A Baby of Her Own

CHAPTER FOUR

DELANEY SHOVED THE DOOR out of Rebecca’s grasp the moment she opened to her knock, and let it bang against the inside wall as she stormed through. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into that!” she said. “What on earth was I thinking?”

“That a one-night stand is cheaper than artificial insemination?”

“Don’t start with that stuff again,” Delaney warned. “I was being an idiot.”

“You were being assertive.”

“I was being aggressive! I was lying and manipulating others to get what I want. That’s not the same as being assertive, Beck.”

Her friend looked a little sheepish. “Was it that bad?”

Delaney pivoted at the end of the bed and began to pace. “It was worse than bad. It was terrible.”

“Terrible?” Rebecca echoed, tightening her bathrobe. “Don’t tell me he was into whips and chains or something.”

“No.”

“Was he a selfish pig?” she said sympathetically.

Delaney shook her head. “He wasn’t kinky or selfish. He was fabulous, a fantasy come to life. But that’s the problem.”

Rebecca’s brows drew together in obvious confusion as she shoved her tangled hair out of her eyes. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “He was good to you, and you think that’s a problem?”

“It is a problem!” Delaney cried, rounding on her. “I feel like a horrible person, a lecher, a loser. He trusted me, and I betrayed him. I was lying to him the whole time.”

Rebecca rubbed the sleep from her face and sank into the chair next to the round table that sported an All About Boise magazine and a giant bouquet of silk flowers. “It wasn’t a big lie.”

“I told him he didn’t need to worry about birth control!”

“So it was sort of a big lie. But that was the whole point. If you’d told him the truth, he wouldn’t have invited you up to his room.”

“I wish he hadn’t. I wish I’d never come here. I wish…” She stopped pacing and flopped onto the bed. “Oh God, what if I’m pregnant?”

Rebecca stood and leaned over her. “Wasn’t that the point of this whole exercise?”

Delaney remembered Conner’s surprise when she’d begun to leave his room, his earnest entreaty for her telephone number, and wished she could die. “No! If I’m pregnant, I’ll never be able to forgive myself, never be able to forget what I’ve done. I’ll have to stare into my child’s eyes and know…” She was about to say that deep down I’m no better than my mother, but she stopped herself because she couldn’t handle a philosophical discussion right now. She was too busy browbeating herself. “That I cheated his or her father.”

“You’re overreacting,” Rebecca said. “You haven’t hurt anyone. He had a good time, didn’t he?”

“I’m not going to answer that question.”

“I’m just saying, I’m sure he doesn’t regret it.”

“Whether he regrets it or not, he was a nice guy, Beck. I had no right to treat him the way I did.”

Rebecca lit a cigarette. “How do you know he’s such a nice guy? What do you really know about him, Laney? One night doesn’t tell you anything.”

Delaney thought her night had told her a few things about Conner. For one, he was generous. He’d been concerned about her enjoyment and what she might feel afterward. Two, he was loving and kind. He’d seemed as happy to hold her and keep her warm as he’d been to make love, which was a large part of what she’d liked about last night. Three, he was a good listener. He’d made her feel more important and understood than she ever had before.

And she’d taken advantage of him. “I have to go back there,” she said. “I have to tell him what I’ve done.” She climbed off the bed, but Rebecca blocked the door.

“You’re crazy,” she said. “He had a good time. Leave it alone. Do you think he wants you to drop a bomb like that? It’s over, and he’s gone on his merry way. Let him. I doubt that you’re pregnant, anyway.”

Delaney hesitated, trying to count how many times they’d made love. What were the chances that after five…no, six times, she’d be carrying his child?

Probably not very good, she decided. Besides, Conner didn’t want children yet. He’d told her as much. Rebecca was right: Delaney would be doing him more of a favor at this point simply to let it go…and hope for the best.

SO THIS WAS DUNDEE, where he’d been born and lived with his mother for the first six years of his life.

Conner frowned as Roy, the foreman of the Running Y, who’d picked him up just after breakfast in Boise, drove him through the center of town, where several buildings rose out of the surrounding mountains, leaning on each other like old men. Built of wood and painted red, brown or white, they ran along both sides of the street, fronted by a covered boardwalk that extended for several blocks like something out of an old western. Only the gas station down the street and the new A&W looked out of place or the least bit modern.

Modern? He thought of the spacious, Spanish-style villa he’d grown up in, with its expansive wings and gardens, inside swimming pool and tennis courts, and knew he’d been banished to hell.

Where he’d rot, if his uncles had their way.

Swallowing a bitter sigh, he glanced at his companion. Tall and lanky, Roy had red hair and a mustache that entirely covered his top lip. His freckled, sunburned complexion gave his face a leathery appearance and made him look older than the fifty-five or so he probably was. And he wore, like most other men within sight, a parka with a pair of Wranglers that were so tight his chewing tobacco stood out in marked relief.

Conner considered his own jeans, which were loose fitting by comparison, his Doc Marten loafers and Abercrombie sweatshirt, and knew he was going to blend in about as well as his clothes did.

“How much farther to the ranch?” he asked, breaking the silence that had fallen between them almost immediately after their brief greeting in Boise. He needed to dispel the lingering sense of loss and confusion he’d experienced since Delaney’s sudden departure, and after a twenty-five year absence, he remembered the ranch and the cemetery where they’d buried his grandma, but not much about the town or surrounding area.

“’Nother ten miles or so round that mountain.” He pointed to their right before slinging his arm casually over the steering wheel.

Conner gazed off in the distance. “Who lives there these days?”

“Only a handful of us. Ben, Grady, Isaiah and me live in the cabins behind the barn.”

“No one stays at the main house?”

“Just Dottie. Least during the week. On weekends she stays with her son and his family in town.”

“And just what does this Dottie do?”

“The cookin’ and cleanin’ and stuff. Takes care of the dogs and chickens, too.”

“So there’s just the five of you?”

Roy cast him a sideways glance. “Now there’s you.”

Conner was painfully aware of that fact. “I think I heard one of my uncles say that the Running Y is twenty thousand acres,” he said. “Is that about right?”

Roy spat out the window as they rumbled to a stop at what appeared to be the town’s biggest intersection. A brick municipal building with the date 1847 carved above its arched entry stood on one corner, across from two stately homes that looked as though they hailed from the same era and a redbrick building designated as the city library.

“Give or take a few,” he said. “Not that twenty thousand acres is very big, far as ranches go. You want big, go to Texas.”

“Where they raise Longhorns.” Even Conner knew that. “What kind of cattle do we stock?” he asked. He’d been too angry at his grandfather and his uncles to reveal the slightest interest in returning to the Running Y by asking even the most basic questions.

The light turned green, but his companion squinted at him for a second or two before giving the pickup enough gas to roll through the intersection. “We’ve got about two thousand Bally-faced Herefords.”

Bally-faced? Conner hadn’t heard that term before, but he did, thankfully, recognize Herefords. Unless he was mistaken, they were the common reddish cattle seen in so many places. “Is the entire ranch fenced?” he asked, trying to imagine how one might manage such a large chunk of land.

Roy accelerated to their usual traveling speed of about forty-five miles per hour. Because of the load of hay Roy had picked up in Boise before appearing at Conner’s hotel, Conner doubted the truck could go any faster.

“Parts are fenced,” Roy said. “But some of the land is open range leased from the BLM, and I doubt they’d like us fencing it off.”

“The BLM?”

Another squinty gaze. “The Bureau of Land Management. It operates state land. We hold the grazing rights for about ten thousand BLM acres down along the south pass.”

“I see,” Conner said, but he didn’t see much. He’d thought owning a twenty-thousand-acre ranch meant owning twenty thousand acres of deeded property. Evidently that wasn’t strictly the case.

What are the grazing rights worth? he wanted to ask. How do we keep our cattle from straying if our property isn’t completely fenced? How do we stop thieves and predators from stealing and slaughtering our Bally-faced Herefords? Did a few cowboys keep a constant vigil over them?

There were hundreds of things he’d need to know. But he didn’t ask anything more. His lack of knowledge wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence in his foreman, and he was still too disgruntled about what had happened with Delaney this morning to handle the situation diplomatically.

There’d be plenty of time to learn how to run the ranch once he arrived, he supposed. At this point, he preferred his unhappy thoughts to Roy’s resentment. But Roy wasn’t ready to let the conversation lapse.

“Ever been out on a horse?” he asked as they rumbled along.

“On occasion,” Conner told him.

“For work or for pleasure?”

It didn’t take a crystal ball to see where Roy’s questions were leading, and the implication of his words caused the irritation already rushing through Conner’s blood to get the better of him. He’d gone against his saner judgment when he’d taken Delaney to his room last night, and she’d left him feeling jilted and used. He didn’t need a crusty old cowboy to make him feel worthless, as well.

“What do you think?” he said.

“I don’t think you look like much of a cowboy.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to buy myself a belt buckle tomorrow.”

Roy’s furry eyebrows shot up, but he kept his eyes on the road as he shifted onto one hip to reach his chew. “It’s gonna take a lot more than a belt buckle, son.”

Conner recognized the challenge in the man’s voice. Fixing him with a level gaze, he said, “I’ll manage,” even though, in all honesty, he couldn’t blame Roy for resenting his lack of experience. The ranch was deeply in debt and would probably fail in far more capable hands. His grandfather had obviously sent the wrong man. Conner had known that from the beginning, and now he and Roy both knew it.

“You want to tell me a little about what’s been going on, why we’re so far from showing a profit?” Conner asked. As long as Roy had no illusions about his abilities, they might as well get down to the nitty-gritty.

The foreman took a pinch of tobacco, settled it between his cheek and gum and put his tin away before answering. “Price of beef’s been falling. What with foreign competition and the price of feed after the drought last summer, we’re not lookin’ to have a good year.”

“Is there any way to turn things around?” Conner asked as they approached a black wrought-iron archway with the words “Running Y Ranch” inscribed on it.

Roy spat out the window as he slowed to make the turn. “That’s what you’re here for, ain’t it?”

“YOU’LL HAVE TO MOVE BACK HERE with us. How else will you get by once Rebecca leaves?” Aunt Millie asked, watching Delaney closely.

Delaney paused in her dusting but kept her face purposefully averted from Aunt Millie, who sat propped up in bed, suffering from a touch of the flu or a cold or, more likely, simply the need for a little tender loving care.

“I’ll get by,” she said for probably the hundredth time and went back to dusting, hoping Aunt Millie would let the subject drop. But Delaney knew she wouldn’t. Ever since Millie had heard about Rebecca’s engagement, she’d been pressing Delaney to move home again. She’d never liked the fact that Delaney had moved out in the first place, especially to go and live with Rebecca. But Delaney wasn’t about to return to the days of having Aunt Millie cluck over her constantly, monitoring her diet, her spending habits, her social success. Much as she loved Millie and Ralph, she liked her privacy and was determined to preserve it.

“But coming home for a few months would help you save a little money,” Aunt Millie said. “What’s wrong with saving money? You don’t want to live all alone, do you?”

“I don’t mind living alone. Can I get you anything else to eat?”

“No, I’m finished,” Aunt Millie said, but she wasn’t so easily distracted. The white-haired woman who’d raised Delaney was getting on in years. Her body was beginning to succumb to arthritis and advanced age, but nothing could diminish her iron will. “You could have your old room,” she went on. “We haven’t changed a thing in there, but we could, if you want. We could sew some new drapes, buy a new spread….”

The cornered feeling Delaney knew so well crept over her, along with a touch of resentment. If she’d wanted to move home, she would have done it by now. Why couldn’t Millie understand that? Why did she have to keep pushing?

“The room’s fine,” she said.

“Think of the time we’d have. We never did finish putting that quilt together, you know.”

Delaney imagined living under Aunt Millie’s regime again, imagined Uncle Ralph sitting in front of the television most of the time, monopolizing the remote, while Millie insisted Delaney take her vitamins, eat her bran, get more sleep—and thought she might scream.

Then she felt guilty for wanting to scream because Aunt Millie and Uncle Ralph had been so good to her. They’d never formally adopted her; there’d been no one to contest their guardianship, so paying for the paperwork to be filed seemed unnecessary. But Millie and Ralph had given her their name and treated her as lovingly as a blood daughter.

God, she couldn’t win.

“That house of yours is too drafty in the winter,” Millie was saying. “I just freeze to death whenever I go there. You need to tell that landlord of yours that you’re moving out because it’s so cold. He should really do something about the insulation.”

“I’ll mention it,” Delaney said, but she wasn’t thinking about insulation. She’d role-played this exact situation online with her assertiveness training coach. She knew what she had to do. She had to tell Aunt Millie in a kind but firm manner that she wasn’t moving home under any circumstances, and now was as good a time as any. But when she turned, she saw the hope on her adoptive mother’s face and couldn’t bring herself to say what she knew would hurt Millie, no matter how kindly she framed it.

“I’ll think about it,” she said instead, then mentally kicked herself. She was never going to overcome her passivity. She’d probably be the first person to fail a class that gave no grades.

“Ralph could borrow the neighbor’s truck, so we wouldn’t have any trouble moving your things,” Millie said, struggling to lift the breakfast tray from across her lap.

Delaney put down her dusting cloth and went to help. “I’ll get that,” she said, setting it on the nightstand. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like another cup of coffee?”

“No. Ralph says drinking so much coffee will kill me. But arthritis won’t let me do much of anything else these days. I’m just sitting here getting fat.”

Uncle Ralph was at the barbershop, probably drinking his own share of coffee while he complained about the rising price of gasoline to the same friends he’d met there every Sunday for the past thirty years. Dundee was nothing if not comfortable with routine.

“Uncle Ralph likes the way you look, and so do I,” Delaney said, straightening the covers on Aunt Millie’s bed.

Aunt Millie raised a gnarled hand to pat her arm. “You’re a good girl, Laney. I’ve always been so proud of you. I knew the moment I saw you when you were just six years old that you were nothing like your mother. And you’ve never disappointed me.”

Delaney felt the bonds of obligation grow a little tighter, tying her hands, trapping her in the mold Millie had created for her. And fear overwhelmed her as the memories she’d been trying so hard to suppress for the past twenty-four hours quickly surfaced—Conner standing at his hotel room door wearing only his jeans…Conner smiling above her…Conner’s lips, his hands, his body…

She closed her eyes, feeling as though she might pass out. What if she was pregnant? What if she had to tell Aunt Millie and Uncle Ralph that their perfect little girl wasn’t so perfect after all?

“It’s getting kind of late,” she said awkwardly, her face growing hot. “If I don’t head home, there’ll be people breaking down my door for pies. You think you’ll be okay here until Uncle Ralph gets back?”

“Of course.” Aunt Millie waved her away. “I’ve got my cross-stitch. And the books you brought me.”

Delaney moved the stack of romances she’d checked out of the library closer to the bed so Aunt Millie could reach them, then did the same with the remote control to the television. “You want me to raise the blind a little higher?” she asked, hearing the reedy thinness of her voice and hoping Aunt Millie wouldn’t notice it. “It’s overcast right now, but the weather report said we’re supposed to get some sun later this afternoon.”

“That would be nice, dear.”

Delaney raised the blind, put away the dust cloth, gathered the coupons Aunt Millie had clipped for the weekly grocery shopping—which Delaney did every Monday before work—and reclaimed the breakfast tray. “There’s an apple pie in the fridge for your dessert,” she said, dropping a quick kiss on Aunt Millie’s lined cheek.

Then she ducked her head and hurried out of the room, eager to escape that loving smile and those adoring eyes, afraid that Aunt Millie would see what a fraud she really was. Afraid that if Aunt Millie looked too hard, she’d realize Delaney was her mother’s daughter, after all.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE MEMORIES OF THOSE FEW YEARS when Conner had lived at the Running Y were far more vivid than he’d ever dreamed they would be. After all, he’d been only six when his grandmother died and the whole household had moved to California, and the twenty-five intervening years had changed him into another person entirely. The hopeful little boy who’d ridden behind his grandfather to rescue a stranded calf, whose job it was to feed the chickens and gather the eggs, was long gone. Yet something as simple as the crackling fire beneath the large stone mantel in the living room, the lingering scent of pine and smoke or a glimpse of the snow-covered mountains crouched protectively on either side of the house flooded him with images and snatches of conversation he thought he’d completely forgotten.

“Why do you get up so early, Grandpa?” he’d once asked, entering the very room in which he sat now, his grandfather’s study, to find Clive hard at work, even though the sky beyond the windows was still black and dawn seemed hours away.

“Because I have a lot to do, son,” his grandfather had replied, glancing up from the papers on the desk.

“No one else gets up so early.”

“You do,” he’d responded with a wink. “And that’s why we Armstrongs are going to stay one step ahead of our competition. You’re my future, Con.”

You’re my future. Such hope, such confidence. At the time, Conner had swelled with pride to think the same blood flowed through his veins. But that was before he’d found out he wasn’t really an Armstrong at all, before his uncles had made it abundantly clear that he was nothing but a bastard, a ward, a parasite.

Other memories threatened, but Conner forced them from his mind and returned his attention to the ranch’s account books, which lay open before him. As he’d feared, the financial picture wasn’t good. His grandfather had bought the place over fifty years ago, when ranching was still profitable. It had given the old man his start, and he’d built an empire from there. But for the past five years, the cost of feed and hands had climbed steadily while the price of beef had fallen. Unless something significant happened, the ranch wasn’t going to make it, and even a frat boy who’d spent most of his time at college trying not to learn could see that.

The end was coming, Conner thought. There wasn’t a thing he could do to change the inevitable. Why was he even sitting here, going through the books, racking his brain for solutions?

Clive would tolerate the losses for only another year or so before he sold out. And Conner knew he was in much the same situation. Like the ranch, he’d started out full of promise but had eventually fallen into decline. He’d barely graduated from high school, had dropped out of college just as he was about to receive his diploma, and had spent more time traveling and playing than working. He’d drunk, gambled and squandered money. He’d spent his time driving fast cars and associating with even faster women. And his grandfather had finally drawn a line in the sand.

Tough love. What a concept. His grandfather loved the ranch more than he loved Conner.

Staring out the window, which looked over acres of pasture, Conner stopped fighting the past and let the memory of his last meeting with Clive play in his mind. His grandfather had summoned him to the office at the winery, where Conner’s uncles already waited. Forty-three-year-old Dwight had offered him a seat, as though he were some sort of stranger. Thirty-eight-year-old Jonathan had smiled, obviously relishing a moment he’d anticipated. And the balding, thirty-five-year-old Stephen had come right out and told Conner that his wild days were over. If he didn’t settle down and start contributing to the family, he’d be cut off from the Armstrongs forever.

Conner would have expected nothing less from his uncles. But his grandfather…What had happened in that meeting had twisted something inside him that Conner had thought long dead. Clive had sat behind his expansive desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching and listening to everything that occurred. He’d nodded when Stephen announced that they were sending Conner to the Running Y, adding nothing until Conner stood to leave. Then he’d said only this—that he was sending Conner back to Dundee where he belonged.