Their Secret Twins
Автор
Tara Taylor Quinn
Прочтений
18,9K
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HarlequinChapter One
Who scheduled interviews for Saturday morning?
Oh, right, he did. Had. He’d done it.
Pulling himself out of a deep slumber, Jordon Lawrence came to, remembering why his alarm had gone off before nine on a weekend morning. He needed to hire a couple of financial advisors.
He’d shown attention-getting gains at the close of the market the day before. Had been on the floor to see the final results when the bell rang, and then had attended three different evening functions with celebrating clients—and potential clients. All gatherings had sported a full bar but none had included dinner.
Out of bed, Jordon made it to the kitchen for coffee, standing there in a robe and nothing else. He was sipping the hot liquid like it was saving his life when his doorman buzzed him.
He had a certified letter—had to go down and sign for it or pick it up in person himself at the post office.
Not wanting to stand in line at the post office—or worry about getting there during business hours—he climbed into last night’s pants, slid his arms into the shirt he’d taken off as he’d fallen into bed, slipped his sockless feet into his wing tips, and grabbed his coffee to sip on the elevator ride down the eleven floors and then back up again.
That one cup hadn’t been nearly enough.
An entire pot of espresso wouldn’t have done it.
Sitting on the edge of his couch, still in the wrinkled clothes, Jordon stared at the letter he’d had in his possession for a full twenty minutes. Continued to stare.
He read it again, and then, his eyes glazing over, he blinked and read once more.
He didn’t need to see the words to know verbatim what they said. He just had to wait another five minutes until it was officially 5:00 a.m. on the West Coast. In his mind, five designated morning hours during Arizona summer months. It was light by then. He’d call the number at the bottom of the letter at that time.
No way was he the father of four-year-old twins. Other than with Mia Jones, an eternity ago, he’d never even been in a long-term relationship.
Savannah Compton, JD, had the wrong guy.
And those poor little girls needed their deceased parents’ lawyer to find the right one.
Finishing up the final touches on her latest boho wall hanging video, Mia Jones glanced at the phone resting on the big crafting table beside her as it rang. With an unusual loss of focus, she shook her head, pushed to decline the call and went back to work on the laptop she was using to edit her work. Surrounded by fancy camera paraphernalia, ring lights and soundproof headphones, she was a far cry from the woman Jordon Lawrence had known.
The family ranch he’d last seen failing stood tall and proud around her—with her as the sole owner. Her social media accounts had millions of followers and she still had a pile of invitations from crafting manufacturers to represent their products on her channels even after accepting more than thirty such offers.
The second time the phone rang, she jumped, accidentally deleting a couple of the clips she’d been adjusting. A glance told her that the caller was Jordon again.
She waited an extra ring before refusing that call, too.
She hadn’t heard from the man in ten years, and he thought he could just beep into her life again in the middle of a beautiful summer Sunday afternoon? Didn’t matter to her how much money he made or how important he was in New York. In Shelter Valley, on her property, he was just the guy who broke her heart.
She almost answered the third call. What if the guy was sick or something? Had he played the market a little too hard and lost everything that mattered to him?
And he thought he’d come crawling back to her, begging for the things he’d found less valuable when he’d left her to go to the big city and make his fortune?
He could be in serious trouble. What if he’d been hurt and needed help from the ranch’s horse therapy program?
On the fourth ring, she declined that call, too.
There were plenty of ranches, plenty of therapy programs, plenty of people in the world who could help Jordon Lawrence.
She wasn’t one of them.
And if he was calling for any other reason—for old times’ sake, just to catch up, maybe he was going to be in Phoenix visiting his mother and was at a loose end—no thank you. With sugar on top.
On edge, waiting to see if there was a fifth call, Mia managed to recover her lost clips, finish the video and move it, along with the others she’d made that day, to her publishing queue. Sunday’s work was done.
And the phone hadn’t rung again.
All good things.
Padding barefoot through the house, she left her office behind and went in search of a piece of fruit to munch on, trying not to notice the quiet in the house. Both of her siblings had been staying with their families in two of the rented cabins on the property—part of the dude ranch vacation venture she’d started when she’d taken over the place—and the three littles, aged ten and under, had been up at the house with her pretty much anytime she’d been there.
They’d left the day before, all heading back to big-city life, and while all six cabins on the ranch were full of new families having fun, she couldn’t help but feel a little lonely.
It took a moment or two to slide her naked toes into her cowboy boots and, peach in hand, she headed outside.
One of the great things about the multifaceted business she’d created out of the once failing Homestead Ranch was that with all of the various ventures going on, there were always people around and things happening.
Which was why the unfamiliar, shiny, new-model green SUV coming up the drive didn’t faze her at all. With vacationers on the ranch pretty much all year—including the dude ranch’s team building and bonding functions for corporations—the road into what had once been her family’s private home was in use pretty much all day every day.
Even when the vehicle turned toward her home, she wasn’t concerned. Though the road in was clearly marked—pointing all drivers to keep straight for guests and ranch activities, and designating the right turn for a private residence only—city dwellers new to the property were commonly so taken with the mountain views that they missed the signage.
Figuring she’d grant her newest guests a warm welcome from the owner, she met the vehicle in the circular drive out front of her home, walking up to the driver’s door as the SUV slowed to a stop, intending to kindly direct the visitors back to the main road.
As the window rolled down, the genuine smile on her face froze.
Jordon? She had to be imagining...
A quick glance in the vehicle showed her an empty passenger front seat, just as movement in the back drew her attention to double car seats in the back. Filled car seats.
What the...
Eyes piercing sharply enough to hold back the instant spring of emotion that surged through her, Mia pinned Jordon. Looking as though he’d been about to speak, he didn’t.
And with another glance directly behind him, neither did she, at first.
How did you cuss out a guy who had no business to be on your property and order him immediately away, with impressionable littles right there within hearing distance?
“You brought your children, Jordon?” Her tone as light as she could make it, she could hardly believe the words she heard coming off her tongue.
In all the years since the man had left Shelter Valley, turning his back on the four years they’d spent as soulmates—and lovers—she’d imagined countless times what she might say to him if ever she saw him again.
Not once had it been the words currently sliding out of her: “Where’s their mother?”
Crass, yes. But not overly detrimental to little ears.
Acting as though it had been a week or two since she’d seen their father—not ten years. Trying to sound like she’d been expecting them.
As a good hostess would do.
“I promised the girls they were going to see some horses, and maybe even be able to pet one.” The only thing even halfway acceptable about his completely inadequate response was that it was about as inane as hers had been.
“Our mommy’s died,” a small voice said from the back seat. Followed by, “He didn’t say about Mommy when the horse lady asked,” in a softer, more familiar tone. One child talking to the other? Mia wondered.
But didn’t let herself glance into the back seat another time as horror filled her. Meeting Jordon’s gaze, she didn’t get a word out.
The lost look in his eyes, accompanied by a silent nod, was all the answer she needed for her heart to start bleeding.
For the motherless children.
Not for him.
And for the mother who’d lost her life so young, leaving behind such young children...that, too. Most definitely.
“Well then, I think we should make sure you keep your promise and get right down to the horses,” she choked out, noting the cringe on his face as she made reference to Jordon’s promises.
He most certainly had not kept the one he’d made to her. The part where he’d told her they’d be together forever.
She knew that he’d had to go. That the idea of small-town life suffocated him. Depressed him, even, as it meant he’d have to give up everything he wanted out of life.
Didn’t blame him a bit for needing what he needed.
She blamed him for not being honest with her about his dreams or his disdain for Shelter Valley life. She’d made it very clear, before she’d ever gone out with him, that Shelter Valley was her home. That she intended to grow old there.
He’d told her, when it all blew apart, that he thought she’d change her mind. Because her older siblings had hightailed it out of town at their first opportunity.
“Follow me down,” she said into the silence that had fallen, unable to breathe freely in air thick with recrimination. And without another glance at any of the SUV’s occupants, she started a brisk walk back to the vee in the road and took the straight section of road toward the barns, leaving him to drive at a snail’s pace with her back end, straight shoulders and head held high directly in front of him. If he wanted his children to see her horses, he’d follow her. If not, he’d at least have to stay behind her long enough to get back to the main road.
Either that or run her over. She wasn’t moving aside.
Not again.
Not for him.
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