stomach, only to feel her growing baby bump. But this was one bout of nausea she couldn’t blame on pregnancy. Her morning sickness had passed more than a month ago.
The frown on Matt’s face and the crease in his brow suggested it was taking every bit of his self-control not to...
Not to what? Throw something across the room like Gavin once did when he’d come across a mess Emily had left in his family room?
This time, it was Miranda who’d made a complete mess of things. But Matt wasn’t like the man she’d nearly married, the marital bullet she’d dodged.
At least he hadn’t been like that in the past.
“Guess what.” Emily speared a potato, but rather than lifting her fork, she smiled and directed her words at Matt. “Uncle George said I could have my birthday party here.”
“He did, huh?” Matt’s demeanor, so stiff and strained moments ago, seemed to soften ever so slightly. His expression did, too, although it was unreadable. “Is your dad coming?”
Miranda’s lips parted. She wanted to respond for the child, but the words wouldn’t form. The time had come to tell Emily about Matt and vice versa, but Miranda wasn’t sure what to say in front of an audience. Especially this one.
“No, he can’t. Because my dad died when I was a baby.”
Matt shot a fiery look at Miranda. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. She saw the anger, the pain, the accusation in his eyes.
She wanted to defend herself, to tell him that Emily hadn’t gotten that idea from her. She must have come to that conclusion on her own. Instead, she watched as Matt got to his feet, wincing as he reached first for his cane with one hand, then stacked his glass and silverware on his empty plate with the other.
As he started for the sink, Miranda pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “Don’t worry about clearing the table or doing the dishes.”
He glanced over his shoulder, his glare enough to weld her to the floor, the silent accusation enough to suck the air out of the room.
“I’ll explain later,” she said, her voice soft, wounded.
“Don’t bother.” He rinsed his plate and placed it in the sink. Then he left the kitchen, his cane tapping out his anger, disappointment and who knew what else in some kind of weird Morse code.
This was so not the way she’d intended to tell him,
She stole a peek at George, his craggy brow furrowed, his tired blue eyes fixed on Emily. She knew that the sweet but crotchety old man had put two and two together the minute he spotted Miranda and Emily standing on his front porch. He hadn’t asked any questions or judged her. He’d merely stepped aside and welcomed her, his so-called niece, and her daughter into his cluttered but cozy home. Then he’d done his best to make them feel comfortable and told them they could stay as long as they wanted.
God bless that man to the moon and back.
“Emily.” Miranda sucked in a deep fortifying breath, held it for a beat, then slowly and quietly let it out. “What makes you think your daddy died?”
Emily bit down on her bottom lip and scrunched her brow as if struggling with the answer. Finally, she lowered her voice and sheepishly said, “Abuelito told me.”
Miranda winced. Her father had overstepped once again, although he hadn’t done so in years. Not since Emily was a baby and Miranda had finally put him in his place. Or so she’d thought.
“Honey,” Miranda said, “if you had questions about your father, you should have asked me.”
“I would have, but Abuelito said you didn’t like to talk about my father because it made you sad. So it was better if we forgot about him.” Emily glanced down at her half-eaten meal, her long pigtails dangling toward her plate, and bit down on her bottom lip again. After a couple of beats, she looked up, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.”
Miranda’s feelings were a mess, but that wasn’t Emily’s fault. “No, honey. You didn’t hurt me. I’m just sad that you were afraid to talk to me about your father. I’d wondered why you didn’t ask, and now I know. And no matter what anyone might say, you can always come to me with your questions.”
“About my dad?”
“About anyone and anything.” Miranda glanced across the table at Uncle George. “Would you mind if I let you and Emily wash the dishes alone tonight?”
“Of course not.” He blessed her with an affectionate smile, then turned to Emily and winked. “I know where your mama hid the chocolate chip cookies. And there’s a brand new carton of vanilla ice cream in the freezer.”
Miranda didn’t usually let Emily eat sweets this close to bedtime, but she would gladly make an exception tonight. If the two dishwashers wolfed down a dozen cookies and a gallon of ice cream, she wouldn’t complain.
After rinsing her plate in the sink, Miranda left the kitchen and headed down the hall until she reached Matt’s bedroom. She held her breath, then knocked lightly on the door.
As footsteps, punctuated by the heart-wrenching tap of his cane, grew louder, her heart flipped and flopped in her chest like a trout on a hook, frantic to return to a safe, familiar environment. But she remained rooted to the floor, determined to face him, and waited for him to let her in.
When the door swung open, Matt stood before her, broad-shouldered, bare-chested and more muscular than she’d imagined. Her gaze drifted down his taut abs to his jeans, the top button undone. As much as she wanted to continue to take him in, to relish the manly changes that had taken place, she zeroed in on his eyes, once as clear and blue as the Texas sky, now a stormy winter gray.
He’d worn a similar expression the day her father arrived at the Double G, raising hell and setting the breakup of their teenage romance in motion.
“I, uh...” She cleared her throat. “I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
His only response was to step aside, cane in hand, and limp to his bed, where he took a seat on the edge of the mattress, leaving her to shut the door behind her.
Miranda scanned the room. The same rodeo posters and a schedule, long since outdated, still adorned the off-white walls. The maple chest of drawers and matching nightstand hadn’t been moved. Even the familiar blue-plaid bedspread covered the double bed.
Too bad the angry cowboy glaring at her wasn’t the same guy she used to know.
If only he were. She could have faced the old Matt in all honesty, without choosing her words, without holding back. She would have been able to fall into the comfort of his arms and tell him she was sorry for the delay in contacting him, for the hurt she’d unintentionally caused him—for the hurt she’d caused them both.
She leaned against the closed door. “I’m sorry. I should have told you about Emily sooner.”
He rolled his eyes. “A lot sooner.”
Right. “But I didn’t tell her you’d died. Apparently, that was my father’s doing.”
