A son he’d known nothing about.
Suddenly shock gave way to temper as the reality of the situation hit him. He kept his eyes trained on Rachel’s face. And even though he already suspected he knew the answer he asked her, anyway, “How old is he?”
When Rachel remained silent, he asked again. “How old is he, Rachel?”
“He’s eighteen months,” Chloe offered, and earned a scowl from Rachel.
He didn’t have to be a math wizard to figure out that Rachel had been about four weeks pregnant when he had left New Orleans. Had she known about the baby and chosen not to tell him? Or had she found out later and decided he didn’t deserve to know that he was going to be a father?
Either situation left a foul taste in his mouth and did nothing to ease his anger with Rachel or with himself. Doing his best to control the emotions slamming through him, Mac said, “Which means I’m his father.”
“Of course you’re his father,” Chloe told him as she moved beside Rachel and placed a protective hand on her shoulder. She looked him up and down, narrowed her eyes. “All you have to do is look at him to see that. Or do you need proof?”
Rachel groaned.
“No, ma’am. I don’t need proof. He’s my son,” Mac announced, daring Rachel to deny it.
She didn’t. She simply hugged the squirming tike to her.
“Down,” the little boy insisted.
“No, P.J. It’s time—”
“May I?” Mac asked. Taking a step forward, he held out his arms. When Rachel hesitated, he added, “You don’t have to worry that I’ll drop him. I have a couple of nieces and nephews. I’ll be careful.”
Rachel said nothing. She simply handed him the baby.
“Hey, big guy,” Mac managed to say past the lump in his throat. He stared at this miniature version of himself, recognizing the strong McKenna chin, the eyes so like his own. The nose was Rachel’s, though, he thought. So was the mouth. But there was no question that he was a McKenna. His son. His son, Mac repeated silently, rocked again by the realization that he and Rachel had created a child. When the boy reached for the hat Mac had forgotten was clutched in his fist, Mac laughed and gave it to him. “Hey, you’re a strong fellow, aren’t you?”
“He’s also stubborn,” Rachel offered. “No, no, P.J.,” she told him, and rescued the hat before the little guy could chomp down on it.
“What’s P.J. stand for?” he asked.
“Peter James.”
Surprised, Mac met Rachel’s gaze. “You gave him my name?”
“Actually I gave him our father’s names. I remembered you saying you were named after your father. And my dad’s name is James. I hadn’t planned to give him a nickname, but somehow, the initials seemed to fit him.”
Sort of the way the name Mac had always fitted him better than the names Peter or junior, Mac thought. “It happens that way sometimes,” Mac offered and noted the way P.J. was eyeing his medals. “It’s all right, P.J. You can touch them,” Mac encouraged, and earned a grin that warmed him down to his toes.
“That might not be such a good idea. I’m afraid that he’s at that stage where everything goes into his mouth,” Rachel began, but P.J. was already trying to sample one of the medals. “No, no, P.J. No eat,” Rachel corrected.
“Your mom’s right, buddy. Trust me. They look a lot better than they taste.” Reluctantly he started to hand him off to Rachel. P.J. had other ideas. Clinging to the medal, he began to wail in protest.
“Come on, sweetie,” Rachel cooed.
Those big, fat tears nearly did him in. “Hey, it’s okay,” Mac said, and gave serious consideration to ripping off his shirt and giving it to the little fellow. “Why don’t I just—”
Rachel leveled him with a look, and he fell silent as she pried the chubby little fingers free from his shirtfront. “There, there now. It’s all right, angel,” she murmured.
“Why don’t I take him inside and give him a snack?” Chloe offered. “I’m sure you guys have things to discuss.”
“Thanks, Chlo,” Rachel said, and relinquished the sniffling P.J. to the other woman.
“Come on, handsome. What do you say? Aunt Chloe is in the mood for cookies. Want to help me find some?”
“Tookie?” the tear-eyed tike repeated.
“That’s right,” Chloe told him, and disappeared inside the house.
Mac’s heart was still trying to recover from the impact of those tears rolling down P.J.’s cheeks when Rachel said, “He’ll be fine, Mac. He’s a baby, and babies cry.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just that he was crying so hard.”
“That’s because the tears work all too well. He has a very strong will and doesn’t like being told no. Unfortunately, I don’t use the word often enough. And neither does Chloe.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s easy to see why. He’s a cute kid.”
“I certainly think so.”
And he’s my son.
His son and Rachel’s. The reality of that fact hit him again.
The realization excited him.
It scared the hell out of him.
And it infuriated him to realize that he had missed the first year and a half of his son’s life. He shifted his gaze from the doorway, where P.J. had disappeared with Chloe, back to Rachel. She was tired. Even in the dim light on the veranda, he could see the shadows beneath her eyes. Strands of honey-colored hair had worked free of the braid she wore and now framed her face. A face that was far too pale. Yet seeing her exhausted like this only added to his frustration because he realized that not only had she had to support herself, but their son as well, without any help from him. “Why didn’t you tell me about him, Rachel? Didn’t you think I deserved to know?”
“Of course,” she answered. “And I wanted to tell you. I probably sat down to write you a hundred times, but I didn’t know where you were.”
“You could have reached me through Delta Team Six.”
“I know. And I was going to…”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t know how to tell you,” she said, some of the strain and weariness coming through in her voice. A gust of wind whipped across the veranda, and she huddled deeper into the navy-blue jacket she wore.
Mac immediately stepped in front of her to block the wind. “You’re shivering. Maybe we should go inside where—”
“No,” she
