Nevada Cowboy Dad
Dorsey Kelley
FAMILYMATTERSFAMILY FOR A YEAR…Both wanted a home–the same home! So lonely widow Lucy Donovan and Rusty Sheffield struck a yearlong bargain. Lucy promised the cash to save the cowboy dad's beloved ranch, and he'd let her stay at her old house with him and his niece. And when the year ended, so did their partnership. Right?OR A LIFETIME?Well, not if Lucy could help it. She'd come to recapture her happy childhood–but Rusty was making her glad she was a woman. Soon, Lucy didn't want to go anywhere–except down the aisle!Kisses, kids, cuddles and kin–the best things in life are find in families!
“How could I live in the same house with a female like you and not want you?” Rusty said. (#ub8df88b1-a51f-5eb7-bb9b-3ece7ff7b158)Letter to Reader (#ub217652e-6390-5c7a-866c-f0532263fa8c)Title Page (#uefff9f5c-0a5d-559d-8c3d-bebd2ca2657e)Dedication (#u70e61956-36b7-5090-9152-2beba0f1bdab)About the Author (#u517651ed-fccb-5e97-9c33-766219cd88dd)Chapter One (#u8aaa91f5-b81a-5f1f-9e4a-3f20eb508ad9)Chapter Two (#u58114688-8e73-5243-acf5-ed1d44bcb9aa)Chapter Three (#uf89a3020-c310-5810-aa79-0c2dc7bf70ca)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“How could I live in the same house with a female like you and not want you?” Rusty said.
“You’re beautiful,” he continued. “And all woman.”
Stunned, Lucy kept her head down. “Please,” she said belatedly, “don’t say those things.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t. I didn’t come to the Lazy S for that. I want a family, Rusty.”
“Family,” he echoed in disbelief. “You mean you want to treat me like some kind of...of brother?”
At least he understood, she thought, relieved. She nodded firmly. “Yes. A brother.”
Surprising her, he threw back his head and guffawed. “Woman, I think maybe you’ve lost a few head of cattle from your herd.” His laughter filled the fall air. “There’s nothing brotherly about the way I feel about you, Lucy. And you’re not being truthful with your own feelings if you say you think of me that way.”
Dear Reader,
As spring turns to summer, make Silhouette Romance the perfect companion for those lazy days and sultry nights! Fans of our LOVING THE BOSS series won’t want to miss The Marriage Merger by exciting author Vivian Leiber. A pretend engagement between friends goes awry when their white lies lead to a real white wedding!
Take one biological-clock-ticking twin posing as a new mom and one daddy determined to gain custody of his newborn son, and you’ve got the unsuspecting partners in The Baby Arrangement, Moyra Tarling’s tender BUNDLES OF JOY title. You’ve asked for more TWINS ON THE DOORSTEP, Stella Bagwell’s charming author-led miniseries, so this month we give you Millionaire on Her Doorstep, an emotional story of two wounded souls who find love in the most unexpected way...and in the most unexpected place.
Can a bachelor bent on never marrying and a single mom with a bustling brood of four become a Fairy-Tale Family? Find out in Pat Montana’s delightful new novel. Next, a handsome doctor’s case of mistaken identity leads to The Triplet’s Wedding Wish in this heartwarming tale by DeAnna Talcott. And a young widow finds the home—and family—she’s always wanted when she strikes a deal with a Nevada Cowboy Dad, this month’s FAMILY MATTERS offering from Dorsey Kelley.
Enjoy this month’s fantastic selections, and make sure to return each and every month to Silhouette Romance!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor, Silhouette Romance
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Nevada Cowboy Dad
Dorsey Kelley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
I dedicate this novel to all the fine organizations that support verbally abused and physically battered women, and most especially to the Nicole Brown Simpson Charitable Foundation. For any abused wife: Please, take heart, and get help.
DORSEY KELLEY can hardly get off a horse long enough to write books. She helps ranchers move cattle around in annual drives, participates in roundups and brandings and hams it up in parades. Now she is learning to team rope because, she says, “It’s so dam much fun!”
When she isn’t horsing around, Dorsey plays tennis, takes her three daughters to the mall and makes her husband crazy with planning even more ranch trips.
Chapter One
She was coming back. And she was bringing her money with her.
That was all Rusty Sheffield allowed himself to think about as he waited on horseback for the sleek sports car to make its way up the gravel drive of the Lazy S Ranch. The expensive engine almost purred, he thought broodingly, as out of place on the Nevada cattle ranch as antlers on a sheepdog.
Impatient and frustrated, Rusty yanked off his hat and slapped at a clump of dried mud on his thigh. Dust rose from both his hat and his worn jeans, making thin clouds in the chill air. Damn, he hated what he was about to do, hated the reason for this meeting with Lucy Donovan.
Still, every time he reviewed the ranch’s dismal finances the truth was a fist slamming agonizingly into his gut. He resettled his hat, but there was no denying it—he was getting desperate.
Lifting the reins, he urged his sorrel gelding out the corral and toward the gravelled area where Lucy had parked her car and was now emerging.
“Welcome back.” He touched his Stetson and forced out the courtesy. “It’s been a long time.”
Lucy lingered in the embrace of her car’s door, blinking nervously as if she needed shielding. She was small, her chin-length hair straight and plain, with ebony strands that now blew in the slight breeze.
She’s awful damn pretty. The errant thought came to Rusty out of nowhere, as did images he hadn’t replayed in years. He remembered big, frightened green eyes that seemed to see everything, and ragged-cut hair, dark and tattered as old black silk. He remembered her forlorn expression.
He didn’t remember pretty.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” she said, and twisted to face him.
Her hands clutched the car’s streamlined window frame and he noticed she wore a severe gray suit with heels. Her body was slim, with every curve a man liked to see. Little Lucy had become a woman.
“Uh,” she said, “it has been a long time. Fifteen years since I’ve been here.”
“Since the divorce,” Rusty said, dismounting. “Our parents must have had the shortest marriage on record.” Six months, to be exact, Rusty remembered silently, before Lucy’s mother decided she didn’t like country living—and didn’t like the rancher with whom she’d exchanged vows. She’d packed up her car, her annoying little lap dog and Lucy.
“How is your mother?” he asked. Best to get the formalities over with.
“Living abroad,” she answered curtly. “Remarried. A shipping magnate this time, I think.”
“You don’t talk to her much, then?”
She shrugged, but under her calm, he could feel her emotions. Lucy and her mom weren’t cut from the same cloth; he knew that from way back.
Not that it mattered to him. None of his business.
He saw her glance over the sprawling two-story house, the white-painted outbuildings of barns, sheds and bunkhouse. His gaze followed hers, seeing what she saw, and he winced. How evident was the peeling paint? How obvious the overgrown weeds, the half-broken fence posts?
“It’s the same,” she whispered, though her words drifted to him on the cold breeze. “Nothing’s changed. Nothing.”
“That bad, huh?” His jaw clenched.
“No.” For the first time she fixed her gaze fully on his. “It’s wonderful. I feel like...like I’m home.”
The direct impact of her emerald eyes hit him with far more force than was right. A memory of the tiny urchin she’d been, crouched in the old oak tree in the meadow, came streaming into his consciousness. At fifteen, he’d been more concerned with his horses, his friends and the sassy neighbor girl than the mousy kid his new stepmother had brought to the ranch.
Up in the oak, Lucy had been crying; Rusty had seen the tear tracks on her pale cheeks. He’d tried to coax her down, but she’d shaken her head.
So he’d climbed.
Since he’d already learned she spoke in nothing but monosyllables, he didn’t question her. They merely sat together, a fifteen-year-old boy and a ten-year-old girl, watching the sun cast swaths of amber and gold over the cottonwoods in the meadow. They probably clung to that big branch together for an hour, wordless, until darkness transformed the sun’s golden streaks to cobalt and then to black.
When the first stars winked into existence she let him help her down. He put her behind his saddle and rode with her to the house. On the ground, she’d looked up at him with those incredible eyes and he’d seen her chin tremble. He’d smiled at her and tousled her hair. She’d given him a shy, tremulous smile in return. It was the first and only expression of happiness he’d ever seen in her, a spark of joy in an otherwise wan countenance.
Now Rusty shook his head, impatient again, but this time with himself. He had no time for reminiscing.
“Come to the house,” he said more abruptly than he’d meant to. “Fritzy can make coffee.” Fritzy—the family’s always-smiling housekeeper—had been with the Sheffields for twenty years.
He called out, and a youth appeared from the barn to take his horse. Down at the branding chutes, men were working cattle, roping them one by one and applying the hot Lazy S brand. Turning back to Lucy, he asked, “You want to stay the night, don’t you? I expect it’s too far to drive back. Got any luggage?”
Taking careful steps in her heeled shoes, she came out from her hiding place and opened the trunk. “Yes, it’s here.”
Bending down, she went to grasp her tweed suitcase when he quickly reached out, saying, “I’ll get it,” and bumped her shoulder.
She gasped—a startled big-eyed doe.
Rusty frowned, wondering what had gotten into her. Why was she so skittish? After all, he was the one with the right to be nervous, not her. She was going to get what she wanted. He would be the loser.
Still, he didn’t like the way she flinched from him, as if he’d done something wrong or was contemplating it. The idea offended him; he’d never harmed a woman in his life or even wanted to.
He must have scowled because she mumbled, “Sorry.”
“No apology needed.” Shaking his head, he hefted her large suitcase from the trunk.
“Thank you,” she said in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. Her slim fingers curled beneath her chin now, her eyes lowered to screen her expression. But the flash of what he’d seen there disturbed him. Rusty didn’t know what turns her life had taken, but one thing was certain. Lucy Donovan hid many secrets.
Lucy trailed Rusty Sheffield into the house, berating herself for jumping like a frightened rabbit when he’d only wanted to help her carry the suitcase.
But she didn’t like men who took over a situation like they’d been voted boss. She was uncomfortable around aggressive, overtly masculine men.
Somehow she hadn’t been prepared for the incredibly handsome, overwhelming maleness Rusty exuded. Formerly auburn, his hair had darkened nearly to brown. At least, she thought so from what she could see of it under his hat. No longer a gawky youth, the man had grown to over six feet tall. Beneath his yoked Western shirt his chest was brawny, his arms, revealed by his rolled-up sleeves, were thick with muscle. His thighs were powerful, his waist narrow. He even smelled good, like fresh-turned earth and high-mountain winds.
Oh, she noticed everything about him, cataloged the changes that maturation had wrought. And it seemed to Lucy that everything about him was too much. He was too big, too observant, too handsome, too... well, manly.
Rusty Sheffield made her edgy.
She wished she were completely composed, a woman with confidence and style and sophistication. But miserably she knew she’d never done anything meaningful in her life. The counselor she’d seen had told her that confidence was developed when someone worked hard at a task or skill and became proficient at it. She had recommended Lucy learn a profession, or go to college and earn a degree, perhaps start a business.
Coward that she was, she’d done nothing of the kind.
Still, she did have one goal. A goal that for once she intended to reach.
If only she weren’t so anxious.
“This way,” Rusty instructed, preceding her through the front door of the wood-sided house. The screen frame banged behind her in exactly the same way it had fifteen years ago. She smiled.
Inside, the house had experienced few changes, as well. The old davenport with its cabbage-rose print still reigned as the centerpiece of the large living area. It was flanked by antique tea carts with Tiffany lamps and faced by several oversized leather chairs. Gray river rock lovingly laid fifty years before formed the fireplace with its mantel, which held a collection of figurines. Against the wall a hall tree held coiled lariats, and at the bottom, neat rows of cowboy boots lined up like soldiers waiting to be called to service.
In the kitchen across the hallway, Lucy heard someone stirring, probably Fritzy. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted to her.
More pleased than she could say, Lucy sighed, but Rusty set her suitcase down and walked straight through to the small office his father had formerly occupied. She guessed the room was Rusty’s now.
“Sit down.” He pointed to a striped seat opposite, throwing himself into a castered chair to regard her levelly across the desktop. Behind him bookshelves rose to the ceiling, and the file cabinet beside his desk had papers overflowing the drawers. The room gave her the impression of ordered chaos. He said, “I want to get this over with as soon as possible.”
She lowered herself into the striped chair, but found she couldn’t relax enough to rest her spine against its back.
“Over the telephone, you said you had money,” he began bluntly, and she forced herself not to wince. “What is it you want, exactly?”
Lucy drew a deep, deep breath. If ever she needed courage, it was now. Please, she prayed to the Powers Above, please let my dream come true. Lacing her fingers together in her lap, she plunged in. “As you know, I’ve heard about the death of your brothers. The news traveled fast. I’m so sorry. The accident was a terrible tragedy.”
Stone-faced, he gave only a curt nod.
The head-on collision between his brother Landon’s pickup and an eighteen-wheeler had made sad, local headlines. A freak accident, both Landon and his other brother, Tom, had died instantly, as had the other driver. Folks said the resulting fiery explosion had echoed for miles. Investigating authorities never discovered what made Landon’s truck cross the center divider. Authorities guessed he’d been reaching for one of his ever-present cigarettes. Or possibly stretching down to the cell phone kept on the floor between the two seats.
Lucy hadn’t met Tom or Landon. The boys were away during her short stay at the ranch. But she knew they’d been well liked.
“As a result, you now hold full title to the Lazy S, right?” She glanced around the room. “I don’t suppose you ever expected to, with two older brothers who would have had first claim here.”
He hesitated. “No.”
“Rusty, I told you when I called I have money, and it’s true. My life hasn’t been terribly...eventful,” she said, awkward yet determined to get through this, “but I did get married.”
She saw his eyebrows arch, though she didn’t blame him for his surprise. She wasn’t any great catch. At least that’s what Kenneth had always enjoyed saying.
“Well, a year ago, my husband passed away—” she forced herself to stare Rusty straight in the eyes “—leaving me a wealthy widow.”
His gaze drifted away and his expression became thoughtful. Rubbing his chin, he said, “I see.”
Probably not. He probably saw only what he wanted to, but she needed to press on. With uncharacteristic boldness, she blurted, “I want to purchase the Lazy S.”
“Purchase it?” He stared at her. “The whole place?” His pitying glance raked her. “I thought maybe you just wanted to lease a couple of acres, maybe run a few horses or build a cabin. The Lazy S comprises several thousand acres of prime grazing land. We have water rights to the creek, twelve hundred head of mother cows and as many calves, a hundred and fifty horses and dozens of blooded bulls. The property alone is worth a small fortune.”
Casually he tossed out a figure, let it hover in the air between them like an alien spacecraft.
Lucy did not blink.
He studied her face. After a moment, disbelief gave way to dawning awareness. “You’ve got that much?”
Again, she merely kept her gaze steady and waited for him to draw his own conclusions. The spacecraft vanished, left only the trailing vapor of Rusty’s incredulity.
Taking off his hat, he stabbed stiff fingers through his thick hair. It was brown, as she’d thought, the deep rich color of brewed coffee. After a moment he let out a long, slow breath. She could feel his shock and sense his struggle to assimilate her changed status in life.
Lounging back in his chair, he stacked his booted feet atop a low file cabinet. “Well, that’s something. Lucy, I guess you’ve done all right for yourself.”
“It wasn’t me,” she corrected him quickly. “I didn’t do anything to earn it. It was my husband’s—his commercial real estate business.”
“But it’s yours now.”
“Yes.” She shifted uncomfortably. “But I didn’t—that is—” She caught herself. It was not part of her plan to explain every single thing to him. She cleared her throat. “Well, will you sell?”
Dropping his boots to the wooden floor with a thud, he got abruptly to his feet. He snatched up his hat, jammed it on his head and pulled it low across his eyes. With his big palms splayed over the desk, he leaned toward her. “Not if you had ten million, Lucy. Not twenty. Maybe from your rich sugar daddy you learned you can buy most things. But not everything. Not the Lazy S.” Straightening, he took swift strides away from her. “Thanks for coming. You probably won’t want to spend the night after all. It was...interesting seeing you again.”
“Wait,” she cried. Now she’d gone and done it. She’d insulted his masculine pride. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” But he was already pacing through the living room toward the front door. Hurrying after him, she caught her foot on a table leg and stumbled, nearly falling. He didn’t turn.
“Rusty,” she said, “I’m not trying to put you out of your family home.”
At the front door Rusty kept walking. “Sure sounds like it.”
Outside, afternoon sunlight momentarily blinded her, though the bright rays offered no warmth. Cold fall air bit at her exposed throat, numbed her fingers. “No...you don’t understand.” He was halfway to the barn. “Stop, Rusty, please,” she said again. “There’s more. I don’t want you to leave the ranch. I want you to stay on.”
In the shadows of the great barn, he slowed. He turned to face her, hands on hips. “Beg pardon?”
Reaching him, she knew she was wringing her hands but was powerless to stop. “I know about your financial troubles, Rusty. I know that before their deaths your brothers heavily mortgaged this place. Your law career in San Francisco was successful and you’ve made a good living, but it’s not enough to put the ranch in the black.”
His face hardened. “How do you know all that?”
Apologetically she said, “I’ve got my own lawyers. You know they can find out anything.”
With a snort he pivoted and disappeared into the barn.
She followed. Coming out of direct sunlight, she found it dark inside, and for a moment could hardly see. The air was cooler and full of the smell of alfalfa hay and animals. She wrapped her arms about her middle and suppressed a shiver. Long banks of stalls with horses inside, a tack room that held halters and bridles and work saddles and a grooming area took up the big barn.
She found him pulling on heavy work gloves and standing beside stacks of baled hay. “I’ll pay whatever price you ask, Rusty. I need the ranch. I... I need you.”
At this last he paused and gave her a slow up-anddown perusal. “For what, Lucy?” he asked in a dangerously quiet voice. “What do you need me for?”
Groping for courage, she deliberately stiffened her spine. “To manage the property, of course. To direct employees, make business decisions, buy livestock—I don’t know. For all of what’s needed. I...I don’t know the first thing about running a cattle ranch.”
He glanced derisively at her sling-backed pumps. “No kidding.”
Shivers began to tremble through her. She couldn’t back down now; he had to be made to understand. “I don’t know much about ranching, Rusty. But I do know one thing. The time I spent here was the best of my life. I need this place.” She gestured around. “It sounds crazy, but...I need that big old friendly ranch house. I need the smell of horses, hot from a run. I need familiar people around me. I...need the oak tree in the meadow.”
As he looked into her eyes she wondered if he understood her. She wondered if he remembered their aftemoon in the tree together—that day so long ago when she’d been weeping because her mother had declared that she found horses boring and cattle smelly. She was getting a divorce as soon as she could hunt down an attorney. She was bored, bored, bored—not least of all with her husband, Howard Sheffield, the “unsophisticated, countrified bumpkin” she had married in a temporary fit of Las Vegas-inspired insanity.
“We’ll be leaving the Lazy S,” Lucy’s mother had announced to her, “first thing in the morning!”
The memory sprang alive in Lucy’s mind, of her heartache and then of seeking solace high up in the tree, its shielding branches her only comfort. The scene was so tangible in her mind she fancied she could almost reach out and touch that sunset’s glorious golden colors. Almost touch the kind boy Rusty Sheffield had been.
She had to keep going forward, stop reliving the past. “I-I’ve got an idea, Rusty, of what we might do here. We could bring in people who want a taste of country life—stressed-out people from the city. They could put on jeans and ride and help move cattle.” As a child she had gained so much here; was it any wonder she wished others to experience the same happiness? “I figure they could stay for a week or two,” she went on with growing enthusiasm, “enjoy this marvelous place. See what it’s like to—”
“A dude ranch?” He cut through her ardent stream with a disbelieving guffaw. “You mean to turn the Lazy S into a greenhorn hotel?”
“Well, call it what you will.” She shrugged, trying not to be put off by his discouraging tone. Once she could fully explain, fully define the entire scope of her vision, he would comprehend everything. “I’ve put a lot of thought into this, worked out the details in my mind. I realize the notion is new to you, Rusty, and you need time to digest everything, but it could be like a...a health ranch. We could put in a swimming pool, have yoga classes—”
“No half-dressed yogi is gonna run around here spouting New-Age manure.” His expression closed her off like the slamming of a door. “We don’t need any damn pool, either. We’re simple folk. If we get hot, we just jump in the creek.” Features stiff, he collected a pair of hay hooks and thrust them into a thick bale. For a disturbing instant she had the crazy notion he’d like to use the hay hooks on her.
To heft the heavy bale into a wheelbarrow, he braced his feet. “I don’t know how I’ll get out from under this financial mess, but I won’t sell the Lazy S. And it won’t ever become a dude ranch.”
But why not? she wondered, blinking at him.
Recognizing a brick wall when she slammed into one, Lucy felt fingers of despair reaching into her heart like tendrils of mist before an ominous fog. Her attorneys had been so sure Rusty would jump at the chance to avoid certain bankruptcy that she had counted on his agreement. And the lawyers, the accountants and the bank officials had all concurred: without her, he would go bankrupt.
Staring sightlessly at her hands, she supposed she could wait for the foreclosure and simply buy the property from the bank. But that wasn’t how she wanted it. She wanted the Lazy S and Rusty. If only as a business partner.
Deep inside her soul, a silent bell of loneliness and pain began its familiar, dismal peal. All her life, she’d quit everything she’d started, given in when she should have fought back, accepted “no” when she should have demanded “yes.” The lonely, pealing toll grew in her mind until she could almost feel its grim vibrations.
Not this time. She crushed the defeating voice inside. This time I’ll stand firm. She swore to it.
“You’re part of the deal,” she whispered to his back, her throat tight and aching. “Don’t you see? You complete everything.”
His biceps straining, Rusty lifted the bale into the wheelbarrow and rolled it to the bank of stalls, broke it open and methodically tossed six-inch thick flakes into feeder bins. In the end stall, a hungry buckskin mare whinnied. Rusty didn’t look up at Lucy. “What sort of man was he?”
She blinked. “Who?”
“Your husband, Lucy. Was he good to you?”
The unexpected question blindsided her. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“That’s not too personal a question to ask, is it? Was your husband—what was his name?”
“Kenneth.”
“Kenneth, then.” He tossed a chunky flake into the next stall. “Was Kenneth a man who treated his woman well? Were you happy with him?”
“I...I don’t, that is—” She licked her lips, took a deep breath and tried again. “Kenneth had many fine qualities.”
The narrow-eyed glance he shot over his shoulder sliced straight through her like a shard of broken glass. When they were younger, most of the time he’d barely noticed her. But on the infrequent occasions when he had, she well recalled his piercing, perceptive eyes. Always he’d appeared able to read her innermost thoughts.
Lucy swallowed and forced her mind back to business. “The ranch, Rusty. If you won’t let me help, how can you keep it? Who else could you turn to?”
As he faced her, finished with the afternoon feeding, she saw that his skin was drawn taut over his cheekbones; his brown eyes took on a hard glitter. Tension radiated from every line in his body, and she felt his frustration beating at her in waves. Jerkily he stripped off his gloves.
For a moment he stared at the ground. It was a strangely dejected look for such a confident, strong man. She wondered at it. At last he raised his head.
“Sell you half,” he ground out.
“What?” Lucy stared at him dumbly.
“I’ll sell you half interest. God knows it’s the last thing I want. I thought I could raise capital selling you a few acres. But you want it all, don’t you?” His eyes narrowed. “And you’re right. There’s little choice. The bank’s gonna take it if I don’t act. I can’t believe it, but you’re my best—and only—option.”
Wisely she refrained from telling him she knew this.
“I get full control over the running of the ranch,” he demanded. “You’ll be a partner, but mostly in name and on paper.”
Pulse beating wildly, she said, “What about my idea—opening the ranch to others?” She didn’t dare use the term he found so derisive.
“We’ll work that out,” he evaded. “And no promises. Meantime, the property will be appraised, and you’ll invest exactly half the amount right back here.”
“Certainly,” she said.
“And you understand that I have final say in everything pertaining to ranch business, at least for this year?”
“Sure, but—”
“One more thing. If I can raise the same amount you’re investing, I have the right to buy you out. Agreed?”
Lucy faltered. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. When he got enough money he’d simply throw her off the ranch?
He continued staring at her in his hard-eyed way.
The capital she’d agreed to invest was quite a healthy sum. Would he be able to raise it...ever? It seemed unlikely. Besides, if he could, by then he’d have gotten to know her better, maybe even grown fond of her. By then, perhaps she’d have carved out a place for herself on the Lazy S. It seemed an unlikely event.
“You get a year,” she said, thinking fast.
He looked stunned. “What?”
“If you can raise the money in one year’s time, I’ll agree to it.” Behind her back, she twisted her chilled fingers together, hoping against hope he’d settle on this. “And, I get my dude ranch. On that point you have to agree.” There, she’d said it.
Rusty’s mouth flattened. He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a word she pretended not to hear. “Fine,” he spat out. “A year it is. And in running things here, you won’t interfere?”
“No.” A welling joy rose in her chest like champagne bubbles. She wanted to shout her delight to the world. She wanted to sing. She wanted to rush to Rusty and throw her arms around him.
“My word’s as good as a contract,” he informed her coolly, and instead of the hug she would prefer, he proffered a broad palm.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling tremulously. Enclosing his hand in both her own, she shook it warmly. “Thank you.”
What the hell had he done, Rusty asked himself an hour later as he walked to the corrals. Just what? The situation was impossible. Had he really agreed to sell his former stepsister half the ranch? And how were they supposed to live—together in the big house—a bachelor and a young widow woman?
Fighting down resentment, he watched her walk to her zippy, completely impractical sports car and retrieve a purse and a shoulder bag. Her body beneath the plain gray suit was compact, her derriere firm. Though not large, her breasts appeared well rounded.
Rummaging in the back seat, Lucy bent at the waist. The action hiked her skirt up several inches above her knees and presented him with a view of slim, smooth-skinned thighs. Outlined by the gray fabric, her rump curved sweetly: taut, yet rounded just right. He wondered how she’d look without the ugly suit. An image of a nude Lucy reclining on the navy sheets of his bed instantly flooded his mind. He found it alarmingly arousing.
Grimacing, he turned to go check on the automatic waterers. Great. Alone together in the house with an all-grown-up Lucy, and him already picturing her firm body unclothed and splayed on his bed like a centerfold.
It was crazy. He didn’t even like her. At least, he disliked what she’d forced him to do. Hated it, actually. His hands fisted.
Fortunately Fritzy was staying in the house and not in her cottage. She seemed happy living there; he didn’t think she’d mind staying on.
He entered his gelding’s stall and went to the waterer in back. The horse raised its head a brief moment from its dinner, chewing. Its dark eyes asked ancient questions.
What did Lucy want, really? Not for a minute did he believe that business about her needing the damn house and horsey smells. It was odd, though, the way she’d shied away earlier when he’d only bumped her arm. And how evasive she’d been when he asked about her husband.
Somehow he’d get the cash to buy her out. He’d work night and day, save everything. There were many ways other than raising cattle to make money on a ranch, especially one with the rich resources of the Lazy S. Ways his brothers hadn’t even begun to explore. He would tap them all.
Her ludicrous proposal of turning the ranch into a vacation spot rankled. He vowed that the public hordes would come trampling onto the Lazy S only over his dead, decomposing body. A years-old scene came vividly to his mind: his father addressing him and his brothers, each word ringing with clarity.
“We must keep the land pure,” Howard Sheffield had exhorted his three almost-grown sons. “I won’t be around forever, and the ranch’ll pass to you, just as it did to me and my brother from our daddy.”
The three teenagers sat at attention in their father’s office and listened solemnly.
“You boys have to carry on the family tradition. It’ll be hard, I know, to resist commercialism, and this new business of catering to city slickers so many of our friends have succumbed to. It brings in money, but, by God, there’s got to be other ways.”
To Rusty’s seventeen-year-old eyes, his father suddenly looked old—Howard’s sun-roughened skin was splotched with benign cancers, his eyes rheumy. For Rusty it was a small shock, yet it came abruptly. His father was the burly, iron-willed constant on the ranch, the immortal bulwark for them all against a cruel world.
However, in that instant Rusty knew the first glimmerings of maturing youth: his father wouldn’t always be there to solve problems, to repair their mistakes made from inexperience. Someday, maybe soon, he’d have to grow up, take on full adult responsibilities.
“Dad,” he said, anxious and uncomfortable with his thoughts, “don’t worry. We’re not gonna let a bunch of strangers overrun the ranch.”
Howard fixed his youngest with a particularly penetrating stare. “See that you don’t. Jim Curlan’d give ten years off his life if he could get rid of his sideline. So’d old Harley Jacobson down at the Flying J. They need the money, I can understand that. God knows there’s more lean years than fat ones running a ranch. But as a result their spreads have been spoiled. All those damned idiots from the city playing cowboy, ruining good horses, getting underfoot, pistol-shootin’ at anything that flies by.” He snorted, then paused to look thoughtfully at each of his sons.
“Now, boys, promise me you’ll never sell out. Keep the Lazy S as it’s always been. In the family. Swear it.”
The memory receded on Howard’s binding dictum and the grave vow Rusty and his brothers had made. The fact that the other two had passed away now, leaving only Rusty to uphold the promise was entirely irrelevant. He’d given his word, and failure was unacceptable.
At the end of this year he would exercise the clause he’d write into his contract with Lucy. She would be gone. It would just take time, he knew that. From the training in his former career as a contracts attorney working for major corporate accounts, he would have no trouble wording their agreement into cast-iron legal language. Every clause would be phrased to favor him—and not Lucy Donovan.
The gelding moved to nuzzle his shoulder. The waterer was working fine. Absently he rubbed the horse’s withers. Something was wrong in Lucy’s life. Something...
Again the image of her jerking away from him came back and suddenly he knew. Thinking of it, he closed his eyes and wondered how he hadn’t realized it before.
Lucy had come to the Lazy S to heal.
He hadn’t told her everything. Wait until she found out that the ranch she’d just purchased half interest in came with an added bonus. Suddenly he grinned. What would she say when he presented her with a pinkskinned, milk-swilling, diaper-wetting, loudly squalling six-month-old baby?
Chapter Two
The ear-splitting squawk behind Lucy startled her so badly she whirled. Her purse and briefcase flew from her hands, skittered across the living room’s floor and slammed into the cabbage-rose-print davenport. Lipstick, keys and a checkbook hurled from the purse while file folders and assorted legal papers spewed from the briefcase.
Fritzy stood in the kitchen doorway. Her eyebrows were raised, but she was smiling. However it wasn’t the older woman with whom Lucy had enjoyed a reunion an hour ago that had startled her, but the grinning, drooling, chortling creature Fritzy held in her arms.
A baby. Fritzy was holding a baby.
“Sorry we scared you,” Fritzy said, the apology much too offhand for Lucy’s still-pounding heart, “but Baby sure does like squealin’.”
Lucy laid a hand on her chest “So I gather. Whose, um...baby is it?” Shakily she bent to stuff papers into the briefcase.
“Oh, didn’t Rusty tell you before he went back to branding?”
It was true that less than an hour ago Rusty had informed her tersely that he was “burning daylight” and stomped off toward the corrals.
The housekeeper went on airily. “The men’ve got to get those late calves marked before cold weather sets in and then moved to low pastures. Fall roundup’s not so important as spring, but—”
“Uh, Fritzy,” Lucy gently reminded her, “the baby?”
“Oh, this is Tom’s. You remember, one of Rusty’s brothers?” The graying woman shook her head sadly. “Such a shame, him dallying with that gal. Even she said it was just one night—but when will people learn—that’s all it takes!”
The baby waved plump arms and flexed its feet, forcing Fritzy to shift the weight to one generous hip. Her soft-printed house dress bunched up a little, but Fritzy didn’t appear to notice. The infant’s blue eyes stared back at Lucy, and she noticed the rounded head was bald but for a soft bit of auburn down. The child’s body was stuffed like a sausage into a pink terry one-piece suit, the seams pulled so tight Lucy could see frayed threads threatening to burst. She shrugged; maybe that’s how baby clothes were supposed to fit. On the creature’s feet were a kind of bootie, white, with mock laces.
The tot squealed again.
“Fritzy, what do you mean it’s Tom’s?” Lucy asked warily. She straightened to place her purse and case onto the couch. She’d never had any experience with children. In the first months of her marriage, Kenneth had gone off without her knowledge and paid a surgeon to perform a vasectomy. Kids got in the way, he’d said. Kids were a nuisance. Kids were a pain in the a—
“Tom got that woman pregnant, like I said,” Fritzy supplied. “Then that freeway accident happened and...well, after she delivered, she showed up here, shoved Baby at Rusty and said, ‘You keep the brat, I don’t want her.”’ Fritzy harrumphed and nuzzled the infant’s neck. “Imagine, abandoning a child just like that. It’s terrible. But we don’t mind, do we, Baby?” She finished by making a silly face at the child.
Before Lucy could voice another question, Fritzy glanced up. “You’ll help, won’t you dear? Not that I wouldn’t love to spend every minute with such a perfect little lamb, but I’ve got housekeeping to do, you know.” Without waiting for a reply, she came forward and bundled the baby into Lucy’s arms. “Hold my angel a bit. I’ve got to get that chicken roasting or we’ll have no supper!”
“No, wait!” Lucy cried as a warm sloppy mouth came flush with her throat, depositing spittle down her neck, and a wriggling body smashed against her chest. “Fritzy,” she wailed at the woman’s fast-retreating back, “I don’t know how—I can’t do this.”
“Nothing to it,” the housekeeper said with a wave of her hand.
Lucy dashed after her, awkwardly balancing the child in her arms. In the spacious kitchen with its sunflower yellow curtains and cozy nook, Fritzy lifted a large blue-speckled roasting pan onto the tiled countertop and settled a raw chicken into its depths.
“Just a minute,” Lucy panted. Babies were heavier than she would have guessed they could be. “I’ve got to get this straight. Are you saying that Rusty’s brother Tom indulged in a one-night stand with some woman he didn’t know, and that this baby was born after his death?”
“Yes, dear.” Without looking up, Fritzy began spreading the chicken skin with herbs, then shook salt and pepper on top.
“And then,” Lucy continued doggedly, determined to get matters clear, “the woman came here and sort of...dropped it off?” On her shoulder, tiny fingers tried to pull one of Lucy’s small hoop earrings into its mouth. Lucy batted at the pudgy, grabbing hands. She was beginning to have a terrible sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
“Yes, dear.” Fritzy poured a cup of what looked like broth into the roaster and took up a basting brush to paint melted butter over the chicken.
“Ouch,” Lucy yelped. The child had clamped the earring and her earlobe into its fist and was pulling both toward the yawing maw of its mouth. Dismayed, Lucy wondered how such a minuscule hand could wield all the strength of a lumberjack. With great difficulty, considering she had to juggle the infant with one arm, she finally managed to free her ear.
Over her shoulder Fritzy smiled. “You shouldn’t wear jewelry any more,” she said. “At least not for a while. Babies are like crows—everything that glitters catches their eyes.” She chuckled at her own joke.
Lucy did not laugh. The sinking sensation had reached her toes. “You can’t mean,” she began, speaking slowly and distinctly so that Fritzy wouldn’t misunderstand, “that this baby lives here, in this house.”
The housekeeper paused in surprise. She smoothed her gingham apron over her stout midsection. “Course I do. Gracious, where would you expect the child to live? It’s why I moved up from my cottage. I was thinking of moving back sometime, but,” she frowned, then resumed her work, “I s’pose with you here now I’d best stay. Wouldn’t be right—an eligible bachelor like Rusty and a sweet young thing like you living alone under one roof.” Her graying topknot bobbled as she shook her head. “No, indeed.”
Of all the developments Lucy had expected to arise from her business deal with Rusty, she’d never considered anything like this. Numbed by shock, she wondered what other little surprises Rusty might have in store for her.
Lucy placed her protesting burden in the crib while she took three minutes to change into her jeans, an old black sweatshirt and tennis shoes, and twenty more to wrestle the baby’s flailing, stubby limbs into a new diaper and another too-tight suit. Fritzy insisted she had kitchen work, that Lucy could of course change Baby—there was nothing to it—and had sent her off with a box of diapers.
The child’s bedroom was on the second floor, between the one Rusty had assigned to her and his own. A wood-slatted crib with clown-print bedding, a lamp and a changing table were the only pieces of furniture. The walls were an unadorned white, and nothing much matched. Even to Lucy’s untrained eye, the nursery appeared bare. Weren’t there supposed to be teddy bears, toy chests, hanging colored mobiles?
At the changing table, the disposable hourglass-shaped diaper was fitted with confusing tapes, which maddeningly kept sticking to her skin, to the bedding and even together. Then Lucy somehow got the baby’s arms into the outfit’s leg holes and the legs into the arm holes before she managed to figure out the intricacies of such an ensemble, but in the end she was triumphant.
And she learned that the child was a girl.
Lucy blew a strand of hair from her eyes.
Presumably to show gratitude, the baby squealed with impressive volume.
“You’re welcome,” Lucy replied. Guessing the pink plastic pail beside the changing table was the dirty diaper receptacle, she bent low and removed the tightfitting top. Like demons from Pandora’s box, an eyewatering, brain-numbing odor of revoltingly appalling proportions burst forth.
Lucy staggered, slammed down the lid and abandoned the diaper on the table for Fritzy to deal with later. In the hallway she paused and took grateful moments to breathe in lungfuls of clean air.
Back in the kitchen with her cleaned-up human cargo, Lucy expected Fritzy to be suitably impressed and ready to take over, but the corpulent woman, now peeling potatoes, merely suggested she carry the child down to the corrals.
“Fritzy,” Lucy said carefully, still holding the infant, “I, uh, don’t know how to do stuff with a baby.”
“stuff?”
“You know...things.” Trying to explain, Lucy floundered while the baby attempted to flop out of her arms. She struggled to hold the slippery infant. “Like...feed her. Or, um, give her a bath. Or—” What else did one do with babies? “Uh, or other stuff.”
“Lucy, Lucy,” Fritzy replied kindly, “don’t worry. You’ll learn. Experience is the best teacher.”
“I’m afraid,” Lucy explained even more kindly, “that this will have to remain your job. I’m not very maternal.” Hadn’t Kenneth told her many times that she’d make a poor mother?
Because she knew she and her husband would never become parents, she’d long avoided children, ignored baby shower invitations, declined to hold acquaintances’ newborns. Why should she, when she’d never get one of her own—when cuddling someone else’s darling only made the ache for her own children sting so profoundly?
She tried to hand over the child, but Fritzy scoffed, peeling another potato.
“It’ll be all right, Lucy, you’ll see. Now, why don’t you go down to the corrals? Baby just loves to see the horses.” She turned her back and filled an enormous pot with water, salted it, and then began slicing potatoes inside.
Alarm replaced Lucy’s growing apprehension, spiked up her spine like a hand running over barbwire. Fritzy was determined that Lucy help in child care, of this she had no further illusions. Slice went Fritzy’s paring knife, plop went the potato into the water. Frustrated, Lucy stared at Fritzy’s broad back.
Fritzy ignored her.
Slice. Plop. Slice. Plop.
This was ridiculous. How dare Rusty neglect to mention this almost-brand-new child to her!
She’d come to the Lazy S searching for peace, for quiet and tranquility.
Not squalling voices and grabby fingers and... peepee!
“I will go down to the corrals,” she said aloud. If Fritzy was going to be stubborn, she’d get Rusty to take the child. It was his niece, wasn’t it? “Nothing personal,” she whispered into the baby’s shell-like ear. Suddenly she noticed that the baby’s scent was different from anything she’d ever smelled before. Different but good, and thank goodness nothing like that disgusting diaper pail. No, more like fresh-from-the-oven buns or soft, lovable puppies.
She shook off the thought. “I’m just not the motherly sort,” she whispered. “You understand, don’t you?”
Baby cooed.
With a fleecy blanket Fritzy handed her, Lucy managed to wrap the child up against the cooling air, clamp it to her chest and march out.
Autumn was beginning to cloak western Nevada in hues of russet and claret, turning the leaves of grouped alder and spruce trees into a fall-colored kaleidoscope. Winter sun had nearly sunk behind the fanged upthrust of the Humboldt mountains.
Outside the house, Lucy paused a moment to draw a breath. Pure, lung-expanding air filled her chest, scented of sage and the faintest hint of a branding fire. For once, the tyke made no sound, merely nestled her face into the crook of Lucy’s neck. The sensation wasn’t so bad, she thought, not really minding the child’s wet mouth anymore. And she so enjoyed the chirrup of the coming night crickets and the breeze soughing serenely through the trees’ brittle leaves.
There was no honking of angry commuters, no blare of city sirens, no suffocating exhaust fumes. One could relax here, find solace from the frenetic pace of city life.
These qualities were why she’d come to the country, she thought, pleased. Others should have the chance to enjoy this wonderful environment. How easily she could picture groups of twenty or so—nice, hardworking city folk who needed a place to relax, appreciate country sunshine, wildlife, the great outdoors.
As a child, her short time here had bolstered her for the hard years to come. Always when life mired her in difficulty, she could close her eyes and travel in her mind to the ranch and find relief.
Rusty could be persuaded to see her side, surely he could. He was set in his ways and proud, she could see that. She would just have to explain matters more thoroughly.
But he couldn’t be allowed to get away with his deception about the child. With determined strides, she crunched her way over the gravel-lined drive to the corrals, where at least eight men appeared to be just finishing their work.
At the far end of the large enclosure, a man worked, mounted on a deep-brass-colored horse. Why Lucy’s eyes should focus so swiftly on Rusty she didn’t know—but she didn’t even have to look for him. He was dressed the same as, and he worked the same as, the cowboys inside. Yet the unique tilt of his black Stetson and the confident set of his broad shoulders somehow set him apart from other men.
Across the corral Rusty concentrated on swinging his rope overhead. He took his aim, made his throw and captured the first of two hefty remaining calves. Then he dragged the animal to the men waiting at the branding fire. He was bone weary from the full day’s work and the unsettling meeting with his former stepsister. It wasn’t every day a man had to sell off half his heritage. He grimaced.
When the men were finished, they released the calf, which lurched to its feet and trotted over to its bawling mother. The mama cow sniffed her calf, determined it was fine and wandered off, trailing the reassured young animal.
Still on horseback, Rusty caught sight of Lucy and signaled for one of the others to rope the last calf. He coiled his rope and guided his horse to where she stood holding Baby, on the other side of the rail fence.
Drawing rein before her, he leaned one forearm on the horn and the other atop that. Nudging back his hat with a thumb, he observed, “I see you’ve made Baby’s acquaintance.”
“I certainly have,” she acknowledged, a tart hint of warning in her voice.
She was so pretty, he admitted for the second time that day. Her jet hair blew attractively across her face and the skin of her cheeks and lips had pinkened in the crisp fall air. Another man, one who might be interested in pursuing a woman like Lucy, would definitely think her lips kissable. If she thought her oversized sweatshirt was hiding the thrust of her breasts, she was mistaken. And her slim thighs and hips were damn near hugged by her snug jeans.
Stiffly he straightened in the saddle. It was a good thing he wasn’t interested in her. He was her reluctant business partner, and she was someone who would find herself tossed off the Lazy S in twelve short months.
“She’s quite a little surprise,” Lucy went on. “I wonder how it is that you didn’t mention her before.” She waited, eyeing him steadily and not, he thought, with an approving expression.
He grinned, enjoying her discomfort. “Aw, you’ll get used to her. We’re all crazy about Baby around here.” He guessed he’d have to start some sort of adoption proceedings soon, make things legal.
As she juggled the squirming child with inept hands, Rusty’s grin widened. She’d been married, but obviously didn’t have any kids. Hadn’t she ever coped with a six-month old?
She glared at him over the top of the auburn head, her annoyance palpable in the air between them. “You might have told me.”
“Why?” He shrugged. “You were so anxious to buy into the place—Well, Baby comes along with it.” He leaned forward, saddle creaking, and murmured to the child in cutesy tones he hoped would irritate Lucy.
Hearing his familiar voice, Baby gurgled happily, and when Rusty’s sorrel gelding snuffled her head, she launched into a bout of giggles that ended in hiccups.
Lucy had her arms full, and by her awkwardness, Rusty’s original thought was confirmed: it was plain as the whiskers on his gelding’s nose that the woman had no experience at all with children.
Baby jounced happily, banging the top of her head against Lucy’s chin. Lucy freed a hand to rub her jaw, her scowl at Rusty intensifying.
He tried not to laugh. It served her right, forcing him to sell her half the Lazy S as she’d done. Too bad it wouldn’t do her much good. In twelve months’ time, he’d have the money—no question about it. And fetching as Lucy was, she would not be allowed to dissuade him.
Myriad fund-raising ideas filled his head; tonight he’d make calls and see if he could sell gypsum, a produce used for insulation, plaster and wallboard, from a pit on the farthest reaches of the property. His brothers had always resisted mining on the Lazy S, but Rusty knew they’d made poor decisions. He realized, grimly and with some pain, that he could no longer afford to stand on principles.
The baby jounced again and Lucy nearly dropped her. At last Rusty took pity. “Take Baby back to the house. Fritzy can handle her.”
Instantly he knew his phrasing had been poor. Over the baby’s head Lucy’s glare became a glower.
“I can handle her just fine,” she retorted, obviously stung.
Rusty nodded soothingly. He hadn’t meant to insult her. “Sure.”
Just then his gelding decided to blast a whinny to its companion in a far pasture. The shrill noise surprised Baby, who jumped, then screwed up her eyes and began to waiL In seconds her face turned shrimp-red, and tears streamed down her plump cheeks.
“Rusty, how could you?” Lucy accused him in shocked tones.
She hugged the infant to her protectively—as if he’d let out the damned whinny himself!
“I didn’t do anything,” he said.
“You could have stopped him. Didn’t you see he was going to do that?”
“Don’t know how,” he mumbled, at a loss. The child was crying in earnest now. “Sorry.”
“And what is Baby’s real name, anyway?” she asked above the wailing din.
He shrugged, suddenly feeling on the defensive. “We just call her Baby. I don’t know if there’s something formal on her birth certificate—or if she’s even got one.”
“She doesn’t have a proper name?” Lucy demanded, shaming him. “I can’t believe this.” Stroking the child’s head, Lucy rocked her back and forth. “Never mind. I’m going back to the house.” Turning tail, she sent him one last disapproving glance that managed to make him feel lower than a slimy night-crawler. He rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks, knowing she was right. Baby should have been given a real name long ago. He’d just always thought there was time. How had six months passed so quickly?
Lucy stalked away, her trim rear end twitching angrily in new blue jeans. Baby’s cries calmed.
Rusty watched, perplexed at his reaction. Only moments before he’d been laughing at Lucy, feeling satisfyingly superior, but in two minutes she’d managed to cut him down to size. How had that happened?
Lucy fought down disappointment when Rusty carried his dinner plate into his office and shut the door with hushed finality. He stayed closeted in there all evening.
Then Fritzy announced she never ate before her favorite talk-show came on television at eleven-thirty. Since the efficient housekeeper had already bottle-fed the baby at six, then put her to bed for the night, Lucy was left alone.
Melancholy settled over her. This scattering at suppertime was not how she’d envisioned her “family” meals. Delicious though it was, she picked at her chicken and glanced around the empty room. In seconds she made up her mind to change things—at least a little—on the Lazy S.
A masculine face came at her. Fury flushed his skin ruddy, his features stiffened in an aggressive mask of anger. The familiar face, twisted in rage, snarled and shouted, called her “Bitch.”
“No!” Lucy cried, cringing, “don’t say that. I’m sorry. Please—”
The man ignored her pleas. Actually, he seemed to relish them, and his taunts became even more insulting. “You’re stupid, you hear? You’d be nothing without me to straighten you out. Nothing! If people knew how incompetent you are at even the simplest tasks—why, they’d laugh.”
Shoulders slumping, she felt the black void of anguish and despair threaten to engulf her. “I’ll try harder next time,” she defended weakly, already knowing it would do no good at all. “I won’t burn your toast next time. I’ll stand right by the toaster and watch the bread every second. It won’t happen again.”
He sneered at her. “You can’t even do that right. You’re useless!”
“Please stop,” she heard herself whimper, the cry turning into a loud moan. “Please.”
“Lucy,” another voice called urgently. “Lucy, wake up.”
Abruptly she awoke to total disorientation. Inside her chest her heart pounded furiously. The oily dampness of nervous perspiration filmed her body so that her nightgown stuck to her skin. Her eyes flew wide and she bolted up, gasped in lungfuls of air. For interminable seconds she didn’t know where she was. The darkened room was alien, the bed different.
“Lucy,” the new voice said calmly, “you were having a nightmare. It’s okay. Wake up, now.” Strong arms embraced her. Strangely, they didn’t feel threatening. They were gentle, paternal. Tender.
The angry face faded. Slowly she recognized the voice. Rusty was sitting on the edge of her bed, stroking her back, patting her reassuringly. He was barechested, his warm pelt of dark hair soft against her cheek. Flannel pajama bottoms covered the rest of him. It was dark in the room.
Lucy stiffened. Rusty?
Coming fully awake, she glanced around. Neon digital numbers on the bedside clock read 12:03. Midnight. It always happened at midnight. For some reason that was the hour when Kenneth really got going. She shuddered.
“It’s all right,” Rusty crooned, beginning to rock her against his chest. His arms were welcoming, protective. She clutched his warm skin, taut with muscle. “The bogeyman’s gone.”
Bogeyman. A child’s name for a frightening nighttime specter. Only she was an adult, and her personal bogeyman had been so very real.
A pain that came from within clamped around her throat. She realized she was shaking, every part of her body trembling as if with a sick fever.
She wept then, tucked her face into the juncture of Rusty’s neck where his stubble gave way to the softer skin of his collarbone. Choking back sobs, she clung to the man who offered comfort. When would she ever get over it? she wondered in despair. When would the bogeyman ever really go away?
Chapter Three
“It was Kenneth,” Rusty said in a low voice. “Kenneth did this to you.”
Still upset, Lucy shook her head, her hair falling into her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about—”
“He hit you, didn’t he?” Rusty demanded. Though his voice was quiet, she could hear outrage rumbling beneath his words like insurrectionists about to revolt.
“He—he didn’t hit me. The things he said...they hurt worse than that.”
He tilted his head, confused. “Your husband said mean things to you? That gave you a bad dream?”
In an effort to stop crying, she drew ragged breaths. “I know it’s hard to understand. It’s hard to explain.” How she disliked sounding like a too-sensitive baby, spoiled and self-centered. She hadn’t spoken about it with anyone except the therapist, and that had been difficult enough. She wasn’t about to throw open the door to her soul’s deepest secret. Not to Rusty; he wouldn’t understand. No one would. No one could comprehend her reasons for staying with Kenneth during those bleak years of their marriage.
“Lucy—”
“Rusty, no, please. I...I can’t.” Moonlight, streaming in her window, carved shadows over the masculine lines of Rusty’s face. In the darkness his brown eyes appeared black, penetrating.
His shoulders were big, his chest full, his abdomen ribbed. No man had held her for so long. She hadn’t allowed it—or even wanted it—and certainly no half-dressed man. Lucy shut her eyes, overwhelmed.
With his big hands he stroked her arms from her shoulders to her wrists. As his palms glided over her skin, bared by her sleeveless gown, she could feel his work-hardened calluses, formed by honest labor. He was caressing her, she realized with a new shock. Rusty...caressing her?
He studied her, and she could almost feel him mentally probing for answers, answers she knew she couldn’t give, didn’t know if she had them to give. With her back to the window she hoped he couldn’t see her well.
“You’re not gonna talk about this with me, are you? Well, what happened to him, anyway? How did he die?” Before she could reply, his grip on her arms tightened, his voice roughened. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had something to do with it.”
Lucy gasped. “My God, no. It was his heart. He...he had a congenital defect. Both his brother and father did, too.”
Rusty shrugged, brutally uncaring. “At least the creep left you well-off.”
She bowed her head. “I guess I should thank you for coming in. Did...did I make a noise?”
“If you call an agonizing moan that could wake the next ranch ten miles over a ‘noise,’ then, yeah, you did.”
“I apologize for waking you. I didn’t mean to.”
“Didn’t you?” He grimaced at his own sarcasm. “You didn’t mean to have a horrible nightmare and wake up sweating, shaking and sobbing? I’d have never guessed.”
She could think of nothing to say.
He stood, and she wondered if it was only in her imagination that he did so reluctantly. “I’ll go now. You’ll be all right.”
She nodded.
“But we’re not finished with this. I won’t push now, but soon...” He left the rest unsaid, stared at her meaningfully, strode out the door and shut it with a quiet click.
Hugging herself, Lucy felt an errant thought begin to bloom, unfurling like the petals of a flower. While she found Rusty gruff and uncompromising, he had rushed to her when she’d cried out, when she’d needed him.
Rusty had come to comfort her.
As if the night before had never happened, as if Lucy had never cried out in fear and Rusty had never consoled her with his voice and his touch, the next morning he barely spared her a glance when he entered the kitchen.
After pouring himself a mug of steaming coffee, he downed it in four gulps and turned to leave. Ribbons of sunlight fought with morning gloom to lance through the nook’s high windows and fall on Rusty’s hair. Streaks of russet Lucy hadn’t seen before appeared in the thick waves.
At the stove Fritzy mixed thick batter.
“Good morning,” Lucy said, trying to catch his eye. Before her sat orange juice and toasted waffles sprinkled with powdered sugar.
Grunting something unintelligible, he collected his hat from a wall hook.
“Um, what are you going to do today?”
“Work.” He moved toward the door.
She wished she knew how to stop him. “Well, what should I do?”
His boots making staccato thuds on the hardwood floor, he was already out of the kitchen when his voice came back over his shoulder. “Whatever you want.”
Lucy blinked, gazing sightlessly at the waffles. Well, what did she expect? The fact that he had come to her last night obviously meant little. Just as he would unemotionally soothe a frightened horse until it was composed, he’d soothed her until she was calm—all part of his duties.
“Another waffle, Lucy?” Fritzy asked.
“Thank you, Fritzy, but no. I’m really full.” She didn’t think she could get another bite past her suddenly constricted throat.
With Fritzy washing the breakfast dishes, Lucy agreed to carry the baby outside for air, “Just for a few minutes,” Lucy clarified sternly. “Then you’ll take the baby.”
“Oh, of course, dear,” Fritzy assured her, tightening her apron.
So, the blanket-wrapped child in her arms. Lucy stepped into the morning’s crisp sunshine and glanced at the overgrown lawn. If Fritzy wouldn’t allow her to help inside the house, she would begin outside.
A profound need to sculpt a place for herself, to be a valuable entity on the ranch burned inside her; she would do all in her power to make her dream come true.
Lucy wanted to be needed. She wanted to have a place where others counted on her. She wanted family... even if that family was comprised of only Fritzy, Baby...and Rusty.
Badly in need of a good mowing, the lawn would be a fine place to start making herself useful. With the men so busy branding, she guessed no one had time for this chore. Rusty’s truck was gone, but down at the corrals she could see ropes whirling and the wispy trail of the branding fire. Faint bawling came to her over the breeze.
Fallen leaves made a colorful but messy canopy over the overgrown grass, and those would have to be raked first. Placing the child on the quilt safely out of harm’s way, she spied a dented aluminum gardening shed shoved against the house’s side wall and hunted through for tools. Sunlight warmed her back and sparkled on the last drops of dewy grass. Lucy hummed a country time.
Hands on hips, she surveyed the tools she’d brought out—cotton canvas gloves, a rake and two plastic trash barrels. The mower she left in the shed for now. Good. As a young girl she’d performed yard work for spending money; she could do this. And she’d do it well. A person had to start somewhere, and although starting had never been her problem, this time she’d complete the job.
She’d make herself indispensable here. Essential. An intrinsic cog in the Lazy S wheel. Hope filling her heart, she bent to collect the rake, when from the corner of her eye, she noticed the baby about to thrust something into her mouth.
Somehow she’d wriggled to the edge of the quilt and tugged out a tuft of grass. Lucy flew to her, put a halt to the grass lunch and lifted the child into her arms.
“Silly girl,” Lucy scolded gently, cradling her, “grass is for cows, not humans. Now, you just lie quietly while I rake, all right?”
Settling the little imp down again on her stomach, she began to turn when the baby giggled, pulled her knees to her chest, and gave a rocking sort of scoot forward. Her face mashed into the blanketed ground but she only pushed herself up, grinning. Again, she pulled her knees under, swayed back and forth, and gave another hopping scoot.
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