Tyler planted both fists on the desk, leaning so close their faces were scant inches apart. She felt the heat radiating from him—no, it was anger, so hot it threatened to singe her skin. His lips were a hard, bitter line.
“I’m talking about the little surprise package you sent me. Didn’t you think I’d come down here as soon as I received it?”
She stared at him, baffled. “I didn’t send you a package.”
With a swift movement he took something from his pocket and tossed it to the desk between them. It fluttered onto the faded red blotter. She forced frozen fingers to pick it up.
Sammy. Her stomach twisted, making her feel as she had during those months of morning sickness. Tyler had a picture of Sammy.
No. He couldn’t. Her mind moved slowly, struggling against the unthinkable reality.
With a quick, angry movement he turned it over in her hand. “Don’t forget the inscription.”
Your son.
The printed words struck her in the heart. They rang in her ears, mocking her. All these years of protecting her secret from him, only to have it blown apart by two simple words.
“Where did you get this?”
“You sent it to me.”
“No!” The word nearly leaped from her mouth. “I didn’t.”
He made a quick, chopping motion with one hand, as if cutting her away from him. “Who else? I have to warn you, Miranda. If you want child support, you’d better be prepared to prove that boy is mine.”
It took a moment for his words to penetrate, another for her brain to actually make sense of them. Then anger shot up, hot and bracing. How dare he imply she’d had someone else’s child?
Common sense intervened. They hadn’t seen each other in years. For all Tyler knew, she might have remarried, might have…
He doesn’t know for sure Sammy is his.
Beneath the anger, beneath the pain, relief flowered. If Tyler wasn’t sure Sammy was his son, she might still avert disaster. She wouldn’t have to fear the nightmare of Tyler snatching Sammy away from her.
She stood up straight, trying to find the strength Gran always insisted was bred into generations of Caldwell women. “My son has nothing to do with you.” She picked her words carefully. “I think it best if you leave now.”
Furrows dug between his brows, and his angry gaze seemed to grasp her with the power that had swept her eighteen-year-old self along with whatever Tyler wanted. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m satisfied, Miranda. I want to know why you sent this to me.”
His words rattled around her brain. Who had sent it? None of this made any sense at all. She tried not to glance at the implacable round face of the clock, warning her Sammy could walk in on them.
Nothing else matters. Just get him out of here before Sammy comes in.
“I don’t know who sent it. I didn’t. I don’t want anything from you.” It took a fierce effort to look at him as coolly as if he were a stranger.
He is a stranger, a tiny voice sobbed in her ear. He’s not the man you loved.
Tyler straightened, his shoulders stiff, his face a mask. “In that case, I’ll—”
The creak of the screen door cut off the sentence, and fear obliterated her momentary relief.
“Hey, Momma, I’m home.” Sammy’s quick footsteps slowed when he saw that his mother wasn’t alone. He glanced curiously at Tyler, then tossed a green spelling book on the desk. “Can I get a snack?”
“May I,” she corrected automatically. Cool, careful. She could still get out of this in one piece. As long as Sammy didn’t hear Tyler’s name, she was all right. “Go on into the kitchen. I have some cookies started.”
Sammy nodded, turned. She held her breath. Almost out of danger. There’d be time enough later to sort it all out. Get Sammy out, and…
“Just a minute.” Tyler’s voice had roughened. It carried a raw note of command.
She forced herself to move around the desk, grasp Sammy’s shoulders, look at Tyler. The expression on his face chilled her to the bone.
He knew. He’d taken one look at Sammy, and her son’s beautiful eyes, so like his father’s, had given them away. Tyler knew Sammy was his son.
Tyler couldn’t stop staring. At first he’d seen a child with Miranda’s heart-shaped face, her pointed chin.
Then the boy looked at him, and Tyler had seen the child’s eyes. Deep brown, with the slightest gold flecks in them when the light hit as it did in that moment, slanting through the wavy panes of the hall window. Eyes deeply fringed with curling lashes.
Winchester eyes—they were the same eyes he saw every time he looked at his brother and every morning in the mirror.
Stop, take a breath, think about this.
He didn’t really need to think about it. Maybe the truth had been there all along, beneath his initial assumption that he couldn’t have a child. He’d known, at some level, that if Miranda had a son, that boy was his.
She hadn’t told him. Anger roared through his thoughts like a jet. Miranda had borne his child, and she hadn’t told him.
The three of them stood, frozen in place, the old house quiet around them. From somewhere outside came the raucous squawk of a seagull, seeming to punctuate his anger. She hadn’t told him.
He shifted his gaze to Miranda, furious words forming on his tongue. He’d tell her just what he thought—
He couldn’t. Not with the boy standing there, looking at him with those innocent eyes. No matter how little he welcomed this news, how angry he was at the woman he’d once loved, he couldn’t say anything in front of the child.
He took a breath. “We have to talk.”
Miranda turned the child toward the swinging doors. “You go on back to the kitchen. I’ll be with you in a little bit.”
The boy nodded. After another curious glance at Tyler, he pushed through the door.
He gave the child—his child—another moment to get out of range. He heard the swish of the kitchen door closing. He could speak, if he could find the words.
“Well, Miranda?”
Her soft mouth tightened. “Not here. Anyone might walk in.”
The fact that she was right didn’t help. His son. The words pounded in his blood. “There must be privacy somewhere in this place.”
She gave a curt nod, then led the way to the room on the right of the hall.
Tyler shut the door firmly, glancing around at overstuffed,
