The Cowboy's Big Family Tree. Meg Maxwell

the show means a lot to them.”

      They mean a lot to me, she wanted to say. I miss them. I miss you. I miss what we had, what we started to have.

      “Rehearsals start tomorrow,” she told him, forcing herself to be all business. “3:30 to 5:30. Monday, Wednesday and Friday will be the regular schedule. Louisa is helping out, plus I’m putting out the call for volunteers tomorrow, so the twins and other little ones will be in good hands.”

      He nodded. “I’ll make sure they’re there.” He was looking everywhere but at her. “Boys,” he called over, “let’s get home for that ice cream I promised you.”

      As they walked out, each holding one of Logan’s hands, that empty feeling came crawling back. What she would give to be with Logan and the boys in his living room, laughing over something silly and eating ice cream.

      How was she going to handle seeing Logan Grainger six times a week for five seconds a time?

      By shutting him out yourself, she realized. She’d tried over the past three months and for the most part, she stopped thinking about him so much. That was possible only because he’d made himself so darn scarce. But now that he’d be around so often, even for just drop-off and pickup, she wasn’t sure her heart could take it.

      She had to focus on all that was going on in her life and forget Logan Grainger. She had the play, her job, her family, her volunteer work, her side job and the call she was expecting any day now from the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services.

      Logan Grainger, I am hereby quitting you. Quitting dreaming of you, thinking of you and hoping for something you’ve made clear will never be.

      Thing was, it drove her insane not to know why he’d shut her out. And until she knew why, she would wonder and speculate what she’d done wrong, if she’d done something wrong. Something she did or said? Something in the letter he’d gotten that had made him fire her? What? What could possibly be the connection?

      As she stood in the empty community center room, just her and a bunch of chairs, she made a decision about Logan Grainger, one she could live with.

      She was going to find out why he’d fired her, why he’d dumped her the way he had. He owed her an explanation; yes, he did. She’d get her long overdue explanation and be able to put Logan Grainer to rest in her mind.

      Not in her heart, not for a long time, but it was a start.

       Chapter Two

      The first thing Logan had thought of when he woke up in the morning was Clementine Hurley. For the past three months he’d put her out of his head, easily done with the dulled anger that had taken over his waking moments since he’d gotten Parsons’s letter. Except when it came to Harry and Henry. From the time he got the boys up for breakfast and then ready for school, he was good Uncle Logan who put their needs first. But the second they were safely ensconced somewhere else, whether at school or with their sitter, the long-simmering burn would start churning in his stomach, thrumming in his head, questions with no answers.

      This morning, though, his first waking thought had been Clementine and the questions he clearly saw in her eyes. She deserved better than how he’d treated her. But he didn’t want to explain anything. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to be left the hell alone.

      Now, after dropping off the boys at school, Logan stood in the barn, grinding feed for the cattle, his own burning questions back full force. Was he this Clyde Parsons’s son or not? Why would the man make up a lie and send a deathbed confession? Why would he stuff a safe-deposit box full of money for eighteen years and send Logan the key if he wasn’t Logan’s biological father?

      Maybe Clyde Parsons had a mental condition and didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe it was all one big mistake. His biological son was a different Logan Grainger. Once, someone had dropped off an unfamiliar wallet in Logan’s mailbox with a sticky note on it: Logan, found this by the steak house, but the driver’s license was for Logan Granger out in Grassville, a few towns over. Whoever had found it probably just quickly eyeballed the name, thought it was Logan Grainger’s and dropped it off without noticing the Grassville address.

      Yes, Clyde Parsons was probably Logan Granger’s biological father. He’d just messed up the spelling of the last name. Sorry, Logan Granger, but you’ve got a biological father out there you never knew about. Believe me, I know how you’re going to feel when I straighten out this mess and discover it’s you Parsons meant to send his deathbed confession to.

      Except Parsons had revealed some personal details in the letter. There was no way Logan Granger’s father’s name was also Haywood. Daniel, Peter, George, Tyler—sure, maybe. Haywood—no damned way.

      For months Logan had been doing this, his mind wrapping around any slight idea that would make the letter not true. But then the “oh yeah” would hit him a second later. Something that would send shivers up his spine to make him realize Parsons was probably telling the truth.

      Logan was holding on to probably instead of definitely as long as he could.

      What the hell had happened back then—twenty-eight years ago? His parents’ wedding anniversary was eight months and three weeks before he was born. Logan never really thought about that much before, but the past three months, as logistics whirled around his head during barn chores or late at night in bed, he figured he’d come into the world a few weeks early. His brother had been five weeks premature and healthy as can be. So maybe Logan had been a couple of weeks premature too. If Parsons was Logan’s biological father, then his parents had gotten married immediately after his mother had discovered she was pregnant. His mom and dad had both grown up in Blue Gulch, had known each other the way everyone does in a small town, but they’d never dated in high school until they’d suddenly married the summer after. So they’d had a whirlwind romance and gotten married. Happened all the time.

      If it was true, had Haywood Grainger known? It was clear from Parsons’s letter that his mother knew Clyde T. Parsons was the father of her baby. Had she told Haywood? Had his dad raised another man’s child thinking Logan was his own flesh and blood?

      Logan stopped grinding the feed and the silence was too much. He needed distraction. He needed to find out the truth, have his questions answered, but he wanted the truth to be that Haywood Grainger was his biological dad, that Parsons was lying or suffering from dementia and lost in an old dream of the girl who’d gotten away.

      It was possible.

      Logan adjusted his Stetson and stalked over to the far pasture, zipping up his leather jacket as the December first wind snaked around him. He looked out at the herd grazing, just watched them standing there, calm and steady. As always, the land, the herd, the ranch worked their magic on his head and heart and he felt better. The letter receded from his thoughts as he decided to move the herd out farther tomorrow and tried to focus on whether he wanted to take on Wildman, another old rodeo bull who needed to be nursed back to health. Logan had done that once when he first quit the rodeo, but it was lot of work and took time and Logan had little room for either.

      His cell phone buzzed with a text. He grabbed it, worried as always that it had to do with the twins, that something had happened.

      But it was Clementine.

      I’ll drop the boys off after the show rehearsal. I need to talk to you.—Clementine.

      No question mark. Not “can” I drop off the boys. Not “can” we talk.

      I will. I need. End of story.

      Didn’t she know it was too hard on him to see her? That she was the first woman who’d interested him since The Liar? Plus, even more so, just the sight of Clementine reminded him of who he’d been before he’d gotten Parsons’s letter: a Grainger. His father’s son. Exactly who he thought he was. Albeit hardheaded and stubborn, fine. But his father’s son. Clementine had been there when he’d gotten the letter. Hell, she’d brought it in from the mailbox,