An Honorable Texan. Victoria Chancellor

      “We what?”

      “Nothing. We just need to talk. I’ll see you at noon. Good night, Cal.”

      “Good night.”

      He ended the call and sat there on the edge of his bed, wondering what the hell was up. What couldn’t she tell him over the phone? Or had that been just a ploy to get him to meet her? She didn’t have to resort to games. He would have been glad to see her for a replay of their time together. She’d had some tough luck in her life, though. Her husband had been killed in an accident, and she couldn’t have kids. That would be hard for any woman to handle, but she’d shown an inner strength when she’d told him a little about her past.

      She’d been one special woman.

      Maybe she still was. Maybe he was worrying too much, but he’d learned to be cautious. He’d trusted his brother to take care of the family ranch, and Troy had changed everything. He’d trusted the military to let him out when his time was up, and they’d extended his duty.

      What else could possibly happen?

      CHRISTIE ARRIVED EARLY, requested a booth near the back and tried not to show Peter how nervous she felt. She settled him in the wooden high chair and spread a handful of finger food on the table in front of him. Oblivious to her worries, he babbled and grabbed a handful.

      She would have preferred finding a babysitter for Peter, but she knew so few people: Toni Casale on a professional basis, Raven York via the telephone, the daytime front-desk clerk at the motel in Graham. She didn’t know any of those women well enough to ask them to watch Peter while she went to lunch with Cal. Besides, they might not be good with children.

      Maybe she should go ahead and hire a nanny. She rarely felt she needed one, but with the upcoming renovations on the motel, perhaps it would be wise to have a professional available to watch the baby. He was crawling and nearly walking, and getting into everything. She had to settle down, perhaps even find a house in Brody’s Crossing for a few months until the owner’s suite at the motel could be finished.

      Unless, of course, Cal absolutely pitched a fit, rudely and publicly denounced her and his son and told her to get out of town.

      Would she listen? Her first instinct was no, she would fight. But for what? If he was insistent that he didn’t want to acknowledge Peter, maybe they would be better off without him in her son’s life. She didn’t have to stay in Brody’s Crossing. Her nice condo in downtown Fort Worth waited for her, if she chose to move back, or she could buy a house in the suburbs. She wanted to give Cal a chance for all their sakes, but only if he wanted to be a positive part of Peter’s life. A bad father was worse than no father at all, in her opinion.

      Her own father hadn’t been bad, but he hadn’t been nurturing and kind, that was for sure. When she’d done something he approved of, however, he’d been generous with his attention and his money. His love, as he defined the emotion, had been conditional.

      Oh, why was she worrying so much? Cal would be here soon, and she would know almost immediately how he’d react to the news that they’d created a son together.

      “Ba-ba-ba,” Peter demanded, banging on the table, scattering finger foods.

      “Are you ready for your bottle already?” she asked. “Okay, Mommy’s hurrying,” she said, digging in the diaper bag on the seat beside her. Once she found it, she motioned the waitress over. “Could I get some warm water, please?”

      “Of course. What can I get you to drink?”

      “Iced tea would be fine,” Christie replied, fishing for the terry-cloth bib she kept for Peter’s feedings. “Here it is,” she said to the baby, and held it up for him to see.

      And sat frozen in place. Standing behind Peter’s high chair was the man she’d known for only three days. He wore a plaid Western shirt, jeans and a stern expression on his handsome face. He stood tall and seemed lean, yet more imposing, his shoulders broader. He should have been a stranger, but he seemed so familiar.

      That’s because you look at a baby version of his face every day.

      “Cal,” she whispered.

      “Christie,” he replied, his face tight. An angry red scar cut across his temple, between his eye and his hairline. “What’s going on?”

      “Lunch,” she said, motioning to the other side of the booth.

      He sat down, stiff and distrustful, and eyed Peter as if he’d never seen a baby before.

      “Cal, this is Peter,” she said, and the baby turned his head toward her and grinned when he heard his name. “He’s—”

      “Here’s your hot water,” the waitress said, “and your tea.” She set both on the table. “Oh, hi, Cal. Welcome home. What can I get for you?”

      He looked as if he were trying to force a smile for the waitress, but the gesture came out more of a grimace. He must really be upset.

      “Iced tea, please, Twila,” he said, then added as soon as the girl left, “and maybe I should have a beer or a shot. What do you think, Christie? Do I need a drink?”

      “I don’t know, Cal,” she replied, getting a bit irritated. “I suppose that depends on how well you take the news that you’re a father.”

      Chapter Two

      Christie hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but he’d acted so…sarcastic. Sure, this was a surprise, but he didn’t have to imply he needed to be drunk before finding out he was a father.

      Now he was slightly pale, making the scar on his temple stand out even more. He stared at Peter, and the baby stared back, so she took the opportunity to mix the powdered formula with the warm water the waitress brought for his bottle.

      Finally, she got the temperature of the formula right and glanced up. Cal was now staring at her. “You aren’t breastfeeding.”

      “No, I couldn’t. I tried, but it doesn’t always work out.”

      He looked at her as if it were her fault her milk hadn’t come in. Fine. What did he know about babies, anyway? He might know a lot about calves, but Peter didn’t have four legs, and she didn’t have an udder, and Cal wasn’t going to make her feel as if she were less of a mother because she couldn’t nurse her son.

      “You’re sure he’s mine?” Cal asked.

      “Oh, that’s a typical male question,” she said, popping the nipple into Peter’s mouth. “Of course I’m sure he’s yours. We can have a paternity test at any time, although I think that by looking, you can see who he resembles.”

      “What happened to ‘I can’t have children’?”

      “Obviously, the doctor I saw in Europe was wrong. Or maybe he told me I couldn’t have children because of my husband. I don’t know! His English was terrible and I don’t speak Italian. At the time, all I knew was that I would never be a mother.”

      “Not the case,” he mumbled.

      “No, and despite your obvious opinion of the situation, I’m thrilled to have Peter.”

      “Would that be Calvin Peter Crawford V?”

      “No, that would be Peter Simmons Crawford. I took the liberty of giving him your last name and listing you as the father on the birth certificate, although if you don’t want to be a part of his life, his last name can always be changed. He’s too young to know the difference, and quite frankly, I don’t need child support and Peter doesn’t need the influence of a reluctant father.”

      Cal stared intently at the baby as Peter took his bottle, sitting up in the high chair as he now preferred. Gone were the days when he automatically snuggled into her arms and let her feed him. Now he was all about independence. In a few more months, she suspected he’d begin saying, “No,