Fortune's Secret Child - Shawna Delacorte

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his attention to his now cold dinner. He stared at it, emitted a sigh of resignation, then put it in the refrigerator. What had been hunger pangs an hour ago had turned into uncertainty about what would happen in the morning. He busied himself with the physical activity of cleaning up the kitchen and restoring everything to its proper place. The memories continued to linger in his mind, mixing with thoughts of what the immediate future held.

      He left the kitchen and started up the stairs toward his bedroom. He paused at the top of the staircase. The doors were closed at two of the four guest bedrooms. One of them was Cynthia’s and the other was her son. He stopped outside the closed doors and listened for a moment. A deep disappointment had jabbed at his consciousness when she said she had a son. He continued down the hallway to his bedroom suite. A strange sense of loss overcame him as the disappointment turned to sadness.

      Cynthia heard the soft footsteps outside her bedroom. She held her breath and waited in the darkness. Tears welled up in her eyes and a terrible foreboding settled over her. Would he open the door? She finally heard him move away. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on getting some sleep, but to no avail. Her efforts only produced an image of Shane’s handsome features and the memory of many nights of heated passion. He’d been the man she thought she’d be with for the rest of her life, a love she thought would live forever. Then her entire life had come crashing down around her.

      She squeezed her eyes tightly shut in an attempt to drive the image from her mind. He had rejected her, and even after all these years the pain was still very real. But that was not the most compelling issue at hand. Seeing him again had done more than resurrect heated desires and inflamed emotions. It had shoved her greatest fear to the front of the line, an all-consuming dread that nearly paralyzed her with fright. A sick churning tried to work its way up her throat. Her most closely guarded secret must be protected at all costs.

      She could never allow Shane Fortune to know that he was the father of her son. She had to do everything in her power to make sure Bobby was not subjected to the same emotional upheaval she had been through, followed by the inevitable painful rejection.

      Shane had terminated their relationship before she knew she was pregnant. He had rejected her, cut her out of his life with a finality that left no room for questions. It was an action that had slammed the door shut on any possibility of a discussion about what had gone wrong. For a long time she questioned herself about what she’d done that had driven him away. It wasn’t until after her son was born that she stopped blaming herself for a decision that was entirely Shane’s.

      Cynthia knew she could not avoid running into Shane after she moved back to Pueblo, but she never dreamed it would be in such a dramatic and unsettling manner. She had only given superficial thought to what she would do when she did run into him, without speculating too much about the circumstances. The situation now dictated that she needed to make some hard decisions.

      Did she owe Shane the opportunity to know his son? Was it possible to reveal the truth without Bobby being an innocent pawn caught in the middle? Could she prevent her son from being hurt the way she had been?

      All she had were questions—and her fears. She had no answers.

      Two

      Shane paused at the top of the stairs. The house was quiet, just as it was every morning, only today was different. He was not alone in the house. Apparently Cynthia and her son were still asleep. He couldn’t suppress a little snort of resentment. A decent night’s sleep was more than he’d been able to accomplish. He had tossed and turned after going to bed, waking every thirty minutes or so. He didn’t know what the morning would bring and wasn’t at all sure he was prepared to face it.

      Heading for the den, Shane intended to open the sliding doors and let in the fresh morning air. He hadn’t taken more than two steps across the room when he came to an abrupt halt. A little boy lay sprawled on his stomach in front of the bookcase. It was a sight that gave him quite a start, grabbing his senses as much as his attention. He’d assumed her son was two or maybe three years old. This boy appeared to be about five.

      A hard jolt of an indecipherable something shot through his body, leaving an uncomfortable sensation in its wake, a possibility he refused to consider. She must have gotten pregnant immediately after their breakup. She had gone from him straight to another man’s bed. A spark of rancor ignited, but was quickly extinguished by an overriding reality. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had driven her into another man’s arms—someone who had gotten her pregnant, then deserted her. It was an unsettling thought, and he felt something between guilt and anger.

      Shane studied the boy for a moment. He was dressed in pajamas, his light brown hair still sleep-tousled. He had surrounded himself with every one of Shane’s Native American artifacts that had been within reach on the shelves. He seemed to be absorbed in a book, carefully studying each picture before turning the page to the next.

      A moment of sorrow swept over Shane. Cynthia’s son looked so much like her. He wondered how things might have turned out if he hadn’t— He clenched his jaw and bit off the rest of the errant thought. The past couldn’t be changed. It served no purpose to speculate.

      The little boy looked up at him, as if suddenly aware of his presence. The sight pulled at Shane’s heart and left him momentarily speechless. The boy had his mother’s eyes, the same iridescent blue. Shane knew he should say something, but didn’t know what. Bobby solved the problem by speaking first.

      “Who are you?”

      “I’m Shane Fortune. This is my house. I live here.”

      “My 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

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