Читать книгу The Baby Bargain - Peggy Nicholson - Страница 11

DANA WOULD HAVE LOVED to pull a pillow over her head and sleep in the next morning—she’d tossed and turned most of the night, worrying about Sean. But the demands of a dude ranch, on top of the more strident demands of a baby who rose with the sun, had her stumbling from her bed at the usual hour.

In spite of her worries, morning flew by in a rush—diapering, nursing and dressing Petra, then rushing downstairs to cook a hearty breakfast for Tim, the dude wrangler. His customary Sunday hangover had rendered him even surlier and more silent than usual, she noted with despair. This time he hadn’t bothered to shave. And he was scheduled to take all her dudes into the high country for an all-day trail ride, leaving at ten. So much for the cheerful, dashing trail boss of her guests’ fantasies—a Disneyland cowpoke on a rearing steed, who’d spin thrilling yarns, dispense homespun cowboy wisdom, whisk them off on the Wild West adventure of a lifetime. Dana supposed the larger, sleeker, full-service guest ranches could afford to employ such entertainers, but the Ribbon R was a minimalist outfit, at minimalist prices. Her dudes would have to make do with a shambling, groaning, tobacco-chewing misanthrope, who at least wouldn’t lose them in the back hills. She hoped.

Packing box lunches for the ride, at last she had a moment to think about Sean. When she’d come downstairs, a dirty plate on the counter and a tumbler with a puddle of milk in its bottom told her he’d preceded her.

He’d yet to return.

Gone off on his mountain bike? She hoped not. She hadn’t had the heart, last night, to mete out a punishment for his driving escapade. It would have seemed one blow too many, after Zoe’s announcement and Rafe Montana’s brutality. So she’d told him they would discuss his behavior—discuss everything—this morning.

Sean-fashion, he’d given her his silent answer. Oh, yeah? Catch me first.

Sean, Sean, what am I going to do with you? He had been so unhappy before—and now this? Every time she thought things were as hard as they could be, they got a little harder. She bit down on her lip and finished wrapping the sandwiches, while Petra pulled at her pants leg and whined.

Once she’d seen Tim and his dudes on their way up through the home pasture, she prepped for the evening barbecue—got the steaks marinating, the baked beans simmering, the potato salad made. While Petra dragged out the contents of her special kitchen cabinet—the only one without a baby-proof latch—and sat fitting lids onto aluminum pots with scowling concentration, then lifting them off again with shrieks of glee, Dana made bread. Enough dough for this week’s evening meals, plus enough to freeze for the next. Kneading it, she leaned into each stroke, her head drooping tiredly.

Sean still had not returned. Hanging out in the barn, or perhaps gone hiking up into the mountains? He rarely rode, though Peter had given him a surefooted, spunky little paint named Guapo when they’d first arrived. They’d all ridden that first fall, the three of them, laughing and awed by the beauty of their new home. Sean had liked her back then. They’d been able to talk about anything and everything. But now…

We’ll have to. This couldn’t be shoved under the rug, as Sean preferred to do. This had to be faced. Responsibility acknowledged.

And then?

That depended on what Zoe decided to do, she supposed. What Rafe Montana decides, she corrected herself, grimacing. The bully. But there was no way to deny that he was the dominant personality here, the one who would call the shots. He would shape his daughter’s future, and therefore Sean’s. Should I find a lawyer? Someone to advise her stepson on his paternal rights and responsibilities? The money made her hesitate. She’d decided this morning that she’d wait to see what Montana did next, but she wasn’t certain this was the wise approach.

Petra dropped a pot lid with a clang that made Dana jump. “Petra, what a noisy girl! You’re going to be a drummer someday?” Please, anything but!

“Ga,” the baby chortled, then smile gave way to frown. She rolled over onto all fours and crawled purposefully toward her mother.

“About that time, is it?” Dana wiped a forearm over her brow, brushing back her hair. “Can you wait a minute, sweetheart?” She patted the dough into balls, placed them in greased ceramic bowls. “Yes, sweetie, I know. Just a minute more. Be patient.” After covering each bowl with a clean cloth, she set the dough to rise on the warming shelf above the stove. “There.” She scooped up her tearful daughter and blew into her neck till Petra giggled. “See, silly girl? I didn’t forget you.”

She checked her diaper, then carried her out to the back deck and their favorite spot: a porch swing that hung under an arbor of climbing pink roses and honeysuckle. Sinking into one cushioned corner, she kicked off her shoes, dragged a pillow onto her lap, propped one arm and her baby against one bent knee while she left the other foot on the ground to rock them. “Lunchtime,” she agreed, as Petra patted her blouse. And no one around for miles, she assured herself, looking uphill as she unbuttoned. Just bird-song, the fragrance of sun-warmed roses, a precious moment of peace…the delicious tingle as the milk let down in her breasts…the rhythmic suck of warm lips drawing her down into sleepy pleasure.

Sometime later, a ripple of consciousness disturbed her waking dream. Dana’s eyes drifted half open, focused drowsily on a long pair of jeans-clad legs. Idly she rode them upward, up past lean hips, a flat stomach, a wide chest in a snap-front western shirt that flared to wider shoulders…up a strong brown throat to the startled face of Rafe Montana. His lips had parted in surprise; his eyes were narrowed slits of sapphire in his suntanned face. She felt her own face turning a color to rival the roses.

“Pardon me, ma’am!” He wheeled and walked back down the steps to the ground, then stopped there, facing away. “Didn’t meant to intrude like that. I…”

The liquid pleasure of the moment seemed to flow over his form like honey, taking him in, making him a part of the mountains, the sunshine, the fragrance, her love for her daughter. He had all the power and grace of a bull elk who had suddenly walked into her world. It took an effort to remember that she disliked him—that he’d hit Sean last night, something she’d never forgive. “Of course.” She supposed he’d tried the front door, and receiving no answer to his knock, this time hadn’t barged through, but had walked around to the back.

“If you could wait a minute?” Gently she detached Petra and moved her to her other breast.

“Sure.” He glanced awkwardly down at his boots, then he stepped backward and sat on the top step of the deck, careful not to look behind.

She felt oddly powerful and more than a little smug at being able to abash a man like this with a simple, earthy act. Women’s magic.

Sleepy, swirling magic, which bound all it touched, enchantress as well as enchanted. Petra’s lips suckled at her nipple and the enchantment spread—a golden wire drawn from her breasts to her womb, then drawn tighter in soft, rhythmic tugs that her hips yearned to answer. The sensation spooled out to include the man, as if he were the cause, the one who held the gilded wire, the one who tugged, instead of an unknowing bystander. Dana closed her eyes and shuddered. She’d been dead to her own body for so long—just a mother, a widow. How odd for it to awaken just now.

Means nothing, she told herself. I don’t even like him. He hurt Sean.

He was overwhelmingly male and perhaps “like” had nothing to do with instinct. Simply by being, he reminded her she was female. A woman without a mate—not a reminder for which she was grateful.

Montana spoke without turning. “I asked Zoe about Sean’s father.”

As if he could read her mind! Dana tipped back her head to stare at a pendant blossom. Blown, its vibrant rosiness fading to drab violet, the first petals fallen. “Yes?”

“I…meant to talk with him. But Zoe tells me I can’t.”

I talk to him all the time. But he never answers, not in words. “That’s right,” she said bleakly. She reached to pluck a petal, rubbed it across her lips.

“I’m…sorry. If you’d told me…”

“Mmm,” she hummed wordlessly. Who owed you an explanation?

“I reckon I scared you, stomping in like that. And I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” It was handsomely done, no self-justifications, no excuses. But Dana wasn’t in a forgiving mood. Not because of the intrusion, but because of Sean. “Thank you,” she said coldly.

“Hmmph.” He pulled his Stetson off, inspected it, whacked a denim-clad calf with it.

Clearly he had more to say. She waited, and when it didn’t come, she asked, “How’s Zoe?”

“She threw up this morning.” He whacked his leg again. “Not the first time, she tells me.”

“She needs to see a doctor. Forget that test kit. Let a gynecologist examine her. She should be on vitamins, eating right—”

He let out a huff of bitter amusement. “I’m known around these parts, Dana, for being a devil on nutrition. Pound for pound, my cattle are the best fed in the state. You think I’d neglect my daughter? But she’ll be eating for one, not two.”

A rancher. She should have known it, with his boots and his outdoor tan. A man used to giving orders, not taking them. King of his own small kingdom. “That’s what Zoe wants?”

“What she will want, once she sees sense.”

So he’d yet to bully her into submission. In spite of the complications Zoe’s stand might mean for the Kershaws, Dana felt a flash of admiration. It would take courage to cross this man.

“In the meantime, she should see a doctor.”

He grunted assent. “Another reason I wanted to see you. She has a pediatrician, of course, but now…Is there anybody you’d recommend?”

Had he no other female in his life to advise him? A sister, a lover, a friend? Despite his high-handed arrogance, his explosive temper, Rafe Montana was one of the most attractive men she’d ever laid eyes on, so surely he had a woman. Petra had fallen asleep while they spoke, and now her mouth slipped away from the breast. Dana buttoned her blouse one handed while she considered. Ought to stay out of this. The fewer ties between the Kershaws and the Montanas, the better, to her mind. But a good doctor was essential. “Yes, I go to a woman obstetrician in Durango. Cassandra Hancock. She’s gentle and extremely competent.”

“Does she do abortions?” he asked bluntly.

Dana winced, worked the top button through its hole, and reached for the hand towel she’d brought from the kitchen. “I wouldn’t know. But I’m sure if she doesn’t, she could advise Zoe. Tell her the best place to go.” She laid the towel over her shoulder, moved Petra to burping position and stood. Patting the baby’s back, she walked slowly back and forth. Rafe shifted to watch, and she felt herself drawn irresistibly closer with each turn, till she stood above him, staring out over her land. She glanced down, and their eyes linked. His were the dark, high-altitude blue of the mountaintop skies, direct as a bolt of summer lightning. Her heart bumped in her breast half a dozen times before his eyes released her and shifted to her baby.

The straight line of his mouth softened. “But I suppose you don’t believe in abortions.”

“I believe in choice, Mr. Montana.”

“Rafe.”

“But choice cuts both ways, doesn’t it…Rafe? What does Zoe choose? It’s her life, her body, her baby.”

All restless energy, he surged to his feet. “She’s in no emotional shape to choose wisely!” He took all the steps in a stride and stopped on the last one, which put them on a level—too close. So close Dana could see the pale line of a scar drawn across the carved fullness of his bottom lip.

She rocked back on her heels, but held her ground. “Whether she is or not, you can’t take that choice from her.” Or can you? He was so clearly used to having his way.

The muscles along his angular jaw fluttered and stilled. “Someone should have taken that choice from Zoe’s mother.”

Dana blinked. Blunt words, indeed. “Oh?”

“Pilar was eighteen when we…found out. And—” His jaw clenched again and his gaze swung off to the east, to the mountain that walled off that side of the valley. “And it ruined her life.”

But she got you. He had a profile like the head on a Roman coin—harsh, emphatic, all jutting lines and angles, with not a softening curve except for that bottom lip. Zoe’s mother had gotten herself a harsh and beautiful man. Was that the choice that wrecked her life? Eyes wide, Dana rested her cheek against Petra’s dark curls and waited.

“It’s like…” His shoulders jerked, then squared and went taut. “Like history repeating itself. Some kind of enormous, ugly joke. Pilar had already been accepted into Harvard when we…Full scholarship—she was from a poor family. Would have been the first of her family ever to go to college. She was brilliant—that’s where Zoe gets her brains. Meant to be a doctor, too. Instead she—” He shook his head. “It was a criminal waste.”

“Or maybe she…chose what she wanted.”

One bark of savage laughter—it was instantly stifled. “You think so? No, it was a waste of her talents, her hard work, her dreams, her family’s hopes. Just when Pilar’s life was about to open out, to expand—she’d never even been out of Colorado before—we made one stupid mistake. I made one. And her life contracted to a crummy one-room trailer, a baby with colic, a nineteen-year-old husband who could barely keep himself in boot leather, much less support a family. Yeah, she made one hell of a choice.”

“I see…”

“I hope to God you do.” Rafe shrugged, setting aside any personal connection to the picture he’d just painted. “So, a wise man learns from his mistakes. And if he loves his daughter, he damn sure stops her from making the same mistakes.”

Do we ever get to shield the ones we love from their mistakes? She’d tried to stop Peter from crossing that south-facing slope, nervously citing what she’d read about alpine snow conditions, but he’d teased her about learning cross-country skiing from a book and had pushed on. They’d both been cold and tired at the end of the day, eager to reach their lodge…Wouldn’t have needed to cross that hill at all if I hadn’t read the map wrong, taken us down the wrong fork in the trail. She hadn’t even been able to shield Peter from her mistakes, much less his own.

“Hey.” A warm, rough hand cupped her cheek. “Are you okay?”

“I…” She blinked back the tears, took a step backward. Slipped a hand down to Petra’s bottom. “Oops!” She managed a trembly smile. “Flood tide. If you’d excuse us a minute?”

SHE TOOK CLOSER TO TWENTY, stopping to wash her face after she’d put Petra down in her crib. What’s gotten into you? she scolded the damp face with its shadowy eyes, which gazed back at her from her mirror. After months of gray, steely calm, suddenly she felt raw and ragged, her emotions swinging wildly from elation to despair. Like a compass needle following a prowling magnet.

Not enough sleep, she answered herself, heading downstairs. Forgot lunch. She pushed through the dining room door—and stopped short. Rafe Montana in my kitchen.

Peeking under the towel that covered a bowl of her rising dough. He whipped around, as guilty as a boy caught scooping a fingerful of icing off a cake. “You were so long, I wondered if something was wrong.”

I’m fine. Dana didn’t want to acknowledge his concern. “She took a while falling back to sleep.”

He grimaced. “At least she sleeps. Zoe worked a double shift from the word go. Started climbing out of her crib at nine months. I’d wake up at 3:00 a.m. and she’d be bumping around the trailer like a raccoon on the hunt, turning out cupboards. Pulled the phone down on her head one night—Lord, what a racket.”

“A handful.” She could imagine him at nineteen, working a man’s job all day, still needing the sleep of a boy at night. It must have been desperately hard for you and Pilar, both. But watching his face, she could see his memories of Zoe’s baby years were rueful, not grudging.

His expression hardened. “A handful still. Which brings me back to my problem…”

“Yes?” But problems or not, she had an evening meal to prepare. She dusted flour over her marble pastry slab and turned out the first ball of risen dough. Dug the heel of her right hand into its spongy softness, folded its far edge back toward the center, turned the dough, then shoved again, settling into her rhythm—knead, fold, rotate a quarter turn. Knead again…

Rafe drifted closer and stared down at her hands. “You’ve got to help me, Dana.”

An order, not a request, she noted wryly. Knead, fold, turn, knead…She sprinkled more flour on the marble. “Help you how?”

“Zoe got her brains from Pilar, but she got her stubbornness from me.” He gripped the edge of the table and leaned closer. “I’m not getting through to her, what a disaster this baby would be. I thought maybe a woman…somebody who’s gone through it recently and who’s going it alone…”

She looked up at him with something like hatred. “You’d use me—me and my baby—as an object lesson? How handy that my husband died. It makes us seem more pathetic!”

He jerked upright. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t think at all.” She brushed the hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I didn’t think of it like that, dammit. You’re anything but pathetic.” His scowl softened. The corner of his mouth slowly tilted. “Though, with flour all over your face…”

I look like a clown? So much for indignation. She swiped the back of a hand across her nose, and he burst into laughter.

“Here—” He tucked three fingers under her chin to support it.

If her hands hadn’t been full of dough, she would have edged out of reach. Instead, she stood paralyzed, her lashes falling to shut him out—to shut out this fragile, disturbing moment—while he cleaned her off, his fingers brushing across the bridge of her nose, the tops of her cheeks, her shivering lashes.

“Better,” he observed huskily.

Was it? Was it really? A wave of black dismay—of echoing loss—washed over her. “Thanks,” she whispered, staring down at her dough. After a moment her hands moved again—knead, fold, turn…

“Will you help me persuade her, Dana?”

Give a little to get what you wanted, she thought, loss turning to disgust. He thought he could buy her cooperation that easily, with one gesture of tossed-off tenderness? “No, Rafe, I won’t. Zoe doesn’t need some stranger telling her what to do.” Nor, for that matter, a parent trying to shape her life according to his own lights. “What about getting her some professional counseling? I’m sure that Dr. Hancock—”

“I’m the only counselor Zoe needs, dammit! A baby will wreck her life!”

“Then if you’re all she needs,” Dana said coolly, “she doesn’t need me.”

“But, dammit—” He saw her chin tip up in warning and he shut his mouth with an effort, locked his jaw over his words. Stood rocking on his boot heels and scowling, while she patted the first ball of dough into a loaf, settled it into its greased pan and placed it on the warming shelf. She turned out another ball of risen dough, pressed out the yeasty gas, commenced kneading.

“All right,” he said grimly, “then look at it this way. You owe me this help.”

Her hands paused as she looked up. “Excuse me?”

“Your son knocked up my daughter. If you’d ridden herd on him, hadn’t let him run wild, had taught him a proper respect for girls—”

Dana threw up a floury hand. “Now, wait a minute. Your daughter is—what—two years older than Sean? And everyone knows girls are years more mature than boys. So just who seduced whom? And who should have known better?”

“At fourteen, he’s old enough to know right from wrong! Or at least, old enough to know how not to get caught. Didn’t you tell him about condoms?”

“Didn’t you tell your brilliant daughter?” she shot back.

“She knew,” he said with dangerous calm.

“Then—”

“Condoms do fail.” His gaze turned distant and bleak.

“Is that what—”

He shrugged and spun on his heel, surveyed her kitchen, swung back again. “She’s not giving me any of the gory details, and frankly—” His shrug was more of a shudder. “Frankly, I don’t want to know. Every time I think about it, I get this urge to hammer your kid into the ground like a cedar fence post.”

Dana dusted her hands and came carefully around the table. “If you ever lay so much as a finger on Sean again—” She prodded his chest with a fingertip “—I’ll have you in jail for assault, Rafe Montana. See if I don’t!”

“Assault?” He caught her wrist, trapping her hand in that gesture of threat, forefinger touching his breast. “Last night, he swung on me.”

“Yes, but who finished it?” She yanked backward, but he held her easily.

“That was a lesson he needed to learn. You don’t take on someone you can’t handle.”

“I’ll thank you not to give my son lessons!”

“Then who will?” He brought her hand down to his side, then drew it slightly behind him, a subtle tug that swayed her closer. She flattened her other hand on his chest to catch her balance—could feel his heart thudding against her palm. “You’ll teach him how to grow up a man? Not your strong point, I’d say.” His eyes roved down her face to her mouth. He smiled slowly and shook his head. “Not your strong point at all, thank God.”

She shoved his chest hard, and he let her go. “Nobody asked you for lessons, and I’m telling you again, don’t you dare—” She cut herself short as the screen door to the deck creaked.

Sean stood there, gaping at them both.