by Home Fires
They stared at each other. Tension gathered like storm clouds, but she felt the change in the weather and forced a shrug, pulling her shoulders back, glancing around. “And I guess I was right.”
“Far be it from Cassandra Carmichael to ever need—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Emily snapped.
They jerked toward her in unison.
“Will you two just … just get a room!” she said.
They stared at her in tandem bewilderment. She waved wildly between them. “If there was any more sexual angst between the two of you, I could set a match to it.”
Colt scowled.
Casie cleared her throat, embarrassed and fidgety.
“I’m going to go take some pictures,” Emily said, and snatching her camera from the table, turned toward the bustling hills. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
CHAPTER 2
By the time Skip Jansen had stowed away his auctioneer equipment, most of the vendors had packed up and left. Only a few stragglers remained. Casie had made a noble effort to speak to each of them individually, though it went against every reclusive instinct she possessed.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” she said as Brooks Hedley straightened over a photograph he was signing. “I wanted to say thanks again.”
“Hey.” He grinned, then winked at the girl to whom he handed the signed portrait. It was no big secret why he was a heartthrob. “I should be thanking you.”
“So it went all right?”
“Yeah. Went pretty darn well,” he said. “Sold a few products.” He lifted a tooled gun belt that had been handcrafted on the Running W, his family’s ranch not thirty miles to the east. There was a bunch of Hedleys. Two girls and five boys, several of whom worked in construction to help pay the bills. Brooks himself had lent a hand in restoring the Lazy’s wooden water tank, though it was not yet fully functional. “Got orders for a few more.”
“Well …” She kept herself from fidgeting like a toddler caught in the cookie jar, though it was a close thing. Men had always made her nervous. “You do good work.”
“You think so?” he asked, and raising the belt a little, squinted past it toward her. “Hey, this one would look mighty good on you.”
She laughed, nerves twittering. “Thanks. But I don’t …” She shook her head. “I don’t compete.”
“Well, you should,” he said and rounded the corner of his cowhide-covered table with a swagger. “I bet you’re a deadeye.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your friend said you’re hell on horseback.”
“My—”
“The pregnant girl.”
“Oh, Emily. Well, she exaggerates.”
“She said you’d say that, too. Here. Try this on,” he said and approached slowly, as if she might skitter away if he moved too quickly.
“I’d like to, but I need to talk to the other—”
“You don’t wanna hurt my feelings, do you?”
She scowled at him. “I didn’t know cowboys were so sensitive.”
He laughed. “Fragile as kittens. Listen, I made this belt special for a gal down by Kansas City, but she never paid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged. “It just needs a good home.”
“Like I said, I don’t—”
“It’s an orphan,” he said. “Very sad. It was destined for a new mommy and now …” He shook his head. “It’s out in the cold world all alone.”
“I’m sure you’ll find it a good mother somewhere.”
“That’s just the thing, most of the women are too … motherly.”
She gave him a look. He grinned roguishly.
“I don’t meet a whole lot of girls built like you.”
She blinked. True, in the last several months, something indescribable had changed. For years she had seemed all but invisible to men. Not that she had minded. In fact, she often preferred that kind of safe anonymity, but lately something was different, as if a light had clicked on inside of her. Maybe it was the risks she was taking. Maybe it was the lack of eligible women in these parts. Or maybe it was the low-cut jeans and chest-hugging shirts Emily insisted she wear. She cleared her throat. “I …” She was at a loss.
“I meant that as a compliment,” he said and grinned again. “You right-handed?”
“What? Oh. Yes.”
“What a coincidence, so was she. It’s like kismet or something.”
“Almost ninety percent of people are—”
“Here,” he said, and stepping forward, eased the tooled leather around her. His hands brushed her hips. A narrow strip of brindle cowhide embellished each holster. She raised her arms to accommodate his reach. He wrapped the leather around her, then buckled it in place before stepping back to admire his handiwork. “That looks damn good on you.”
“Well …” She stared down at the belt, too self-conscious to look up. “It’s very pretty.”
“Yeah, it is,” he said. There was something in his tone that forced her chin up.
His crooked grin quirked up higher. “Let’s try it with some firepower.”
“Oh no. I don’t—” she began, but he was already pulling his own pistols from the holsters near his hip. In a moment he had settled their considerable weight into the allotted slots.
“How does it feel to be packin’ heat?”
“I’m not a shooter,” she said, but the truth was it felt pretty good. There was something powerful about the weight of the pistols lying side by side against her hip.
“You ever shot before?”
“Not really, no,” she said, which was kind of a lie. Long ago, perhaps shortly after her father had completely despaired of ever having a son, he had taught her to shoot tin cans with an old Winchester.
“Not even as a kid? What the hell was your old man thinking?”
“Maybe he didn’t know it was a mandatory part of raising a daughter.”
“Was he from the city or somethin’?”
“No,” she said and laughed at his ridiculous expression. “He was raised right here on this ranch.”
He shook his head. “Well, that’s just messed up. Here … let me show you how this works,” he said and eased around behind her. “See how the belt is pretty high up?”
She nodded.
“Not like in them old spaghetti Westerns where they was practically hangin’ down by their knees. You want ’em snug up on your waist so you can—Shit,” he said, grinning over her shoulder, breath warm against her ear. “You don’t hardly have no waist at all. Don’t you ever eat?”
“Of course I …” He was very close. Uncomfortably close, his hip snug against her seat. “I eat.”
“Yeah? Maybe I could take you out to supper then.”
“I just … now?” she asked and turned slightly. Her shoulder brushed his chest. Their faces were inches apart.
He grinned down at her. “It won’t hardly take me a New York minute to finish packing up.”
“I can’t tonight. I still have to do chores and help—”
“I think you’re lying to me.”
She felt her eyes widen, felt her heart rate bump up a notch. His chest brushed her shoulder. “I’m not. I really need to—”
“I bet you don’t eat no more than once a week.”
“Oh.” She laughed, faced forward, and abruptly spied Colt Dickenson. He stood not eight feet away. She felt his presence in the pit of her stomach.
His expression was atypically serious. “I thought I should say good-bye,” he said.
“Oh.” She took a step forward, leaving the heat of Hedley’s chest behind her. “Are you …” She resisted the impulse to glance back over her shoulder, tried to resist the impulse to blush. She didn’t owe Colt any explanations. Neither did she owe him her loyalty. Hardly that. “Are you taking off?”
“Yeah. Thought I would,” he said and raised his gaze to Brooks for an instant. “Hey, Hedley.”
“Dickenso
n.”
She cleared her throat and turned sideways so as to keep them both in her sights, like a gunfighter with two assailants. “You two know each other?”
“Oh, we go way back,” Colt said.
Their gazes met and clashed, brown on green. “I used to do some rodeo,” Hedley admitted.
“Oh?” She didn’t mean to wear out the word, but urbane conversation wasn’t exactly her forte.
“I tell you what …” Hedley grinned a little as he shifted his gaze back to hers. “There ain’t nothing like bull riding to beat the hell out of the boys.”
“The boys?” She scowled.
He winked. “I figured if I wanted to keep the ladies happy, I better find a sport that was easier on my … tender parts.”
Casie blushed, but neither of the men seemed to notice. Hell, neither of them was looking at her at all. Instead, they seemed to be engaged in their own silent showdown.
“Was that it?” Colt asked. “I thought you quit because you couldn’t keep the bull between you and the ground for more than two seconds at a time.”
Anger or something like it flashed in Hedley’s eyes. “I decided to leave the rough stock to those of you who got faces ain’t going to look no worse after getting smashed in a few more times,” he said and eyed Colt’s latest scar.
It sliced through the outer edge of his right eyebrow. Casie scowled. Sometimes it was almost impossible to remember she didn’t care.
“I suppose toy guns are a whole lot safer,” Colt said.
A muscle jumped in Hedley’s jaw. “Broncs are like merry-go-round ponies compared to them brahmas I rode.”
“Yeah, you’re a hell of a man.”
Hedley forced a smile. “That’s what they say.”
“Those weren’t Jess’s exact words.”
“Listen, you—” he began, but a gasp from Casie’s left interrupted the conversation.
Emily stood not two yards away, bent double, face scrunched in pain.
“What’s wrong?” Casie took one truncated step toward her, hands already reaching out. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Emily was panting. Terror was stamped on her face by the time she straightened a half inch. “It hurts.”
“I’ll get the truck!” Casie’s voice was no more than a rasp of terror to her own ears.
“Puke?” Emily winced at the mention of the Lazy’s rattletrap pickup. “It’ll pop the baby out like a cork in a wine bottle. Couldn’t—”
“I’ve got it,” Colt said, and taking the three strides that separated them, smoothed his hand down Emily’s right arm. “Hey, you’re going to be okay, Em. You hear me?”
She lifted adoring, desperate eyes to him, and tried a jerky nod.
“Thatta girl. Just breathe. Everything’s going to be all right. Stay with her, Case.” His eyes were dead steady. “Keep her calm. I’ll be back in thirty seconds.”
“That long?” Casie hated the weakness in her voice, hated the unsteadiness of her hands, but she couldn’t seem to stop the words any more than she could stop the panic. Her knowledge of human births was confined to what she’d seen on television, and mostly that involved a lot of screaming … and someone boiling water.
“Hang in there,” Colt breathed and then he was gone.
CHAPTER 3
“I thought she wasn’t due for another couple of weeks.” Colt’s voice sounded strained as they fishtailed from the gravel onto the tar toward St. Luke’s cushy birthing center.
Emily sat between him and Casie. She was panting and concentrating hard on her performance. Holy crap, what was wrong with these two? Didn’t they know they were perfect together? Of course, Colt was a Neanderthal for returning to the rodeo circuit, and Case could be as stubborn as a jug-headed mule, but …
“She’s not,” Casie said. Emily couldn’t help but notice that she looked awfully pale. Perhaps that was a testament to Emily’s own acting ability. And maybe she should be proud of her acting prowess, but just now she didn’t feel all that great about lying. “You okay, Em?”
“Sure. I’m—” She paused to close her eyes and groan pitifully. “I’m okay.”
“Did her water break?” Colt’s eyes cut to Emily. His knuckles looked white on the steering wheel. But she kept panting, avoiding specific questions and staring glassy-eyed at her knees. Holy shorts, they were the size of summer cantaloupes. Labor was a bitch even when you were just faking it.
“I don’t know.” Casie’s voice practically crackled with worry.
“How far apart are the contractions?” he asked.
Casie squeezed her hand. Emily just shook her head, as if too focused on her internal agony to answer.
“Can’t you drive any faster?” Casie asked.
“If I want to get us all killed.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted your day,” Emily said. She was still panting. She was pitifully good at it. “I know you have a lot going on.”
“Are you kidding?” Casie’s voice was raspy.
“Shoot, Em—” Colt glanced at her. The fear in his eyes made Emily’s guilt intensify to the point where she would almost welcome labor pains. But if they hadn’t been acting like such douche bags, she wouldn’t have had to go to such drastic measures. “Don’t worry about us. When was your last exam?”
She shrugged, shook her head, and exhaled rapidly. If she was any better at acting, she was going to push herself into labor for real. “Two weeks ago, maybe.”
“Had you started dilating yet?”
“Just a little.”
“You did?” Casie’s voice was shocked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t want to worry you.” Obviously, she had no such inhibitions about lying to Casie, however. At least, that used to be true. What had happened to that blissful lack of conscience?
“Had you begun effacing?” Colt asked.
Em glanced at him, temporarily caught off guard. But not as much as Casie was.
“What?” Colt asked, catching her eye.
“Been through this a number of times, have you, Dickenson?” Casie asked.
“Geez, Head Case, not everyone’s as naïve as—”
“Aaah!” Emily moaned and, tilting her head back, squeezed Casie’s hand with all the strength she could muster. Which was considerable. Organic gardening was no job for sissies. Then again, birthing might not be for the pansy patrol, either.
“Hang on,” Colt said.
“It’s going to be all right,” Casie added.
Emily panted and considered telling them that when the real deal began in earnest, they might want to beef up their platitudes. “Are we almost there?”
“Just another few minutes,” Colt promised and he was right.
They were pulling up to St. Luke’s automatic doors before she had a firm game plan in mind, but it was too late to back out now. And she’d learned to punt before she’d learned to walk. Absentee parents and a flawed foster care system were aces at teaching a girl to think on her feet.
“I’ll help her in,” Colt said, gaze hard on Casie. “You alert the staff.”
“Alert the—”
“Start the paperwork. Tell them we have an emergency.”
Oh crap, Emily thought, but Casie was already gone, rushing through the doors and into the abyss beyond. Too late to call her back. And now Colt was trotting around the bumper like a border collie on a mission. She slid sideways along the bench seat and prepared to step down, hands bracing her belly, but he reached for her before she could dismount.
“I can—” she began, but he stopped her.
“Let me help you, honey,” he said, and there was something in his voice that stopped her world. Something she’d never heard in the entirety of her life. Not from the myriad foster parents who had temporarily crossed her path, not from the unimpressive legal system, and certainly not from the father of her unborn child. Tears stung her eyes. Which was just plain weird. She wasn’t the weepy type. In fact, there was little enough ev
idence that she still had tear ducts. She bumped a nod. He slid his arms gently around her and drew her to his chest, maybe like a father would. Maybe like he cared about her. Guilt solidified like a chunk of lead in her belly.
She found his face with her eyes “I …” She winced, cleared her throat, and cut her eyes away. It wasn’t really surprising that she’d never found a guy like this to love her, she supposed. Men like this, good men, real men, probably didn’t care to be lied to. To be made fools of. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dickenson. I’m not really—”
“Don’t. You don’t have to apologize for anything,” he said, and pivoting toward the solid block building behind him, hustled her inside. A wheelchair stood beside the door, a nurse at the ready. A plastic name tag proclaiming the woman to be Chelsea was pinned on her plum-colored scrubs. “I can carry her,” he said.
Chelsea gave him a brittle smile that would have challenged a sumo wrestler. “We’d prefer to have her in a wheelchair.”
He straightened a little, chest hard against Emily’s swollen right boob. Mr. Nice Guy was gone, taking a quiet backseat to the rodeo cowboy who carried her. “Yeah, well—” he began but Emily stopped him.
“It’s okay,” she said. Her heart twinged again. Who knew that having a champion would be so painful? “The chair will be fine.”
“You sure?” he asked, and there was such concern, such gentleness in his voice that the tears almost fell loose.
“I’m sure,” she said and shifted her eyes away lest the sight of him send the truth spilling from her lips like poison.
Chelsea took her place at the wheelchair. Casie stood not ten feet away, speaking earnestly to a woman behind the reception desk.
Colt settled her carefully onto the vinyl seat. Chelsea smiled with all the sincerity of a hungry coyote.
“I can take her in from here,” she said.
“Do you want me to go with you, honey?” Colt asked. His hand felt warm and solid when he slipped it around her fingers.
His deep voice, so typical of Native American men, threatened her tear ducts again. “No. I’m okay.”
He stared at her a second as if trying to ascertain her level of pain, then nodded toward the front desk. “What about Case? You want her to go along?”
