Sophie’s call was likely about one of those things—mother, ranch, business—he let it go to voice mail. He’d talk to her later, after the pain meds had kicked in and he’d gotten something to eat.
Roman made his way to the kitchen, located some leftover chili in the fridge and went through the mail on the island while he zapped the chili in the microwave. Junk mail, electric bill, junk mail. And his stomach tightened when he spotted the return address on the next envelope that had been sent to his son.
Valerie Banchini.
His old high school girlfriend.
But more importantly, Tate’s mom.
It’d been over six months since she’d communicated with Tate in any way. That had been a birthday card that was four months late. Hell, it hadn’t even been a real birthday card. Valerie had scratched out “Be My Valentine” and scrawled “Happy B’day, Baby” instead. On the inside, she’d lined through “Love, Doug” and written “Mommy loves you!!!!”
Maybe this was an early card to celebrate his fourteenth birthday, which was still weeks away. Or it could be just a “thinking of you” note.
Either way, it would send Tate into a tailspin.
Anything from his mother always did. His son had never come out and said it, but Roman suspected that the meager contact was a reminder for Tate that the only part his mom had had in his life was regifted cards and an occasional phone call. It sucked. And Roman despised her for it.
But not nearly as much as he despised himself.
He should have done better by his son. Should have been able to rewrite the past and give the kid a mother he deserved. Instead, he’d started out Tate’s life in a tangled mess.
Roman had been just eighteen when he’d gotten Valerie pregnant. No three-fuck rule back then. They’d been going out for a couple of months, had had sex too many times to count, and one of those times the condom had failed. Hard to curse the condom company, though, because he’d gotten Tate.
Of course, he’d also gotten “Valerie baggage” since she’d skipped out on both of them shortly after Tate was born. Too bad that baggage wasn’t just his and only his, but this crap always got on his son.
His phone rang again as the microwave dinged. Not Sophie this time but his brother, Garrett. This would be about ranching business, so he also let it go to voice mail. Apparently, though, his brother wasn’t taking no-answer for an answer because Roman’s phone rang again right away.
But it wasn’t Garrett. It was Tate’s school.
Everything inside Roman went still, and he hit the answer button. “Mr. Granger?” a woman said after Roman greeted the caller. “This is Principal Wilson.”
Yeah, Roman recognized her voice. That was because he’d been called in for chats with the woman about Tate’s sullen behavior and slipping grades. “Is Tate all right?” Roman immediately asked.
He heard something he didn’t want to hear. The principal’s heavy sigh. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Tate got in a fight at school. He got a cut on his lip. He’s fine physically. The nurse is treating it now.”
“I’ll be right there.” Roman grabbed his keys and headed for the door.
“Good. I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to come. Tate said you were away on business again.”
Roman didn’t miss the again, and he couldn’t argue with it. He was gone a lot. That’s why he’d hired Anita, but a live-in housekeeper couldn’t fix something like this.
He tried to tamp down the emotions that bubbled up inside him. And failed. His boy was hurt. “Who gave him that busted lip?”
“A classmate. But you should know that Tate punched him first. The other student has a cut lip and a bruised face. Since we weren’t sure if anything was broken, that student’s being sent to the hospital.”
Roman bit back the profanity, barely, and he hurried out the door. Not walking, but rather running, which wasn’t exactly easy in cowboy boots and with his side throbbing like a bad tooth. He got in his truck and took off, heading for the school.
“Why did this happen?” Roman asked her. “How did the fight start?”
“Neither boy will say, but Tate might talk to you about it.”
Roman doubted it. He wasn’t his son’s go-to person for any form of communication.
“You should know that this is very serious,” the principal went on. “Tate will be expelled for this.”
Now Roman cursed, and judging from the sound of disapproval the principal made, she was convinced that Tate’s cursing, badass, black-sheep father was the reason for this mess he was in.
And the principal was probably right.
“Expelled?” Roman questioned. “That seems pretty extreme for a schoolyard fight.”
“We have a zero tolerance policy for this sort of thing when injuries are involved. Mr. Granger, you’ll need to find Tate another school. I also think you should get him some counseling. We can talk about that when you get here.” And the principal ended the call.
He’d tried to coax Tate into counseling, and hadn’t succeeded in doing that, either, but Roman would try it again. He would also somehow convince Principal Wilson into nixing the expulsion so Tate could stay in school. Tate had several friends there, and Roman didn’t want the kid to have to re-create his life.
Roman pulled into the school parking lot, took the first spot he could find and hurried into the building. The principal’s office was just off the main hall so he headed there and immediately spotted Ms. Wilson standing next to another woman.
Both turned to him when he came through the door.
Roman instantly knew something was wrong. Something more than the obvious.
“Mr. Granger,” Principal Wilson said. “This is Mandy Rodriguez, the school nurse.” The two women exchanged glances.
Uneasy glances.
This was where Roman’s experience created some very bad scenarios in his head. He’d been in bar fights. Had had his face punched and his lip busted. But not once had those injuries been serious enough to send him to the hospital.
“Is Tate okay?” Roman asked.
The nurse nodded but then shook her head. “I left him alone for only a couple of minutes when I went to get some cotton swabs to clean his lip.” She paused, swallowed hard. “When I came back, Tate was gone. Mr. Granger, I think your son ran away.”
MILA BANCHINI KNEW there were few advantages to being a virgin over the age of thirty. Especially not in a small ranching town like Wrangler’s Creek.
One of those nonadvantages was waiting for her when she stepped
