by Diana Palmer
“You can let me know what you decide,” he said, mistaking her attitude for relief as he turned toward the door. “I’ll assume the financial responsibility, either way. As you said, I didn’t take precautions, so it is my fault.”
He was gone before she could utter another word, or correct the wrong impression he’d assumed from her poorly worded explanation. She put her face in her hands. It had gone wrong from the very beginning, but she did want the child. She wanted it terribly. If only she could make him understand what she was feeling. He’d looked at her with pure dislike. It would make it even harder for her to face him in the future. Meanwhile, she had another responsibility to add to her growing list. The next day the tests came back, and they were conclusive. She was pregnant.
Prenatal visits were expensive. So were the vitamins her new obstetrician prescribed. She had an HMO at work, but there were things it didn’t cover, and pregnancy was one. She’d asked them to delete pregnancy coverage because she hadn’t thought she’d ever need it. What an irony. The small monthly cost of the coverage would have more than paid for itself, but she’d burned her bridges. Now that Mack was out of school for the summer, she had to pay a neighbor to keep him while she was at work. The car needed a tune-up. And in between, there were these new medical bills.
In desperation, she took on a morning newspaper route. She had to be up before daylight to get her papers in the boxes, but it meant that she could still get to her job on time. Mack raised the roof when he found out, but he wasn’t in any position to fight her.
Granddad was losing his grip on life, or so it seemed to Becky when she visited him. He was slipping away, a little more every day.
Clay, on the other hand, was spouting information to Mr. Davis to help with his defense. He was still nervous about turning state’s evidence, though, and he hadn’t entirely made up his mind to do it. Becky was uneasier than ever about having him do it, in her present condition. She didn’t mind risking herself, but she couldn’t risk the baby.
As the days passed, the baby became her reason for living. She loved the very idea of it, and she blossomed. If it hadn’t been for her two jobs and the worry for Clay and Granddad, she might have breezed through the first trimester, but the strain took its toll on her strength. She began to lose weight, and she was sicker in the evenings than she’d ever been in the mornings.
Rourke showed up on Friday evening looking like the first cloud of a summer storm. He was disheveled and wearing jeans and a pullover white cotton knit sweatshirt with traces of grease all over it. His dark hair was down in his eyes, and he was sweaty and irritable and tense.
But when he saw Becky lying on the sofa with her face gaunt and thin, pinched with nausea, the irritation left.
He put his hands on his hips and glared down at her surprised face. “My God, you look like death. Can you eat an omelet?”
“No!” She groaned and buried her face in the cold wet cloth Mack had brought her.
“Then you’re out of luck, because that’s the only thing I can cook that’s edible. Mack said you missed lunch, too.”
She glanced at a sheepish Mack, who was watching a game show on TV. “Traitor,” she accused.
“I couldn’t think of anybody else who’d care if you died,” Mack said simply.
Becky flushed and wouldn’t look up. “What makes you think Mr. District Attorney would?” she muttered.
“Well, after all, Becky, it’s his baby,” Mack said simply.
She sat up, gasping with outraged shock. “What did you say?” she exclaimed breathlessly.
“Oh, there was this show about babies,” Mack explained eagerly, getting up to join her and a fascinated Rourke. “It told all about how ladies act when they get pregnant. You went to the doctor and he sent you to an obstetrician, and Mr. Kilpatrick is the only guy you ever went out with.” He shrugged. “Figuring it out was a piece of cake.”
Becky put her embarrassed face in her hands. “What is the world coming to?”
“I don’t know,” Rourke said shortly, glowering down at her. “When a woman won’t marry the father of her child, I’d say it’s a pretty lousy world.”
“Becky won’t marry you?” Mack exclaimed.
“See?” he muttered at Becky. “You’ve shocked your innocent little brother. You scarlet woman.”
She flushed. “Stop talking that way around him.”
“The baby won’t have a name.” Mack sighed.
“Sure he will,” Rourke assured him, putting an affectionate arm around the thin shoulders. “We’ll wait until she goes into labor and sneak a minister into the delivery room.” He grinned. “She’ll marry me.”
“Never!” she said fervently, and turned green. “Oh, no!”
Rourke slipped his arms under her, lifted her gently, and carried her down the hall to the bathroom. He astonished her by knowing exactly what to do. He took care of her until the wave of nausea had passed, then mopped her up and helped her douse the taste with mouthwash. He carried her back to her room and laid her gently down on the faded quilt.
“You need rest,” he said. “Mack told me about the paper route.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, honey, but you’re fired. I just told your boss you couldn’t risk the baby.”
“You didn’t!” she exclaimed weakly.
“I did. I’ll take care of the obstetrician and the pharmacy,” he told her. “I’ve got a man coming over to see about the haying and looking after the livestock on a regular basis. The garden will have to wait until fall now, but I’ll have the plot turned over and fertilized so it will be ready.” He glanced around the house, ignoring Becky’s wan protests. “The house needs some work, too. I might as well give that a shot.”
“Rourke, will you listen to me…” she began.
He looked down at her, smiling gently. “I’m glad you remember my name.”
“You can’t,” she wailed.
“Yes, I can.” He bent and drew his lips slowly over her eyes, closing them. “I’ll get Mack some supper. Try to sleep a little while. I’ll check on you later.”
“You can’t take over,” she tried again.
“No?” He chuckled gently. “Good night.”
He turned off her light and went out, closing the door softly behind him.
“It’s just because of the baby,” she murmured out loud and closed her eyes. “You don’t really care about me—you just want him. Well, you won’t fool me into losing my wits a second time.”
And having settled that, she went to sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Becky slept until morning. She woke up still in her lounging clothes, but under the sheet. Rourke no doubt, she thought bitterly. Well, at least he hadn’t undressed her while she was helpless. And why should he, she asked herself then, when he’d already seen everything she had? It wouldn’t be interesting for him anymore!
Mack was up watching Saturday cartoons when she stumbled to the kitchen to make toast and coffee for herself and fix cereal for him. She almost fell over Rourke, who was sitting in a chair with his long legs spread out in front of him.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped. “Didn’t you go home last night?”
“Obviously,” he said nonchalantly, indicating his gray slacks and blue pin-striped shirt. He was freshly shaven as well, and a delightfully masculine cologne emanated from him as she paused uncertainly by his chair. “You can eat and then we’ll all go and see Granddad.”
Her mouth fell open with horror. “You’re going, too? You can’t! He’ll have a heart attack and die if he sees you with me!”
“We can bet on that later,” he informed her.
He looked stubborn and determined, and she didn’t feel like fighting. She gave in—only temporarily, she promised herself. She pushed back a tangle of golden-brown hair. “Well, I suppose I could eat a little cinnamon toast,” she murmured. “I’ll make it.”
“I’ve already made it,” he told her. “There’s a plate of it on the stove. Mack
and I left you a couple of slices. Coffee’s in the percolator,” he added, lifting a mug of steaming black coffee to prove it. “Of course, I’d be delighted to fix it for you, but I hesitate to offer,” he said with a slow grin. “I don’t want another cup thrown at my head.”
She cleared her throat. “I can’t afford to lose any more crockery,” she said. She pulled her worn blue robe closer around her with tattered pride. “I’m sorry about that,” she apologized stiffly. “My emotions are sort of ragged right now.”
He nodded. “The book said that a woman’s emotions get a little strained in pregnancy because of all the metabolic changes,” he replied easily. “Eat something.”
She started to speak, but he lifted an eyebrow and looked as if he might do something unpredictable, so she shrugged and went to put toast on a saucer and pour coffee into a cup.
He watched her sit down across from him, smiling faintly at her reluctant submission.
If she’d had the stomach, she’d have said something cutting in answer to that smug grin, but her insides were churning. She stared at the toast and wasn’t sure that it would stay down.
She glanced up at him and back down again after she’d taken a nibble of toast and a sip of coffee and was waiting to make sure it stayed down before she took another nibble. He was the handsomest man she’d ever known. Looking at him made tiny shivers of pleasure run down her spine. He could belong to her, if she’d just agree to marry him. It was a tremendous temptation. But she couldn’t be sure of his motives. He might just want the baby, or feel guilty about his treatment of her. Maybe both, because he’d said some hurtful things to her, although she had to admit that she’d said some hurtful things back.
He shifted in his chair. “Doing okay?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Good.” He sipped more coffee and drew out the inevitable cigar, but he didn’t light it. He laid it next to his saucer. “I’ll wait until I’m outside,” he said when he noticed her curious glance. “I don’t want to make you any more nauseated than you already are.”
“How kind,” she murmured.
“Have you decided what you want to do about the baby?” he added, and didn’t look at her.
His stillness was more eloquent than any expression would have been. She stared at his averted profile and could almost feel the pain emanating from him. He seemed so self-sufficient and well-adjusted to being alone that she’d never imagined him as a family man even in her fondest dreams. But just lately he was giving every appearance of being a man who wanted a child of his own.
She wrapped her cold fingers around the coffee cup. “I go out of my way not to step on ants,” she began hesitantly. “Once I tried to patch up a garter snake that the hoe hit, even though I’m deathly afraid of snakes.” She stared into her reflection in the coffee cup, aware of his intent scrutiny. “I couldn’t live with an abortion. Some women can, I guess, especially if they don’t want a child. I want this baby—very much.”
He made a sound deep in this throat—such an odd one that she looked up. But he was out of his chair and moving toward the living room before she could see his face. He didn’t come back. She ate a little more toast and drank a little more coffee. She didn’t want to think about his reaction, so she left the rest of her small breakfast and went to get dressed.
Rourke was sitting in the front porch swing smoking a cigar when Mack went out to find him.
“Becky’s getting dressed,” he said. He didn’t quite know what to say to Rourke. He looked different somehow—shaken, pale. Mack didn’t understand why he looked that way at all. “Are you okay?” he asked warily.
Rourke took a puff on the cigar. “I’m all right. Sit down.”
Mack plopped into the swing beside him and leaned back. “Why is Becky so mad at you?”
His broad shoulders rose and fell. “Wait until you’re Clay’s age and I’ll explain it to you.”
“Oh. It’s because of the baby, right?”
“More than likely.” He sighed wearily and ran a restless hand through his thick, dark hair. He glanced down at the boy with a smile more tender than he realized. “I remember being your age. I liked to go fishing with my best friend’s family and read comic books sprawled across my bed. It was a good time. Uncomplicated.”
“Yeah.” Mack propped a sneakered foot up on the swing and leaned his chin on his knees. “Isn’t it better to be big, though? At least nobody bosses you around and tells you what to do.”
“Think so?” Rourke leaned back with a long sigh and took another draw on the cigar. “Mack, my boy, I’ve got thousands of bosses. Everybody from John Q. Public to the presiding judge on every case tells me what to do. If you get a job, you get a boss.”
Mack thought about that. “Well, yes.” He grinned up at the older man. “But you get to pick the job.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Rourke replied.
“Will Becky get big, like in the movies?”
He nodded, smiling a kind of secret smile that puzzled Mack. “Big as a pumpkin.”
“Will it be a boy or a girl?”
“We don’t know yet,” he said gently. “I’m not sure I want to know,” he added with a gin. “I like surprises, don’t you?”
“Nice ones,” Mack agreed. “But Becky won’t marry you, Mr. Kilpatrick.”
“Oh, she will,” he murmured absently, seeing in his mind pictures of himself carrying a gently restrained Becky into a church past shocked spectators at their wedding. “She’ll do it for the baby’s sake, even if she won’t do it for mine,” he added.
“That means you’ll be family,” the boy said.
Rourke took another draw from the cigar. “Irrevocably.”
Mack studied his sneakered foot without really seeing it. “What about Clay, Mr. Kilpatrick?” he asked. “I turned him in.”
Rourke put a careless arm around the boy’s thin shoulders. “You and I are the only two people on earth who know that. And nobody will hear it from me. Okay?”
“But…”
Rourke turned his head. His dark eyes lanced into the boy’s. “Okay?” he asked levelly.
“Okay. Thanks,” Mack added uneasily.
“A man has to look out for his youngest brother-in-law, doesn’t he?” Rourke asked with a grin. He wouldn’t let himself think about how much that promise might hurt his relationship with Becky, when they finally sorted things out.
Inside the house, Becky put on a pair of jeans that were suddenly very tight and added a colorful puffy-sleeved loose striped top that overlapped the waistband. She brushed her hair, put on a minimum of makeup, and went to join Mack and Rourke on the front porch.
They looked very natural sitting in the swing together, Rourke smoking his eternal cigar and gently moving the swing with one long leg while he and the boy talked as if they were old friends.
“Ready?” Rourke asked, getting to his feet with Mack right beside him. “I’ll drive.”
“Good idea,” Mack nodded. “Becky’s car goes sometimes and doesn’t go sometimes—you can never be sure.”
“It’s a good car,” Becky protested.
“It’s not a new car,” Mack said, making enthusiastic noises as he got into the back seat of Rourke’s car. “Wow! Radical!” he exclaimed, examining everything from the ashtrays to the pull-down armrest.
“Don’t you get bored in the waiting room?” Rourke asked with a frown as he glanced back at Mack, remembering that the boy was probably too young to visit in Granddad’s room.
“Oh, he can go in, too,” Becky said, quickly understanding his train of thought. “Granddad’s in the HealthRex nursing home now; they moved him. I told you, remember?”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he murmured. “I’d forgotten. Is he any better?” he asked.
She glanced at Mack, who was looking out the window, then back at Rourke and quickly shook her head.
He grimaced. “He’s giving up.”
“That’s right. I’ve tried talking to him, but he just
closes his eyes and shuts me out.” She lifted the hem of her blouse and examined the stitches in it. It was one she’d made herself last year, and not a bad job if she did say so.
“He needs something to liven him up,” he mused.
“No. He needs rest.”
“Rest isn’t going to get him out of there.” He didn’t say anything else, leaving an excited Mack to talk nonstop to Becky while she puzzled over what Rourke had said.
“You won’t get him stirred up, will you?” she asked warily when they were walking down the long, spotless hall to the room the old man shared with another patient.
“Of course not,” he said innocently.
She didn’t believe him for a minute. The three of them went in. The other bed was bare, but there were the remains of a breakfast tray on it, so presumably somebody was berthed there. Becky took one of the chairs and Rourke took the other while Mack went to the old man’s bedside and held his hand.
“Hi, Granddad,” he said. “How are you today? We sure do miss you at home.”
The old man’s eyelids flickered. He didn’t open them.
“It’s lonely, all right,” Becky added. “Are you feeling any better?”
Still there was no response.
Rourke glanced at the two of them and then got up and moved to the bedside.
“You missed a good breakfast at the house,” he said calculatingly, putting a finger to his lips when Becky started to speak. “Not to mention the great coffee I made.”
The old pale blue eyes levered open and he glared up at Rourke. “What were you…doing in my house?”
“Trying to take care of Becky and Mack,” he said simply.
Mr. Cullen struggled to sit up. “Oh, no, you don’t, you cold-eyed scalawag!” He fought out from under the sheet. “You aren’t hanging around my granddaughter without a chaperone. You’ve done enough damage to my family.”
“It sounds as if he knows already, doesn’t it?” Rourke asked a horrified Becky with maddening carelessness while he stared at the older man.
