Her voice held teasing, but his watching out for her had been a serious thing. He’d been responsible for Cordelia Leigh losing her first baby—no matter that everyone said it wasn’t his fault. He knew the truth of it and had been determined that nothing was going to happen to take her beloved daughter from her.
As they neared the house, he could see the outbuildings, all the activity going on. Work on the Leigh spread never seemed to slow or stop. He imagined he’d be able to pick up the rhythm as though he’d never been away.
Then he spotted Dallas and Ma sitting on the front porch on the bench swing, moving slowly, lazily, an unfamiliar scruffy hound resting nearby. He barely had time to realize that a coverall-clad little girl in boots was sitting between them before Ma had shoved herself to her feet. He brought the buggy to a halt—
Everything seemed to happen at a speed that made it impossible to comprehend.
The child was rushing down the steps. “Mama!”
Racing after her, the dog bounded off the porch.
Faith quickly clambered out of the buggy, dashed forward, snatched the girl up before she got too close to the horses, and swung her around, their laughter echoing joyously on the air.
Setting the brake, Rawley climbed off the bench, his feet hitting the ground with a thud, stirring up the dust, his body no longer seeming connected to his brain, moving independently of any thoughts he might have.
Suddenly arms were around his back, squeezing tightly, holding him close. His ma. His ma was there, welcoming him home. Damn, but he’d missed her, which he figured was probably obvious to her since his hug was a little too strong. He’d always loved the fragrance of her, the warmth of her. She was all that was good and clean in his life.
Wrapping her hands around his upper arms, she leaned back and smiled at him. Her face contained a few more wrinkles, her dark hair a few more strands of gray, but damn if she wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. “You’re looking good,” she said, so much tenderness woven into her voice that if he wasn’t a grown man, he might have wept.
When she released her hold on him and stepped back, Dallas moved in, his dark hair and mustache sprinkled with white, but he still looked capable of commanding the world as he pumped Rawley’s hand, slapped his shoulder. “Welcome home, son.”
Son. Dallas had called him that through the years more times than he could count, his throat always tightening as the truth bombarded him: He wasn’t the man’s son. Dallas’s son was lying in a grave beneath a nearby windmill because of Rawley’s cowardice. Still, he responded with a brusque nod, grateful Dallas appeared more robust than he’d expected.
A corner of Dallas’s mouth shifted up. “Faith give you that bruise coming up on your cheek?”
He’d hoped her punch hadn’t left a mark, but considering how tender his cheek felt, he figured it would look worse tomorrow. “Seems she took exception to the way I left.”
“She did indeed.”
“She told me about your ticker but, Dallas, you’re not that old.”
Dallas laughed. “Son, I’m the oldest man I know.”
He was sixty-three, which was fairly ancient for the life he’d lived, but Rawley couldn’t help but believe—hope—he had a few more years left in him.
Rawley might have offered more words but he was distracted, his attention focused on Faith and the imp perched on her hip who reminded him of Faith when she’d been about that size. The child was talking nonstop, words he couldn’t hear, but Faith merely nodded and smiled, her eyes occasionally widening as though she were impressed.
Faith must have felt his gaze boring into her, because she finally looked over at him, and a deep scarlet blush crept up her face, peaked at her cheeks. Her smile withering as she began sauntering over alerted him that he hadn’t seen a true grin from her since he’d arrived, not that he’d really expected one. The last time they were together he could have handled things better. He realized that now.
The dog sniffing his legs grew bored and wandered off. Her parents parted like they were the Red Sea and she was Moses. She angled up that pert little chin of hers. Her brown eyes held a challenge and a threat—as though she feared he might do something to cause harm to the child she held, the one who had called her Mama. When the hell had she gotten married, and why the hell hadn’t anyone told him?
“Callie, this is your uncle Rawley.”
Even knowing what the introduction would entail hadn’t prepared him for the way the words battered him—a series of uppercuts to his heart. Then the sprite smiled at him and his chest threatened to implode, the tightness of it making it nearly impossible to draw in a breath. She was her mother all over again, sweet, innocent, pure. Waving her fingers at him, she nestled her head against Faith’s shoulder.
“This is my daughter.”
“I gathered as much.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out so terse, but a thousand questions bombarded him. “Congratulations. I didn’t realize you’d gotten married.”
“I didn’t.”
Chapter Three
She should have told him, should have prepared him. She deserved her mother’s disapproving, narrow-eyed stare because Ma had insisted Faith needed to tell Rawley about Callie before they got to the ranch, but the right moment to do so never arrived—or maybe she hadn’t been looking for it. “I gave birth to a child out of wedlock” wasn’t something that easily slipped itself into conversation. Or perhaps she’d simply feared his censure, his judgment. There had been a time when his opinion had mattered more than breathing.
Suddenly he clapped his large hands together, making her jump, and spread them out toward Callie. “Want to come to your uncle Rawley?”
His voice held such tenderness, such devotion that he was once again the person she’d always adored. All the anger and resentment she’d been hoarding since his departure shrank somewhat, making her realize how silly she’d been to think that he, of all people, would sit in judgment of her. It had never been his way. When she’d been jealous of some of the other girls and tried to enlist him in making fun of them—even when only in the quietness of sitting beneath the stars with no one around to hear—he’d refused to cooperate, to say anything unkind about anyone. “I ain’t walking in their shoes.”
