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“Prepare to lose,” Poppy said, kicking off her boots and sitting on a pillow on the ground.
“It’s good to dream, Ma. Isn’t that what you say?” Rowdy asked, giggling.
Toben shook his head and sat across from them, intrigued by their banter. He’d never had this sort of relationship with a parent. And his mother would certainly never have sat on the floor to play a game with him and his sister. Her lack of motherly affection and attention was all he’d known. By the time he left home, his mother had “warned” both his uncles that Toben was a handful and Tandy too sweet for her own good. Uncle Woodrow had tolerated them, but his suspicious and harsh nature was too much for him. They’d left the West Texas ranch and headed straight to Stonewall Crossing. Thankfully, Uncle Teddy had welcomed them with open arms and Toben had found home.
Poppy smiled as Rowdy lay back, his head in her lap. Her fingers slid through the boy’s curls, gently separating tangles and stroking his temple. It was soothing to watch. He could only imagine how amazing it would feel. He had no doubt that was why Rowdy fell asleep long before the game was over.
“Can I help?” Toben asked when she started to lift their son.
She nodded, letting him carry Rowdy down the hall and into the boy’s bedroom. He held his son close, studying each feature. His fine brows, the slight tilt of his nose, his long eyelashes and his solid weight in Toben’s arms. When Poppy pulled back the covers, he didn’t want to release him.
He stooped, brushing the boy’s curls from his forehead to kiss his brow. He straightened, staring down at him. He’d never felt this way, such pride and hope at what they’d do together, frustration and sorrow at what he’d missed.
Poppy tugged off Rowdy’s boots while Toben stared around the room. Rowdy had a range of things tacked to his wall. He was proud of his rodeoing and the folk he came from. Ribbons and belt buckles were displayed on racks in Plexiglas covers. On the wall were a few newspaper clippings. Pictures of Poppy’s dad in his bull-riding gear. A picture of an old man standing by a pasture fence, clearly irritated at having his picture taken. More pictures of Poppy in the ring. Rowdy, covered in dirt, holding up a ribbon. A picture of Poppy on Stormy, midride and working. And a press shot... He stepped closer, staring at the framed photo. A younger, cockier version of himself smiled back. Close-cropped hair, sporting a pathetic beard and patchy mustache, his lucky hat tucked under his arm. All brash and ego—that Toben had nothing to lose and no care in the world. His goal in life had been to win enough to get the women and earn enough to pay for the party. He read the words written by his own hand and felt sick. “Good Luck and Hold On Tight! —Toben Boone.”
I sent you letters. Letter after letter. Left messages with every woman that answered your phone—left messages so you could reach me. And you sent me an autographed picture.
Poppy’s words filled his ears. His heart lodged in his throat. Tears burned his eyes. He couldn’t move. How many letters had he thrown away unread? How many messages had he deleted unheard? She’d tried to tell him. This was his answer.
“Toben?” Poppy whispered.
He shook his head, fighting the urge to smash his cocky picture into dust. Hate, sadness and near-crippling shame grabbed him by the throat and refused to let go.
She stood next to him, close enough she could whisper. “He loves that picture.”
He glanced at his son, fighting tears, and hurried from Rowdy’s room. The walls seemed to press in on him. Poppy’s words, what she’d tried to tell him... He hadn’t really believed her, hadn’t wanted to believe her. He was the one who’d been wronged. He was the one who hadn’t known about his son... Maybe he hadn’t, but he was beginning to accept it wasn’t from her lack of trying. She’d sent a letter—one of the many letters he never took the time to read—a letter that told him she was expecting his child.
He’d replied with that?
He pushed out the back door, sucking in fresh air. He was an asshole. A selfish sonofabitch.
“Toben?” He heard the crunch of her boots on the gravel behind him.
He held his hand up, shaking his head. He couldn’t talk, not yet, or he’d fall apart.
“What’s wrong?”
“I need to go,” he said.
“Okay.” She followed him to his truck.
He pulled open the truck door, desperate for space.
“Toben, wait, please.”
He did. But looking at her, facing her, was hard.
“I just wanted to say thank you.” She was rubbing her arms, her bare shoulders. “For tonight.”
He slammed the truck door. “Thank me?” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Dammit, Poppy. Don’t thank me. Get mad at me. Hate me. Shit.”
Poppy frowned. “You want me to hate you?”
He pointed at the house. “No. I don’t want you to hate me. It’s what I deserve.” He shook his head and pulled the truck door open. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t face her, not right now. He turned on the engine and drove away as fast as he could—angrily wiping at his eyes.
Chapter Ten
“It’s certainly a fixer-upper, now, isn’t it?” Rose stood in the middle of the kitchen, a mix of horror and sympathy on her still-too-thin face. “I guess I can see the potential. But, wow, there’s a lot to be done.”
