name’s Bobby McCree.” He showed an open curiosity, with no signs of apprehension about Shane’s presence.
Bobby McCree. Well, that took care of whether Cynthia had ever been married to the boy’s father. Realizing that left him every bit as unsettled as having her in his house and knowing she had a son.
The little boy continued to look up at him as if waiting for him to say something. Shane ran a hand across the back of his neck in an attempt to still the uncomfortable shiver, but it didn’t help. He had developed a real bond with children and had no problem relating to them. He had spearheaded an entire hospital construction project solely for the benefit of Native American children, but at that moment he felt at a total loss for words. Too many conflicting thoughts and feelings raced through him. There’d been too many surprises all at once.
“So...Bobby, what’s your book about?” He crossed the room as the boy rolled over, then scrambled to his feet. Bobby held up the book so Shane could see it. He was surprised to find that it didn’t belong to Bobby, but came from his bookshelf, a volume of photographs depicting reservation life. Some of the photographs were over a hundred years old and others were modern. It was not the type of book he thought would have grabbed the attention of someone Bobby’s age.
Shane took a closer look at the various items strewn around the den. In addition to drums, masks, baskets and other Native American artifacts, Bobby had scattered some of his toys on the couch and floor. There was a bright red fire truck, a police car, Old West action figures, building blocks and a couple of children’s books. He again thought it odd that Bobby would ignore his own books and toys in favor of Shane’s book of photographic studies.
“Do you like the pictures?”
“Yeah, they’re neat.” Bobby’s captivating grin showed a missing front tooth.
“Are you hungry? Do you want some breakfast?” As awkward as the situation was, Shane could not deny the affinity he felt toward Cynthia’s son. His curiosity about Bobby’s father was again piqued. What kind of man would desert his own child—if that’s what really happened.
A frown wrinkled Bobby’s forehead. “My mommy always makes me breakfast. Do you know how to make breakfast?”
“I think I can handle it.”
Bobby closed the book and carefully put it back in the bookcase in the same spot he had found it. He ran across the den and straight to the kitchen. Shane followed the boy, but stopped in his tracks at the kitchen door. What had been neat and tidy when he went to bed was now a disaster area.
Bobby had obviously been in the kitchen before Shane had come downstairs. He had pulled a chair next to the counter to climb up and open the cupboard. A carton sat on the table next to a dirty glass, and a puddle of spilled milk had dripped on the floor. He had also tried, it appeared, to take a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator, but had sloshed half of it on the floor between the refrigerator and the kitchen table. Apparently he’d ended up settling for a couple of cookies, as evidenced by the lid from the cookie jar shoved across the counter toward the sink and the trail of crumbs on the floor.
“It looks like you tried to make your own breakfast.” Shane gazed at the boy, not sure whether to be irritated or amused. “Don’t you think we should clean up this mess before we start something new?”
Bobby stared sheepishly at the floor before looking up at Shane. He answered in a quiet voice, “I guess so.”
Shane set about cleaning the kitchen with Bobby doing his best to help. As much as he tried to stay neutral in his thoughts, every time he looked at the boy he saw Cynthia. A soft warmth enveloped his heart and spread through his chest. He again wondered about Bobby’s father and what had happened between him and Cynthia. Those same thoughts tried to wander to what might have been, but he refused to play that game.
As soon as the kitchen was presentable, Shane set about fixing breakfast. He put the various items on a tray and carried it out to the patio, setting it on the table. Bobby followed him, pausing long enough to pick up the fire truck from the den floor. He set the truck on the table, then climbed onto the chair. Shane sipped his coffee and studied Bobby as the boy took a big drink from his glass of milk, then gulped his orange juice.
A scowl covered Bobby’s face as he stared at his bowl of cereal. He looked up at Shane. “My mommy buys different cereal. I’ve never had this kind before. I don’t like it.”
“Why don’t you taste it? You might be surprised. You might find a new kind of cereal you like.” Shane offered him an encouraging smile. “If you eat all your cereal, I think I can find a doughnut for you.”
“I don’t bribe him to eat his breakfast.”
Shane jerked around in his chair at the stern words. He had been so fixed on Bobby he had not heard Cynthia come up behind him.
She wore white tailored slacks and a short-sleeved top in a tangerine color. The silky-looking fabric caressed the same breast his hand had grazed last night. A tingling danced across his fingertips in response to the recollection. Her long blond hair was pulled back and fastened with a gold clasp at her nape. Last night she exuded the earthy sexuality he remembered so well. This morning she presented a pristine loveliness, which also lived in his memories. Either way, it caused his blood to rush a little hotter and his heart to beat faster.
He attempted to hide his thoughts and the very real emotional impact she had on him by adopting a more distant attitude. He may have been all cool control on the outside, but inside he fought off the clearly remembered sensations of the most intense love affair of his life. “I was beginning to wonder if you planned to sleep the morning away.”
Cynthia ignored his pointed comment, but found it a lot more difficult to ignore his handsome features, his broad shoulders and strong arms, barely contained in the lightweight T-shirt, and his long legs, encased in faded jeans. His hair was shorter than he used to wear it, but the thick raven locks still feathered softly over his ears and across the back of his neck at collar length.
She took a steadying breath, but it did nothing to calm the conflicting emotions that raced through her body—heated desires and a quick rush of excitement when she saw Shane, followed closely by a sharp stab of alarm when she spotted Bobby with him. She tried to force a casual sound to her words while fighting off the panic that threatened to rob her of her last shreds of composure. “I see the two of you have met.”
“Oh, yes. Bobby and I have met. We’ve already had a busy morning.” Shane winked at the boy. “We’ve been cleaning up the mess someone left in the kitchen.”
She nervously cleared her throat as she made her way to the other side of the table, where her son was seated. She placed her hands protectively on his shoulders. “I hope Bobby hasn’t been any trouble. He doesn’t usually wake up this early. It was probably the strange surroundings.”
“Me and Shane fixed breakfast.” Bobby stared down at his bowl. “But I don’t think I like this kind of cereal.”
She kissed her son on the forehead, then smoothed back his unruly hair. “I remember when you thought you didn’t like waffles, either, because you thought they looked yucky. Now they’re your favorite breakfast.” She offered him an encouraging smile. “Don’t you think you should taste the cereal before you make up your mind?”
Bobby looked up at his mother. He scrunched up his face. “I guess so.” He tentatively took a bite. He didn’t say anything, but continued to eat.
