to town. Thirteen years ago, she hadnât known much. Sheâd known he was a young man with a lot of anger who partied too hard. Heâd team roped with his brother, Jake. Heâd bought her a cheeseburger, and sheâd laughed when he wiped ketchup off her chin, right before he kissed her.
âSo, Oregon Jeffries. Tell me everything.â
âI think you know.â
âEnlighten me.â
âWe met in a small town outside Stephenville, Texas, when I was eighteen. Nine months later, I had Lilly. When I first came to Martinâs Crossing, I thought youâd recognize me. But you didnât. I was just the mother of the girl who swept the porch of your diner. You didnât remember me. Not a flicker of recognition or a question about who we were.â She shrugged, waiting for him to say something.
He brushed a hand across his face and shook his head. âIâm afraid to admit I have a few blank spots in my memory. Bad choices in my youth. You probably know that already.â
âItâs become clear since I got to town and you didnât recognize me.â
âOr my daughter?â
His words froze her heart. She trembled, and she didnât want to be weak. Not today. Not when her daughter was somewhere in this hospital having tests done. Today she needed strength and the truth. Because some people thought the truth could set her free. She worried it would only mean losing her daughter to this man who had already made himself a hero to Lilly.
What if he wasnât the man they needed him to be? Oregon wanted to stop the cycle of broken promises, broken relationships. She wanted Lilly to have a solid foundation that didnât shift and move on the whim of an adult.
âSheâs my daughter.â He repeated it again, his voice soft with wonder.
âYes, sheâs your daughter.â She whispered the words into the small room. A Gideon bible had been placed on the table between two chairs. A lamp in the corner offered soft light. In this room, lives changed. People were given the worst news. People received options.
In this room, Duke Martin learned he was a father.
âWhy didnât you try to contact me?â He sat down heavily, stretching his long legs in front of him. âDid you think I wouldnât want to know?â
âI knew from friends that you had a problem with alcohol. And then I found out you joined the army. Duke, I was used to my mother dragging me along from relationship to relationship. She was with men who were abusive, who were alcoholics, and a few who were okay. I didnât want that for my daughter.â
Oregonâs own father hadnât stayed. Heâd been a nameless man who walked out on them. And then there had been her motherâs countless marriages, with Oregon never being given a choice in the matter.
âYou should have told me,â Duke stormed in a quiet voice, respectful of this place. Sheâd learned something about him in the past year. Sheâd learned that looks could be deceiving. He looked like Goliath. But beneath his large exterior, he was good and kind.
He kept his power carefully leashed, his temper controlled, his voice even in tone. He leaned forward in the chair, brushing his hand through his short hair.
âYouâve been in town over a year. You should have told me sooner,â he repeated.
âMaybe I should have, but I needed to know you, to be sure about you, before I put you in my daughterâs life.â
âMaybe?â He erupted in quiet anger. â
Maybe
you should have told me Lilly is mine? What if something had...â
She shook her head. âNo, donât go there.â
âYou kept her from me,â he said in a quieter voice.
âYou have to understand. I was eighteen and alone and making stupid decisions. And now Iâm a mom who has to make sure her daughter isnât going to be hurt. I have to make sure the man I bring into