The Great Montana Cowboy Auction

by Anne McAllister

  "I just have to try," he told her.

  And Joyce nodded. "Yes."

  So she practiced with him, and then, later, she'd practiced her Spanish with Celie whose ship was going to make stops in Panama and Puerto Vallarta.

  "You know, you could go on a singles cruise, too," Celie had told her when she'd first brought brochures home.

  Joyce had been startled, then laughed at the thought. "I'm sure you'd love to go with your mother."

  "Not with me," Celie said. "With people your age. They have them. You should think about it, Mom."

  Joyce was thinking about it now as she mixed up a batch of cookies. Celie was probably somewhere along the coast of Mexico right now. She had gone off on Wednesday, determined and smiling.

  "More power to you, sweetheart," Joyce murmured. Everyone else was gone. Polly was at work. Sloan had driven up to the ranch to make sure everything was taken care of before he went to Kauai the day after tomorrow. The kids were all in school.

  "What do you think, Gil?" she said out loud. "Can you see me on a singles' cruise?"

  If he were here, she thought, he'd probably fall on the floor laughing.

  "Me, neither," she said with a wistful shake of her head. Still Celie's plans had made hers seem possible. Maybe a week at a beach in Cancun.

  There was a tap on the door.

  Carrying the mixing bowl, Joyce went to open it. "Walt!"

  He usually came on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was Wednesday. It was only nine in the morning. "What's wrong?"

  Walt looked chalk-white as he held out a letter. "It's from her."

  Her.

  Joyce dumped the bowl on the counter and took the letter, then opened the door wider and beckoned Walt in. He came in, pulled off his hat and stood crushing the brim of his hat while Joyce stared at the letter in her suddenly trembling hands and felt as nervous as she was sure Walt must have been.

  "Read it," he urged her.

  Joyce slid the thin paper out of its envelope and unfolded it. In a small, neat careful hand, Walt's daughter had written in English, "I have dreamed of this for years—to know my father, to know he has not forgotten me."

  She wrote that her mother had shown her his picture, but that she never knew his last name. "She didn't want me to know in case I had the idea to disturb your life," An had written. "She said you did what you had to do."

  Joyce looked at Walt. His eyes were shimmering with tears. Still holding the letter in one hand, she reached out with the other to take one of his in hers. It was cold and rough, but it grasped hers fiercely and hung on.

  "I am so glad you have written to me now. I hope we can be friends. I am a teacher of English. I learned it so someday I might be able to talk to you."

  Their eyes met again. Walt grinned wryly. "Guess her mother must've told her how bad I was at languages."

  "Not so bad," Joyce said, but she smiled a little damply, too.

  She went back and read the letter again, digesting it slowly. Walt's daughter was a widow. Her husband, a policeman, had died two years before. She had two children, a boy, nine, and a girl, five.

  "Grandkids," Walt said, dazed. "Can you believe it?" He was grinning again, this time with delight. And Joyce shared his joy.

  "It seems," she said, "as if you've been a grandpa for years."

  "Seems so," he agreed with considerable relish.

  The letter ended with an invitation. "I hope you will come to Vietnam to visit us. I and my children will be so happy to welcome you."

  "So when are you going?" Joyce asked, folding the letter and handing it back to him.

  Walt took it, unfolded it and read it silently to himself before answering. Then he looked up and met Joyce's gaze. "As soon as I can talk you into comin', too."

  Stunned, Joyce simply stared.

  Go to Vietnam?

  Her first instinct was to say no. She was sixty years old, for heaven's sake. She'd never traveled abroad before. She might manage Mexico. Mexico was on the beaten path. She might even decide Mexico was a bit much. Maybe she would start with Canada. She would be able to use more than thirty-seven words.

  Said you wanted to travel, didn't you? she could almost hear Gil's voice in her ear. But … Vietnam?

  With Walt! What about that?

  Women her age didn't travel with men who weren't their husbands. Did they? Joyce was so out of touch she really didn't know.

  "If you'd rather not," Walt said now, after what was probably a very long stretch of utterly flabbergasted silence, "I'll understand. I just thought…well, you were sayin' you wanted to go somewhere different. Travel a bit. I know you thought Mexico, but I figured maybe if you didn't have your heart set on that, you might want to think about comin' along."

  "Well, I…" Joyce was still a little overwhelmed by the notion. "I don't know," she said. "I hadn't thought— You and me? I'm not … we aren't— Oh, heavens. Old habits die hard," she said at last.

  "They do," Walt agreed solemnly. He took her hand again and rubbed his thumb along the side. "Would you come if we were married?"

  If she had been astonished before, it was nothing to this. "Married?"

  "I been thinkin' about it a lot lately. Thinkin' about you." He rubbed a hand over his short hair, then kneaded the taut muscles at the back of his neck. "I haven't got a lot to compare it with, what I been thinkin', what I been feelin'. Just what I felt for Margie and what I felt for Sue. But I'd say it ranks right up there. I reckon I love you."

  Abruptly Joyce sat down.

  "If it's gonna make it harder," Walt said quickly, "just forget I said anything."

  Forget? Just turn off her mind and forget? "Are you crazy?" Joyce demanded.

  Walt grinned. "Maybe a little. Hell, Joyce, I wasn't expecting to fall in love with you. I wasn't lookin' for anything like that. But it sure does feel like that's what's happened. And well, it doesn't have anything to do with goin' to Vietnam—unless you want it to. Reckon I shouldn't've said 'em together. You can come or not. But either way, I'd be honored if you'd be my wife."

  Joyce was still in shock. Getting a proposal of marriage was as shocking as Walt's hearing from An. She'd never thought about marrying again, had never even considered it.

  What would Gil say?

  She smiled. No question there. Gil would say, If that's what you want, go for it, babe. She knew Gil. He had always grabbed life with both hands.

  And she? What was she going to do?

  She'd started to move forward. She'd taken baby steps. Did her macramé. Studied her Spanish. Planned vaguely for "someday."

  But never a someday like this.

  "I'm stunned," she said to Walt. "Amazed. Astonished."

  "But not sayin' no," Walt asked quickly.

  But not saying no.

  She could hear Gil in her ear now. Come on, Joy-o, fish or cut bait. She closed her eyes and saw Gil smiling at her. She opened them and saw Walt looking worried.

  "I'll go to Vietnam with you," Joyce said, and felt a quickening deep inside at the joy in Walt's sudden smile.

  He reached for her, took her in his arms, and for the first time since Gil died, she felt the solid warmth of a hard male body against hers. Walt was taller than Gil. He stood straighter. He was broader through the shoulders. His jaw was bristlier. And his lips…

  She didn't compare his lips. She didn't think at all, she simply savored the kiss. It was tender and gentle and experienced. It offered. It didn't take. It gave, but it didn't insist.

  It wasn't young love—eager and fierce and passionate. But it was deep and strong and abiding. It felt real.

  They both came with families, with baggage, with memories. They each had too much past to pretend they were just starting here. It was the past that made them who they were today. And they would help make each other who they were tomorrow. They weren't finished yet, either one of them.

  For the first time, Joyce thought, she could smile as she faced the future.

  "Yes, to Vietnam," she said again,
smiling into those wise, gentle faded blue eyes. "And I'll consider your other offer seriously."

  A part of Polly expected it to end right here.

  Sloan was leaving today. Going to Kauai. Going to paradise, according to one of the magazine articles about his next film that she read. Celie had given it to her before she left last week.

  "Nice place for a honeymoon," her sister had suggested.

  It was. The photos showed Kauai to be gorgeous. Romantic. Secluded. And based on the pictures, Polly allowed herself a romantic fantasy or two. But she really wasn't anticipating anything like that.

  "How can you be if you won't set a date?" Celie had complained.

  "I'm busy. He's busy. We have—"

  "Commitments. Responsibilities," Celie said before Polly could. "I know. But there's more to life than that, Pol'."

  Yes, there were also singles cruises. But Polly didn't say that. She knew she ought to be glad that Celie had taken her destiny in her own hands and was actively doing something for a change. Winning The Great Montana Cowboy Auction had given Celie more confidence than she'd had in years.

  "There's love," Celie went on. "Sloan loves you. You love him."

  "Yes."

  "Then what are you waiting for? The apocalypse?"

  "Something like that."

  Celie stared. "What?"

  Polly shrugged helplessly. "A sign."

  Not the apocalypse necessarily, but some assurance that marrying Sloan was really going to work, that it wasn't going to end in disaster, that discounting all their differences and believing in love really did make sense. It was too big a leap—like jumping the Grand Canyon—and Polly couldn't, simply couldn't, do it.

  "I just need a sign," she said. "That's all."

  But the choirs of angels were all busy the afternoon she took him to the airport. Every one of God's obvious messengers was busy delivering other lines. No celestial being went, "Pssst!" in Polly's ear, then having got her attention said, "It's okay for you to marry Sloan Gallagher." No minister showed up at the airport to give them his blessing.

  It was just Sloan and Polly—and a hundred or so interested onlookers in the departure lounge, all poking each other and whispering, "There's Sloan Gallagher!" and "Isn't that Sloan Gallagher?"

  Sloan was polite, but he wasn't "on" the way he had been during the auction.

  It amazed Polly the way he could do that—be totally involved with a crowd of people on one occasion and on another be polite but slightly remote, thereby creating an oasis of personal space. Somehow he sent the message that they could watch, but they couldn't intrude.

  "I've got something for you," he said to Polly. He reached into the inside chest pocket of his jacket, pulled out a fat envelope and handed it to her.

  Wordlessly she opened it. In it were eight plane tickets to Kauai, one for each member of her family. And one for Walt. The flight was in two weeks' time.

  Polly stared at them, then at Sloan.

  "Celie will be back by then," he said. "Sara will be finished with finals. Lizzie, Daisy and Jack can miss a week of school. And it will get Walt and your mom halfway to Vietnam. I'll arrange whatever else needs to be arranged. All you have to do is show up—and marry me, Polly." Deep-blue eyes locked with hers.

  And for a split second Polly dared to believe she saw a sign.

  He called her every night. "I miss you," he said.

  And Polly wasn't lying when she said, "I miss you, too."

  She'd grown used to having Sloan around, to seeing him, talking to him, laughing with him, touching him. Now she went to bed early with memories of what it had been like loving him. She woke up thinking about him, she went to bed thinking about him. She went through her life in a Sloan-filled daze.

  It worried her, though. It felt like she was courting disaster. But as each day passed and the disaster didn't happen, she began to hope. She even began to plan.

  She dared to buy a few summery things to wear on the beach. She even got a new bathing suit. Celie had brought her back a nightgown that was simply shocking.

  "I can't!" Polly protested, face reddening furiously.

  But Celie said, "You have to. I bought it in Puerto Vallarta. I certainly can't take it back. And think how happy it will make Sloan when he gets to take it off you."

  When he was gone and she was working at the post office, it was impossible to imagine. Polly shook her head. "You're shameless," she accused her sister. "I suppose you bought one for Mom, too."

  "As a matter of fact…" Celie grinned widely.

  "You didn't!" Polly was shocked.

  Surprisingly, Joyce liked hers. She and Walt weren't married yet. They were engaged, though. Walt had given Joyce a ring. Polly saw her mother look at it sometimes as if she were surprised to see it on her finger. But then she'd fold her other hand over it and get this small secret smile on her face as if she were both delighted and amazed.

  Polly was pretty amazed herself. She still couldn't believe it was happening, even as she packed her bag the night before they were to leave. Tomorrow at this time, she'd be with Sloan. The next day she'd be marrying him.

  It was like one of his movies—complete with happy ending.

  And then the door opened and Sara came into her room, white-faced and raccoon-eyed. She'd finished her finals last week, and Polly was glad she was coming with them. Sara, of all of them, looked as if she needed a rest.

  "All packed?" she asked cheerfully.

  And Sara shook her head. "I'm bleeding."

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  « ^

  Pregnant and bleeding.

  Which Sara had somehow, until that moment, failed to mention. Now she sat shivering, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them on her mother's bed. She looked exhausted and young and very, very scared.

  Polly felt like she'd been hit over the head with a brick.

  "You're pregnant?" Polly stared at her daughter. Sara? Her Sara?

  "Don't look at me like that!"

  But how were you supposed to look when everything you thought you knew about your child suddenly turned totally upside down? "I'm just … surprised."

  "And disappointed," Sara said, jaw jutting.

  "Worried. How much are you bleeding? How far along are you?"

  "Three months," Sara said in a small voice.

  "Three?" Polly gaped. She'd seen Sara almost every day for those three months. How had she missed the signs? Why on earth didn't I know?

  Of course Sara was gone a lot, always studying, always in class or at school or in the library. Polly had noticed her daughter looking gaunt and stressed and sleepless lately. But she had attributed it to how hard Sara was working. She'd never once thought Sara could be pregnant.

  Not Sara.

  Never Sara.

  Sara planned everything. But she certainly hadn't planned this!

  Polly had a hundred questions. She couldn't ask one. And the past didn't matter, anyway. What mattered was what was happening to Sara and the baby now.

  "I started a little spotting yesterday," Sara said, her voice quavering. "I read in a book that it sometimes happens around when you would have been getting your period, so I didn't think too much about it. I thought it would stop, Mom, but it … it hasn't! And there's more now. What if I lose the baby?" Sara wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked, turning her anguished eyes on Polly.

  Make it better, Mom.

  Polly folded her in a fierce hug. "Get your jacket. We're going to the hospital."

  The E.R. doc called Sara's obstetrician.

  "You have an obstetrician?" Polly asked her daughter as they sat in the small examining room.

  "Of course." Sara looked surprised that she would even ask. "I know the value of prenatal care. I'm not totally stupid." Then she winced and added, "Only selectively stupid."

  "Takes one to know one." Polly put her arm around Sara's thin shoulders and gave her a squeeze. It was all too easy to remember the panicky early days of her ex
tremely unplanned pregnancy with Sara.

  "At least Dad loved you," Sara said, which was certainly true.

  Polly stroked Sara's hair away from her face. "Don't you think Gregg loves you?"

  Sara blinked at her, then she shut her eyes. When she opened them she shook her head. "No," she said in a hollow voice. "But it doesn't matter. This isn't Gregg's child."

  It was a good thing there was a chair where Polly sat. She stared at Sara. "Not…?" She couldn't finish. Horrible things that could have happened to Sara were flashing through her head.

  Sara must have realized it from the expression on her face, because she shook her head fiercely. "It's not that," she said. "I wanted to do it. I went to him. I love him! It's … it's Flynn's."

  Flynn?

  Who the heck was Flynn?

  For more than a few seconds Polly couldn't think. And then she remembered a lean handsome raven-haired young man with an Irish accent and a gift of blarney.

  "The writer?" she asked to be sure.

  Sara nodded. "Yes. That's him."

  "And he and … and you…" Polly could almost not say the words. She felt so hopelessly inadequate. Her daughter had slept with this man and she'd barely even noted his existence!

  What kind of mother was she?

  The door opened and the obstetrician came in. He nodded at Polly, but his focus was entirely on Sara as he smiled and said, "Ah, Sara. Let's take a look and see what's going on with you."

  Polly got to wait outside. She got to sit in the waiting room and stare at a magazine and not see a word. Sara, her Sara, was pregnant! She'd had sex—made love, she imagined Sara would say—with a man her mother barely even realized she knew. She thought she was in love with this man, this … this … Flynn!

  And where was Flynn?

  Polly hadn't asked, but it didn't seem as if Sara knew.

  The doctor came out of the examining room right before Polly wore a rut in the floor. She grabbed him by the arm. "Is she—"

  He folded a hand over hers. "She needs to go to bed. To stay there. To rest. A lot. I'm keeping her overnight. We'll see about tomorrow. She's exhausted. She needs to stop stressing herself out."