THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  "Hey, Brooks. It's Jo. Listen, I'm in the car. I've got an emergency at the hospital. Could you do me a favor? There's some mix-up at the nanny agency," she said without pause. "Zach erased a couple of messages this week, and I feel like an idiot with these people calling to follow-up. Like, 'Why haven't you returned my call?' Anyway, someone forgot to cross our name off the waiting list for a nanny. So, can you buzz the good people, and tell them we're set? I think they're open a few hours today. Otherwise, you'll have to wait until Monday."

  "Yeah, sure. I'll take care of it." He hunted for a pen that worked and jotted a note to call the nanny agency.

  "Thanks, I appreciate it. How's it going with Amelia? You two getting along?"

  Silence.

  "Brooks? You there?"

  "Yeah. I'm here." Barely. "Amelia's… We, um… We're getting along."

  "See. What'd I tell you?" Static crackled the line. "All right, I'm gonna lose you soon. Better say bye now. See you at supper tomorrow."

  "See you." Brooks hung the receiver in the cradle. Well, Jo would know soon, too. Nothing stayed secret at Sunday supper. Great. He started down the hall when he heard footsteps.

  "Hey, Brooks?" Dean's voice came behind him. "Does this mean…? What we were talking about last night…?"

  "No." He kept walking, flicked on the bathroom light and dropped off his clothes on his way to the nursery.

  "So it was just sex."

  Brooks spun in the doorway, coming nose to nose with Dean. "Don't start with me."

  "Too late." Dean set his jaw. "I've seen what I've seen, and Amelia's no buckle chaser. You can't treat her like your other—"

  "I am not discussing this with you."

  "Fine." He stepped back, nostrils flaring. "But if you hurt her, I'll personally kick your ass to Montana—I don't care if you are my big brother."

  If he hurt her…

  Bile rose in the back of his throat. Acrid. Burning. As Dean stormed off, Brooks swallowed hard and braced a hand on the wall. Damn if he wasn't proud of his little brother. At the same time, never in his entire life had he felt more between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

  He opened the nursery door and crossed to Timmy's crib. Bathed in the soft yellow of his Cat in the Hat night-light, sprawled on his back with his arms straight up, rosy cheeks and blond hair damp with baby sweat, slept the tiny person who had changed Brooks's entire life.

  Their littlest cowboy.

  A fierce protectiveness filled his chest. He adjusted the blanket and placed a hand on Timmy's tummy as he'd done on so many nights after he first arrived, reassured by the deep, even pattern of his breathing. He'd never left Timmy's side that first week. He bundled him up and took him in the pickup for morning chores. He pulled the rocker beside his crib at night, so he'd get to him at slightest sign of trouble. And he slept with one hand on resting listlessly on Timmy's tummy, whether for Timmy or himself he wasn't sure.

  Neither of them had slept much in the beginning. Then came the night Timmy stopped crying at the sound of Brooks's voice. At the memory, and each one after it, his throat closed, and his chest tightened, every breath like a razor to his lungs.

  What if Dean was right? About Amelia and about Timmy. What if all the love he had to give wasn't enough? What if Timmy needed a mother?

  Could Brooks do it—risk everything—for Timmy?

  His hand shook as he smoothed the hair from Timmy's forehead and touched his cheek. "I love you, chief," he whispered. "God help me, I only want the best for you."

  * * *

  At the sound of Brooks's baritone coming from the baby monitor, Amelia stirred awake, her lips curving as his words penetrated her sleepy haze. Languidly she raised her arms over her head and stretched, then opened her eyes, taking inventory of her surroundings. It was a short list.

  The sun had barely crested the horizon. She was alone. Not wearing a stitch of clothing. In Brooks's big bed. An indentation in his pillow marked the spot where she'd last seen him, the tenderness between her legs providing further evidence it hadn't been a dream.

  At remembered images and sensations, her body flushed, and she hugged his pillow, her smile bittersweet.

  She didn't know how much experience she had with these awkward morning-afters, but she doubted it was very much, or she might have had a clue as to how she was supposed to act.

  What did a woman say to a man to let him know she had neither regrets, nor future expectations of him?

  Thank you for undoubtedly one of the best nights of my life. Could you pass the OJ?

  She pulled the covers over her head, wishing she could blank out all unpleasantness as easily.

  And in that moment, hiding in the protective cocoon of Brooks's soft quilt, she had a flash of realization. This is what I do. This is how I cope. I pull the covers over my head and shut down. Then she asked herself: Is this how it's going to be? Is this how you want to live your life?

  She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Cautiously she poked one arm out, then the other, biting her lip as the early-morning chill turned her skin to gooseflesh. Yes, it was warmer under the covers. Yes, it was safer. But the whole world was out there, not in here, and she wanted to reclaim her place in it. Undeterred, she lowered her arms.

  Cool, brisk air swirled around her head, clearing away some of the cobwebs, as if for the first time. Golden-pink rays of sunlight streaked through the windowpane, spilling across the quilt. She held out her hand, turned it this way and that, then pulled herself upright to embrace the day.

  Whatever awkwardness she felt, she would deal with it. Pulling the covers over her head wasn't dealing. It was avoiding. Running. Both of which she'd done far too long.

  She showered quickly, her timing impeccable as Timmy woke up when she'd finished dressing and drying her hair.

  Hair sticking out every which way, he stood up in his crib, holding onto the railing and bouncing as he cried.

  "Hi there, sweetheart." Seeing her, his cries turned to whimpers. He plopped down on his bottom, stuck out his lower lip and raised his arms. At his pouty portrait, she chuckled. "Come here, you lady-killer." She picked him up and kissed his temple, his whimpers stopping. "Aw, that's my good boy. Did Timmy sleep well? Hmm?" She wiped his tears and rubbed his cheek with her finger. "Let's see a winning Hart smile…"

  Timmy obliged and gave her a toothy grin, then reached for a handful of her hair and stuffed it in his mouth along with his fist. Her heart brimming with love, she kissed his nose, then got him cleaned up for breakfast. They found Clara in the kitchen, standing at the stove with an apron tied around her waist, the smell of chili making her mouth water, and it wasn't even seven o'clock in the morning yet.

  "Good morning," Amelia said.

  "Morning, you two." Clara smiled. "I'm taking Pete into town for physical therapy later on, so I thought I'd pop over and whip up some grub while I got the time."

  "From the smell of it, that grub's not going to last until suppertime. See, Timmy. Grandma Clara's trying to tempt our tummies, isn't she?" She put Timmy down on the counter and tickled his stomach, coaxing a belly laugh, before reaching for his baby food warmer from the cabinet.

  When she turned around, she caught Clara dabbing the corners of her eyes with the apron. "Clara? You okay?"

  "Fine. Fine. Darned onions." She sniffled, but there wasn't a raw onion in sight.

  Amelia put Timmy in his high chair with an assortment of colorful plastic cups. "It's what I called you, isn't it? I'm sorry. It slipped—"

  Clara held up a hand and shook her head. "I just never heard it before. Jo's kids call me Miss Clara. That's what she and the boys used to call me a long time ago. They grew out of it—kinda like Mommy and Daddy become Mom and Dad—so it brings back fond, old memories. But Grandma Clara… It sounds nice."

  "Well, I certainly can't speak for Brooks, but I have a feeling he'll go for it. You're the mother of his heart, you know." When she looked up in surprise, Amelia nodded. "It was my expression, but he
agreed."

  Just then, Mitch came bounding in, his freshly washed hair damp and slicked back. Typically he stayed up later and woke up later than everyone, requiring less sleep than the others. "Hey, good-lookin'." He pecked Clara's cheek. "Whatcha got cookin'?" He tried without success to stick a finger in the chili pot, but Clara swatted his hand.

  "Mitchell, I swear. You ain't changed a lick in twenty years." The warmth in her eyes offset her stern reproach.

  "Ma'am." He grinned, unabashed. "Hey, chief. Hey, Amelia." He swiped a carrot from the cutting board and popped it into his mouth. "Brooks said you're coming out with us later. I take it you're up for Ranching 101—the crash, intro course."

  "That's right." She practiced drawing deep, calming breaths, knowing a confrontation was unavoidable. The sooner they got past it, the sooner the tightness in her chest would loosen. "My lay of the land's been limited to a hospital and a mall so far. Not exactly what you write home on your Wyoming picture postcard."

  "Just leave it to my big brother to take care of that." He hooked his thumbs into his pockets, striking a casual pose, though he kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

  "As long as it's not on horseback right off the bat…" she mulled aloud.

  "Yeah, I can see where you might not want to, uh…" His lips twitched, and he rubbed a hand over his face as if he'd remembered some private joke he didn't want to share. "Yeah, that makes sense."

  "What's going on, Mitch?" Clara asked from the stove.

  "Nothing, why?"

  "You're hemming and hawing like Dean when he's bursting at the seams." She lifted an eyebrow. "What'd you do? You gonna confess to something?"

  "Nope. Not me. No confessions here." Mitch leaned against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other and inspecting his fingernails. "You seen Brooks this morning?"

  Amelia flushed, her gaze skittering away.

  "No, why?" Clara whacked the wooen spoon against the pot a few times.

  "Geez. Can't a guy ask a simple question?"

  "Don't know. You ain't asked one yet."

  "Why, Clara." He faked a wounded look. "Whatever do you mean, darlin'?"

  She narrowed her gaze and brandished the spoon at him. "You know darn well where to find your brother, which tells me you got an ulterior motive for asking."

  "Is it warm in here?" He turned to Amelia with a grin.

  "Oh, no." Amelia held up her hands. "Leave me out of it."

  "All right. All right." He straightened away from the counter. "I'm outta here." He paused by Timmy's high chair. "You come visit Uncle Mitch later on." He rumpled Timmy's hair, and Amelia smiled, noticing all three of the brothers made the same affectionate gesture with the baby. "I sure have missed you helping us on feed runs. Oh, for me?" He grinned as Timmy handed him a bright blue, plastic cup and pretended to drink from it. "Yum-my."

  "Mmmm-eeee," Timmy tried to parrot back.

  "Close." Mitch laughed. "Real close." Then he turned to Amelia. "You mind if I take him to the neighbors' after dinner, either today or tomorrow?"

  "Oh, the ones with the puppies?"

  "Yeah. I'll be careful."

  At his automatic reassurance, she smiled. "I know you will."

  "Is that yes?"

  "Of course. You don't need my permission."

  "Sure I do. Plus, I don't want to mess up your schedule or anything."

  "All right then." She smiled and stirred the selection of baby food she'd warmed up and took a bib from the drawer. "Consider your permission slip signed. I'm sure Timmy would love to spend some quality time with his uncle Mitch."

  "Hear that?" Mitch said to Timmy who was methodically tossing his cups to the floor one by one, craning his head over the side to watch them fall. Squatting, Mitch picked them up and gave them back to Timmy, widening his eyes and mouth in exaggerated excitement. "The boss said yes. We're on. Puppies. You and me."

  The boss. At the easy expression, Amelia's heart pulled tight. The way they all treated her made her feel important, like she belonged. She didn't want that to change because of one night. One wonderful, incredible, unforgettable night.

  Yes, the sooner she and Brooks got this morning-after business behind them, the better. "We'll head down to the barn after breakfast," she told Mitch. "If you could tell—"

  "I'll tell him." His lips started to twitch again, but Timmy enthusiastically babbled some nonsense, stuck a cup into his mouth and bounced another off his uncle's head. "Ouch. On that note, I'm really outta here. Bye, all."

  After he left, Amelia snapped Timmy's bib around his neck and stroked his hair. "Everyone's so good with him. He's so happy here. He even has a happy baby glow."

  "Mmm-hmm." But Clara's eyes were on her, not Timmy. "He's not the only one glowing this morning, come to notice."

  Heat crept up her neck, into her cheeks. "I, um, like it here, too."

  "Mmm-hmm." She looked at the mudroom door and nodded, as if to herself. "I keep telling 'em, ain't no substitute for a good woman."

  "As evidenced by you." She sat down to feed Timmy.

  Clara laughed. "You been listening, huh?"

  "Well, it's plain to see you raised them well."

  "Oh, yeah?" She picked up the wooden spoon again. "You mean the way they're always trying to get away with whatever they can, pull the wool over my eyes? Think I won't notice." She clucked. "Boys will be boys, I suppose."

  "Your boys love and respect you a great deal, and that respect obviously extends to the way they treat others … the way they treat other women. That's quite an accomplishment."

  Clara beamed as she stirred the chili. "They do me proud, that's for sure. Them and their sister. Like my own kids. Everyone but Luke…" Her expression turned pensive. "Never had much time with him. And the time we had…" She shook her head. "He was already a man by then, with his own ideas about the world. You know that saying… Get 'em young, train 'em early. It gets harder as they get older."

  Amelia nodded. "And when you're repairing damage…"

  Clara looked up in surprise. "Brooks told you?"

  She shrugged. "Just enough that I figured out Ma and Pa Hart didn't have an ideal marriage."

  "Not by any stretch." Clara's eyes grew distant as if seeing long-lost memories. "She was too fragile from the get-go. Wimpy little thing, not cut out for ranch life, or anything else that takes a backbone. He was one prickly son of a gun. Jealous. Possessive. Controlling. Add to that his bottle tipping, and it was ugly. Often. Mostly he stuck to wife-beating. The kids got emotional scars.

  "Luke, the worst. Then Brooks. Then Jo. The other two were young enough—Mitch barely remembers, Dean don't remember at all. But you can see how those early years shaped the older ones. Brooks nurtures life. Jo fixes what's broken. Luke…" She shook her head. "Like Cain and Abel, him and Brooks. We thought he'd found an outlet for his anger hunting down bad guys. Turned out, the only way he stopped his pain was to pass it along. In the end, to the people closest to him."

  A shiver crawled up Amelia's spine, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. "Do you think she drove him to it? The, um, the Blond Widow." The name was thick on her tongue. She'd never liked it, right from the start.

  "Laura's a convenient target. They blame her. They blame themselves. Blame, guilt, they're natural parts of grief, of healing. They'll work through it, come to see ain't none of us responsible for someone else's actions."

  At the matter-of-fact pearls of wisdom, something loosened in Amelia's chest. "Now I see why you're the mother of their hearts. Brooks was right—you are the best."

  Clara laughed and wagged her finger. "Okay, missy. You done made an old lady tear up once. Now, cut it out."

  She smiled. "I'm really glad they had you and Pete—four out of five, anyway. You've made a warm, nurturing family this little guy's lucky to be part of." She made funny faces at Timmy as she gave him another spoonful of strained carrots.

  "Say, Amelia?" Clara crooked her head. "How'd you like to learn to make ap
ple pie?"

  "Are you serious? Your secret recipe?"

  "I reckon it's time. Past time."

  "I'd be honored. Thank you." Amelia felt light on her feet as she got up and crossed to the sink to dampen a cloth to mop up Timmy's face. There, her gaze happened to land on a note in Brooks's handwriting. Dated today, the message was like a pin popping the balloon of her happiness.

  Call agency re: Amelia.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  "Damn it, Mitch. Get the hell out of my way." Tired of his brother's comical attempts to block his path, Brooks shoved past him, wiping the blood from his cheek where the barbed wire had snagged him while he was out mending fence.

  "Oh, sure." Mitch grinned from ear to ear. "Like it's my fault your mind's somewhere else this morning."

  Brooks ignored him, going to the sink in the barn and washing his scrape.

  "You know," Mitch drawled, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and rocking back on his heels. "You're awful uptight for a guy who just got lucky. Where's your dumb, happy grin?"

  "Shut up, Mitch. I'm not in the mood."

  "What? Performance problems?" he coughed under his breath. "Maybe Amelia—"

  In three brisk moves, Brooks grabbed his brother by the collar and pinned him against the wall. "You say one crass word about her—whether she's around or not—and I'm gonna shove your tongue down your throat. Got it?"

  The humor faded from Mitch's eyes. He nodded once.

  Brooks let him go and brushed him off.

  "Sorry, man," Mitch said, walking with him to the hay truck.

  Brooks popped the hood to check the oil. "Forget it."

  Dean, who had watched the exchange in silence up to this point, chose to jump in then. "Ain't his fault, you know."

  "Dean," Brooks said in a warning tone.

  "What? You're the one sending mixed signals. Excuse us all to hell, for trying to act like you want Mr. All - I - Want's - A - Roll - in - the - Hay. No way, never, not gonna happen. Maybe if you spelled out your intentions."