would you know anything about Jesse?”

Denial was a normal stage of grief. But Bryn held firm. “I'm not lying,” she said calmly. “Jesse called me a couple or three times a year. And every time it was the same. He was either drunk or high. He'd ramble on about how he wanted me to come back to Wyoming.”

“If you're telling the truth, it's even worse. He might
have wanted to make a family with you and the baby, even if it wasn't his.”

“Focus, Trent. He didn't know what he was saying half the time. If anything, he wanted to use me and Allen to win points with Mac…to help cover his ass after whatever new trouble he'd gotten himself into.”

“Jesse loved children.”

“Jesse offered me money to get an abortion,” she said flatly. “He said he had big plans for his life and they didn't include a baby…or me for that matter. That's why I ran into Mac's study that day so upset. I thought Mac would talk some sense into him.”

Trent's face was white. He didn't say a word.

“But instead,” she said, grimacing at the quiver she heard in her own voice, “Mac put me on a plane to Minnesota.”

Please, please, please believe me.

He shrugged. “With your talent for drama, you might have a career on the silver screen.”

His flippant words hurt, but they were no more than she expected. He'd been fed a pack of lies, all right. But not by Bryn.

She sighed. “Ask Mac,” she begged. “Make him tell you the truth.”

Trent shook his head slowly. “My father nearly died. He's grieving over the loss of his son. No way in hell am I going to upset him with your wild accusations.”

She slumped back in her seat and turned her head so he wouldn't see her cry. “Well, then—we're at an impasse. Take me home. I want to see how Mac is doing.”

She didn't know what she expected from Trent. But he gave her nothing. Nothing at all. His face closed up. He started the engine.

T
rent was appalled by the picture Bryn painted of Jesse. The young brother Trent remembered was fun-loving, maybe a little immature for his age, but not amoral, not unprincipled.

Bryn had unwittingly touched on Trent's own personal guilt. He hadn't been much of a big brother in recent years. Other than Mac's birthday in the fall, and Thanksgiving and Christmas, Trent had seldom made the trip home from Colorado to Wyoming.

His company was wildly successful, and the atmosphere of cutthroat competition was consuming and addictive. He'd made obscene amounts of money in a very short time period, but it was the challenge that kept him going. He thrived on being the best.

But at what cost? Had he missed the signs that Jesse
was struggling? Or had the truth been kept from him deliberately? Gage wouldn't have known. He was usually halfway around the word on any given day. And Sloan was more attuned to the world of numbers and formulas than emotions and personalities. No…Trent should have been the one to see it, and he'd been too damned busy to help.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Bryn was exaggerating…or even inventing the entire scenario. That was the most palatable choice. But though he was far from being willing to trust her, the passionate sincerity in her eyes and in her words would be difficult to fabricate.

When they pulled up in front of the house, Bryn got out and retrieved her packages before he could help her. Her body language wasn't difficult to read. She was angry.

He took her arm before she walked away, registering the slender bones. “I don't want you talking to Mac about Jesse. Not for a while. God knows what you're hoping to get out of this sudden, compassionate visit, but I'll be watching you, so don't do anything to upset Mac or you'll have me to deal with.”

She threw him a mocking smile as she walked toward the porch. “I love Mac. And your threats don't scare me. I think your original idea was the best…. I plan to stay out of your way.”

 

Bryn saw little of Trent for three days, which was a good thing. She was still smarting from their most recent confrontation. He showed up in his dad's room several
times a day to chat with him, and on those occasions, Bryn slipped away to give the men privacy.

Mac was aware of Trent's burdens and complained to Bryn. “Can't you slow him down? The boy works round the clock. If he's not on the ranch, he's holding conference calls with his staff and staying up half the night doing God knows what.”

“How am I supposed to stop him? Your sons would do anything for you, Mac, but it must be terribly difficult for a man like Trent to put his life on hold for a month.” Trent had built a highly successful company from the ground up, and his drive and intelligence had enabled him to amass his first million before he was twenty-five. Even without the financial largesse he would one day inherit from his father, Trent was a wealthy man.

Mac frowned stubbornly. “He would listen to you, Brynnie.”

“I don't think so. You know he doesn't trust me. He's got lawyers flying in by helicopter almost every day with contracts to sign. He's an important, high-profile businessman. He and I might have been close at one time, but I don't even know him anymore.” The older boy she remembered—the young man who had seemed like the most wonderful person in the world to her—was long gone. The Trent of today operated in an arena that was sophisticated, intimidating and completely foreign to her.

The change in the man she had once been so close to made her sad.

 

Bryn wouldn't have minded the distraction of helping out around the house, but with Mac's revolving staff
of cooks and housekeepers, she might as well have been staying in a four-star hotel. Any dirty laundry disappeared as if by magic, and her luxurious bathroom and bedroom were kept spotless.

For someone accustomed to caring for a child, working part-time and keeping up with school, she found herself at loose ends when Mac was resting.

On the third night after the uneasy trip to Jackson Hole, Trent encountered her in the kitchen chatting with the cook.

His expression was brooding. “I thought I might see if Mac is up to having dinner at the table tonight. What do you think?”

She nodded slowly, wishing she didn't feel so awkward around Trent. “It's a great idea. It would do him good to get out of that room for a change.” It was really more of a suite than a single room, but even the most luxurious surroundings could seem like a prison.

When the two men reappeared, Mac leaning on his son's arm, Bryn was helping set everything on the table. The menu, by doctor's orders, included as many heart healthy ingredients as possible, and the aroma was enough to tempt even the most uninspired appetite.

Mac picked at his food to start with, but finally dug in. Bryn watched, pleased, as he cleared his plate.

The conversation was stilted. But Bryn did her best. “So tomorrow's the doctor's appointment, right?”

Mac had his mouth full, so Trent answered. “Yes. At 11:00 a.m. I'll take Dad. You can stay here and have some time off the clock.”

She frowned. He made it sound as if she were the hired help. “But I would be happy to go.”

Trent shook his head, his calm demeanor hiding whatever he might be feeling. “No need.”

And that was it. The oracle had spoken.

 

After dinner Mac and Trent played chess on a jade-and-onyx board that Gage had brought back from one of his trips to Asia. Bryn could tell by the quality of the workmanship that the set was expensive. And she wondered wryly what it must be like to never once have to worry about money.

She stood unnoticed in the doorway for several minutes, just watching the interplay between the two men. The Sinclair males had never been the type to wear their hearts on their sleeves, but Bryn knew they loved each other deeply. They were a tightly knit clan.

Unfortunately, she was still outside the circle.

 

The following morning, Bryn was shooed out of the sickroom so Trent could help his father get dressed and leave. Unbidden, her feet carried her upstairs to Jesse's room. It was as far from Mac's as it was possible to be in the rambling house. On purpose? Perhaps. Jesse would have wanted to avoid his father's watchful eye.

A thin layer of dust coated everything. Mac paid a weekly cleaning service to come in, but they must have been given instructions not to enter this room. Nothing had been touched since the day Jesse died. Even the bed was still unmade.

Though it made her stomach hurt, the first thing she
did was to gather a few items that could be used for testing…a comb that held stray hairs, a toothbrush, a razor. She couldn't afford to be squeamish. This was why she had come.

Bryn continued to straighten the mess as her mind whirled with unanswered questions. She had seen the coroner's report. Mac had laid it out in full view on the dresser in his bedroom. She suspected he wanted her to read it for herself so he wouldn't have to say the awful words out loud:
My son was a drug addict.

What a waste of a young life. She picked up a neon blue iPod, plugged it into the dock, and flipped through the selections. Nostalgia and grief hit hard as she saw one familiar title, “Jessie's Girl.” How many times had the two of them played that oldie at full volume, singing along, careening down a Wyoming road?

She had believed it with her whole heart. She had been Jesse's girl, and even though he wasn't Trent, he had made her feel special and wanted. She'd been happy mostly, relieved to know that she would forever be a part of the Sinclair clan.

But it had all been an illusion.

She opened the closet door and reached to put the sports equipment on a top shelf. As she did, she dislodged an old shoe box held together with a rubber band. It fell at her feet. Something about it made a cold chill slither down her spine.

She sat down on the double bed and took off the lid. She'd been expecting drugs, maybe a gun. Certainly not what she found.

The box held letters, maybe two dozen in all. As she
riffled through them, she saw that the earliest ones were dated the year Jesse turned sixteen. The return addresses were all the same…a single line that read
RRIF.
The postmarks were all Cheyenne.

Had no one at the house ever questioned Jesse about them, or were they spaced so far apart that no one took notice? Or had Mac known all along? The three older boys would have been in college when the first ones showed up in the mailbox.

Bryn opened one at random and began reading. Horrified, she went through them all. Her stomach clenched.

What kind of mother would poison the mind of her young son, a boy she had abandoned when he was six years old?

The damage was insidious. A child might have missed the venom behind the words. But what about Jesse? Had he been happy his mother contacted him? Happy enough to not to look beneath the surface? Or as a young adult, had he been able to see the subtext beneath the whining, manipulative words?

Jesse, you were always my favorite.

Jesse, Mac was a tyrant. I was so unhappy. He wouldn't let me take you.

Jesse, I miss you.

Jesse, Trent and Gage and Sloan never loved me the way they should.

Jesse, you have my brains. Brawn isn't everything.

Jesse, you deserve more.

Jesse…Jesse…Jesse…

Bryn couldn't imagine why Mac's wife would have
been so cruel. To punish her ex-husband? To bring discord into the family? Why?
She
had left them, not the other way around.

The later letters were the most damning. Etta Sinclair talked about her many boyfriends. She hinted that she'd had affairs while she was married to Mac. And she intimated that Mac might not be Jesse's father.

Bryn's legs went weak, so much so that she might have fallen if she hadn't been sitting down. It wouldn't matter if Trent and Mac ever believed that Jesse was Allen's father. Jesse might not be a Sinclair at all, and if
he
wasn't, then his young son was not, either.

Bryn gathered the letters with shaking hands, tucked them back in the box and went downstairs to her room.

Would there be any point in letting Mac see them? Best to hide them. Until she could decide what to do with them. Surely he had long since become immune to his wife's defection.

The more she thought about the letters, the more confused she became. She had seen pictures of Etta, though they were few and far between. Trent, Gage and Sloan were all carbon copies of their dad—big, strong men with dark coloring.

Jesse was blond and slender, the spitting image of his mother. Was it simply a quirk of DNA, or was there any truth in those letters?

By the time the men returned in the late afternoon, Bryn had almost made herself ill. She excused herself after dinner and hid in her room. After a shower and a
long phone call with Aunt Beverly, she curled up in bed and read for hours until she fell into a restless sleep.

 

Trent's immediate anxieties were eased considerably by the doctor's glowing report on Mac's recovery. The heart attack had been a serious one, but Mac's overall health and fitness had mitigated some of the long-term damage. Mac Sinclair was a tough old bird.

Which emboldened Trent on the way home to press gently for some answers. He kept his voice casual. “Was it really necessary to invite Bryn to come out here? She's bound to cause trouble. You know what she did six years ago. I doubt she's changed.”

Mac wrapped his arms across his chest, gazing pensively through the windshield. “I handled things all wrong back then. She deserves a fair hearing. That's why I asked her to come.”

Trent was stunned. “But she lied.”

Mac shrugged. “Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. But it still does my heart good to see her again.”

Trent opened his mouth to protest, but choked back the words with effort. His tough father had never been prone to sentimentality. Trent feared that in this vulnerable state his father might be fooled by a woman who was beautiful, charming and had a not-so-secret agenda.

He spoke carefully. “It would be human nature if Bryn wanted a piece of the pie.” Trent's job, like it or not, would be to ferret out the truth and protect his father from doing anything rash.

“Bryn is not a threat,” Mac insisted. “She's the same girl she always was.”

“That's what worries me. I can't forget what she tried to do to Jesse.” Trent, too, felt the pull of Bryn's charisma, acknowledged the presence of nostalgic memories and emotions. But he was not so easily swayed by soft smiles and sweet words. He'd been in business long enough to know that people were not always what they seemed.

“Jesse played a part in what happened six years ago.”

“All I'm asking, Dad, is that you don't promise her anything. Bryn might look like a dark-headed angel, but that doesn't mean she isn't out to get what she wants by fair means or foul.” Trent would be wise to remember his own advice the next time he had an urge to taste those lush lips.

Mac moved restlessly in his seat, clearly exhausted by the outing. “You're paranoid, boy. Don't be so suspicious.”

“I'll try, Dad. For your sake.” Trent lived by the adage “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Whether or not Bryn was an enemy remained to be seen, but in the meantime, he'd keep an eye on her. She wasn't the only one who could put on an act. He would pretend to be the gracious host, and if she let down her guard, he'd be able to circumvent any mischief she might have in mind.

 

Tension and stress threatened to turn Bryn into an insomniac. After one particularly restless night, there
was a knock at her bedroom door, and she realized with chagrin that the sun was shining brightly through a crack in the draperies.