The Rancher's Christmas Princess by Christine Rimmer

out there.”
    “I will,” Belle promised.
    Marcus opened the door when Charlotte reached it. She pushed
the stroller through. Wordless, Preston and Silas watched them go.
    And then, out of nowhere, Silas found his voice. “That boy’s a
McCade if I ever saw one.” He said it loud enough that every listening ear in
the diner was treated to the big news. And then he spoke to Preston. “And damned
if he didn’t get those baby blue eyes of yours.”
    “Keep it down, Dad,” Preston growled, already on his feet. He
shrugged into his sheepskin coat and shoved his hat on his head. Then he grabbed
Belle’s coat and held it open for her. “Belle.”
    She got up and let him help her into it. “Thank you.”
    Silas was sliding from the booth.
    Preston stopped him. “You stay here, Dad. Have yourself to
another cup of coffee. This won’t take long.”
    “I’m up to my eyeballs in caffeine as it is,” Silas grumbled.
But he did sit back down.
    “After you,” said Preston.
    She led the way to the door.
    Outside, the gray sky was growing lighter. She pulled on her
winter gloves and put on her wool hat against the blustery cold. With Marcus in
their wake, they hunched down into their coat collars and forged off up the
street, snowflakes whirling around them. Christmas decorations, battered by the
harsh wind, clinked rhythmically against the Victorian-style streetlights that
lined the street.
    “I would like to...apologize,” he said stiffly as they passed a
jewelry store and then a gift shop, neither of which were open at that hour. “I
got completely out of hand this morning at the motel.”
    She sent him a sideways glance. He had his head hunched very
low and his hat tipped down against the wind, shadowing his eyes. His swollen
mouth had a grim twist to it. In spite of the fact that he was going to take Ben
from her, she felt a tug of sympathy. “I imagine it must be a lot to take
in.”
    “Yeah, it is—and I shouldn’t have been so hard on you last
night. You’re only the messenger, right?” He laid on the irony.
    That got her back up a little. “I am, as a matter of fact,
Ben’s legal guardian. So my responsibilities in this matter far exceed those of
one who merely bears news.”
    “Fancy talk,” he muttered.
    “It happens to be the truth.”
    He made a low, scoffing sound. “Here’s a truth for you. He’s my son.”
    “I know that, Preston.” She kept her voice carefully even.
    “And he’s what—a year and a half old?”
    “Yes, he is.”
    “But this morning is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on him. That’s the truth. And it’s not right.” He
waited—apparently for her to say something, to argue the point. When she didn’t,
he added, “She should have told me.”
    “I know. And she knew it, too. I
don’t know why she didn’t get in touch with you before she—” it was still hard
to say the words “—before she died. After college, we didn’t see each other as
often as we might have wished. She had her work. I had mine. I lived in
Montedoro and traveled a great deal, raising funds and awareness for Nurses
Without Boundaries. She was living here, in America—in Raleigh, North Carolina,
and often off on a dig somewhere for her studies. I hadn’t seen her in person
for two years when she called to tell me she was sick.”
    “You’d never seen Ben until then?”
    “No. I kept meaning to go to her, to meet her new baby, to
spend some time catching up. But somehow, I never managed to make the time. Not
until she called and told me about her illness, about how bad it was. I went to
her then, at the end of October. We were with her until the end, Charlotte and
I. I asked her more than once about...the baby’s father.”
    He did look at her then. His eyes were haunted beneath the brim
of his hat. “This way.” He offered his hand. She took it and couldn’t help
thinking of the night before when he had kissed her, when he had raised her hand
to his warm lips.
    He led her off