The Cowboy's Secret Family. Judy Duarte

he wanted to be a part of Emily’s life, what kind of role model would he be?

      But that was beside the point. He deserved a chance to know his daughter.

      “Matt,” she said, “I think you’re going to be an awesome father, if you want to be. Either way, I’m going to talk to Emily and tell her that her abuelito was mistaken, that her father is very much alive.”

      “So you’re going to tell her that I’m her father?”

      “Yes.” She eyed him carefully. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

      He didn’t respond right away. Was the decision that hard for him to make?

      When he glanced up, his gaze seemed to zero in on hers. But this time, it wasn’t in anger. “I’d like to be there when you tell her. If that’s okay.”

      She blew out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Of course. I think that would be best.”

      For the first time since Matt arrived home, his expression grew familiar. Not completely, but enough to remind her of the old Matt and to stir up old feelings. But she’d better keep her wits about her—and her emotions in check.

      “When should we tell her?” he asked.

      “Whenever you’re ready.”

      He nodded pensively. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

      “Okay then.” She managed a smile. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

      Then she turned and let herself out of his room. The hard part was over.

      Or was it?

      It was one thing to think they’d be able to co-parent their daughter. But what about a child that wasn’t his? The future and the possible so-called family dynamics were worrisome at best.

      And what about those sexy buckle bunnies who thought Max was God’s gift to womanhood?

      No way could Miranda ever compete with them, especially as her pregnancy advanced, as new stretch marks developed...

      She swore under her breath. Now that she’d opened up a Pandora’s box of emotion—real or imagined—she had no idea how much her heart or her ego could bear.

       Chapter Three

      Last night, after talking to Matt, Miranda had turned in early, emotionally exhausted. But she’d barely slept a wink. Memories—both the good and the bad, happy and sad—plagued her, making it impossible for her to unwind.

      When she finally dozed off, her dreams refused to let her rest.

       Sirens and flashing lights.

       The snap of handcuffs.

       A gavel banging down. Again and again.

       A cell door clanging shut.

       Knees hitting the courtroom floor. A sobbing voice screaming, No!

      Miranda shot up, her heart racing, her brow damp from perspiration. She’d had that nightmare before, but it hadn’t been so real.

      Once her pulse slowed to normal and her eyes adjusted to the predawn darkness, she threw off the covers, got out of bed and padded to the bathroom, where she washed her face, brushed her hair and dressed for the day. She chose the maternity jeans and a blousy pink T-shirt she’d purchased in town last week, after her last obstetrical appointment.

      Most pregnant women liked showing off their baby bumps, but Miranda wasn’t one of them. Not now. Not yet.

      It wasn’t that she didn’t want the baby—a little boy she planned to name after her father, which might soften the blow when she told him she was expecting. It’s just that she hadn’t wanted the news to leak out. If Gavin learned that she was having his son, he might want shared custody.

      As she headed for the kitchen, she relished the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and ham sizzling in a pan.

      George stood in front of the stove, while Emily—her hair pulled into an off-centered ponytail and adorned with a red ribbon—sat on the counter next to him and chattered away about what she and Sweetie Pie planned to do today.

      “Good morning,” Miranda said. “You two are awake earlier than usual.”

      “Emily usually gets up first,” George said, “but I figured I’d better get busy this morning and fix a hearty breakfast. Matt’s looking a little puny.”

      He’d looked pretty darn healthy last night when he’d answered the bedroom door bare-chested.

      George adjusted the flame under the blackened, cast-iron skillet, then turned to Miranda with a smile. “I found my mother’s old recipe box last night. I won’t have much use for it, but I thought you might like to...look it over. She was one heck of a cook.”

      “I’d love to see her recipes. And if there’s a special meal or dish you’d like me to make, I’d be happy to give it a try.”

      George laughed. “I’d hoped you’d say that.” Then he nodded toward the teapot. “The whistle isn’t blowing yet, but the water should be ready. How ’bout I pour you a cup?”

      “Thanks. That would be nice.” Miranda made her way to the pantry and retrieved a box of herbal tea bags. She’d no more than turned around when Matt entered the kitchen, fresh from the shower and looking more handsome than ever.

      He gave her a distracted nod, then using his cane, limped to the coffee maker and filled a cup to the brim.

      Miranda placed a hand on her baby bump, which seemed to have doubled in size overnight. She supposed that was to be expected, now that she was approaching her fifth month. She hadn’t given the maternal habit much thought before, but she’d better be careful not to draw any undue attention to her condition. So she quickly removed her hand and stole a glance at Matt, who was watching her over the rim of his coffee mug, his brow furrowed.

      Her cheeks warmed, and her heart thumped. Did he suspect...?

      Not that it mattered. He’d find out soon enough.

      She took the cup of hot water George had poured for her and carried it to the scarred antique table and took a seat.

      While her tea steeped, neither she nor Matt said a word. But she imagined him saying, Apparently, you have a habit of running away from your baby daddies.

      Just the thought of him having a reaction like that struck a hard blow, a low one. But then again, she couldn’t blame him for being angry, resentful. Judgmental.

      And he didn’t even have to say anything to her. As it was, she felt guilty enough, which was why she wasn’t looking forward to facing her father and announcing she was, once again, unmarried and pregnant.

      Nor was she ready to admit to Matt that she was having another man’s baby.

      * * *

      As Matt took his first sip of coffee, he studied Miranda, who looked a little pale, if not green around the gills. But so what? She deserved to feel guilty. She’d kept his daughter away from him for years.

      Carlos Contreras, the Texas berry king, had made it perfectly clear that, at least in his opinion, Matt wasn’t good enough for his precious daughter. And apparently, Princess Miranda felt the same way.

      Miranda’s deceit and the unfairness of it all rose up like an index finger and poked at his chest, jabbing at an old wound that, apparently, hadn’t healed. It hurt like hell to know he’d been shut out of a family once again.

      Last night, after Miranda came to his bedroom and admitted that Emily was his, a secret she’d kept for nine years, Matt hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. He’d even popped a couple of the pain pills the