The Cowboy Finds a Family

by Anne McAllister

  It was good for him. He’d been getting lazy.

  He’d spent too many nights making love to Jenny, getting a later start on his chores than he ought to have. He’d spent too many afternoons coming in early so he could spend time with her before dinner, talking, laughing, making plans.

  Plans. He snorted now.

  Hell of a lot of good plans ever did anyone!

  He, of all people, ought to have known that.

  His old man was a great example. Reese Nichols had more plans than any man alive.

  He planned to get rich ranching. He planned to make his fortune panning gold. He planned to catch a mustang herd and find a horse that could run faster than Secretariat. Plans, oh Lord, that man had had plans!

  They’d as good as killed his wife. She’d known them for the pipe dreams that they were, but she’d stood by him anyway—working, scraping, saving, hoping—when all reason for hope was gone.

  The way Jenny would stand by him—now that all their hope was gone.

  Unless he stopped her.

  He was right to have stopped her.

  He couldn’t bear to see the sadness on her face day after day when she faced the room where they would never be able to put the child they would never conceive. He couldn’t bear to have her put her arms around him and make love with him when he couldn’t give her the fruits of what that love should bring.

  He thought about Becky with her twin troubles. He knew what she was going through. He’d seen Felicity, tired and frazzled. He’d heard Taggart, grumbling, his patience worn thin.

  If they only knew the alternative, he thought bitterly.

  He knew the alternative. He was going to live with it every day of his life.

  But Jenny wasn’t. At least he could spare her that.

  He shut his eyes and tried to go to sleep. To dream. To forget. But he couldn’t erase the memory of her face—radiant and hopeful as it had been on their wedding day, dazed and delighted at the passion of their lovemaking, warm and tender, as she kissed his shoulder, then curled against him in the night.

  No one curled against him this night.

  He wondered if anyone would ever curl in his arms again.

  Chapter Three

  Jenny didn’t tell a soul about Mace’s departure.

  What was she going to say, after all?

  “Oh, by the way, Mace walked out on me two weeks ago. After almost fifteen years of a wonderful marriage, we’re getting a divorce.”

  At first, she didn’t say anything because she didn’t believe it was true. The whole thing seemed like a bad dream.

  Even when she went back to the cabin on Saturday to apologize and he paid more attention to the tack he was mending than to her, refusing to discuss anything at all, she still couldn’t believe that it was over between them.

  She told herself that Mace needed space. He needed time. But in the end, more than either, he would need her.

  She couldn’t imagine that she’d go to bed alone every night for the rest of her life. She couldn’t accept the fact that every dinnertime would pass without the sound of Mace’s truck rumbling up the road or Mace’s footfalls on the back-porch steps. She couldn’t believe she would never again brush his hair off his forehead or hear his voice calling her “darlin’,” or feel the rough whiskers of his jaw against hers.

  It wasn’t true, she told herself.

  But two weeks after he walked out, she came home from the last day of school that year, to find a stiff white envelope in the mailbox.

  Hollis and Son, Attorneys at Law, it said in the upper left-hand corner. Jenny looked at it curiously.

  Were they the lawyers who had handled the section of Otis Jamison’s land that Mace had arranged to buy?

  If so, in the morning she could take the letter up to him. Tonight she had agreed to go to a movie with Felicity.

  “Girls’ night out,” Felicity had said. “I need it. Desperately. Don’t say no.”

  Jenny hadn’t. She had told herself she could use a night out herself. She had been home alone too much. She had spent too long fretting about Mace.

  If this letter confirmed the results of the land survey, it would be something less volatile that they could discuss. An opening, a chance to show Mace that there was more to their life and their marriage than his inability to sire children.

  She slit it open as she walked back to the car, wondering idly why they’d addressed it only to her.

  She unfolded it, then stared at it, disbelieving.

  Mace had filed for legal separation.

  She stopped dead still. She tried to swallow and could not. She tried to breathe and couldn’t seem to do that either. She looked at the paper again but couldn’t read it at all now; it was shaking too hard.

  At first just the paper shook. Then she realized it wasn’t the paper. It was her hand, then her arm, and finally her whole body.

  Her fingers clamped on the stark white sheet, steadying. But there was no steadying her mind. It reeled.

  He didn’t mean it. It was wrong! A mistake.

  Please God, it was a mistake.

  But there it was in black and white legalese: Mason Joseph Nichols was advising Jennifer Anne Nichols that he was seeking a legal separation. One hundred and eighty days of legal separation—Jenny knew from when Julie had divorced Taggart—would allow Mace to file for divorce.

  The sun beat down on Jenny’s back, but failed to warm her. From the inside out, she was ice. Frozen and shattered at the same time. A million tiny ice chips, held together only by nerves.

  And then she felt a trickle of heat on her cheek. The only warmth in the universe. A tear.

  She didn’t know how she made it back up the road to the house. She didn’t remember parking her car by the back porch. She didn’t remember bringing in the groceries or throwing the rest of the mail on the table. She didn’t remember crawling under the covers of their bed.

  She never remembered the phone ringing.

  But it rang.

  And rang.

  And rang again.

  And then there was nothing. Silence. Pain. Tears.

  And finally a hand on her shoulder, tentative, yet firm, jarred her back into awareness.

  Hours had passed. She didn’t know how many. Didn’t care.

  “Jenny? Are you all right?” The hand shook her again. The voice, at first soft and concerned, became urgent now. “Jenny?”

  She rolled over, blinked. Felicity stood over her, a desperately worried look on her face.

  “Are you sick? I’ve been calling and calling! I thought we’d agreed to go to the movie in Bozeman, tonight? What’s wrong? Where’s Mace?”

  Where’s Mace? Jenny took a ragged breath, tried to find the words.

  Failing, she shook her head. Her face was stiff, mask-like, and, scrubbing at it, she realized it was from dried tears she didn’t even remember having shed.

  Felicity crouched beside the bed. “Jenny, tell me what’s wrong. Why didn’t you answer the phone? I called to tell you when the movie started, but you didn’t answer. So I called again. And again. I thought you’d gone somewhere with Mace, but Becky said she didn’t think so. And then I thought the worst. I still think the worst! What’s going on?”

  The paper was still crumpled in Jenny’s fist. Wordlessly she held it out.

  Felicity spread it out and read it, then looked up, shocked. “It’s not true,” she said. “It’s a joke. A sick joke. Who would do a thing like that?”

  “Mace,” Jenny said. It was a sick joke, all right. But it was Mace’s sick joke. Jenny knew that.

  “It doesn’t make sense. You two have the best marriage I know! Why does he want a separation?”

  Jenny couldn’t answer that.

  If Mace chose to tell people, he could. But she didn’t think it was likely. Mace was an intensely private man. He had allowed doctors and nurses to invade that privacy for Jenny’s sake. She owed him the respect he had left. She shook her head.

  “It’s
insane,” Felicity said.

  “Yes.” Jenny could agree with that.

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “To him it does.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone,” Jenny said. “I was . . . upset.”

  “An understatement, I think,” Felicity said gently. “Where is Mace?”

  “He moved out two weeks ago.”

  Felicity’s eyes widened. “Moved out? So it’s not a surprise? The letter?”

  “It is,” Jenny said. “Moving out isn’t the same as wanting a separation. He’s talking about divorce. A s-separation is the first step. I didn’t believe he’d go through with it.” She pressed her lips together and swallowed. “I should have known.”

  That was nothing but the truth. She should have realized how strongly Mace felt about this.

  It was exactly what an idealistic idiot like Mace would do. He knew how badly she wanted a family. It was all she’d talked about. He was right. It had been her dream, her hope, her plan—the way the ranch had been his.

  But not at the cost of their marriage, damn it!

  “What can I do?” Felicity asked her. “Can I help? Can Taggart help? Do you want Taggart to talk to him?”

  “No!”

  “They’ve been friends for years.”

  “We’ve all been friends for years,” Jenny said dully. “That’s why I know. Taggart can’t help.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “You mean you’re just going to let him do it?” Felicity was indignant.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “You ought to hit him upside the head. He’s got the best wife in the world. What’s he throwing it all away for?” She stalked across the room, then whirled and confronted Jenny. “Don’t tell me he found someone else?”

  “No.” Jenny could defend him from that accusation at least.

  “Well, thank God for that.” Felicity breathed a sigh of relief. “I thought he had more sense,” she said, justified.

  “Oh, yes. Mace is very big on sense.” He thought what he was doing was eminently sensible—even though it was cutting out her heart.

  “Then why—?” The words were almost a wail. Then Felicity clamped her mouth shut. “Never mind. It’s none of my business. I know it’s none of my business! Taggart would say I’m poking my nose in where it has no right to be and that’s true. But I care, damn it! I care about you. And,” she added, “as much as I might like to punch his lights out right now, I care about Mace.”

  Jenny believed her. She was even grateful—for all the good it would do. She smiled wanly. “Thanks.”

  “So what I can do to help?”

  Jenny shook her head. This wasn’t like their ranching operation where you could solve your problems with a straw of sperm. Men were not interchangeable. Men had egos. Pride. Determination. And this man was more stubborn than any bull.

  Felicity, disgusted at Jenny’s lack of initiative, slapped her hands on her hips. “So, that’s it? You’re just going to let him go?”

  Was she? Or was she going to try to salvage their marriage? Try to get through to him?

  “No,” she said, sitting up straighter, “I’m not just going to let him go.”

  *

  “Mace wants a divorce?”

  “Shh, Taggart!” Becky could hear Felicity shushing her father. “No. But he’s filed for separation.”

  “Divorce then—in six months. I know where that leads,” Taggart said gruffly. “But Julie was right. We didn’t suit. Never did. Mace and Jenny are pretty much made for each other. I don’t believe it!”

  “Well, it’s true. And stop shouting. You’ll wake the children!” Felicity warned.

  One of them was already awake, thanks very much. Awake and sitting scrunched at the top of the stairs where they couldn’t see her, but she could hear them.

  But Becky knew they didn’t mean her, in any case.

  They meant Willy and Abby, who had both been colicky all evening and had yelled so much she’d slammed her book down and put her hands over her ears.

  Her father, pacing with Willy against his shoulder, had shot her a hard glare. “If you don’t want to listen, go outside!”

  He was dealing with both babies tonight as he’d agreed that Felicity needed a night off. She and Jenny were going to the movies, she’d said at dinner. “If you’re sure you can manage,” she’d said to Taggart.

  “Of course I can manage,” Taggart had said.

  Becky wasn’t too sure. She wasn’t used to her dad being impatient. Not that impatient. It wasn’t as if she was the one doing the yelling, after all!

  She’d dropped her hands, hunched her shoulders and said, “All right. I will.”

  She went out without looking back, determined to sit on the fence and wait until the noise was over and he came to tell her to come in.

  From the fence she could still hear Willy wailing, but it wasn’t so loud. She had sat and watched the sun set and wondered if Willy would stop by the time it got dark. If he did, maybe her dad would come and sit on the fence with her the way they used to, just the two of them, looking for the first star.

  They hadn’t done that since the babies were born. It was one of a lot of things they hadn’t done since the babies were born. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder to see if he might be coming. He wasn’t.

  She waited . . . and waited. The sun went down. It got dark. The stars came out. Her dad didn’t even seem to remember that she had gone.

  She stayed out until ten—past her bedtime, even for summer. And when she finally went back in—she found him asleep on the sofa. She sat in Grandpa’s old overstuffed chair where he would see her when he woke up.

  He did, half an hour later. He blinked and frowned at her as he hauled himself to a sitting position and glanced at his watch. “What are you still doing up? Go to bed.”

  So she’d gone to bed.

  But not to sleep.

  She’d fumed silently until she heard the truck pull up and Felicity came in downstairs. Then she slipped out of bed and went to sit at the top of the stairs.

  She didn’t know what she expected to hear. She knew what she hoped to hear. She wanted to hear her father say he regretted snapping at her this evening. She wanted to hear him say what a good kid she was.

  But they weren’t talking about her at all.

  Taggart lowered his voice now, but not by much. “I don’t believe it!” he repeated.

  Neither did Becky. The news made her feel as if she’d been punched in the belly.

  “I didn’t believe it, either,” Felicity said. “But apparently he moved out a couple of weeks ago.”

  Becky’s jaw dropped. Then Mace hadn’t been just staying at the cabin for a few days?

  “Moved out?” Taggart’s voice rose again.

  “That’s what Jenny said. She didn’t say where.”

  “Question is why,” Taggart muttered.

  Amen, Becky thought. She tried to remember anything Mace might have said that would answer it. Nothing came to mind. He’d been short-tempered, she remembered. He’d almost sent her away.

  “Jenny didn’t say,” Felicity was saying.

  “She wouldn’t.”

  Her dad was pacing now. Becky could hear him. She unfolded enough to lean around and peek past the bannister to try to see his face.

  Taggart raked a hand through his hair. “Maybe they just had a fight. Maybe he just left to cool off.”

  “For two weeks? He got a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer? Mace?” Taggart was incredulous.

  So was Becky. Mace wasn’t a lawyer sort of guy. As far as Becky knew, he never turned to anyone else for anything. And he always tackled things head-on.

  Old-fashioned, her grandfather called it. It was a compliment.

  Becky could go along with that. Of course, as far as she was concerned, Mace Nichols could do no wrong.

  So, if he and Jenny h
ad problems, how come he wasn’t solving them by himself?

  How come he was getting a lawyer—and a divorce?

  She edged forward, hoping her father had the answer to that.

  “I asked her if she wanted you to talk to Mace, but she said no,” Felicity was saying. “It wouldn’t do any good.”

  “It wouldn’t,” Taggart agreed. “He’s as stubborn as Aunt Harry’s mule.” He scowled and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “What the hell’s wrong with him? He’s been in love with Jenny since he was wet behind the ears.” He sounded angry now, as if Mace was letting him down, too, and stalked to the other end of the room.

  Becky wondered if anyone had considered that maybe it was Jenny’s fault. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Since she’d catch heck if they knew she was here, there was no way she could point that out.

  She wrapped her arms around her knees tightly and rocked forward to see where her father had gone.

  A mistake.

  Before she could stop herself, she tumbled like a bowling ball all the way down the stairs!

  “What the—!” Taggart barked.

  “Oh heavens, Becky! Are you all right?” Felicity cried.

  When Becky stopped bouncing, she lay there a minute and wondered if she could pretend not to breathe until they gave her up for dead and buried her.

  Probably not.

  Reluctantly she opened her eyes. Felicity looked worried. Taggart looked, well, just short of murderous.

  Felicity crouched beside her, patting her. “Where does it hurt, honey?”

  “I can tell you where it’s going to hurt,” her father said ominously. “Get up.”

  Felicity shot him a hard look. “For goodness’ sake, Taggart. She might have broken something.”

  Taggart’s gaze met Becky’s. If she thought he’d barely seen her earlier this evening, she was under no such illusion now.

  She wiggled experimentally, as Felicity patted her all over. Nothing hurt that much. She struggled to sit up.

  “I’m okay. I just . . . tripped.” Her gaze slid away from her father’s.

  “Tripped?” It was hard to believe a man could get that much disbelief in one word.