The Bull Rider's Secret Son
Autore
Susan Breeden
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CHAPTER ONE
“MOMMY! MOMMY! GUESS who I am!”
Becca gave Max a quick side glance while whisking the precious last batch of eggs. Her son loved dressing up as superheroes, real-life heroes or the occasional villain. Most of the time, she couldn’t venture a guess. Last week it was someone called the Flash. The week before, Wolverine.
This week, however, the answer was easy. And a bit uncomfortable.
Still, Becca had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. The cowboy hat practically swallowed the five-year-old boy. Hopefully, his height and weight would eventually catch up to his age, which would increase by one digit in a couple of weeks.
“Wow, that’s a tough one,” she lied. “Give me a minute.”
In reality, one minute would buy her about fifteen seconds to not only formulate a response but to finish her task at hand. The melted butter now covered the bottom of the skillet. The requisite bubbles would appear at any moment.
Three-plus years into owning and managing the Hideaway Bed and Breakfast, she’d perfected a solid, traditional feast. Even though she could make scrambled eggs in her sleep, Fraser Ranch had yet to make its delivery, which meant no room for error this morning.
Not that she was about to complain. The eggs were free. As were the sage proverbs with a quirky twist that old man Fraser imparted. The latest one being Every path has a few puddles. That’s why your emotions should always wear muck boots.
Boy, was that an understatement. On the other hand, real puddles were a great source of fun for a single mom and her rambunctious little boy. Second only to their weekly guessing game.
Max’s costume choice couldn’t have been timelier since today was the day she’d vowed to shut down the rodeo topic once and for all. He’d gone on and on about bull riding for months. And one didn’t hear about bull riding without hearing about Cody Sayers—the so-called Rodeo Rascal.
Ugh.
She still couldn’t stomach that nickname, but at least she’d gotten used to seeing cowboy hats. Wyoming rivaled Texas in that respect. After years of associating them with her famous ex-husband, she’d finally reached a point where seeing one didn’t make her ache from the inside out.
Trent, her neighbor’s eighteen-year-old son and the Hideaway’s part-time handyman, must have taken off his hat while mowing and grooming the grounds. Considering her own son’s proclivity to ask forgiveness rather than permission when it came to borrowing other people’s things, Becca had suspected he would eventually show up wearing Trent’s cowboy hat.
“You said a minute. That was fifty million zillion minutes ago,” Max prompted.
“Hold your horses. I want to get my guess right.”
But first, the eggs. They sizzled like a beautiful culinary symphony as she poured them into the oversize cast-iron skillet. Using a spatula, she began folding and fluffing them to perfection.
“I’ll give you a hint,” he said.
Max retrieved the broom from its designated spot between the fridge and counter. He rode it like a stick bull around the kitchen, with their three-legged rescue labradoodle, Penny, hot on the little cowboy’s heels. The stomping and bucking against the hardwood and counters caused the bowls of hash browns and sausage links and seasonal fruit to wobble in his wake.
That was her cue to answer. Now.
“I’ve got it! You’re the Headless Horseman. Tonight, I’ll tell you some secrets about him that no one else knows.” If her embellished version of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” didn’t steer Max’s attention in a different direction, nothing would.
Max pouted over her answer. “You’re not even looking good,” he huffed.
Becca blinked. Boy, did he ever hit the nail on the head. She must have looked pretty haggard at the moment, even though she knew that wasn’t what he meant.
If the eggs weren’t taking longer than usual, she’d have time to change out of her yoga pants and tank top and into something nicer before setting up the buffet and greeting guests. Never knew when a handsome out-of-towner might decide to stay there. Or, better yet, a local enjoying a staycation.
Right now, however, she needed to take an extra minute for something even more important. Make that someone. She stopped fluffing even though the eggs weren’t quite done, slid the skillet off the heat and gave Max her undivided attention.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said while studying his costume with the focus it deserved.
Authentic cowboy boots? Check.
Fringe vest he’d borrowed from her closet? Check.
Cowboy hat? Check.
Except...it wasn’t just any hat. It looked exactly like Cody’s old Stetson.
Nooo!
“Where did you get—?”
“Whatever you’re talking about, I plead the Fifth,” Hailey said as she brushed by, defending herself against a question Becca had yet to finish asking.
Which meant her best friend and assistant property manager knew it was forthcoming.
Which means she’s guilty.
The woman had been trying to influence Becca to give Cody another chance, even though he definitely wasn’t begging for one. In fact, they hadn’t spoken since the divorce was finalized nearly six years ago. If that wasn’t bad enough, Hailey entertained Max’s questions about rodeos—and about Cody. Fortunately, her friend hadn’t revealed anything of significance. Not that she would. Only two people knew that Cody was Max’s biological father: Becca and Hailey.
And that’s the way it was going to stay.
Becca certainly wasn’t blameless in all of this. She’d unwittingly left photos that glamorized bull riding, along with newspaper clippings with Cody’s name and photo, in places where Max could come across them with minimal effort. But not the cowboy hat that Cody had left behind. Until now, it had remained tucked away on a top shelf of the utility closet, behind a large box. Max couldn’t have known about it, much less reached it, without someone’s help.
The Fifth wasn’t going to save her friend this time. Mental note: get rid of everything. Including Hailey.
Okay, perhaps not Hailey.
Becca drew in a deep breath and willed her heart to stop kickboxing her rib cage. Last thing she needed was for Max to ask why she was upset. With any luck, this cowboy phase would pass by as swiftly as her friend-slash-assistant, who selected a red Delicious from the fruit bowl then speed-walked through the shotgun kitchen and out the other side before she could be interrogated. At this rate, Hailey would burn off the calories faster than she could consume them.
Meanwhile, Max was burning some serious calories of his own. After taking a few yank-and-jerk laps through the kitchen and around the parlor on his imaginary bull, he was now pretending to be bucked off, à la Cody Sayers, no doubt. When he finally hit the ground, the hat tumbled across the floor.
Becca swiftly confiscated it, then hefted Max to his feet. That was when she noticed how the Stetson had silver-star embellishments rather than round medallions. A small-but-sanity-saving detail. She exhaled all the tension from her body.
It wasn’t Cody’s old hat. Must be Trent’s after all.
Oh, the glorious relief. Like settling in front of a roaring fireplace after being out in the Wyoming snow for hours.
“Go change for breakfast, cowboy. I want to show you off to our guests,” she said.
“Can I pour the orange juice?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. That’s the best part. I may want to do that myself,” she said, channeling her inner Tom Sawyer.
Truth be told, she could use the help. Not only with breakfast but with other things around the B and B. The rooms were always in need of minor repairs. Trent could only do so much, given his other job as a wrangler for old man Fraser down the road.
“Pleeease?” Max cried.
“You’ll have to put on your nice jeans and the purple sweater that Grammy Haring got you last Christmas.”
“Okey dokey.” Max turned and ran to his room.
That was easy. If only certain other people in her life were so cooperative.
Becca collected the abandoned stick bull, returned it to its imaginary chute next to the refrigerator and placed the Stetson on the counter where Trent would see it. She transferred the skillet back to the stovetop. Several more seconds of low-and-slow heat—along with a cube of butter—and the scrambled eggs would be reheated and cooked to near perfection.
Somehow, she’d managed to not ruin them with all the on-and-off. What were the odds? Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad day after all. In fact, it might be a...“Lovely Day.”
The thought alone awakened a serious earworm, as Bill Withers’s voice filled her head. That tune always got her moving. First, the side-to-side neck slides, followed by some shoulder pumps. Finally, a few hip circles to bring it home—
“So, you’re the one who stole my Stetson,” someone said, bringing the whole private performance to a grinding halt.
When had Trent come in?
She reached for the pepper and gave the mill a couple of twists for a dash of color and a subtle kick. Let the guests take it from there and season to their individual liking.
“Please tell me you didn’t witness my awful dancing,” she said without turning around.
“The truth?”
“Oh, I insist.”
As soon as those words left her mouth, she braced herself for the kind of playful-yet-sarcastic punchline that only this particular teenager could deliver. Fortunately, she was pretty good about delivering back.
“I wouldn’t call it awful,” he said.
Definitely sarcasm. She was a lot of things, but a good dancer wasn’t one of them. And she wasn’t about to ask him what he would call it.
“Yeah. Right. Hey, you might want to check the floor. I think your voice dropped another octave. Going through puberty again?” she asked, as she gave the eggs one final plump.
“Why would you think something like that?”
Because his voice sounded way too deep and rich and a tad too gravelly. A premium espresso blend, one might say if comparing it to coffee grounds.
Premium. Like only one other man she had ever known.
Exactly like it, in fact.
A sudden sweat drenched her neck. Her stomach seized, and her lungs refused to take in some much-needed air. She set the spatula aside and wiped her palms on her apron. The lump in her throat wouldn’t allow another question to shimmy by and disprove her suspicion.
Instead, she turned around and had it confirmed the hard way.
Every path has a few puddles...
Except this wasn’t any ordinary puddle.
This was a raging sea.
No way.
“Becca?”
As if he needed to ask. He’d long ago memorized every disobedient auburn strand of hair on his ex-wife’s head. Yet, until she turned around, his unsuspecting thoughts were along the more generic lines of If what I can see is any indication, that is one beautiful woman.
His heart even confirmed it, fluttering at first and now pounding its verdict home. The old ticker had pretty much stopped working the day he signed the divorce papers and left behind the only woman he had ever loved. At her insistence. Now, his heart seemed to be back in business, despite his insistence that it stop this nonsense. Wrong place. Wrong time.
Wrong woman.
“It’s you,” she responded. Although her voice wavered, her deadpan expression gave nothing away. No surprise, no excitement. And, thankfully, no disgust. “What are you doing here?”
Of course, she wouldn’t have known he was coming. The cook wouldn’t have access to such information unless guest rosters were shared with the entire staff. His publicist had booked him under a different name, anyway. His whole reason for coming here was to surprise a certain person—his biggest fan. And possibly his smallest fan, judging by the loopy, childlike, first-name-only signature on the letter.
The adult who must have typed the contents remained anonymous. However, he or she had used the Hideaway letterhead and issued an invitation for Cody to call that number or write to that address anytime. Cody did one better. He showed up, unannounced.
The surprise, however, was clearly on him.
“My hat went missing. Someone suggested I check with the cook,” he said, even though he knew that wasn’t what she was asking.
“But what are you doing here? In Destiny Springs?”
She never did let anything slide. If she had, they’d probably still be together.
Cody straightened. Why did he all of a sudden feel defensive over a logical question? Except, yeah, he knew why. His first inclination was to be completely honest. But whoever came up with the notion that honesty was the best policy clearly hadn’t met Becca.
Honesty had gotten him served with divorce papers. The kicker was, she’d known what she was getting into when she’d said I do. Knew he’d be away much of the time, working the rodeo circuit. She simply hadn’t been prepared for the extent of it.
Neither had he. But Cody had been completely honest when he’d said that slowing down would be the worst thing for his career, next to quitting altogether.
She’d been honest, too. His extended career didn’t fit into her time frame for settling down and starting a family. Still, he assumed she’d remain his biggest supporter—like his mother had done for his father—and trust that he’d make it up to her in the long run. For better or for worse was an all-encompassing clause in the Sayerses’ book.
Not in Becca’s, as it turned out. As he saw it now, she’d forfeited her right to know the gritty details about his life. Not that he intended to lie.
“I’m meeting up with a fan.”
Becca snorted. “What’s her name? I’ll send some chocolate-dipped strawberries and champagne to the room.”
Cody deployed his signature mischievous grin before remembering how much she used to distrust it. Judging from the eye roll, she still did. Then again, of course she’d reach that conclusion. The media made sure everyone did.
Come to think of it, the media was partly to blame for their divorce. The nickname they’d bestowed upon him had been the proverbial final straw.
Rodeo Rascal? What a joke. So he wore his Stetsons black and his T-shirts tight. Didn’t mean he was up to something. And, sure, he could be a little devious at times. Having grown up with two older brothers, it was a survival tactic.
Then there was the harmless showtime banter with fans—mostly women. Couldn’t exactly be rude, now, could he? It was showtime only, for goodness’ sake. Never extended into his personal life. Of course, there were the fan letters from women and emails too, of which Becca was aware. He’d ignored them all, even though he didn’t point that out to her.
Didn’t think he had to.
Most didn’t even request a response. They’d usually just rave about his mischievous grin. Then it was his turn to snort. His right cheek had sustained permanent nerve damage early in his career. Landed on his face after being thrown from Major Disaster—three seconds into the ride—leaving him with not only a bruised ego but also a lopsided smile.
“Is something funny?” she asked.
He shook his head, never losing eye contact. “Believe it or not, I have male fans too,” he said, neither confirming nor denying her assumption.
She nodded unconvincingly. Then she pinched her brows together and sniffed at the air. He smelled it too. Smoke. She swirled around, quickly removing the skillet from the stovetop.
“Oh, no! My eggs are ruined.”
Because of me. “We can fix this.” Cody took two long strides to the fridge and scoured its shelves.
She tossed the spatula onto the counter and dropped her hands to her side. “No, we can’t. These were the last of them. And it’s too late to go out and get more.”
Just as well. Since physical preparation for the next two upcoming rodeo events wasn’t an option, he needed to get back to the privacy of his room where he could do his visualization exercises, which always began the same way.
Set the rope, handle in deep.
Hips and legs, at one with the beast.
Free hand up, leave nothing to chance.
Follow his lead for an eight-second dance.
The visualization was one thing. He wasn’t original in that respect. But if the media ever found out about his little mantra, they’d denounce it as some sort of hocus-pocus. But his life was literally at stake. He might be matched with Equal Opportunity Killer at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo three weeks from now. That one had a ninety-six-percent buck-off rate, which was wild.
That was, if he survived Scottsdale in two weeks.
Becca untied her apron, discarded it next to the spatula and began placing large bowls filled with sausage, fruit and potatoes onto a cart. He almost jumped right in but thought better of it. This was her territory, and he wasn’t exactly welcome here.
“Can I do anything to help?” he asked.
“Not unless you can unburn those eggs. I need to get the rest of this stuff over to the buffet. Will you be there?”
Not a chance. He’d barely unpacked when he realized his Stetson had gone missing. Figured that was what he got for requesting an early check-in and hanging the hat on a post outside while he hauled luggage to his room. Besides, that particular hat was only for show—pre– and post–rodeo events.
This trip, however, it would be a show for one.
“Not today. Just looking for my missing property,” he said.
“Well, you found it. Good luck with your...fan.”
He reached across the counter and reclaimed the hat. A quick glance confirmed its structure hadn’t been violated. At least, not beyond the abuse it had already been dealt. Good thing, since it was his lucky charm.
His father had had a lucky Stetson too, back in the day. At least it would’ve been, if he hadn’t been widowed and forced to abandon his dream of a world championship in bull riding to raise Cody and his two older brothers—both of whom preferred unforgiving concrete and narrow skyscrapers to sandy clay and sprawling arenas. Someone had to make sure the Sayers name earned its rightful place in history. Cody intended to be that someone. In fact, he’d visualized the ultimate win at least a thousand times.
At that moment, however, he was visualizing something forbidden and entirely unlikely: embracing Becca again. All the conjuring in the world couldn’t make that happen.
He positioned his hat securely on his head, which was where it would stay until he got back to his room. Once his visualization exercises were out of the way, he’d track down his biggest little fan. Thankfully, the letter had offered some breadcrumbs.
Becca grabbed a white puffer jacket from a hook on the back wall and excused herself without making further eye contact. Through the kitchen window, he watched her enter a barn across the way, struggling to keep the cart from tipping over while crossing an uneven threshold.
Yep, she could have used some help.
“I should have insisted,” he muttered.
But she didn’t want it. Just like she hadn’t wanted a therapist’s or clergyperson’s help in sorting through their marital issues.
I should have insisted...
He removed his hat and tossed it back on the counter. Maybe he’d never win her back. Not that he could if he tried. If anything, their lifestyles were more incompatible than ever. But this was an opportunity to prove he wasn’t the self-centered man that she thought him to be. Prove he was good for more than bull riding.
Most of all, prove he didn’t take advantage of every opportunity to steal the limelight.
He studied the overcooked eggs as he tied her apron around his waist, the pink floral terry-cloth still warm from her body. The unexpected connection and memories it evoked made his breath hitch.
Focus.
He analyzed the skillet in greater detail. Some of the eggs were salvageable, if a bit dry. A thorough spelunking of the refrigerator didn’t unearth any chorizo. But he did find an unopened package of andouille sausage. Didn’t come across a fresh jalapeño either, but he managed to snag some pickled ones. His questionable luck continued at the spice rack. No ancho chili powder. Regular chili powder would work in a pinch. And this moment definitely qualified as one.
Several dashes of paprika, cumin and oregano later, Cody was the proud father of the best cooking-by-the-seat-of-one’s-pants Tex-Mex scrambled eggs with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Chorizo extravaganza he could manage. He transferred everything to the prettiest bowl he could find and slipped his hat back on because he couldn’t carry it. No way was he letting it out of his sight again.
Which begged the question: Who took it in the first place?
No matter.
He hoofed it down to the barn but stopped at the entrance. The interior was both rustic and raw, yet warm and inviting. A long, community-style table stretched across much of its length. Several folks were already seated. Others waited in the buffet line along the side wall.
He watched and waited as Becca finished transferring food from bowls to warming trays then double-checked the coffee station, where she straightened the cups and saucers and condiments.
Eventually she’d look up and notice him, and he could motion her over. He’d hand off the dish and insist she take the credit. He couldn’t risk being recognized, thus possibly making it all about him. Nope. No limelight on this trip. Only a single spotlight on the person he came here to impress most.
Speaking of which, a young boy was busy filling guests’ glasses with orange juice from a dangerously large glass pitcher.
Could that be...Max?
The fan letter specifically mentioned that, as the owner’s son, he often lent a helping hand around the place while dreaming of riding bulls someday. Anxiety whisked at Cody’s insides until they weren’t only scrambled, they were mush. Would he live up to his biggest little fan’s expectations?
An undeniable yearning coursed its way through his already-tortured belly He wanted children someday. But only if—make that when—he could pass on the family name with a championship title attached.
As he tried to decide whether to approach the boy or hand the egg dish to Becca and wait for a more private setting in which to meet his fan, fate made the decision for him.
The boy caught sight of Cody. His little jaw practically hit the ground. A millisecond later, the gigantic pitcher he was holding slipped from his hands.
The crash-and-splash startled the guests, but not nearly as much as the little boy screaming at the top of his lungs, “Mommy! Mommy! Look who’s here!”
Only one woman answered the call.
“Max, you know the rules. No yelling. Stay right where you are, sweetie,” she admonished before looking Cody’s way.
That’s when the proverbial frying pan smacked him upside the head. Becca wasn’t only the cook. She was the owner.
And Max was her son.
Becca sure hadn’t wasted any time moving on after their divorce, had she? The implication kicked his gut with full, pointy-toed force. Obviously, he hadn’t taken her urgent desire for starting a family literally enough. He’d let her down.
Or rather, we let each other down.
He gripped the bowl as tight as he would a braided bull rope, even though his grip on this situation was slipping. There wasn’t enough rosin in the world to prevent it. His plan to impress her was backfiring. He could read it in her expression, even from where he stood.
The guests’ attention quickly narrowed in on him. One woman said to another, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Isn’t that the Rodeo Rascal?”
Oblivious to the orange juice—which kept breaching borders on the ground beneath everyone’s feet—all the guests turned still and quiet. They seemed to be anticipating what would happen next.
Will Cody Sayers last the full eight seconds? Or will he be thrown to the ground?
He couldn’t begin to venture an answer. Didn’t have a read on this particular beast. Too late to visualize his options. The chute had been opened, and the buzzer had yet to sound. The only thing he could think to do was what came naturally under pressure and what his fans seemed to enjoy most. Unfortunately, it was what his ex-wife appreciated least.
Cody straightened his posture, tipped his head to the group and put on his best mischievous grin.
Showtime.
