Lois Greiman - [Hope Springs 02] (7 page)

“All right,” she said and waited for him to say something meaningful, or maybe she was waiting for her stomach to cease threatening treason.

“Nice night.”

She had no idea how he could get her flustered without half trying. “Yes. A little windy this morning, but . . .” she began and fought the hopeless impulse to chatter on like a manic chipmunk. “Did you need something?”

“Yeah. A good roping horse.”

She canted her head and raised a brow. “What?”

“I need a good roping horse,” he said and shuffled his scuffed boots on the newly painted porch as if his knees were sore. “Bronc riding is hell on the joints.”

She gave him a WTF look, hoping it was half as potent as Emily’s.

“I’m thinking of quitting the rough stock.”

She let that soak in for a minute. Odd as it might seem, she had always thought of Colt Dickenson as a rodeo cowboy, even before he was one. There was something about the way he moved or looked or smelled or . . . something. “You’re quitting bronc riding.” It wasn’t a question exactly. More like a skeptical exclamation of disbelief.

“Thinking about it.”

“Are you serious?”

“As hip replacement.”

It took her a second to work that out. Then she shook her head as she remembered that this man had been messing with her emotions for as long as she had emotions to mess with. “Why are you here, Dickenson?”

“I like the look of your bay.”

“My bay?” She glanced toward the horse pastures. “Are you serious?”

“As a broken—” he began, but she interrupted him. Encouraging his sense of humor had been a mistake since he’d begun telling her knock-knock jokes in second grade.

“He’s not even gelded yet.”

“I know. Testosterone.” He shifted his hand on the doorjamb, making his biceps flex like pythons. “Puts some nice muscle on them, doesn’t it?” he asked and raised his brows a little. She refrained, with some difficulty, from glancing at his arms. She also refrained, with more difficulty, from smacking him upside the head.

“He’s also incredibly irritating,” she added dryly.

“Yeah?” He grinned, perhaps understanding the connection she was making between him and the horse.

“Causes more trouble than he’ll ever be worth,” she added.

“Well . . .” He shrugged. “Us Indian cowboys know some tricks.”

Holy Hannah. “Do you?” She made certain her tone was rife with boredom.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and cracked a grin. “Want to see?”

“Not at all.”

“Hey, Case, thanks for the chili,” someone called from the darkness.

“Emily made it,” she said, entirely unsure to whom she was speaking. “But you’re welcome.”

“I pulled the heating element out of your old water tank. Be back tomorrow with a new one.”

“Oh, okay, thank you.”

“You bet,” he said and disappeared into the darkness.

“Who the . . . ?” Colt began, then softened his tone and tried again. “Who was that?”

She shrugged, peering past his shoulder for a second before bringing her attention back to the present. “Why are you really here?”

He straightened, exasperation beginning to show on his face. “You don’t think I came to see
you,
do you?”

“Of course not! I mean . . . No!” she said and hoped to hell he couldn’t tell she was blushing. “Why the bay?”

“He looks like he’d be a nice ride.”

“What’s wrong with the way Madeline rides?”

He made a face at her. “My old piebald?”

“Is there another Madeline?”

“There was a Maddy in Albuquerque a few months back. Cute gal. Didn’t get a chance to ride—”

“Yes, the piebald!” she snapped, then took a deep breath and calmed herself. “What’s wrong with your pinto?”

He grinned. “She’s got a shoulder like a giraffe. It don’t make for the smoothest ride in the world. Like I said, rodeo will jolt the crap out of a rider . . . even a great rider like me.” That grin again, cheeky but somehow self-effacing at the same time. It was one of the things she hated most about him. And one of the things that had kept her sleepless on more than one long night. “I’m looking for something with a nice, easy stride.”

“Oh.” She could almost believe that. The bay, though often fractious and frequently naughty, had a dreamy lope. Watching him canter across the pasture made her smile every time. “He
is
a pretty mover.”

“What do you want for him?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She refrained from rolling her eyes. “Ten thousand should do it.”

He nodded, shrugged, glanced toward the pasture again. “Okay.”

“What!” she said and laughed out loud.

Another shrug, just a slow lift of shoulders wide enough to make a lesser woman sigh. “I need a horse.”

“Are you nuts? Six months ago you were hauling that bay up to the killer pens.”

“Yeah, but you fattened him up. He looks real good now. Kinda catty. I think I can make something of him.”

“You’re crazy.”

He shook his head. “Buddy of mine is the number-two-ranked heeler on the circuit. His header took a header off his mare just coming out of the box.” He grinned at his own play on words. There was no one who found Colt Dickenson funnier than Colt Dickenson. “I figure if I step in, I can make a quick buck.”

Casie scowled at him.

Colt shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “A heeler’s the guy who ropes the steer’s hind legs,” he said. “The header ropes its—”

“I know what team ropers do!” she snapped. “The point is, the bay isn’t trained. He’s basically worthless.”

“Listen, Head Case . . .” He sharpened his glower. “I’m not sure you know how this horse-trading thing works. But see, I offer a price, you say you need more. I raise my price, you say you’ll—”

“You just want to give me money.” The truth hit her like a hammer.

“What?” he said. He sounded honestly aghast at the idea, which just made her madder.

“Listen . . .” She shook her head. It was entirely possible that the anger spurring through her was unwarranted, but it was there nonetheless. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I don’t need your charity.”

“What the hell are you—”

“Or a patron.”

“A—”

“Contrary to your macho way of thinking, I neither need nor want a man to finance my lifestyle. In fact . . .” She stopped short and narrowed her eyes as a new thought struck her. “Emily called you, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting so riled up about. Holy cow, every damn male between here and Montana is . . .” He stopped himself abruptly, though there did, in fact, seem to be someone pounding on something near the windmill. “I’m in the market for a roping horse. That’s all. You’ve got a perfectly good animal just frittering away in your—”

“We don’t need your help.”

“Yeah?” He leaned toward her a little, fully aggravated. “Well, maybe Ty does.”

The world went silent. She drew a deep breath, steadied herself, found her center. Whatever the hell that meant.

“Then I suggest you talk to Ty,” she said.

Knocking the heel of his hand against the doorjamb, he glanced to the right, showing his profile. “Damned if you’re not just as stubborn as he is.”

She blinked. Something softened in her gut at the quiet frustration in his voice, but she held herself back. “You already asked him.”

A muscle bunched in his jaw. Maybe it was his way of stopping any unwarranted information from spilling out. “I just want a damn roping horse.”

“Go home,” she said and closed the door, but he caught it with his right hand.

“Listen . . . I don’t like you owing . . .” He drew a deep breath as if to calm himself. “These big business guys . . .” He glanced toward the pastures again. Fire flared in his eyes. He gritted his teeth. “You don’t know what they’ll demand for their loans.”

She raised her brows at him. “Did Emily tell you what I had for lunch, too?”

“Everyone knows that realtor fellow comes around here a hell of a lot.”

She made a face. “It just so happens that his daughter lives here.”

“Right!” he said and chuckled without mirth. “How much do you know about him?”

Anger. She felt it flare in her soul. It was as common as but-tonweed when he was around. “Well, I know he looks dreamy in a three-piece suit and Italian loafers.”

For a moment she thought he would comment, but he stopped himself. “Sell me the bay, Case.”

“For ten thousand dollars.”

“Do you need more?” His voice was low as if he tried to stop the words.

She stood there, flabbergasted. Holy Hannah, how much did he make on the rodeo circuit? “Are you drunk?”

He shook his head. “Talking to you makes it look like a pretty good idea, though. You going to sell him to me or not?”

“Not.”

“Fine,” he said, and raising both hands in the air, backed away.

“Fine,” she said.

“Fine,” he repeated and stomped across the porch and into the darkness. In a moment, she heard his truck fire up. The headlights made a clean sweep across the bunkhouse and front yard before cleaving a path into the distance.

She stood there listening to the silence settling back in.

“You turned him down, didn’t you?”

She squawked at the sound of Emily’s voice all but crackling in her ear.

“Didn’t you?” she asked again, appearing only inches away.

“Holy Hannah . . .” Casie put her hand to her chest. “You scared me half to—”

“You’re ridiculous,” Emily said, and turning on her heel, waddled up the stairs to her bedroom.

Sighing, Casie prepared to follow her, but a voice spoke from the darkness.

“Hey, Case, you got a minute?” In a second, Brooks Hedley appeared in the porch’s diffused light.

“Oh, yes, hi,” Casie said and hoped to hell this entire day was nothing more than a bad dream. “You probably want your guns back.”

He shook his head once as he mounted the steps. “Looks like maybe you need them more than I do.”

“What?” she asked, and stepping onto the porch, closed the door behind her.

“Dickenson giving you trouble?” he asked.

“Who? Colt? Oh . . .” She cleared her throat. “No. We just . . .”

“Because I’ll talk to him if you want me to.”

About what? she wondered but didn’t ask. “No, it’s just a . . . little disagreement.”

“About whether you should sleep with him or not?”

“No!”

He chuckled at the way she said it, then took the few steps that remained between them and sobered. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“What?”

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable in the dim light. “Dickenson’s an okay guy, I guess. I mean . . . I don’t wanna spread any rumors or anything, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Okay how? What do you mean?”

He glanced away. “It’s just that sometimes Dickenson ain’t real . . .” He shook his head. “Loyal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, I understand why he done it. He was ranked pretty high on broncs and didn’t want to give up rodeo, but that don’t mean he couldn’t have married her. Or at least offered to take care of the kid.”

She felt her stomach pitch. “What are you talking about?”

“Jess,” he said, finding her gaze with his and holding it steady. “She’s a real nice girl. Not real . . .” He tilted his head a little. “Not real standoffish maybe, but sweet. You know?”

“Colt got her pregnant?” Her voice sounded funny and her throat hurt.

“Yeah.”

“Then left her?”

“Guess he wasn’t ready for no family.”

She nodded once, then stepped into the house and closed the door behind her without another word.

E
mily stirred diced apples into the cinnamon muffin batter and stared out the kitchen window. The sky was gun-metal gray. The wind blew rough and sporadic from the northwest, and the temperature had dropped overnight. She had tried to stay in bed, but it was becoming impossible to find a comfortable position on her lumpy mattress. Not that she was complaining about the accommodations. They were a hundred times better than the foster homes where she had stayed. Infinitely better than the flophouse where Stevie had introduced her to Ecstasy.

Guilt and worry brewed to a toxic blend in her bloodstream. She felt Baby Pascal kick against the mixing bowl, a tiny contraction. He didn’t move as much as he used to, and though the doctors said that was normal, they didn’t know everything. Not about medicine, not about life, and certainly not about her. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember the last time she had gotten high, but what if it had been after conception? What if her own ugliness had messed with the baby’s development? What if—

“You okay?”

She turned at the sound of Casie’s voice.

“What’s wrong?” Casie’s tone was instantly worried.

Emily shook her head.

“What is it?” Casie asked, and crossing the floor, took the bowl from Emily’s hands.

“What if I ruined it?” She tried to keep the words to herself, but they spilled out, sounding silly in the early-morning gloom.

“What?” Casie asked and set the bowl on the cracked Formica.

“The baby. It just.... He deserves better.”

“What are you talking about, Em? What happened?” Casie stared into Emily’s face, trying to catch her gaze. Her hands felt warm against Emily’s. “Here. Come on. Sit down. Are you all right?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I . . .” She laughed. It sounded crazy to her own ears. “I’m going to . . .” She took a deep breath, braced herself, and spoke slowly. “I’ve decided to give him up.”

Emily shook her head. The movement felt wild, out of control, like the rest of her life. “Come on,” she said and barked a laugh. “You know I can’t take care of a kid. I can barely take care of myself. I used to do drugs. Did you know that? I used to—”

“Emily, slow down. Relax.”

But she couldn’t. She shook her head. “My mother was practically twice my age when she had me. Twice! And even
she
couldn’t cope with the . . . with the . . .” she began and had to swallow so she could continue to breathe.

“Emily. Hey,” Casie said and pulled her into her arms. She was warm and gentle, exuding all sorts of things Emily didn’t deserve. Had never deserved. Nevertheless, she melted into the embrace, letting her tears soak Casie’s sweatshirt. “You’re not your mother.”

Emily gasped a laugh. “Isn’t that the truth? I don’t even know where she is.”

Casie was quiet a moment, then said, “Maybe that’s best, Em. I mean, if you’d stayed with her, you wouldn’t have come here. We would never have met and I . . .” She paused. “You’ve been so good to me . . . and to Ty.”

She snorted a laugh. “Don’t you ever get tired of being Pollyanna? Of picking up the pieces? My pieces. Sophie’s. Ty’s.” She shrugged. The movement felt jerky. She drew a shuddering breath.

There was a moment of silence. “I’m not a complete idiot, Em.”

Emily scowled and pulled away a little, swiping her knuckles beneath her nose. “I never said you were. I would never—”

“I know I’m lucky to have you here.”

Emily laughed again, but Casie pushed her out to arm’s length.

“I am, you know.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Emily’s throat felt tight. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her hand shook visibly. “Cuz who doesn’t want a pregnant teenager with anger management problems and no insurance to look after?”

“You won’t be pregnant much longer,” Casie said, and that’s when Emily began crying in earnest. The sobs racked her, making it all but impossible to breathe.

“Emily, come on . . .” Casie’s voice sounded tortured. “Don’t do this to yourself. You’re going to be a good mom. A
great
mom.”

She laughed. The sound cracked like a witch’s cackle in the cozy little kitchen. “Sure,” she said. “I mean, take a look at how fantastic
my
mom was. She was a meth addict. Did you know that?”

Casie shook her head.

“Yeah. The story I told you ’bout my dad burning down the house . . .” She swallowed, feeling sick to her stomach. “He wasn’t really my dad. Just a guy. Some guy. He was just flopping with us. He called himself Ray Edgar, but that wasn’t really his name.” She laughed again. “Second thought, maybe he
was
my old man. Maybe that’s where I got my aptitude for lying. Maybe that’s where I got my stellar ability to make decisions. To—”

“Quit it,” Casie said.

“I hated her, you know.”

She felt Casie’s scowl like a sunbeam on her face.

“Hated her. Even then. Even before I turned six. She . . .” Emily shook her head, remembering back. “She was always . . .” She winced. “She was pretty. Even after all the drugs . . . after all the . . .” She exhaled. “There were men. Always men, in our house . . . in our . . .” She swallowed. “She’d be passed out on the couch and I’d be alone . . . or worse.”

Silence permeated the morning, soaking into her skin. Emily closed her eyes, knowing she had said too much, had gone too far. Honesty had never been her friend. She stared at her fists squeezed tight in her lap and forced a laugh. “I’m just kidding,” she said. “Things weren’t that bad. It’s not like I was working in the coal mines or—”

“It’s her loss.” Casie’s voice was very low, very quiet, very sure.

Emily lifted her gaze slowly. “What?”

“Your mother . . .” Her expression was absolutely sober, her gaze ultrasteady. “She’s the one who’s missing out.”

“Yeah.” She laughed. “Poor thing. I’m sure if she knew the situation, she’d come running.”

“She would if she understood.”

Emily scowled, searching her eyes.

“Every morning I get up and laugh at your jokes and . . .” Casie nodded toward the abandoned mixing bowl. “Eat your muffins and . . .” She swallowed. Her eyes were extremely bright as she shrugged and lowered her gaze to Em’s belly. “Watch you become a mother.”

Emily felt herself blanch. “I can’t do it,” she said. “I can’t go through what I put her through.”

Casie watched her, gaze steady.

The faith in her eyes made Emily’s stomach turn to jelly, but she forced a laugh. “Guess I didn’t tell you that I was the reason she ended up in jail in the first place, huh?” Or maybe she hadn’t mentioned that her mother had done hard time at all. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her lies straight. “Yeah, one fine morning I trundled off to school with her stash of coke in my backpack. Didn’t try to hide it. Didn’t even . . .” She cleared her throat. “You know what will really get a second-grade teacher excited? Bringing five grams of blow to show-and-tell.” She shook her head. “I’m a super liar. The best. You know that. But I didn’t even try. I just said it was Mom’s. Served her right, I thought. Served her right for not being there for me.” She felt a tic jerk her jaw. “But at least she wasn’t eighteen and pregnant and unemployed and—”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Em. It won’t help anything.”

“At least she kept a roof over my head. Kept an apartment.”

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

“When I was little . . .” She swallowed again, trying to ease the pain in her throat. “She used to read to me . . . when she wasn’t . . .” She shook her head. “She used to read to me. Dr. Seuss was my favorite.
Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
” She remembered the rhythm of it. “She had a really pretty voice. Not all gnarly like mine, but—”

“Damn her!” The words exploded in the room. Casie’s hands were like talons on her arms.

Emily blinked.

“She was your mother! Your
mother!
” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a second, then loosened her grip. “She was supposed to take care of you.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Don’t say it wasn’t her fault, Em. Don’t say it. Sometimes people just have to step up to the plate. Just gotta . . .” She shook her head. “They just have to ride the horse they saddled.”

They stared at each other, emotion sharp as a blade in the room before Emily finally managed to open her mouth.

“You sound like Ty,” she said, but Casie remained absolutely somber.

“Do you have any idea what half the women in this country would do to have a daughter like you?”

Emily forced a grin, but Casie tightened her grip. “They’d give their lives, Em. She was supposed to be willing to give her life.”

Seconds ticked away. Her throat felt tight, her stomach quaky. “What if I’m not?” The words were nothing more than a whisper. “What if I’m not willing to do that?”

“You will be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. And so would your mother, if she’d stuck around. If she’d been half as brave as you are.”

She wasn’t going to cry. Hell, she didn’t even know how to cry. But her cheeks felt wet. She swiped at them with her knuckles.

The front door opened behind her. Sophie, probably, coming in for breakfast, and Emily couldn’t bear to be seen bawling like a baby.

“Your guest is here,” Sophie said from behind.

Casie lifted her gaze slowly from Emily to Sophie. “Guest?”

There was a pause. “What’s going on?”

Emily was having a meltdown. That’s what was going on.

“What guest?” Casie asked.

“Said her name was Linette. Or something. What’s with Emily?”

“Lin . . . Oh . . . shoot! Linny Hartman? I thought she wasn’t coming till tomorrow.”

Sophie’s shrug was almost audible. It wasn’t until that moment that Emily remembered the phone call she’d taken two days before. The phone call asking if Lin Hartman could come a day early. She closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Casie lowered her gaze to Em’s for a second before lifting it back toward Sophie.

“Can you take care of Linette, Soph?” she said.

“I’m already—”

“Sophie.” Her tone wasn’t sharp, wasn’t demanding, just serious, just strong. “I need your help.”

“Okay,” she said, and that was the end of it.

Casie would make a hell of a mother, Emily thought, and burst into tears.