was determined not to pass that on to his own flesh and blood.
Yet Callie was nothing if not stubborn, and her pride would never let her son be raised as a Parker. Luke could stake his claim, and he’d no doubt win, but the battle between them would be an ugly one, and it would be poor Robbie who would come out the ultimate victim.
Hence, the wedding. A drastic step, but Luke could see no other way to show Callie he was ready, willing and able to be a good father to their boy. His plan was to become such an integral part of his son’s life that Callie would have to see reason. Once she understood all the good he could do for Robbie, she would admit, both publicly and legally, that Luke was her son’s father.
What Luke hadn’t figured into the equation was Robbie’s resistance. In his mind he’d envisioned the warm-and-cuddly reunion of a television commercial, his son more a concept than a person in his own right. Face-to-face with him now, Luke realized Robbie was his mother all over again. His wide, dark gaze was just as all-knowing, just as wary and uncompromising. What would it take, he wondered, to win over this child?
“Him?” Robbie said suddenly, drawing Luke out of his thoughts. Whirling, he found the boy pointing an accusing finger in his direction. “He’s gonna stay here?” Robbie added, his face a picture of shocked disbelief.
“I told you,” Callie said patiently, tucking a stray lock behind the boy’s ear. “Luke and I are now married. Of course he’ll stay with us.”
“But Mom, he’s a Parker.” He said the name as if it were linked to a serial killer.
“Yeah, honey, and by marrying Luke, I’m now one, too.”
The boy frowned; the thought obviously hadn’t occurred to him. “But, Mom, Gramps said the only good Parker is a—”
“Never you mind,” Callie interrupted firmly. “Gramps had a lot of colorful opinions but we needn’t take them all at face value. Do yourself a favor. Get to know Luke and then form your own opinions.” Her gaze slid between them, growing stern as it focused again on her son. “Even Gramps would expect no less from you.”
Robbie looked at Luke as if he were a glass of curdled milk. “If you say so.”
“I do. Most folks have something to offer, if you give them half a chance. For example, did you know Luke was once a professional quarterback? He played in the Pro Bowl eight of his ten seasons in New York.”
He was surprised she’d know that. As he recalled, football had been Callie’s least favorite subject. “I still throw a mean lateral,” he told the boy. “If you want, maybe you and I could toss a ball around. I could show you some tricks of the trade.”
Robbie’s eyes widened before he turned, almost guiltily, to his mother. “Mom doesn’t want me playing football. She says it’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Heck, a boy’s got to be a boy.”
The comment earned him the tiniest grin from Robbie, but Luke got nothing but glares from his mother. “Luke seems to be forgetting his injury,” Callie said tightly, placing a proprietary hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The one that ended his career.”
He backed off, knowing it was too early in the game to be challenging her as to how their child should be raised. Besides, she had a valid point. It made him sick, thinking of his boy laid out on a stretcher, going through the operations and rehabilitation he had endured. “Your mom’s right,” Luke conceded. “I nearly lost the use of my arm playing the game. But you know,” he added on a sudden inspiration, “I used to play soccer, too. I had a coach who showed me all kinds of great tricks. I started out on the bench, but I soon got to play center because I could dribble right up to the goalie and snap the ball right past him.”
“I never scored a goal last year.”
Hearing the yearning in the boy’s voice, Luke nodded behind him out the open window. “I can teach you a few things, I bet,” he offered. “I noticed there’s a park across the road. If you want, we can go over there and kick the ball around a bit.”
“Yeah? You mean right now?”
And suddenly there it was, all the interest and animation he could have hoped for from his son.
Trust Callie to jump in between them. Taking Robbie by the shoulder, she pointed at the door to her right. “You know the rules, young man. No going outside to play until you finish your homework.”
“Aw, Mom.”
Luke’s sentiments exactly.
“Never mind,” Callie said sternly, looking over Robbie’s shoulder to direct the message at Luke. “Our routine has been disrupted enough today. You have your chores and I have mine, and we’d both best get to them.”
Luke knew a cue when he heard it. “Your mom’s right. We can practice when you’re finished. And maybe it won’t be so hot outside then, so we can keep at it longer.”
For an instant Luke thought he’d lost him, but with a reluctant grin and an “I’ll hurry,” Robbie raced to his bedroom.
Shaking her head, Callie turned to Luke. “Sorry about that. Robbie usually has better manners, but he and Gramps were real close. He’s a little touchy whenever the Parker name is mentioned.”
“A lot of that going around.”
She eyed him sharply. “Yeah, well, you and I have a truce at the moment. As long as you keep to your promise to get back our farm.” With a tight smile, she turned and marched into the kitchen.
Luke stared after her, annoyed that she would be so persistent. As if the most important issue between them was getting her house back. In his mind, four walls and a roof couldn’t possibly compare to making sure their son had a mother and father.
“If you’re looking for something to do,” Callie called from the other room, “I could use some help getting supper.”
Luke followed into the tiny kitchen, finding Callie piling vegetables on the narrow counter. “So soon?” he asked, accustomed to dining later in the evening. “When is it that you folks eat?”
“Gumbo takes a while,” she said distractedly, pulling pots from a cabinet. “But by and large, we keep to farm hours. The others tend to eat early, too.”
“Others?”
“Some of the older folk in the building can’t be counted on to cook for themselves. Every now and then I make extras, to help carry them through the week.”
She said it matter-of-factly, as if it were perfectly natural to worry about the welfare of strangers when she herself barely kept food on the table. “So what do you do?” he asked. “Feed the entire neighborhood?”
“Just Mrs. Boyle in 2C and old Henry down in 1A. And on gumbo night, we can generally count on Sam Wylie, the maintenance man, stopping by for a bowl or two.”
“So you’re running a soup kitchen. And any leftovers, I bet, go to the stray cats and dogs in the area.”
“It’s not a soup kitchen,” she snapped. “Nobody here is looking for a free handout.”
Ah,
