THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  She drew her lower lip between her teeth. "Any note?"

  Anguish stabbed at him. He closed his eyes. "No. No note."

  "And Timmy?"

  "We don't know the specifics, just that she left him at day care." He scowled, remembering the way Luke had clammed up, clearly not wanting to get into details, as if they were too painful to repeat.

  She just up and left, like Mom, okay? Luke must have known that was all they needed to hear. Based on that alone, they would keep Timmy for as long as he needed, no questions asked.

  "How sad." Amelia lowered her lashes. "I have this image of a innocent little baby crawling from room to room, crying out for his mother, not knowing where she is … not knowing where he is." Two tears leaked from her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She sniffled and dabbed the corners of her eyes. "Sorry. That just really got me. Makes me want to go hug the kid for the next twenty years."

  Brooks's chest tightened. He didn't know what to do with his own emotions, let alone someone else's, but seeing her tears made his arms ache to hold her, to ease her pain as she'd eased his, getting him to talk when he usually didn't and shedding tears he'd long forgotten how to shed himself.

  "Sorry," she whispered again.

  "It's okay. You don't have to apologize for … having feelings." Man, it felt weird to even say it. He glanced out the window wanting for a bolt of lightning to strike him dead for being a hypocrite, then plucked the tissue box off the counter and set it down in front of her.

  "Thanks." She took one. "I … actually think I might have had a baby once."

  What? Brooks opened his mouth, but no words came out. She could've knocked him over with a flick of the tissue in her hand. When she told them she couldn't have children, he had assumed that meant past, present and future. But this… This made him wonder if there was a significant man in her life—a man whose significance extended to her present and future as well as her past.

  The idea didn't sit well. He couldn't pretend it did. He closed his mouth and swallowed, waiting for her to go on.

  "I'm not sure," she said. "I've been having this dream. It might be just that … a dream."

  "Or it might be a memory."

  "It does feel real."

  "Tell me about it."

  She hesitated. "There isn't much. I come to in the seconds after a car accident. I'm in the driver's seat. I turn around, expecting to see a baby in a car seat. Only there's nothing there. I … hear a baby crying in my sleep."

  "Is that what happened last night?"

  "I think so." She nodded. "I felt an emptiness inside me when I first came here, when I first woke up. I thought it was the memory loss. There's that, too. But that's more confusion. This was something else… It hurt, in a bone-deep way. But then I held Timmy, and it went away. That's why I don't understand what would possess a woman to leave her own child, especially one as young as Timmy."

  "You and me both. I don't know how any parent can up and check out." He shook his head. "Seems I've thought about it all my life, and all I can figure is it's some genetic defect in nature. You see it in cows, too. Some just aren't suited for motherhood. They drop their calves in snowbanks and wander off. That's what our mother did. Left five kids to fend for themselves. Of course she left to get away from the old man, but she never came back, and the bastard's long dead."

  "Oh, Brooks. I didn't know—"

  "I was older than Timmy. Old enough to remember."

  "I'm so sorry."

  "Me, too." He stared at the table. He hadn't talked about this in… Hell, he'd never talked about this. Why was he dredging it up now anyway? "I guess I'm just glad Timmy's young enough. He won't remember the leaving part."

  She bit her lip. "What if his mother wants him back?"

  Blood rushed in his ears and pounded through his veins. Red-hot fury spiked with ice-cold fear. "Over my dead body," he said between clenched teeth, shoving from the table with enough force to send his chair crashing into the wall.

  Amelia flinched. Her hands flew up to shield her face, her entire body leaning to the side.

  The unexpected reaction stole the breath from Brooks's lungs swifter than a gelding's kick to the gut. "Amelia. God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

  "No. No, of course not." She lowered her hands and grimaced in embarrassment. "I don't know what came over me."

  "Nerves?"

  "Nerves." She nodded, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.

  Regret over his lost temper cut him far deeper than she knew. To say his father wasn't a role model was putting it mildly. In routinely beating the hell out of their mother, he'd taught his children a thing or two about the darker side of mankind. Enough to make them fear emulating it in their lifetime.

  With two exceptions, Brooks had never struck another person in anger, and never anyone smaller or weaker. Once, he cold-cocked a guy for forcing himself on Jo. The other, he twisted a cowhand's arm to make him apologize for a lewd remark to Clara. Both fractures were accidental, but they taught Brooks to be careful of his strength—and his temper.

  Trying to put the memories out of his mind, he dumped his mug of cold coffee and poured some hot, repeating his offer to Amelia, who again shook her head. "Not a coffee drinker, huh? How about those flavored ones?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Jo's crazy for flavors. You never get plain coffee at her place. Vanilla, hazelnut, cinnamon." He made a face. "Might as well stick a colored straw and a little umbrella in there." He took in her rigid posture, crossed the kitchen and opened a cabinet. "How about hot chocolate?" When she raised her head and appeared to reconsider, he added, "We've got fresh whipped cream."

  "That does sound good."

  "I'll take that as a yes." At her nod, he fixed her a mug and placed it in front of her with a spoon. "I'd offer to spike it with a shot of whiskey, but—"

  "No, thanks."

  "The house is dry," he said. "The old man was a drunk. A mean drunk."

  Understanding flickered in her brown eyes, and he felt an odd connection with her, even before she spoke. "Alcohol can bring out the worst in people sometimes."

  "Yeah." He sat back down, studying her, wondering what it was about her. He was suddenly very aware of her as a woman. A very attractive woman. Barefoot in his kitchen. "The, uh, warm milk ought to do the trick and knock you out."

  "Don't hold your breath." She gave a rueful smile.

  "If you get desperate, I'll read the Farmer's Almanac. Works like a charm for Timmy."

  "I heard. Last night," she reminded him. "He doesn't care what you read. It's the sound of your voice."

  The sound of her voice made something shift in his gut. He frowned. "Just how long were you there?"

  "Long enough." She ate the whipped cream first, then took a tentative sip, closed her eyes and drained the mug. "Thanks. I needed that." She used a napkin to wipe her mouth.

  Nice mouth, he thought before he could stop himself. Full lower lip. Perfect for—

  "I'm sorry if I brought up a sore subject," she said. "I'm just a little apprehensive. It's hard to believe… Timmy is such a joy. Why any woman wouldn't fall in love with him on sight… Well, it's beyond me."

  "Maybe that's because you're different." He raised his gaze from her mouth to her eyes.

  Nice eyes. Was it the color? No, something else. The shape maybe?

  "You don't strike me as the kind of woman who'd go on a shopping spree and overspend every last one of your credit cards, or skip mortgage payments to put a down payment on a fancy new car, or leave your husband so far in the hole he wouldn't see the light of day for the next decade."

  "No. I'd never do any of those things." Her eyes clouded. "Brooks? What will you do if she comes back?"

  He hiked his shoulder in a careless shrug, aimed at disguising his worst fear. "Pistols at dawn?"

  "How chivalrous." She stared into her empty mug.

  He could have let it go then; she would have let him drop the subject. "She has no reason to return. She's
free and clear of all responsibility. Financial and otherwise."

  "Maybe," she said, her hands wrapping around the mug. "But speaking only for myself here… I think the pain of loss is something that lingers. Your body remembers even when your mind shuts down. I know you don't want to think about her changing her mind…"

  "Are you kidding?" He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I can't think of anything else. I've seen a lawyer, and he's prepared to petition the courts to have her declared unfit, if it comes down to it. But like he told me, courts favor the parent." It broke his heart to admit, "I'd move heaven and earth to keep that kid, but it could get ugly. There's only one thing we can do at this point, and that's pray. Pray the Blond Widow never darkens our doorstep."

  Amelia swallowed. "You have my prayers."

  "Thank you." He resisted the impulse to reach over the table and touch her face, to see if she was really there, or just a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination.

  At the sound of muffled sobs from the baby monitor, he got to his feet. So did she. Across the table, their eyes met and held.

  "I'll go. You stay," she said with a shy smile. "It's my job, and I've taken up enough of your time." She made it sound like he'd made some huge sacrifice, and he turned his gaze to the clock, surprised to see how much time had passed.

  It had felt strange opening up like that, talking about his problems, let alone to a stranger who listened as if she cared. Of course, now that she was employed here, she had a vested interest. With a nod, he forced himself to sit down.

  But as he watched her leave, her bare feet soundless on the hardwood floor, folds of shapeless flannel billowing behind her, a prickle of awareness shimmied up his leg.

  He straightened abruptly and stomped his foot a few times, the same way he did when his leg fell asleep and needed circulation, but it didn't help. The prickling continued, turning from a tingle to an insistent, slow-burning heat.

  Ah, hell. Brooks groaned and rubbed a hand over his late-night stubble. He should have been relieved six weeks' sleep deprivation hadn't permanently killed his sex drive after all. Instead the resurgence felt more like a nuisance.

  How long had it been? Three months? Four? It wasn't like he kept track. Whenever he got the itch, he scratched it. It had always been as simple and uncomplicated as that.

  Staring at Amelia's vacated space, he wondered if Clara was right about his love life. Not in the way she meant, of course, but in the fact he'd gone too long without a woman.

  That alone explained his unwanted pull toward Amelia. It wasn't her, he reasoned. Any attractive woman in close proximity would have triggered the same primitive response. The sooner he took care of the itch, the sooner it would stop.

  * * *

  By eight the next morning, Brooks had lined up a date for Friday night. Two more days and he'd be renewing his acquaintance with Rachel Tanner, former classmate and on-again, off-again flame.

  Like Jo, she'd gone to school in Colorado, then returned to Wyoming. An environmental lawyer, she was married to her career and had no desire to compromise her first love. For Brooks, she was as safe as safe could get.

  One night with her, and he could stop seeing Amelia's heart-shaped face in his dreams, stop imagining the feel of small, delicate breasts in his hands, the taste of his name on her lips, the scent of her skin—

  "Brooks," Amelia called. "I'm ready whenever you are."

  He gritted his teeth. Thanks to the late-night adult movie that had played in his head as he slept, he was ready all right. Ready for Rachel to put him out of his misery.

  "Be right there." He grabbed his coat and hat. Two and a half more days, he reminded himself. Surely he could make it through the next sixty hours…

  He had some concerns about staying out late before all their calves were on the ground. Though there wasn't much Mitch and Dean couldn't handle, you never knew about these things—it was better to be prepared.

  Rachel had offered to swing by the Triple H, but he'd nixed that idea right fast.

  There were two things Brooks Hart never kept in the house: his booze and his women. Add to that he and Rachel had two standing rules: they always met on neutral ground, and they never spent the entire night together.

  His ranch was out.

  Brooks put on his Stetson and pulled the brim low, then gathered a few more of Timmy's toys to take over to Pete and Clara's, where they had arranged to drop him on their way to the hospital.

  Amelia had fed and changed Timmy, while Brooks packed his diaper bag. He'd thought he was getting pretty good in the coordination department, but Amelia had raised the bar. It was as if the woman had eight arms the way she whisked through chores and kept Timmy entertained.

  She made his breakfast disappear in record time, like a magician waving her wand. She let Brooks in on her secret: as long as she put something sweet on the front of the spoon, Timmy would eat almost anything, including the squash they hadn't been able to get down him yet. Then, there was the frozen waffle trick for teething pain—she broke off a piece for him to nibble. But perhaps most impressive was the fact she didn't bat an eye changing messy diapers that, thanks to Timmy's new formula, smelled ripe enough to flatten a bull.

  "You sure do remember how to take care of a baby," he commented when they were in the truck, watching her buckle the chief into his car seat and check to make sure he was secure before fastening her own belt.

  "Thanks." Pride softened her eyes. "I have to admit the little guy's been second-nature to me. He's terrific."

  So are you.

  Brooks tried to ignore the way his chest tightened at the thought. He'd watched Jo with her babies, seen his friends' wives with theirs. He was immune to it by now.

  Or so he told himself.

  He didn't want to admit there was something about this woman interacting with his nephew that was messing with his mind, making him think of the wife and children he'd always sworn he would never have.

  He'd buried those desires like hazardous material in a place deep inside him, where they couldn't hurt anyone—not himself and not the people around him.

  Just because Timmy had fallen into his lap didn't mean Brooks could throw a lifetime of caution to the wind.

  Setting his jaw, he started the truck, forcing his mind to clear and his gaze to stay on the road where it belonged, instead of mooning over things that would never be his.

  Within minutes, they were at Pete and Clara's log home. Amelia came inside and met Pete, who looked comfortable as could be leaning back in his recliner, the latest issue of Western Horseman resting on his potbelly. He had wise gray eyes, neat silver hair, and a quick, easy smile to match his soft-spoken charm. Though he grumbled plenty about his lack of mobility, it was clear to everyone he didn't so much mind all the extra attention.

  "You take Amelia around the range?" Pete asked him.

  "Not yet," he said, crouching down to help get Timmy settled. "We're saving the tour for later in the week."

  "All right, well be sure and take her out to the west pasture. Best sunset you ever did see. Ain't that right, Clara?"

  "Always been my favorite." She squeezed his shoulder, and he patted her hand.

  "Rode out there the evenin' I asked my girl to marry me," he said to Amelia with a wink.

  Uh-oh. Brooks caught the twinkle in Pete's eye, knew right away Clara had supplied him with an earful of crazy, romantic notions about marrying him off. He'd tried humor; he'd tried honest logic. It didn't matter how many ways he told Clara she was wasting her matchmaking efforts on him, the woman never gave up. "On that note…" He straightened and hitched his chin toward the door.

  Amelia took his cue. "Nice meeting you," she said, but as she stood to leave, her gaze lingered on Timmy. Sensing their departure, he tossed aside his board book and started whimpering. "You sure it's okay…?"

  But Clara just squatted and picked him up, planting him on her hip as she shooed them to the door. "Don't you worry none. He'll be just fine in a minute."
/>   "Thanks again for taking him." Brooks kissed her cheek, then Timmy's forehead.

  "No thanks needed, and I meant what I said. Don't you worry about a thing. Either of you," Clara included Amelia in her reassurance, as if she, too, had noticed the way the nanny hovered over her new ward. Even when talking to one of them or in the middle of doing something, Amelia still kept an eye trained on Timmy. "These old bones are still good for short bursts. Like helping out with babysitting in a pinch. You take care and tell Jo not to work too hard."

  "Will do," Brooks said. "But I doubt she'll listen."

  "Ain't it the truth." Clara laughed and wished them well again.

  Amelia waved and headed with him to the truck. From her quick steps, he could tell she was trying to make it without looking back. Brooks opened her door first. She hopped in, closed her eyes and expelled a heavy sigh of relief.

  "Safe." He grinned and closed the door, then rounded to the driver's side.

  As he climbed behind the wheel, she crossed her arms and arched a brow. "Are you making fun of me, Brooks Hart?"

  "No, ma'am." He turned the key in the ignition. "I'm remembering a time not too long ago when that was me holding my breath as I hightailed it back to the truck. I couldn't stand to have Timmy out of my sight for a minute. I'd watch him when he slept to make sure he was still breathing."

  Her lips curved then, the sweetness of that slight smile making his mouth go dry. "Doesn't take long before they wrap themselves around your little finger, does it?"

  "No," he said and dragged his gaze away. "Not long at all." Soon, they were cruising down a windy, two-lane road, passing cottonwoods with fat buds ready to burst, heading toward the highway that would take them to Sheridan.

  "I like them," Amelia said, almost as an afterthought.

  "Babies? So I noticed." He raised a finger from the steering wheel to wave at the driver of an oncoming pickup.