Dakota Born (30 page)

Buffalo Bob paused and stared in Heath's direction. “Don't tell me
you
got women troubles, too.”

Heath slid onto a stool. “What do you mean?”

“Seems to be afflicting every man in town.” He held up a beer and Heath shook his head. Buffalo Bob reached for the coffeepot and poured him a mug, instead. Heath had found it to be the best coffee around. Bob served real coffee and not some watered-down version. Or, God forbid, that flavored stuff. After living in Europe, Heath had developed a connoisseur's taste for coffee. In his opinion, most folks in North Dakota served coffee weak enough to resemble tea.

“Take Brandon Wyatt,” Buffalo Bob said as he set the mug down on the bar. “I suppose you already heard he and the missus split?”

“Brandon and Joanie?” Heath hadn't heard, and the news depressed him.

“Don't know what went wrong,” Buffalo Bob added. “All Brandon said was he should've known better than to marry a city girl.”

Heath shook his head and cupped the mug with both hands, his elbows on the bar. “That's a real shame.”

“Dennis Urlacher was in recently, all miserable about him and Sarah. Apparently he's having trouble with that teenage daughter of hers. From what he said, it looks like the girl wants her parents to get back together.”

“Any chance of that?”

Buffalo Bob shrugged. “I doubt it, seeing they've been divorced for years, but I wouldn't know.” He poured a coffee for himself. “You got the look, too, Mr. Quantrill.”

“Me?” Heath didn't want to discuss his personal affairs, not with Bob or with anyone. Others might, but he wasn't in the mood to talk about his mistakes. He'd drifted in here for some privacy, a chance to think. “It's nothing,” he murmured.

“I thought you and Rachel Fischer were hitting it off.”

“Not really.” He took one last sip of coffee, put the mug down and left a dollar on the counter. “Guess I'm ready for the drive now.”

Buffalo Bob seemed surprised by his abrupt decision to leave. “Good to see you,” he said, scooping up the mug and the money. “Come by anytime.”

“Thanks, I will.” Heath was halfway out the door when he heard a woman's giggle. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Buffalo Bob and Merrily engaged in a kiss that looked as if it was never going to end. For an instant, he experienced a pang of envy. If he hadn't been so stupid, Rachel might be kissing him like that right now. Instead, he was slinking out of town, defeated, and wishing like hell for a second chance.

Sunday afternoon, Heath made his weekly trek to visit his grandmother at the retirement center. He found her asleep in her wheelchair, head to one side, eyes closed.

As quietly as he could, he made his way into her suite and set the small bouquet of flowers on top of the television.

“Don't put those there,” she snapped, fully awake and alert in a split second. She looked at him suspiciously. “When did you get here?”

“Hours ago,” he fibbed.

He could tell she was amused by the hint of a smile that tilted one side of her mouth. “You're late.”

“Thank you for the flowers, Heath,” he said with humorous sarcasm as he handed her the bouquet. “My, what a thoughtful grandson I have.”

“What are you doing bringing an old woman flowers, anyway? It's a waste of good money. You should be giving those to Rachel Fischer.”

He must have made a revealing gesture, because she caught on right away that there was a problem between him and Rachel.

“You
are
seeing Rachel, aren't you?”

“Not recently,” he said, taking a seat some distance from her. If she found out what he'd done, she might decide to beat him over the head with those flowers.

“Why not?”

His grandmother had always been one to get straight to the point. It was a characteristic they shared. “I didn't come here to discuss my personal life with you.”

“Then what the hell good are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How old are you now? Don't you think it's time you got married?”

“I will. All in good time.” He leaned back and spread his arms across the back of the couch.

“In good time,” she scoffed. “Who's to say how much time any of us has? Max always said he had lots of time, too, and now he's gone.”

Heath tried not to think about his brother and how sorely Max was missed by both his grandmother and him.

“You've been frittering away your life for years. Climbing mountains, living like a Bohemian. I blame your parents for this. I told them that sparing the rod spoiled the child.”

“Grandma,” Heath said, struggling to curtail a laugh. “I received my share of the rod.”

“Not near enough for someone as stubborn as you. I should've taken the paddle to you myself.”

At that, he laughed outright. His grandmother was all bark, and he knew it.

She wheeled around to face him. “Tell me what happened with the widow.”

He hesitated, then figured he deserved whatever criticism she gave him. “I tried to rush her into bed.”

Lily Quantrill made a disapproving sound, but she didn't explode the way he'd figured she would. He could tell by her scowl that she considered him a fool, and frankly, Heath agreed with her.

“What's the outlook now?” she demanded.

“Not good, I'm afraid.”

Her gaze narrowed. “You giving up on her?”

“No.” He'd never been a quitter in his life and wasn't about to start now.

“You going to marry her?”

“Too soon to tell.”

Lily snickered. “So, you wanted to bed her, did you?”

“Yes, but…” He hesitated, thinking better of enlightening his grandmother about the morals and values of modern days. She might take exception.

“But what?” she asked. “I like her, you like her. My grandparents met when her father went to a marriage broker. It was good enough for them. They were married sixty-eight years. Should I call Rachel, get this matter straightened out once and for all?”

Appalled, Heath was on his feet. “Don't you dare do that! I'll take care of it myself.”

“Apologize to her.”

He sighed. “If that's what it takes.”

“And remember, wed before bed—it's worked that way for hundreds of years. Must be a reason for it, don't you think?” Muttering under her breath, she wheeled over with the flowers and returned them to him. “Do something quick. I want to see you married before I leave this world, and I'm not as young as I look.”

 

Joanie delayed phoning Brandon until afternoon. She couldn't put it off any longer, otherwise the kids would be rushing in the door from school. It was a task she dreaded, but she had no choice. There were a number of things they needed to discuss.

That morning, as soon as the children had left, she sat down and in an organized and methodical way wrote out a list of items to discuss with her husband. All day that list had accompanied her from room to room.

So far, every contact between them had left her shaken and emotionally drained. Brandon didn't make it easy on her, but despite that, she had to call. Now.

The baby stirred as she sat at the kitchen table and reached for the old-fashioned phone. Joanie placed her hand over her swollen abdomen, loving this child already. Poor, sweet baby. He had no idea what was happening to his family.

Earlier in the month, an ultrasound had revealed the likely sex of her unborn child. The health clinic had ordered the procedure when Joanie experienced some minor complications. Luckily, she'd qualified for free health care. Had he known, Brandon would have bristled at the thought of anyone in his family receiving charity. In the weeks since leaving him, she'd become accustomed to accepting the kindness of others. Her parents, in particular, had been wonderful, but she didn't want to depend on them any more than she already did.

Brandon had sent her a check for January and, last Wednesday, one for February, a week early. But it wasn't nearly enough to meet their living expenses, even with the nominal rent she paid. Her parents had urged her to tell her husband about the pregnancy, and twice now she'd tried, and both times had failed. When they did talk, it was by phone and he always sounded so angry and bitter, and despite her resolve to inform him about the baby, she found she just couldn't.

Joanie picked up the receiver. She missed her home and her friends, and being part of Buffalo Valley. But mostly she missed the life she'd once shared with her husband. For a while now, she'd been plagued with doubts. Alone in bed at night, she couldn't help wondering if she'd done the right thing.

Two months ago, the answer had seemed much clearer than it did now, as she tried to deal with her children's pain and her own.

Before she lost her nerve entirely, she dialed the familiar number. Brandon answered just before the answering machine came on.

“Hello, Brandon,” she said, placing her finger on the list in front of her, trying to maintain her emotional balance.

“Is something wrong with the kids?” he demanded in the surly voice she'd grown to expect from him.

“They're doing fine.” Her words were followed by a tense, awkward silence, which she eventually broke. “But I did want to talk to you about them.”

“All right.”

She sighed inwardly and forged ahead. “They want to know if they can come home for spring vacation.”

There was no hesitation. “This is their home.
They're
welcome any time.”

But not her. He didn't say it, but Joanie didn't need it spelled out. “My dad said he'd be willing to drop them off.”

“Your dad. Not you?”

Joanie closed her eyes and forced herself to continue. “I can't. I've got a job. I work weekends.”

“You working in a bank?”

“No—it's just part-time.” She didn't want to tell him she stood on her feet for an eight-hour shift four days a week in a convenience store. It was the only work she could find, and what little income she received helped put groceries on the table.

“I'll be waiting for the kids the second week of March then.” His voice softened perceptibly, and she knew he looked forward to spending time with his children.

“While he's there, would it be all right if Dad picked up a few things for me?” she asked, rushing the question in order to get it out before he hung up.

“Such as?”

“I've got two or three boxes of old clothes in the attic.”

“What do you want clothes from the attic for?”

Now was the time to tell him, to casually mention that those old clothes were maternity outfits she'd tucked away after Stevie's birth. “I…need them, is all.”

“For your part-time job?”

“Yes.” It was the truth, and it wasn't.

“I'll bring them down for him.”

“Thank you.”

He sighed, as if tired of the ugliness between them. “We're so polite with each other.”

Joanie didn't respond. At least politeness was preferable to bitter silence or angry accusations.

“You seen your big-city attorney yet?” he asked, an edge of pain evident in his voice.

“No.”

“You've got a job now, you can afford it. Then you can nail me to the wall financially. You wanted me to sell the farm. Well, a divorce is certainly one way to get me off the land.”

Joanie rested her elbow on the table and leaned her forehead against her palm. “I haven't talked to an attorney, but I'll let you know when I've made an appointment.”

“You do that.”

Silence, but Joanie refused to let it continue. “I had Sage at the dentist last week,” she told him, “and he thinks she's going to need braces.”

His response was full of sarcasm. “Like I can afford braces.”

“I thought I should tell you.” She wished now that she hadn't. It wasn't something they needed to worry about immediately. Not until she was twelve or thirteen, according to the dentist.

“Anything else on your list?”

He knew her so well. They hadn't spent all those years together for nothing. “No,” she whispered. “That's everything.” Except…
I'm pregnant.
She couldn't make herself say it.

Neither of them said goodbye or disconnected the line.

“I appreciate that you're having the children write me every week,” he murmured.

“They enjoy your letters, too.” Each Tuesday, two letters arrived, one addressed to Sage and the other to Stevie. Sage kept hers in a shoe box in her bedroom. At night when she went to tuck her daughter into bed, Joanie often found Sage reading over her letters, one by one. Brandon's letters to his son ended up all over the house. Joanie gathered them up for him, but Stevie didn't seem to care one way or the other. At least outwardly.