Page 49 of Westin

“Do you remember telling her you loved her? That she was the only woman you’d ever loved and would ever love?”

Mollohan leaned forward and set his drink on the small coffee table in front of him before twisting his head to look at Westin. “You’re a young man. Surely you’ve told a woman lies to get her into bed.”

“No, I haven’t. I haven’t needed to.”

“Well, good for you.” Mollohan chuckled softly. “Those of us here in the real world sometimes have to use a little charm, some white lies, to get what we want. You use what works, you know?”

“Which is it, then? You had to lie to my mother to get her into bed? Or she was so easy that every man on the ranch had her, so you just jumped into line?”

Mollohan sat back again, rolling his shoulders with such nonchalance that it physically hurt Westin to see it, to realize just how callous this man really was.

“A little bit of both, I suppose.”

Westin nodded slowly. “That’s not how she told it to me. Her story was more of a romance, a young man whose future was out of his hands because of his father’s money and power. A young girl who took what she could from the only man she’d ever love. Hell, to hear her tell it, she was happy to take that money and leave town, because that huge sum you offered her proved that you loved her, that you would have run off with her if you could have.” Westin grunted softly. “She made every excuse she could for you, building you up for me like it was some sort of fairy tale. And maybe it was. Maybe she was just so good she couldn’t see how truly rotten you really were.”

Mollohan didn’t seem fazed by anything Westin had to say. “I think we all want to believe our mothers are angels. Doesn’t make it true.”

Westin turned back to the fire and set the glass he’d been holding on the mantel, afraid he’d break it between his hands because he could no longer deny his fingers the desire to curl into tight fists. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them to himself, afraid if he didn’t, he might throw a punch he’d regret.

“She used to tell me stories about the Mollohan family, like the one about the man who started this ranch before the Civil War, or the one about the tradition of passing the ranch down to the firstborn son.”

“All things she picked up working here. All common knowledge.”

“You didn’t tell her any of that?”

“Why would I?”

“Because you told her you wanted to marry her.”

“Kind of hard to do when I was already engaged to another woman.”

Westin shook his head. “She didn’t know that until it was too late—because you waited until it was too late, until she had already given in to you.”

“Look, boy, our mothers all tell us stories to make them look like fairy-tale princesses in our eyes. No parent wants his or her kid to know the truth about their past, especially when that past involves a few indiscretions. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Why would I be ashamed of my mother falling in love with a man who promised her the world?”

“I told you; she got around. Any of the men on the ranch back in those days could be your father. Just because I spent a few nights rolling in the hay with her, doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Except that you are my father.”

“There’s no proof of that.”

Now they were back on script. Westin was prepared for that argument. He tugged a narrow box out of his back pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table, knocking over the sniffer that held the remnants of Mollohan’s brandy.

“DNA test. All you have to do is swab the inside of your cheek.”

Mollohan pulled back from the narrow box like it was a snake that might bite him. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“My mother wasn’t a liar. She said you were the only man she’d been with, the only man she cared about. Hell, it was you she was thinking of as she lay dying in the hospital. Told me not to be angry with you. That you’d only done what you had to do.” Westin snorted. “She died of uterine cancer, you know. I always kind of thought it was you, the seed you’d planted inside her that just kept rotting until it destroyed her. Her refusal to see you for what you really were.”

Mollohan got to his feet and snatched up the DNA test, tossing it into the fire as though that would end the discussion. “You didn’t know your mother the way I did, boy. She slept with every man on this ranch.” Mollohan snickered, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Hell,” he said with a slow drawl, “she might even have done my father for all I know! There were quite a few times when I found them alone in this very room. Maybe you were conceived right there on that desk. He liked to bend his women over that thing; said it was—”

That was all Westin could take. He spun on Mollohan and threw a punch, catching the older man across the jaw, sending him stumbling backward. Mollohan touched his jaw once his momentum had stopped, glaring at Westin as he checked his fingers for blood.

“That’s the difference between me and you, boy. I can control my temper.”

“Can you?” Westin rubbed his hand as he stared at Mollohan. “I told her what kind of man you were. Told her a real man doesn’t get a woman pregnant and then hand her money to take care of the problem. But she refused to see you the way I did, the way I do. She kept those rose-colored glasses on until the day she died.”