Page 127 of Beat of Love
Did he detect a hint of censure in her voice?
“Then best you get to it,” he snapped, his ravenous stomach rumbling in protest. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the smell of Ma’s roast permeated the house.
But as the woman spoke, shock, disbelief, drained the strength from his legs. And when he returned to the kitchen five minutes later, he sank to the chair, his appetite gone.
“Well, what was the call about?” Ma asked.
Instead of looking at his mother when he answered, he sought and found the curious green gaze of the woman seated across from him, seeking some assurance from her that his world hadn’t just upended on itself.
“Apparently, I have a son.”
Thetick-tickof the large clock drummed in the ensuing silence.
“A son?”
His mother’s incredulous utterance barely registered.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, voice rough, as he tried to absorb the truth. He kept his eyes locked on the green ones across the table. That same gaze had haunted him through the long weeks he kept his distance, convincing himself it was for the best.
Now, it kept him grounded — kept him from bolting out of the room, from denying the impossible truth.
He, Rafferty no-good-bad-boy Lawson, had a son.
That’s what the woman said on the phone.
“Where is the boy? His mother?” Pa’s sharp tone broke into his reverie.
He shifted his stare to meet his father’s hard look. “His mom died a few days ago in a car accident. He’s with a temporary foster family. In Nebraska.”
The woman’s name the CPS worker mentioned was unfamiliar, and he’d never been to Nebraska, but a letter addressed to him was found among her possessions. And then there was the clincher — his name was on the kid’s birth certificate.
“Oh my God, Rafferty. What kind of woman doesn’t contact the father of her child?” his mother demanded, anger tight in her voice.
“Is this fallout from your undercover days?” his father cut in, his tone sharp.
“Stop!” he cried. “Please. Just … stop with the questions.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, breath shaky. “Her name…”
Sarah. Sarah Robertson, the social worker had said. “Sarah Robertson. But I don’t … remember her,” he admitted.
His head dropped, shame burning through him.
“You don’t remember the name of a woman you slept with?”
His mother’s disbelief landed like a slap.
“What about Charlie?”
The condemnation in his father’s voice made him flinch.
“I’m not a cheater,” he snapped, his eyes cutting across the table to Brandy-Lyn.
She still hadn’t said a word.
Her expression was unreadable. And somehow, that hurt most of all.
Holding her stare, he pressed on. “Charlie and I had a … complicated relationship. We didn’t become exclusive until after I left the DEA.” His voice dropped, quieter now, almost pleading.“And not remembering this woman … Sarah … that shocked me too. I’m notthatmuch of a dog.”
