THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  Brooks cast her a sidelong glance, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. "I, uh… It's mutual." At the rugged, handsome profile of this tough yet tender cowboy, an inner peace settled over her. They rolled to a stop, and he got out. "Back in ten. Fifteen tops."

  She gave him the clipboard and soon heard clunking in the bed of the truck as he armed himself with whatever he needed. She craned her neck to catch some of the action, but he was hidden behind the herd. Oh, well. Maybe next time.

  Around them, wind whipped snow across the pasture, and the pickup rocked from side to side. She reached for the radio dial and turned it on low, leaving the station where she found it. By the time Brooks returned—twelve minutes later—she was humming and tapping her foot.

  He smiled. "Glad you can tolerate my music."

  "I like all kinds of music." The words rolled off her tongue so easily her gaze darted around in suspicion. "Wow, don't ask where that came from."

  "A memory?"

  "Nothing that concrete." She shrugged, then noted his mouth had set in a grim line. "Everything okay out there?"

  "Yeah. Fine. Is this too boring? I can take you—"

  "I'm not bored. Unless we're … I'm cramping your—"

  "You're not."

  "Okay, then. Let's keep going."

  With a nod, he scribbled something on the calving log, and she took the clipboard when he finished. "Thanks," he said and started driving again.

  "How about that one?" She pointed to a calf who was lying down, its head on the ground. "How come she's not playing like the others?"

  "Good eye." Brooks turned the truck in that direction. "That's why we check them every day. You just figured out a way we spot sick or weak ones—they aren't up and about."

  Amelia preened. "Hear that, Timmy? Score one for the city girl." But when she looked at the baby, she saw he'd fallen asleep ahead of schedule. "Oh, sweetie. It's still early for your morning nap. Was it something I said?"

  Brooks grinned. "Get him inside a moving vehicle, and his snoozing's fit to last an hour." He cut the engine and put on the emergency brake. "Be right back." He stuck out his hand for the clipboard.

  She didn't give it to him this time, but took off her seat belt, opened her door and climbed down.

  His grin slipped into a scowl. "What are you doing?"

  "Helping you," she said brightly and closed the door as gently as possible, so she wouldn't wake Timmy.

  Brooks rounded to the back, put down the tailgate and opened the lid of a big, plastic toolbox strapped to the bed. "I don't need help."

  "I'm sure you don't. You can probably do this blindfolded with one hand tied behind your back. But I thought maybe I could—"

  "Watch."

  She closed her mouth, her attention drawn to what he was doing.

  He inserted a narrow, two-inch pill into a foot-long, plastic cylinder, readied a syringe and stuck both into his pocket as he snuck up on the sick calf. The instant he grabbed its hind leg, the calf sprung up, bawling and trying to wiggle free.

  She could see Brooks's lips moving, imagine his deep voice gentled as he slowly but surely worked his way up the calf's leg to its flank, hand over hand like a game of tug-of-war, then on to its neck until he'd straddled the calf, securing its head between his knees.

  In minutes, he'd opened its mouth, slipped the cylinder in and out, then administered a shot in the neck and marked the calf with an orange paint strip.

  "That's it, baldy." He released the calf with a pat on the flank. "Go rat on me to Mama."

  The calf bellowed and scurried toward the grazing herd. Nestling between its mother's legs, it looked back at Brooks as if to say: Hey, Mom! He grabbed me!

  When Brooks walked back to her without a word, she got the distinct feeling she'd done something to displease him. She cleared her throat and tried to sound carefree. "Is it okay to ask what you did, or would you rather I not talk?"

  His nostrils flared, emotion swirling in the blue of his eyes. As he popped open an industrial-size box of disposable, antibacterial wipes and cleaned his hands, he explained the pill was for scours, the shot was a general antibiotic to fight anything else the calf might have, and they used paint to mark the calves they doctored. "Sorry if I was a jerk. I just…" He took an unsteady breath, then blew it out. "Cowboying isn't in your job description."

  She frowned. "Neither was last night."

  "That's the point."

  "What's the point?"

  "I don't want to take advantage of you."

  "You're not."

  He averted his gaze and reached for the clipboard, but she sidestepped him. "Honey, am I gonna have to use my shepherd's crook to get that clipboard?" He took an inch-thick, aluminum pipe from the toolbox, extending it to show her a question mark shaped hook. "Catches the calf's leg just above the hoof."

  She didn't feel like blowing off the subject. "You know, it's not like you've got a gun to my head, Brooks. I'm exercising free will here."

  He didn't say anything.

  "Do you doubt my competence?"

  "No."

  "Do you think a woman's place is barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?"

  "Hell, no."

  "Do you want these thousands of acres—" she swung her arm in a wide arc "—all to yourself right now?"

  He caught her hand midair. One flick of his wrist and she was standing in between his rock-hard thighs. His hands gripped her hips, his eyes as blue as flame. His voice came low, tortured. "The only thing I want all to myself right now is you. I want you to stay, Amelia. And I'm afraid you're gonna change your mind about this place. About me. I don't know what I'm going to do if … when … I've tried not to get attached, but I…" He closed his eyes. "It's too late."

  "Oh, Brooks." She tugged down his head, rising onto her toes to kiss him. "I want you to get attached. It's only fair since I'm attached, too."

  He groaned and kissed her back, his taste, his scent, the feel of him seeping into her, an arrow straight to her heart. The clipboard clattered onto the bed behind him as she wound her fingers into the hair at his nape, leaning into him. He widened his stance and cupped her bottom, pulling her closer, letting her feel the hard ridge of his desire as he kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her.

  She was somersaulting, like tumbleweed on the wind, happy and dizzy and free. Free. Every fiber of her being cried out in joy. Here she was in Brooks's embrace, and she didn't feel trapped but free. She wanted to stretch out her arms, lift her face to the sky and twirl around and around.

  When at last they broke for air, puffs of steam wafted from their noses and mouths. She gazed up into his heavy-lidded eyes and saw a reflection of her own desire.

  "This is what I want," she said. "A life where I can walk beside my mate. Not in front. Not behind. Beside."

  A myriad of emotions flickered in his eyes. He raised a finger to the bridge of her nose, tracing over the small bump so reverently, he brought a lump to her throat. "Tell me that when your memory comes back. Tell me then…" He bent and kissed her softly, sweetly.

  "I'll tell you, Brooks Hart." She playfully nipped at his chin. "But only if you teach me how to doctor calves."

  He laughed and hugged her hard, then set her away and rubbed a hand over his face in the familiar gesture she now recognized as his way of reining in his emotions. "Okay, fork over that clipboard, woman." He plucked it out of her hands and moved so they stood hip to hip leaning against the tailgate while he explained the calving log. "Get it?"

  "Got it."

  "Good." He smiled and dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Let's go."

  Once they'd climbed back into the cab, she pulled one of her legs up onto the seat and angled her body to face him and Timmy. In that moment, she felt more comfortable than ever—with Brooks, with Timmy, with herself. "I meant to tell you earlier, you're like Quick Draw McGraw with that syringe. Needles obviously aren't on your list of fears."

  "Nope. Not afraid of needles." Of course a card-carrying Red Cross donor woul
dn't be afraid of needles. "You want to try it next time?"

  "Me? You mean … stick … the needle?"

  "I was thinking the paint—"

  "Oh, paint's good. I'll do the paint." She bobbed her head in enthusiasm. "I can prep that pill gun thingy, too."

  "Okay, you're on paint and pill gun thingy duty."

  "Great." She beamed as if he'd just deputized her.

  They combed the north pasture, checking and doctoring as needed. With Brooks's encouragement, she tried her hand at the easier tasks, reveling in the sense of accomplishment and warmed by the respect in Brooks's eyes. When she made mistakes, he didn't criticize but coaxed her to try again. So she did. And succeeded.

  Somewhere along the way, the last of their awkwardness and overpoliteness evaporated. Often, their gazes met and held in the intimate connection of lovers who could exchange thoughts with a single look. They chatted as casually as old friends about everything and nothing, then let golden silence stretch between them just as companionably. When Timmy woke up, Brooks changed him and Amelia gave him a bottle to tide him over until dinner.

  "Does it ever bother you…?" She pursed her lips and tried to find a tactful way to ask her question, but Brooks understood what she was getting at.

  "Raising hamburger, you mean?" At her nod, he stared out the windshield, at the cow and calf pairs spread over acres of rolling hills. "The food chain is what it is."

  "But what about you, personally?"

  "Me, personally?" He tipped his head in reflection. "Living on the land, you see the cycle of life up close and personal. Everything has its season, and each season leads to the next… From life comes death. From death comes life. It's endless, unbreakable. Awesome." He smiled. "Personally, working the land and the cows reminds me to be grateful for every day, make the best of the time I have."

  Her gaze swept over the wide expanse, the endless sky, before returning to the cab, to the baby beside her and the man on the other side. She, too, felt grateful, alive in a way she doubted she had ever experienced before this ranch.

  Before this baby.

  Before this man.

  She studied his profile. "What are you afraid of? Or is that too personal a question?"

  He slanted her a look that said: After last night, you have to add that disclaimer?

  And she shot one back that said: Well, you know… You could be touchy…

  He flexed his hand on the steering wheel. "Everyone's got something."

  "And you…?"

  "No exception."

  "Snakes? Spiders? Small spaces? Heights? Death?"

  "None of the above."

  "Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark."

  He shook his head.

  "What, then? Don't keep me in suspense."

  "Myself," he said quietly.

  She frowned. "You're afraid of yourself?"

  He shrugged. "You asked."

  "But why?"

  "Bad blood. I'm the kin of an alcoholic wife-beater."

  That didn't mean anything. Not for this man. She'd know. She would see the danger signs.

  But would she pay attention? Or would she deny the obvious, make excuses … pull the covers over her head?

  A shiver crawled up the back of her neck again. What was it? Something … just out of reach.

  "Amelia?" Brooks raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"

  She nodded and rubbed her arms. "There's a piece of trivia I can recall. I get these odd insights sometimes. While most alcoholics and abusers come from alcoholic and abusive families, the reverse doesn't hold—the majority of those who grew up in alcoholic and abusive families do not become alcoholics and abusers. And not that you asked for it, but I'm going to give you my two cents … I think your awareness—your heightened awareness—says a lot. Add to that how much you value life—not just yours, but all life—and I don't see you as someone who deliberately takes your pain out on someone else. For what it's worth."

  An unfathomable look chased across his face. He opened his mouth, on the verge of saying something, then closed it.

  "What? Tell me."

  He gave her a curious glance. "How is it possible to barely know anything about someone yet feel like you've known them your whole life? I don't know where you were born, what happened to your folks, why you chose to come here." His throat worked. "Sometimes, I want to know everything. Other times…" His nostrils flared, and his voice came gritty. "You strip these facts away, and all that's left is what's real. What's true. What matters."

  She mattered to him. In his own roundabout, master-of-the-understated, cowboy way, that was what he meant. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she dabbed them with one of Timmy's cloth diapers.

  "Ah, hell. Now I've upset you. I shouldn't have—"

  She shook her head. "You didn't upset me. You … did what you always do." She lifted her shoulder and smiled. "You show me the glass is half-full instead of half-empty."

  "Look who's talking."

  "Maybe we're both closet optimists?"

  "Maybe." His eyes softened, and he reached for Timmy's discarded milk bottle. "Don't think you're done yet, chief. No way your tummy can be full. Let's try again." He lifted the nipple to Timmy's mouth, testing whether he'd drink some more, and sure enough, the baby latched right on.

  "Here, sweetie. You tired of holding it?" She brushed Brooks's fingers as she took over for him, smoothing Timmy's hair from his forehead. "That's better, huh? You've been such a good boy today. No wonder Uncle Brooks likes to take you with him." She leaned down and kissed his head. "Where to now, Uncle Brooks?" she asked as they crested a hill, and the barn and corrals came back into view.

  "Now, I drop you two off and go check on that cow." He pointed to a lone, black cow who had wandered from the herd.

  "Why? What's wrong with her?"

  "She's about to calve."

  Amelia squinted. "How can you tell from here?"

  "Actually it's easy looking down on the corral. See, cows like to be together, close, until they're calving. Then they want to be by themselves. So we look for the loners, the drifters, cows with kinked tails, cows lying down—all possible signs."

  "This is going to be an adventure." She smiled and laced her fingers together. Letting her head fall back against the rest, she turned her gaze out the window in newfound appreciation for the stark beauty of the land.

  When they returned, she eased Timmy from his car seat and into her arms, then accepted Brooks's hand climbing down. "Thanks," she said, but he made no move to let go. Neither did she. Their fingers laced together as he walked her out. The wind kicked up, swirling her hair. "I had a great time."

  "Yeah, you're not half-bad with the pill gun thingy."

  "Hey." She dropped his hand to rap the brim of his hat with a finger, knocking it over his eyes. "Don't be stingy with the praise, cowboy. I kicked butt with the pill gun thingy. I saved you a ton of prep time." On a roll, she barely registered his show grin as he tipped back his hat. "Why, you'd still be in the north pasture if not for—"

  Gently he put a finger over her lip. "You're a woman of many talents," he said, and then she did notice his grin, because it had a bittersweet sadness tugging down a corner.

  She kissed his finger. "What is it, Brooks? Why are you sad underneath that smile?"

  "I'm not—" His gaze shifted between her and Timmy, and something raw and powerful surfaced in the depths of his eyes before he blinked it away. "It was strange having you with me today. I've never… No one's ever… I liked it."

  Emotion crowded her lungs. "Is that bad?"

  "Could be, lollipop. Could be." His voice was gruff, his lips tender as he lowered his head and kissed her. "I don't want to hurt you. Not ever…"

  "Then don't," she said simply and deepened the kiss.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Brooks didn't return until eight that night. When he poked his head into the nursery, Amelia looked up from the bedtime story she was reading Timmy. Sh
e could tell he was worn-out, but his face brightened as he took in the two of them nestled in the rocker, Timmy nodding off on her lap.

  "Welcome home." She smiled, jiggling the bottle in Timmy's mouth to get him to suck a little more. "How was your day?"

  "It just got a whole lot better. You?"

  "Good." She'd played with Timmy, worked some more on her plan during his nap, then helped Clara with supper, all the while trying in vain not to watch the clock. "We, um, missed you."

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a slow, easy grin. "I missed you, too." The words, like so many of his others, touched her even more because she suspected he didn't say them often, if ever.

  "Are you hungry?"

  "Starving."

  "Want me to warm a plate for you?"

  Though his eyes told her the offer sounded good, he shook his head and said, "You don't have to wait on me."

  "I know, but… You can pay me back. In other ways." She peered up at him through lowered lashes, hardly able to believe she was flirting.

  His laughter came low and intimate, her meaning clear. "All right. I'm a stinkin' mess, though, so I'm gonna hit the shower first, okay?"

  She nodded. "See you in a bit."

  "The, ah, sooner the better." On that suggestive note, he rapped the door frame twice and headed down the hall.

  Amelia found herself racing through the bedtime story, her body tingling with anticipation. But by the time she put Timmy down, the shower had turned on and off.

  Darn he took fast showers.

  She closed the nursery door behind her and noticed the bathroom door open the barest crack. Should she? Shouldn't she? She stood there, paralyzed with indecision for a full minute as the scent of soap and shampoo and Brooks drifted out, wrapping around her senses. Unbearably tempted, she edged forward and peeked through the tiny opening. Nope, not even a flash of skin.

  Double darn.

  She swallowed hard, realizing she really wanted to see him, and nudged the door just the tiniest little bit. But it was enough of a nudge that the door swung open, and she stopped short, her eyes wide, her pulse scrambling.