Bringing Rosie Home

by Loree Lough

  “I’m lucky to have a mother like you, too.”

  She waved the compliment away. “Oh, you...” She gave his cheek a maternal pat. “I’m getting chilly. Let’s go inside.” She paused as she reached for the door handle. “And by the way, I love you, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “SO,” GRANT ASKED his mom, “have you and the girls figured out who’s hosting Thanksgiving this year?”

  “Actually, now that you mention it, we have.”

  Rena scooped up a spoonful of ice cream. “Let me guess—Anni’s house, because her dining room is bigger than Tressia’s.”

  “Wrong! We put our heads together the other day and decided that since you missed the festivities for a couple of years, you should do it.” Tina sipped her water. “Besides, you’re a better cook than all three of us put together.”

  “I’m flabbergasted. And flattered. Are you sure? I know how much you and your daughters love to host.”

  “We’ve all roasted our fair share of turkeys. And I’ll still bring my famous green bean casserole, so I’m a happy cook.”

  “Hey, Grandma?” Rosie piped up. “When we finish dessert, will you come to my room and read with me until it’s bedtime?”

  “I’d love to, but we should help your mom with the dishes first.”

  “No, you guys go ahead. Grant can help for a change.”

  “For a change? I clear the table nearly every night!”

  “Nearly isn’t nearly good enough,” she joked.

  For weeks, she’d wondered how to tell him. When to tell him. She’d been about to broach the subject in the backyard earlier, before Rosie had come outside. Rena knew it had to be tonight. She just had to get him to herself.

  Tina had gone home and the dishes were done when she pulled out a kitchen chair and said, “Grant, sit down.”

  “Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Hush, and let me talk.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He’d been saying that a lot lately. Hopefully, he’d say it again in just a few minutes.

  “Do you remember what I asked you that night, when you were...upset?”

  “You mean the night I bawled like a schoolgirl?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes, that night.”

  “As I recall, you asked me to forgive you.”

  Rena couldn’t believe it. Was he actually going to tell her what she wanted to hear, with no prompting from her?

  “I’ve been going over that in my head. Over and over, to be honest. And the truth is, there’s nothing to forgive. Never was. Never will be.”

  That surprised her and she said so.

  He shrugged, as if that was the end of it.

  “But, Grant, you said in plain English that you held me accountable for what happened to Rosie.”

  “I did. And I’m sorry. And I was dead wrong.”

  This wasn’t going at all the way she’d planned it. Rena decided to try a different approach.

  “It’s just...what I’m trying to say is, I need to clear the air. Start fresh. Wipe the slate clean.”

  His eyes widened and he paled. “What are you saying, Rena? A clean slate, meaning...”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that.” She hadn’t meant to freak him out.

  Grant’s expression relaxed. “Good. Because I thought things were going really well between us.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.

  Rena clamped her teeth together. When he looked at her that way, she was putty in his hands. He knew it, too. But tonight, she needed to be in control.

  “I need to hear you say it. Unless of course you don’t mean it. Then this whole exercise would be futile.”

  He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Rena. Honey. Please give me a break here. Exercise? What exercise?”

  “The clean-slate, fresh-start exercise, of course.”

  Grant sat back. “Oh.” He drove a hand through his hair. “So let me get this straight. You want me to say I forgive you, even though I don’t believe there’s anything to forgive you for.”

  Could it be that he finally understood? A gal can hope...

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. I forgive you...on one condition.”

  Rena’s heart sank. He didn’t understand, after all.

  “You have to say it, too.”

  “Say what?”

  “That you forgive me.”

  “For what?”

  “For being unfair. For making you feel awful about yourself. For driving you out of your own home. For making you believe I hated you, when I didn’t. Not even for a minute.”

  “Is this sounding a little déjà vu to you, or am I imagining things?”

  “Maybe, but when a thing is right, it bears repeating. Right?”

  “Grant...”

  “Rena...”

  He laughed, and she couldn’t help but join him.

  “See, here’s the thing,” she said. “I have something to tell you. Something really important. But before I do, I want to be sure that this whole matter behind us. You know?”

  His brow furrowed. “Not really, but I’ll humor you. How about this—we’ll say it together. On the count of three.” He held up one hand, raised his pointer finger. “One.” The middle finger popped up next. “Two.” And then, the ring finger. “Three.”

  “I forgive you,” they said together.

  “There. Slate’s wiped clean, the air is cleared, and we can start fresh. Satisfied?”

  Rena still wasn’t sure he’d meant it.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?”

  “This big important thing you want to tell me—what is it?”

  Now that she had him where she wanted him—sort of—Rena was tongue-tied.

  Finally, she took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

  “You’re...you’re what?”

  “You heard me. I’m having a baby.”

  He got to his feet, pulled her up with him. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “When?”

  “May. Around the time of Rosie’s birthday.”

  He gathered her into his arms and pressed kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids, her chin.

  She laughed. “You’re happy about this, then...”

  “Happy? You’re kidding, right?” Picking her up, Grant whirled her around, and when he set her down again, he kissed her. Kissed her like her meant it. Kissed her the way he had before Rosie’s disappearance.

  “We need to go wake up Rosie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he whispered, his lips touching hers, “I feel like celebrating. As a family.”

  Rena melted against him and memorized the moment. For some reason, the image of the Fenwick Island lighthouse came to mind, exactly the way it had looked in her rearview mirror as she left the cottage the day he called to tell her Rosie had been found. Back then, it had reminded her of the separation between her and Grant. Now, it only reminded her of all those weary sailors it had safely guided to shore.

  Grant was her lighthouse, her safe harbor.

  Rosie bounded into the room, grinning. “Mom...Dad...what's going on?”

  “Sit down, kiddo,” Grant said. “Your mom and I have something to tell you. Something we think will make you very happy.”

  Rena listened as Grant explained that soon, Rosie would become a big sister. And as she watched her daughter's eyes light up with anticipation and joy, she realized that her lighthouse analogy no longer fit the situation.

  Lighthouses, more often than not, were lone structures, built on islands.

  She wasn't alone anymore. Soon, their little family would grow, and together, they'd shelter one another.

  Forever
.

  * * * * *

  Don’t miss THE MAN SHE KNEW,

  the first book in Loree Lough’s BY WAY OF THE LIGHTHOUSE miniseries,

  and keep an eye out for book three in 2018.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from FALLING FOR A COWBOY by Karen Rock.

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  Falling for a Cowboy

  by Karen Rock

  Chapter One

  “HERE COMES THE CHAMP!” bellowed a rodeo announcer over the Las Vegas Thomas and Mack Center’s PA system. “She won her second straight WPRA World Championship title right here last year. Can she do it again? Ladies and gents, this is the amazing Amberley James from Carbondale, Colorado.”

  Amberley tapped the top of her dad’s black Stetson for good luck, lightly kicked her nine-year-old quarter horse, Harley, and galloped out into the arena to raucous applause. Ignoring the buzz of adrenaline inside her, she slowed her breathing and focused on the hunt. She could not—would not—lose. Winning was a state of mind. A way of being. Life. All that she knew and all that she’d ever strive to do.

  As her father always told her, if you’re not first you’re last, and if you’re last, you’re not much.

  Daddy, if you’re watching, which I know you are, this one’s for you.

  She charged forward, leaning low over Harley’s neck. The world around her dimmed, muted, then fell away save for her, Harley and the first barrel. Her ears attuned to the sound of her horse’s pounding hooves, her body to the muscular rhythm of his enormous strides. A free-runner, the gelding ate up the distance in a breathless few seconds, rocketing beneath her like a locomotive. Then the first yellow barrel flashed up.

  Electricity slammed her, straight through the breastbone. Without a moment to lose, she positioned Harley and rose in the saddle. Her leg drew even with the brightly painted side, but then something odd happened to her eyes. Stars burst at the corners of her tunneling vision like fireworks and she felt herself tilt forward. She pushed down on the saddle horn a millisecond later than she should have and dropped.

  Air rushed from between Amberley’s clenched teeth. In a sport won or lost in hundredths of seconds, she’d just cost herself.

  She moved her hand toward Harley’s withers, opening him up a little more, squeezed with her inside leg and strove to keep him off the barrel. But that blink-fast delay caused Harley to bend too far. His rear swung, hip disengaged, his hooves kicking up clouds of dirt as he dug in and turned wider than she’d wanted.

  Make-or-break time.

  Setting her jaw, she pulled her weight forward, brought her rein hand closer, then reached and slid as he accelerated, balancing on the horn and staying out of his mouth to give him his head. She squinted her eyes, straining to keep the blurring world in focus.

  Two...three monster strides away from the barrel and then she grabbed the reins with both hands, angling him for the next turn, mentally preparing herself in case he overreacted to the approaching wall, a rare quirk of his that’d landed her in hot water before.

  Play it safe or go for it?

  Driving Harley hard, they hurtled full out toward the second barrel, making back precious time, she prayed. Her lungs burned and her eyes stung, her face flaming as Harley’s silver mane streamed across it. She kept her eyes trained to the side of the barrel that seemed to slide and waver like a mirage.

  Keeping her hands still despite the tremors in her gut, she angled her body back to keep Harley from anticipating and turning too soon.

  The tension squeezing her chest eased a tiny bit as he responded to her cue. His gait held steady. Still. She could feel him tensing. Better play it safe, especially since the barrel seemed to jump before her eyes. Keeping her hands light on the reins, she gave him extra time she couldn’t afford on the back end of the turn in case he blew through it and didn’t bend enough. She rotated her entire body as they rounded and squinted in the direction of the last barrel.

  Go, Harley.

  Go.

  She dug her heels into his flanks, asking for whatever Harley had left, and he responded, lunging faster still, closing the distance to the final barrel at lightning speed. Would she be able to judge it with her vision playing tricks? Air stuck in her lungs, and her pulse throbbed painfully in her throat as they committed to the final turn. They had to get around this perfectly. No room for error.

  She eased back to her pockets and applied steady pressure, willing him to arc smoothly. In a flawless pivot, Harley beamed around the barrel like a champ. Then they dashed past and the world rushed back in, a tidal force, the crowd erupting as she swept under the arena and down the gated corridor.

  “Fourteen ten,” the announcer crowed as she pulled up, then hopped off Harley.

  “Not a bad start,” she said to him, patting his steaming neck, grateful to have made it through clean given her distorted vision. Her eyesight, corrected with strong contacts, had never been great. Lately, though, she’d begun seeing spots on bright and sunny days. Then parts of her vision started shifting in and out of focus. Exhaustion from her nonstop schedule seemed the most likely culprit, but she’d been through years of touring without anything like this ever happening before.

  Harley’s silver tail lashed a fly on his rippling black hindquarter. He nickered at her and gave her a sidelong look.

  “Not satisfied, champ? Me neither.” She threw her arms around his neck for a quick squeeze. His reassuring warmth seeped through her shirt and slowed the gallop of her heart. Her eyesight struggles had been a constant, growing drumbeat these last couple of weeks of the season, a dreadful worry she’d kept to herself.

  If word got out, it would set the racing community abuzz. Her sponsors would phone and her endorsements dry up. No sense raising red flags before she had answers. The sooner she returned home, caught up with her rest and got some new contact lenses, a stronger prescription maybe, the better. Hopefully, that’d be the end of it.

  And the old, irrational fear she’d once had as a glasses-wearing kindergartener, that she’d go blind, would leave her for good.

  The familiar aroma of dust, sweat and leather rose off Harley as she turned and led him back to his stall. Some people associated the smell of apple pie, baked bread, garden flowers with “home,” but for Amberley, the smells of the stable—sweet hay, pungent manure, musky animal pelts—embodied her home, and even her church really, where she’d worshipped all her life, most of it alongside her departed daddy.

  “We’ll do better next round,” she promised, g
uiding Harley past an overturned water bucket. After all, what choice did she have? If she didn’t plan on winning, she wouldn’t have bothered showing up in the first place.

  Hopefully her eyes wouldn’t act up again...

  Several hours and ten rounds later, Amberley shifted on tired legs beneath a floodlight, trying to look as fresh as she had when she’d begun interviews in the cordoned-off press area. The center of her vision shimmered, and her eyeballs ached with the effort to focus. All around, the humid night pressed close. She held her arms out a little from her sides, her body slick beneath her denim shirt.

  Rain had been threatening all day. She wished it’d start and release some of the tension in the black, cloud-covered night. Most of all, she wanted to duck under some covers and get the sleep she needed so badly.

  “Congratulations,” crowed a big-bellied rodeo blogger named Hank Andrews. Or Anderson. She sometimes struggled to recall names—and lately, faces, too. “Another world championship makes it your third consecutive win.”

  Powering through her exhaustion, she shot the florid man, and the camera, a friendly smile.

  “Thank you very much. I’m just as surprised as anybody. I didn’t think I’d be standing here. So. You know. I’m just really excited and thankful.”

  “No surprise for the rest of us, Amberley,” he gushed. Behind a pair of heavy-framed glasses, he had kind hazel eyes. Or were they green? Everything looked a little fuzzy, especially under this artificial light. More evidence of worsening symptoms? Dread rose in her throat. “You’ve barely lost a round let alone a competition.”

  She winced and shooed away a bothering fly. “Don’t remind me.”

  When Hank stared at her, confused, she forced a laugh to pretend she joked.

  In fact, she recalled every loss in excruciating detail. They served as warnings of the consequences when her vigilance lapsed, like earlier this month when her eyes failed her for the first time. She’d missed a barrel and didn’t place high enough to secure a coveted spot on the ERA Premier Tour. All her life, she’d dreamed of traveling with the world’s top-seeded rodeo athletes.