37
The call
Rafferty lowered the towel from drying his face at the sound of the approaching wheelchair. “Hey, Pa.”
“Son,” his father greeted. “Hard day?”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re good?”
“I’m good, Pa.”
“Figured I’d come and warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“Your ma invited a guest for supper.”
Rafferty didn’t bother suppressing his exasperated sigh. “Who is it this time?”
“Brandy-Lyn.”
His heart leaped at the mention of the woman’s name. “Not Brandy-Lyn,” he groaned.
He was doing his best to avoid her.
To rid himself of the deep regret that there would never be a them .
But he bumped into her.
All.
The.
Fucking.
Time.
“Branna reckons Brandy-Lyn’s feeling a bit out of sorts,” his father continued. “What with her children away with their father for spring break.”
“It’s okay, Pa. I’ll manage the meal and mind my manners.”
The two men made their way to the kitchen.
Rafferty’s eyes sought her immediately.
The verboten one.
But dammit, if only his dick got the message.
“Raffie,” Ma called out, rushing to his side.
He cringed at the name — so very infantile — but obediently kissed her cheek. “Hey, Ma,” he murmured before casting a smile at Mammy.
And then …
“Brandy-Lyn,” he said, lifting his chin in greeting.
Her “Rafferty” was cucumber cool.
A sharp contrast to his stormy emotions.
Of course, his mother seated him opposite the blasted woman, and he resigned himself to an uncomfortable and torturous meal.
“Oh, Raffie, before I forget. Here.” His mother placed a slip of paper in front of him. “You had a phone call today. I didn’t want to give a stranger your cellphone number, so I took a message. The woman said to call back as soon as possible, no matter the time. It sounded urgent.”
He frowned and looked at the number, not recognizing the area code. Nor the name. Not one to procrastinate, he pushed back his chair. “Best I call then. Be back in a minute.”
He tapped out the number Ma had written down. The phone rang five times before the woman answered.
“Letitia Bronson.” In the background, a child squealed, and the woman unsuccessfully suppressed a chuckle. “Just hold on.” The sound receded, and a door clinked shut, cutting off the laughter. “Sorry about that. Bathtimes are crazy here.”
He flexed his fingers, his knuckles still stiff from whacking his hand against the fencepost earlier that day. “My apologies, but you said to call anytime.”
“Rafferty Lawson?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you for calling back so promptly,” she said, all amusement gone from her tone.
When she didn’t continue, he asked, “What’s this about?”
“I have some … information for you.”
Did he detect a hint of censure in her voice?
“Then best you get to it,” he snapped, his ravenous stomach rumbling in protest. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the smell of Ma’s roast permeated the house.
But as the woman spoke, shock, disbelief, drained the strength from his legs. And when he returned to the kitchen five minutes later, he sank to the chair, his appetite gone.
“Well, what was the call about?” Ma asked.
Instead of looking at his mother when he answered, he sought and found the curious green gaze of the woman seated across from him, seeking some assurance from her that his world hadn’t just upended on itself.
“Apparently, I have a son.”
The tick-tick of the large clock drummed in the ensuing silence.
“A son?”
His mother’s incredulous utterance barely registered.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, voice rough, as he tried to absorb the truth. He kept his eyes locked on the green ones across the table. That same gaze had haunted him through the long weeks he kept his distance, convincing himself it was for the best.
Now, it kept him grounded — kept him from bolting out of the room, from denying the impossible truth.
He, Rafferty no-good-bad-boy Lawson, had a son.
That’s what the woman said on the phone.
“Where is the boy? His mother?” Pa’s sharp tone broke into his reverie.
He shifted his stare to meet his father’s hard look. “His mom died a few days ago in a car accident. He’s with a temporary foster family. In Nebraska.”
The woman’s name the CPS worker mentioned was unfamiliar, and he’d never been to Nebraska, but a letter addressed to him was found among her possessions. And then there was the clincher — his name was on the kid’s birth certificate.
“Oh my God, Rafferty. What kind of woman doesn’t contact the father of her child?” his mother demanded, anger tight in her voice.
“Is this fallout from your undercover days?” his father cut in, his tone sharp.
“Stop!” he cried. “Please. Just … stop with the questions.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, breath shaky. “Her name…”
Sarah. Sarah Robertson , the social worker had said. “Sarah Robertson. But I don’t … remember her,” he admitted.
His head dropped, shame burning through him.
“You don’t remember the name of a woman you slept with?”
His mother’s disbelief landed like a slap.
“What about Charlie?”
The condemnation in his father’s voice made him flinch.
“I’m not a cheater,” he snapped, his eyes cutting across the table to Brandy-Lyn.
She still hadn’t said a word.
Her expression was unreadable. And somehow, that hurt most of all.
Holding her stare, he pressed on. “Charlie and I had a … complicated relationship. We didn’t become exclusive until after I left the DEA.” His voice dropped, quieter now, almost pleading. “And not remembering this woman … Sarah … that shocked me too. I’m not that much of a dog.”
But apparently, he was.
And somewhere out there, a kid bore his name.
He had a son.
“I have a son,” he said aloud again, like repeating it might make it real.
“You need to fetch him. Bring him home,” Mammy stated.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” his mother added quickly. “What is his name?”
His name?
Rafferty blinked. “I … forgot to ask,” he whispered.
What kind of man forgets to ask his own son’s name?
A ping from his phone cut through his spiral of self-condemnation.
An email alert.
Mrs. Bronson had promised to send the details. “Need to get this,” he muttered, pulling the phone from his pocket. “It’s from the social worker.”
He swiped open the message, heart hammering in his chest.
Connor Lawson.
Born June thirteenth. Seven years ago.
“Connor,” he whispered. “His name is Connor.”
Two JPEG attachments were included.
He tapped the first image, irritated to see his hand trembling. A boy’s face filled the screen — dark eyes lit with mischief, a gap-toothed grin, and a wild tumble of dark curls framed his light brown skin.
He studied the photo. Cute kid, no doubt. But … no resemblance.
Connor. Connor?
A crazy thought struck him. He did a quick mental calculation.
The timing lined up.
He tapped the second attachment, bracing himself.
“God, no,” he breathed, the words catching in his throat as he studied the woman, her face close to her son’s, smiling softly at the camera.
Dark-haired. Pretty.
Familiar.
The last time he’d seen her, her top lip was split and bleeding, one eye swollen shut, bruises blooming across otherwise flawless skin.
His mind reeled, flung backward seven years.
“I am scared.” Selena’s eyes darted around the abandoned rest stop, her hands moving protectively over her extended belly. “Maybe it is best to go back …”
He hunched forward. “Look at me, darlin’,” he said, low and urgent, wincing again at the sight of her battered features. He’d never understand how a man could lift a finger to hurt a woman. That this petite woman was pregnant made the abuse a hundred times worse.
Brown eyes swimming in misery met his.
“He’ll end up killing you, Selena. I know it. You know it.”
“ Sim ,” she whispered.
“The people fetching you will take care of you. Give you a new name. And once your baby’s born, they will find you a place to settle. A safe place,” he emphasized.
“What if something happens to me? Who will look after my baby?”
Her fears were real, her situation precarious.
In the distance, he heard the rumble of the approaching semi.
He made a split-second decision and reached into his pocket, drawing out a small notebook. Slipping the attached pencil from the elastic band, he scribbled a couple of lines and tore the page off. “Here. If anything happens, if you ever feel threatened, go here.”
She took the paper and read, “Lawson’s Landing, Bulwark, Texas.” Looking up, she asked, “Who lives there?”
He swallowed, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. “My family.”
“Your family?”
He nodded. “Tell them that” — he paused, watching the large truck lumber to a stop before turning back to her — “Rafferty sent you.”
“Rafferty?” She frowned. “But your name is Patrick. Isn’t it? Patrick Connor.”
He shook his head, closing his hands over hers. “My family will help you, but please, Selena, keep this information to yourself. I am trusting you to keep them safe.”
The squeal of hydraulic brakes ripped into the quiet early morning air. Their gazes met and held for a long beat before she nodded. “I understand. And promise.” Tilting her head, a smile ghosted across her lips. “Thank you … Rafferty Lawson.”
Rafferty placed the cellphone down, and he looked around the table, his wandering eyes stopping when meeting the luminous green gaze opposite him.
“He’s not my biological son. Selena was pregnant when I helped her escape an abusive relationship.
” And with that deed, he’d set in motion a series of catastrophic events.
He rubbed a hand over his head, his fingers lingering on the red ink.
Gasps were heard around the table. “Then why did they contact you?”
“Because I’m named as the boy’s father on his birth certificate.”
What an ass-kicking, gut-churning, fucking ironic twist of fate.
“Now why would she do that?” Pa asked.
“That night she left … I told her my real name, told her to come here if ever there was a need. But I never anticipated” — he reached for the phone and waved it in the air — “ this .”
“She trusted you to take care of her boy,” Mammy murmured. “To bring him here. To us.”
Bring him … “No!”
No fucking way did he want the kid anywhere near him.
“Rafferty!” Ma burst out.
“You must,” Pa boomed. “He’s your responsibility now.”
“I don’t want him.”
The mere idea sickened him.
Just as his words sickened the people around the table judging by their expressions.
“Son …” Pa murmured.
Fuck .
“You don’t understand,” he ground out. “None of you understand.” He scraped his chair back, needing to get away.
Away from the disappointment and dismay and fucking judgment.
Well done, Trick. You’ve done it again.