Dad's reading glasses lie folded beside a stack of legal documents that weren't there yesterday.
Dad looks up when I enter. "Sit down." He points to my usual chair with the kind of gesture that brooks no argument, and I obey without thinking.
Mom rises without a word and grabs me a mug from the cabinet above the sink. The coffee she pours is strong enough to wake the dead. She sets the mug in front of me with gentle care, her hand brushing my shoulder for just a moment—a touch that says I love you and we'll get through this and whatever comes next, you're our son all at once. Then she settles back into her chair across from me, folding her hands in front of her like she's preparing for prayer—or battle.
Dad clears his throat. "You'd better start talking because your mother and I are mighty confused as to why the Martinezes insist you're going to be a father, and you disagree. Either you are or you aren't."
Hearing it laid out plain like that—you're going to be a father—makes it real in a way that all of last night's panic couldn't. My hands wrap around the coffee mug, seeking warmth that I can’t find within myself.
"I don't know if it's mine," I say finally, the admission scraping my throat raw. "And that's the honest truth."
Mom tisks her tongue.
I take a long swallow of coffee, letting the bitter heat steady my nerves before I continue. "A while back, I messed up my shoulder…." I blink but the memory is still too hazy to do me any good. "The doc gave me something for the pain—some kind of heavy-duty pill. I'd never taken anything stronger than ibuprofen before, but my shoulder was screaming, and I had another ride the next night."
Dad exhales and shakes his head as if he knows where this is going. He nods, “Go on.”
I draw in a breath. "The best I can piece together is that I took the pain pills around nine o'clock, and the next thing I remember is waking up alone in a hotel room that smelled like perfume." The words come out like I'm reporting someone else's disaster. "Everything between taking that medication and waking up the next morning is just... gone. Completely gone."
The kitchen falls silent except for the tick of the grandfather clock.
"But Brittney was there?" Dad asks, his voice carefully controlled.
"That's what she says. Claims she stayed to take care of me, that we... that things happened between us while I was out of it." I force myself to meet their eyes. "But I can't remember any of it. Not one single thing."
"Nothing?" Mom's voice is carefully controlled.
"Bits and pieces. Flashes. I remember seeing her in the sponsorship tent earlier that day." I set down the mug with hands that aren't quite steady. "But that's it."
Mom makes a small sound. "You think she took advantage of the situation?" The question comes out sharp.
"I don't know what to think, Mom. All I know is that I've never blacked out like that before. I think she’s lying.”
Dad's hands clench into fists, and for a moment I remember the guy who once punched a horsetrader for cheating his neighbor, the same man who taught me that protecting the innocent is worth any cost.
"But you can't prove it," he says quietly.
"No sir, I can't. And now she's claiming the baby's mine, and Senator Martinez is..." I stop myself before I can finish that sentence. The blackmail, the threats, the impossible choice between Kinsley and the ranch—I can't lay that burden on their shoulders. Not when I already know what they'll say: Save the ranch—whatever it costs you.
"And what?" Mom presses.
"And he's pushing for us to get married. Says it's the honorable thing to do." The half-truth burns my tongue, but it's all I can give them.
Mom leans forward searching my face with the intensity she usually reserves for sick calves and broken fences. "When you were little," she says slowly, "I couldn't give you Benadryl for your allergies. Remember that?"
I nod, confused by the apparent change of subject.
"One children's dose would knock you out for thirty-six hours straight. Dr. Patterson said you had some kind of sensitivity, that your body processed medications differently than most people. You'd sleep so deep we'd have to check on you every few hours to make sure you were still breathing."
I'm not sure that I feel any better knowing that. At least she believes me about being knocked out. I watch Dad putting pieces together in his own mind.
"We'll get a paternity test," Mom says, her words ringing with finality. "Soon as that baby's born, we'll know for certain. I think they can even do them gestationally now."
"And if it's yours," Dad adds, leaning forward with the kind of intensity that used to make me confess to brokenwindows and stolen cookies before he even asked, "we don't expect you to marry her. But we do expect you to take care of that child. A baby didn't ask to be part of this mess, and we are not turning our backs on our grandbaby."
The words should comfort me, should feel like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Instead, they make the weight in my chest heavier, because they confirm what I already knew—that my parents will do the right thing no matter what it costs them, no matter what it costs our family.
And the right thing, in this case, might cost us everything.