by Judy Duarte
But the reality of her desolate future seemed to suck the breath right out of her.
Louanne kissed Noah, then placed him into his crib. “Good night, sweet baby.”
He fussed momentarily, not ready to end his day, but within moments, he’d popped his thumb in his mouth and laid his head upon the mattress.
As she made her way back to the living room, where Rowan waited, she looked forward to having company. There wasn’t much to do in the evenings, especially since Louanne had given up reading. Watching television, of course, had become a comfortable routine, but at this time of the year, there were mainly reruns airing. So, in a way, playing cards with Pete and Aggie was actually something to look forward to, particularly since her days were long, the work endless.
For a woman who’d been geared for a life of academia until her novel scored big, running a cattle ranch had been a daunting task. Thank goodness she had Pete and Aggie to help. She didn’t know how she would have made it without the aging ranch foreman and his wife.
“Is Noah asleep?” Rowan asked, from his seat on the edge of the beige vinyl recliner.
“Not yet. But he will be in a minute or two. He’s had a big day today. Those afternoon walks always wear him down.”
“I can understand why. He got pretty wound up, just pointing at things.” Rowan chuckled. “He would lurch and move in my arms, kind of like a kid in a swing set pumping for momentum, to show me where he wanted to go.”
Louanne smiled. “He’s trying so hard to communicate.”
“I noticed.” The man who’d once been uneasy with babies grinned like an old hand. “He’ll probably be talking up a storm in no time at all.”
She placed her hands on her hips and arched, trying to stretch out the ache in her back that never seemed to go away. Her body had gone through a lot of changes in the past year or so, first with pregnancy and childbirth, then with the physical demands of life on a working cattle ranch.
They didn’t have as many cattle as before, which was just as well. They couldn’t afford another hired hand, other than Pete. The ranch was dying; they both knew it. And she suspected the only reason Pete hadn’t retired was out of concern and loyalty to her.
“Is there something I can do to help?” Rowan stood, letting her know he was willing to set up or whatever.
Louanne smiled. “Knowing Aggie, she’ll bring everything we need, other than a pot of coffee.”
“You mean the goodies she talked about?”
“Let me put it this way. Pete’s the one who will need some help lugging things over here.”
Just then a light rap sounded at the screen door, and they both turned to see Pete carrying a card table and a platter of cookies. “Is the baby asleep?”
“If not, he’s close to it.” Louanne swung open the door and took the plate from his steady but craggy hands. “Where’s Aggie?”
“She’s packing Noah’s wagon with the rest of the stuff and should be here shortly.”
Thirty minutes later, the four of them sat around the card table, as Rowan learned the intricacies and strategies of Schazam, a game played with kitchen spoons, three dice and matchsticks.
When the older woman had mentioned playing cards, Rowan’s first thought was poker. But when she’d arrived pulling a child’s red wagon packed full of home-baked sweets, he’d been surprised to see her whip out three decks of cards, dice and a box of matches.
“Schazam!” Pete shouted, as he threw down four tens and snatched a teaspoon from the middle of the table.
Aggie clapped her hands, then gave her husband a high five. Rowan couldn’t help but laugh. Playing cards with Pete and Aggie wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
Rowan’s idea of cards was a group of guys, the curl of cigar smoke and a warm swig of bourbon as it slid down the throat. Coarse language that always seemed to hit the heart of a matter. Big belly laughs. Friendly bickering and banter. And not to mention, the wealth of knowledge a young man learned from men nearly twice his age.
Rowan played cards with older men.
And he’d always looked forward to it. Looked forward to the priceless words of wisdom people didn’t find in books.
A man don’t need friends when he’s got the world by the balls and his pockets full of cash. He needs ’em when he’s down and out. That’s when you find out who your real friends are, son.
Son.
Grief surged in his chest, although he wasn’t exactly sure why.
“Son, it’s your deal.” Pete passed the triple-deck of cards to Rowan.
Upon the transfer of the stack, Rowan felt the warmth of Pete’s touch. Felt the years of wear on the cards. Sensed the camaraderie between the others at the table.
It seemed obvious that the older couple and the mother and child had become a family of sorts. And it was touching. Is that what Rowan grieved? Not having a closeness like that? Or was it just the blasted amnesia that made him feel as though no one gave a damn about him?
He hated not knowing. Not understanding.
“You sure you’ll be okay while we’re gone?” Aggie asked Louanne. “We can cancel our plans.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it.” The young woman reached across the table with work-roughened hands. Gentle hands that deserved the luxury of a weekly manicure.
“Where are you going?” Rowan asked the older couple.
“We’re gonna take a trip to Amarillo to see Aggie’s sister. Then on up to Colorado.” Pete leaned back in his chair and looked at Rowan. “You ever see that part of the country?”
“No.” The answer just seemed to pop out, so Rowan assumed it was true. But hell, he really didn’t know for sure where he’d traveled.
“I haven’t been to visit my sister in close to ten years,” Aggie said. “We do a lot of writing and talking on the telephone. But it’s not the same.”
Pete took a swig from a chipped, blue coffee mug. “We bought us a used RV from a widow woman east of Austin. But I sure wish we had a fancy Winnebago like Doc Haines just bought.”
“The one we have is just fine. We don’t need anything fancy.” Aggie patted the top of Louanne’s hand. “You’ll have to come see what I’ve done to that ol’ motor home. I’ve got it all cleaned up. And I made new curtains and a couple of throw pillows for the sofa.”
“Did you get a chance to see Doc’s Winnebago?” Pete asked Louanne. “Before he took off, he gave me a tour.”
“No, I didn’t look inside.”
“It’s a nice one. And it’s got all the modern conveniences.” Pete glanced at Aggie and slid her a smile. “But you’re right, Sugar. The one we’ve got will work just fine.”
Aggie reached for one of the peanut butter squares Rowan favored, a rich chewy cookie bar that melted in the mouth. “I’m really looking forward to getting away, but I’m sure going to miss Noah. I don’t suppose you’d let us take him with us? We’ll just be gone a week.”
The attractive young mother smiled, “He’s a handful, and if I wouldn’t miss him something fierce, I’d let him go. I know he’d be in good hands with you.”
“The only thing holding us back is you,” Pete told Louanne. “We hate leaving you out here to fend for yourself.”
“I’ll be all right. Besides, you two need a vacation.”
“Don’t worry,” Rowan said, as he handed Pete the stack of cards to cut. “I’ll stick around and help out until you get back—if Louanne will tell me what to do.”
“That does make us feel a lot better.” The older man separated the cards in three groups, making the cut. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“No, not at all.” In fact, Rowan would look forward to feeling useful, to feeling as though he had some kind of purpose. Especially since he had no place to go.
Each time he tried to access his memory, he found himself fumbling in the dark. Except for the bits that flashed like lightning here and there.
Thirty minutes and three bellows of “Schazam!” later, Pete and Aggie took the empty wag
on back home. They’d left behind nearly a dozen chocolate chip cookies, a quarter of an apple pie and several peanut butter squares, much to Rowan’s delight.
He popped another one into his mouth, then picked up the empty mugs and carried them into the kitchen.
Louanne followed behind with the plates of leftover sweets. “I can get the dishes, Rowan. You don’t need to help.”
“It’s time I started pulling my own weight.” He plugged the sink and turned on the hot water.
Louanne reached for a plastic bottle of dish soap. “If I had to face the remains of Thanksgiving dinner, I could understand. But it’s only four mugs, a coffeepot and a few pieces of flatware.”
“Maybe I like being with you,” he said, watching her eyes light up and a little color warm her cheeks.
She turned away, quickly washing the few dishes, rinsing them and placing them on the rack.
Rowan used a clean but frayed dishtowel to dry them, yet all the while, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, couldn’t keep from studying her classic profile, her turned-up nose. The dark spikes of her lashes.
Was it her down-home, earthy beauty that drew him to her? Or was it merely the fact that she lit up one dark corner in his world?
“That’s it.” She turned off the water and dried her hands, then walked toward the kitchen door.
He merely stood there, watching her.
This woman didn’t belong on a run-down cattle ranch. Didn’t belong in worn jeans and faded cowboy shirts. She belonged in linen and pearls. And he longed to see her in classy clothes, in a different setting.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, eyes still bright, cheeks still flushed.
“Nothing.” He approached her.
A whiff of her wildflower scent triggered a hunger. A need. And his longing took on a different slant. He wanted to touch her again, to pull her into his arms. To feel her flush against him.
He brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, and her lips parted.
To stop him? To reprimand him for wanting to kiss her again? Or had it been a natural response to what she surely knew he intended to do?
He placed a finger on her chin, tilting her face to his. When she didn’t step back, didn’t pull away, he kissed her—slow and easy at first, brushing his lips against hers.
As her mouth opened, he deepened the kiss until their tongues mated, until he knew every nook and cranny of her warm, silky mouth and suspected she knew his as well.
Had he ever enjoyed a kiss so much? He doubted it, cursing the darkness that wouldn’t allow his memories to surface.
As his hands roamed her back and slipped to the soft contour of her hips, she pulled away. “That wasn’t a very good idea.”
It had seemed like an awfully good idea to him. It still did. And he suspected she liked it every bit as much as he did. “What’s so bad about kissing?”
She seemed to struggle with the answer. Or maybe with the reason. “Kissing leads to other things. And I’m not ready for that.”
“Are you missing Noah’s father?” he asked, assuming she still grieved for the man who’d last made love to her.
“No. Believe it or not, I’m not missing him at all.”
Was that bad? Is that what bothered her? That she no longer grieved for the loss of her son’s father?
Then she flipped off the light switch, leaving Rowan in the dark.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Rowan and Louanne sat at the kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs and ham.
From the time they’d awakened and ran into each other in the hall, their conversation had been bland and generic, like “Did you sleep well?” and “Yes, thank you.”
On the outside, everything appeared friendly and normal. But inside, Rowan felt as awkward as a 49er linebacker in a tutu. And he suspected Louanne wasn’t any more comfortable than that.
Several times, he’d thought about mentioning the kiss they’d shared last night. But he hadn’t.
For some reason, Louanne hadn’t wanted to go into detail about her reservations. Or about her past.
And he needed to respect that. After all, who better than Rowan understood a person’s right to privacy?
His memory sputtered again, releasing another revelation that didn’t open any big doors in his mind.
Rowan kept his feelings to himself.
He jabbed his fork at a chunk of ham, wishing he could do something to still the clumsy silence. But as long as he and Louanne were the only two sitting here, the kiss would linger between them.
“When do you expect Noah to wake up?” he asked.
“He’s sleeping later than usual because he was so fretful last night.”
The poor kid had been fussy? Rowan must have slept through it all, and for some reason, it made him feel like a jerk for not being aware of the child’s discomfort or the nocturnal activity. But hell, what kind of help would he have been able to offer? He didn’t know jack squat about babies.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Rowan said.
“Good. I tried to get to him before he woke you. His twelve-month molars have been bothering him, especially at night, so I took him outside on the porch. That seemed to help, especially since the rocking chair is on the blink.”
Before Rowan could respond, Noah cried out. “Ma! Ma! Me!”
Louanne smiled, probably as eager as Rowan was to have a diversion, stood and carried her plate to the sink.
“Sounds like he’s awake and raring to go.”
“You’ve got that right,” she said. “I’d better get him. Will you excuse me?”
“Sure.” Rowan was glad Noah would be joining them, since their conversation wouldn’t be as stilted.
They both continued to tap dance around the blood-stirring kisses they’d shared, as well as their secrets—the memories amnesia had locked away from him and the thoughts Louanne kept under wraps.
He didn’t know whether his poker playing skills had made him good at reading people or not, but there was far more to Louanne Brown than met the eye. And he’d bet the farm on that.
A few moments later, Louanne returned with the pudgy, pajama-clad baby boy. Noah brightened at the sight of Rowan and squealed in delight.
Imagine that. The kid actually liked him. Had anyone ever seemed that happy to see him before? He doubted it.
A gush of warmth swelled in Rowan’s chest, and he shot the kid a sappy smile. “Hey, pal. Did those nasty chompers give you fits last night?”
Noah grinned in response, then lurched toward the high chair and grunted.
Without needing to be asked, Rowan lifted the chrome tray and waited for Louanne to secure the child in his seat before locking the tray back into place.
“How about some milk?” Louanne asked her son.
Noah smiled, revealing four little teeth, and plopped his pudgy hands on his reflection in the chrome. “Muh.”
Rowan took another sip of coffee and watched Louanne pour milk into a yellow plastic cup with two handles on the side.
A sharp rap sounded at the back door, then Pete entered the house through the service porch. “I could smell that coffee brewing clear out in the south pasture, so I decided to take a little break.”
“Good morning,” Louanne told the aging foreman. “Come on in and help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Pete took an olive-green mug from the cupboard and filled it with the rich brew. Then he turned and leaned against the pink tile countertop. “Aggie and I had a good time last night.”
“So did we.” Louanne glanced at Rowan, as if looking for confirmation.
He nodded, since he’d enjoyed himself, too. And not just because of the camaraderie. He found Pete and Aggie entertaining—in a television sitcom sort of way. He’d been reminded of an affectionate Fred and Ethel Mertz. And more than once, he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at their antics.
Yet at the same time, there was something special about the couple. Something down-to-earth and real. And Row
an suspected Pete and Aggie were the kind of people a man could count on in a pinch.
Of course, he’d never been one to share sentiments like that. Doing so left him too vulnerable.
Another little tidbit of his past busted free. Why did he want to protect himself and his feelings? Was that a result of the amnesia that plagued him? Or of something in his past?
“Schazam is a great game,” Pete said. “But I’m partial to poker.”
“Do you play very often?” Rowan wondered whether he’d be invited to join in and hoped he would.
“Nope. I’m afraid not.” Pete took another sip of coffee. “It’s not easy rustling up enough guys around here to make the stakes interesting.”
Again, Rowan tried to conjure a memory of his poker-playing past, but didn’t have much luck. He did suspect that Pete would fit right in with his old buddies—especially if he liked interesting stakes.
Pete would fit right in with his old poker cronies—men with more common sense than wealth, class or education.
Great. If that were the case, why couldn’t Rowan remember who those old cronies were? Not even one name or face came to mind.
Pete furrowed his bushy, gray brow and stepped closer to Rowan. “That wound seems to be mending pretty good. When is Doc going to take the stitches out?”
Louanne wiped a dribble of milk from Noah’s chin. “Doc said he’d stop by on his way home this weekend.”
The discussion of Rowan’s wound reminded him of the accident and the motorcycle that had landed in a ditch. And since his family had already been notified, he suspected it was probably locked up in some impound yard by now.
“By the way, Pete. I need to get my bike and bring it back to the ranch. I’m sure you’re pretty busy, but I could use some help, if you can spare some time.”
“I’ll be glad to go with you.” The craggy-faced cowboy took a last swig of coffee, then set the mug on the countertop. “Maybe together we can get it into the back of the truck and bring it here.”
“How bad did it look?” Rowan asked.
