by Brenda Novak
Delaney imagined the embarrassment Conner could heap on Aunt Millie’s already stooped shoulders because of her, and hesitated. Conner was angry—or maybe livid was a better word—but he’d calm down, and then he’d have to listen to her. She’d make him listen, convince him that she’d had no intention of involving him or his grandfather in her baby’s future. Convince him she wasn’t interested in his family’s money.
“Fine.” She relented. “I’ll fill in for Dottie until she gets back, but that’s all I can promise.”
“See you in two weeks, sweetheart,” he said, then the phone clicked in her ear.
She was still holding the receiver when Rebecca appeared at the end of the hallway, wearing a pair of boxers and a T-shirt.
“I thought that might be Buddy,” she said, her hair sticking out on all sides.
“No.” Delaney hung up and covered her face with her hands. What was she going to do?
“So who was it?” Rebecca asked.
“Conner.”
Delaney peeked through her fingers long enough to see Rebecca’s surprised expression. “What did he want?”
“He said I’d better move out to the ranch as soon as the library closes or all hell will break loose.”
Rebecca shook her head. “I told you that you should’ve stuck with the cancer story,” she grumbled, and shuffled back to bed.
Then Delaney called Aunt Millie to tell her the good news.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TWO WEEKS LATER, Delaney was on her way to the ranch. Encompassing most of two mountains and a good portion of the valley between, it looked beautiful with the green of spring. Yellow wildflowers waved on the hillsides and the trees were just regaining their leaves. But she hadn’t come to enjoy the scenery.
Slowing at the gate that led to the house, she wiped away the moisture on her lip, wondering how she could be sweating in forty-degree weather. She tossed a nervous glance at the suitcases she’d piled in the back seat. She had enough clothes in those bags to spend all of spring away from home, and probably summer, too, but she didn’t intend to stay with Conner any longer than it took to gain his confidence and cooperation. It was just that packing had been therapeutic—all those neat folds and familiar steps to and from her closet—so she’d gotten carried away.
As she turned into the rutted drive, she recognized the white pickup that had been parked in front of Aunt Millie’s house when she’d come to dinner on Easter Sunday, and wished she had the nerve to ram it. She’d always weighed her actions carefully, stifled the dramatic, avoided anything that would make her look bad, anything that would make others look bad, anything that would be hurtful or foolish or require an apology. Anything, in short, with even the slightest negative consequences. But she was tired of all that. For some reason, she wanted to throw the biggest tantrum anyone had ever seen. All she’d ever wanted was a baby of her own. She’d lived a good life, followed the Golden Rule, gone to church, sacrificed for the good of the community. Was one baby too much to ask?
Evidently it was. Since that night in Boise, everything had started rolling downhill and was only gathering speed. Now she was a hostage to her baby’s father. Judging by the cryptic message he’d left on her answering machine last night, saying she’d better report for work by eight o’clock sharp, Conner planned to make the most of whatever power he imagined he possessed.
If he thought he’d take her baby, however, he had another think coming! She put a hand to her belly. No one, no one, was going to stand between her and this child.
Delaney parked to the side so the other vehicles in the drive—an old Chevy Suburban and a brown pickup truck with the tailgate down—could still get past her. Shoving the gearshift into park, she got out and collected her luggage. She dragged all three pieces to the front step, then punched the doorbell about ten times without pause, feeling vaguely satisfied when Conner answered, looking harried and still in the process of buttoning his flannel shirt.
“Give me a damn minute, will you?” he snapped, scowling at her.
“Eight o’clock sharp,” she said with a smile. Then she pushed one piece of luggage closer to the entrance. “What do you want me to do with this stuff?”
Without answering or bothering to finish buttoning his shirt, he reached out and grabbed the suitcases. Carrying them as easily as if they were empty, shirttails flapping as he walked, he led her down a long hall and into a medium-size bedroom.
Delaney forced herself to keep up with his quick strides and then stood at the door while he deposited her things on a double bed. Beneath the thick white molding that circled the room, flowered wallpaper—giant yellow and white gardenias from the looks of them—covered the walls. Green curtains, faded along the hem, framed the room’s one window; a small television sat on a highboy Duncan Phyfe dresser opposite the bed; and various knickknacks cluttered the mirrored dresser to the right of the entrance. A quick peek told Delaney that the door beyond the mirrored dresser opened into a walk-in closet, but from what she could see, there was no adjoining bath. All in all, the room looked clean, even if it had been furnished twenty years earlier and never updated.
“This is your new home for the next seven or eight months,” Conner said. “Unpack, then meet me in the kitchen.”
Delaney didn’t want to unpack. She wanted to sit down with him and have a heart-to-heart talk about those seven or eight months he’d mentioned—and the baby who’d arrive when that time was up. But Conner seemed to be in some sort of hurry, and she knew better than to waylay him just yet. Maybe his preoccupation had something to do with the terrible stench she’d noticed coming from the kitchen.
“Is Dottie here?” she asked as he passed her.
“No. Her daughter went into labor early. She flew to Salt Lake Saturday night.” He headed out of the room, and Delaney followed as far as the hall.
“So who’s cooking?” she called after him.
“I am.”
“Now I know why you wanted me here on time.”
He didn’t answer, so she went back into her room and sat disconsolately on the chenille bedspread, where she remained for several minutes, staring at her bags. She could unpack, as he’d suggested, but somehow unpacking did not strike her as therapeutic. Unpacking meant she’d be doing exactly what she’d been told. So she folded her arms in defiance, then realized Conner probably didn’t care whether she unpacked or not as long as she stayed at the ranch. And, unfortunately, for her reputation’s sake and for Aunt Millie and Uncle Ralph, she did have to stay there. At least for now.
Standing, she wandered around the room, examining framed prints by a man named W.H. Bartlett, scenes that looked like pencil sketches of London a century or more ago. Then she checked the bedding beneath the chenille spread to find three handmade quilts, tested the television and finally searched for a bathroom, which she found at the end of the hall. After about twenty minutes, she knew she should probably make her way to the kitchen, but the same stubborn streak that had stopped her from unpacking sent her back to her room. If Conner wanted to see her, he could damn well come and fetch her.
Footsteps in the hall sent a prickle down Delaney’s spine. She turned, expecting Conner to appear and growl at her the way he had when she’d rung the bell earlier. But it was Roy who stuck his head through the doorway. “Conner’s burned just about everything he’s laid his hands on in there,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Would you see what you can salvage of our breakfast? At this rate, the cattle will starve by the time we get out there.”
Frustrated that Conner had sidestepped her small rebellion so easily, she considered her options. She could refuse and have it out with him here and now, while Roy—and whoever else was here—listened in. Or she could comply and bide her time until a better opportunity presented itself.
She thought of Uncle Ralph, who, before leaving for the barbershop yesterday, had congratulated her on the new job, as though she was almost completely back in his good graces. She thought of her origi
nal plan to win Conner over and realized that plan hadn’t included a knock-down drag-out fight. Then she thought of her dwindling savings and the possibility of earning some money while she was here, and nodded. She had almost seven months before the baby came—plenty of time to gain control of the situation.
“I’m coming,” she said. “What’s that terrible smell?”
“You’ll see.”
* * *
BURNT OATMEAL. Delaney swallowed hard and tried not to look at the hot cereal that had boiled over onto the stove. She wanted to show these cowboys that she could cook, that as low as Conner thought she was, she still had some redeeming qualities. But she wouldn’t be able to do that if every time she smelled food her morning sickness reasserted itself. Putting one hand on the counter to steady herself, she smiled weakly at the four men who lounged around the table drinking coffee, hoping she didn’t look as green as she felt and wondering what, if anything, Conner had told them about her.
“Hi.” She recognized a stocky, dark-haired man balancing on two legs of his chair, and the man to his right, who was taller and had a slighter build, from the Honky Tonk, but she’d never actually met them before. Roy introduced the stocky man as Grady, the other as Ben, then motioned to the slender blond cowboy closest to her and said, “This here’s Isaiah.”
She mumbled that it was good to meet them, while searching her mind for a meal she could cook that would be fast and easy, and would smell nothing like oatmeal. “Anybody interested in an omelette?”
“I’ll eat anything before I’ll eat that,” Isaiah responded, punching a finger toward Conner’s breakfast.
Conner ignored him. Turning the page of a magazine on the table next to him, he took another bite of his oatmeal as though it tasted just fine, and kept reading.
“Omelettes it is, then,” she said, infusing her voice with as much cheer as she could manage under the circumstances.
Roy helped her find a frying pan, eggs, butter, cheese, onions, bacon and a spatula. By the time Conner had finished his oatmeal and set his bowl in the sink, she was half done with the first omelette.
“Would you like one?” she asked him.
The look he gave her said he didn’t want anything from her. “Meet you boys out back,” he told the others, and left.
Delaney watched him go, wondering if seven months was going to be long enough to get through to him. He had every right to be angry, but if he’d just listen to her, believe her…
How could she expect him to believe her when she’d done nothing except lie to him from the moment they met? She had tricked him, even if it wasn’t for money, as he thought.
“Don’t worry about him. He’s still learning his way around,” Roy told her with a wink. “He’ll settle down.”
Delaney forced a smile. She couldn’t worry about Conner—at least, not too much. Not now. It was all she could do to finish cooking their breakfast before running for the bathroom.
* * *
THE BARN SMELLED of manure and animals. The first time Conner had stood inside it, he’d immediately compared the smell to the scent of moist, rich earth so prevalent in Napa—and thought the place stunk to high heaven. He’d wondered how anyone tolerated it. But somehow, the smell of the barn didn’t bother him anymore. Ironically enough, he sort of liked it. There was comfort to be found here, something that spoke of sweat and hard work, of the land, of his heritage.
Breathing deeply, Conner tried to forget about his nasty-tasting breakfast, and Delaney and her much more tempting omelettes, and even Roy’s silent disapproval of his surliness toward their new cook.
He hefted his saddle from the rack, preparing to ride. Roy and the others didn’t understand what was going on. They didn’t know how Delaney had used him. And they had no idea what sort of bind he was in now. If he was going to save the ranch, he had to do it fast, before the secret of Delaney’s pregnancy got out, or he wouldn’t have the chance. What she’d done had effectively cut the fuse his grandfather had given him to a fraction of its original length.
Trigger, his horse, nickered as Conner settled the saddle on his back. He patted the gelding’s neck and started cinching the girth strap, eager now that he was away from the house to get out on the open range. There, nothing except the rugged beauty of the mountains, his breath misting in the cold and the solid feel of his horse moving beneath him seemed of any consequence—but the telephone interrupted him before he could get away.
Taking a moment to finish with the saddle, he glanced over his shoulder at the wall, where the flashing light and constant ringing told him someone—Roy?—was patching a call through to him from the house. There were several more short bursts before he reached the phone, but when he finally brought the receiver to his ear, he wished he hadn’t bothered. It was Stephen, his uncle.
“What’s up?” Conner asked. “Is my mom okay?” His uncles contacted him once a week or so to check on his progress, but they typically called at night.
“She’s fine, if you can call someone who lives like a hermit fine. She really should find something to do with her life. Devoting herself to Grandfather and you is noble, but he isn’t going to be around forever, and we both know how much joy you’ve brought her.”
Conner felt a muscle in his cheek begin to twitch. “And you’d make any mother proud, is that it, Stephen?”
“Just stating the facts.”
“I’m aware of the facts. Why’d you call?”
“To tell you that we’ve made a few decisions on our end regarding the ranch.”
Conner felt a tremor of foreboding. “What kind of decisions?”
“Grandfather met with a Realtor yesterday, who—”
“He what?” Conner broke in.
“He met with a Realtor who specializes in large spreads, and—”
“Why?”
Stephen chuckled. “Surely even you aren’t that obtuse, Con.”
“Grandfather gave me a year. It’s only been a couple of months. What the hell is he doing meeting with a Realtor so early? Is he thinking of selling out?”
“I set up the meeting.” Stephen sounded smug. “With as long as it’s taking this type of investment property to sell, we need to put the ranch on the market right away. Unless we get lucky, it’ll take a year to liquidate it as it is.”
“Grandfather doesn’t want to sell.”
“Well, he’s a little sentimental about it, I admit. But he’s a businessman. He knows we’ll have to sell eventually. Why prolong the inevitable?”
“Are you putting on the pressure because you’re afraid the ranch is whittling away your inheritance, Stephen?” Conner asked, watching but barely seeing Champ chase a chicken out of the barn. “Or are you afraid I might actually be able to do something out here if I’m given a real chance?”
“As if you, of all people, could do anything, Con.”
“Then, what’s your hurry?”
“It’s all dollars and cents. Nothing personal, of course.”
Like hell it was nothing personal. It had always been personal with his uncles. Stephen was getting nervous because Conner had actually stayed and was trying to make a success of the ranch. “When does it go on the market?” he asked.
“We’re supposed to sign the listing agreement next week.”
“How much are you asking?”
“We haven’t decided yet. The Realtor is still gathering some comparables. But if I have my say, we’ll price it to move fast.”
Conner stared around him at the animals and the tack and the hay, breathed in the smell he’d once found so unpleasant, and felt sick inside. His grandfather had no confidence in him, after all. He’d known that in the beginning, but somehow he’d started to believe…It didn’t matter what he believed. Clive was going to sell out. He was staring at the truth now, and when word of Delaney’s pregnancy spread, his uncles would have even more fuel to use against him.
He’d known better than to try. He’d known Stephen and his other uncles would band to
gether and win in the end. How could he ever compensate for their vast resources and unity? Remembering all the beatings they’d given him growing up, the fighting he’d done just to establish some kind of equilibrium and the futility of his resistance, he wondered why he’d ever tried to change. They’d boxed him out from the beginning. They would always box him out.
* * *
FROM HER BEDROOM, Delaney heard the men come in, noted Conner’s voice among the others, and felt the tension in her body increase. She’d spent all day figuring out the kitchen and the house, had made a big meal of mashed potatoes and gravy, pot roast, candied carrots, spinach soufflé and Lula’s homemade rolls, had visited the barn, fed the dogs, gathered the eggs from the chicken coop and taken an inventory of the cellar. She’d even baked a couple of pies. Overall, it had been a good day. She’d managed to get a lot done despite her morning sickness, and didn’t mind the work. The ranch had a pleasant, homey atmosphere that felt as inviting as a toasty log cabin. But she hated feeling so unsettled about her future. She needed to talk to Conner, and she couldn’t let him put her off much longer. After dinner…
Pulling on a clean sweater, she visited the mirror in the bathroom to run a comb through her hair, then hurried down the hall toward the kitchen. She needed to get these cowboys fed so they’d disperse. Then she and Conner would be alone.
Roy raised his head the moment she came in and whistled. “You look pretty as a picture, Laney. And the food smells great.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Delaney saw Conner scowl, but she refused to give him a second thought. She was too busy taking the pot roast and vegetables out of the oven and transferring the food from pans into bowls. Shoving a serving spoon into each bowl, she placed everything on the long wooden table that ran the length of the room and motioned for Roy, Grady and the others to take a seat.
The young Isaiah, who’d been watching her since she came in, smiled shyly at her. “Is there anything I can help you with, Ms. Delaney?”
