Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (54 page)

“When do you start?”

“Tomorrow. Can you believe it? I was so worried that I’d have to get a job in Jefferson City or even farther away. This will be so close and handy.” She stared up at her daughter. “It really is a godsend.”

“Then I’m glad for you,” Heather replied, though she felt uneasy. Thomas Fitzpatrick wasn’t a man to be trusted, and her mother had always been susceptible to the rich—believing their stories, hoping some of their wealth and fame might rub off on her. Dennis Leonetti was a case in point. And the Fitzpatrick wealth was rumored to be much more than the Leonettis’.

Heather glanced out the open window to the corral where Adam was hanging on the fence and watching his father as Turner trained a feisty gray colt. Shirt off, muscles gleaming with sweat in the afternoon sun, Turner held the lead rope, coaxing the nervous animal to trot around him in a circle. In another pen, one of the men who worked for Turner, Fred McDonald, was separating cows from their calves. The fragrance of roses mingled with the ever-present smell of dust and filtered into the warm room. The cattle bawled, Adam yelled at his dad and Turner spoke in soft tones to the headstrong colt.

“He almost ran for state senator,” Ellen said, still defending Thomas Fitzpatrick. Heather managed to change the subject as she heated a pot of water for the pasta and stirred the sauce. They talked about the wedding, less than a week away, and Ellen’s face brightened at the thought that one of her daughters might find matrimonial happiness, an intangible thing that had eluded her in two trips to the altar. Ellen’s opinion of Jackson Moore had turned around and she was beginning to trust Turner. A good sign. Now, if she’d just reform her opinion of Thomas Fitzpatrick…

“So how’s my grandson been?” Ellen said, finally sipping her tea while Heather worked at the stove, trying, with Turner’s limited cookware, to fix dinner. She’d invited her mother over for shrimp fettuccine, but cooking on the old range had been a trial. There were definitely some things about San Francisco that she would miss. In lieu of a whisk, she used a beat-up wooden spoon to stir the sauce.

“Adam?” she asked as the creamy sauce simmered. “He’s been fine.”

“And the surgery?”

“So far it’s been postponed. As long as Adam’s in remission, there’s no reason…” She glanced out the window and smiled. Adam’s new boots already were covered with a thin layer of dust, and his cowboy hat was, these days, a permanent fixture on his head.

Fred finished with the cows and waved to Turner as he climbed into his old Dodge pickup. Turner let Adam help him cool down the horse.

“Boots off,” Heather ordered as the two men in her life approached the back door. “And hands washed.”

“Mine are clean,” Adam replied holding up grimy palms for inspection as he tried to nudge one boot off with the toe of another.

“Not good enough,” she said. “March, kiddo…” She pointed toward the bathroom with her wooden spoon.

“Drillmaster,” Turner grumbled.

“You, too—oh!” He grabbed her by surprise and silenced her with a kiss that stole her breath.

“
I
don’t take orders from no woman,” he said, in a gritty voice. With a wink, he let her go, leaving her breathless as he headed for the bathroom.

“My goodness,” her mother whispered. “I wondered what you saw in that man, but now, I guess I know.”

* * *

P
REPARATIONS FOR THE WEDDING
started to pick up. Rachelle and Jackson had moved into Heather’s cottage in town—the small house where she and Rachelle had grown up—and the old, forgotten summer camp on the edge of Whitefire Lake was being overhauled. Rachelle, usually calm under any condition, was a mess, and their mother, too, was a nervous wreck.

Heather imagined she might be a little more nervous, but she had her own problems to contend with. Doing a quick calculation with the calendar, she realized that she had missed the last menstrual period of her cycle.

She couldn’t believe the cold hard facts of the calendar, so she counted off the weeks. No doubt about it. There was no disputing the fact that she was nearly two weeks late. And her periods had always come like clockwork. Except when she’d been pregnant with Adam.

Mentally kicking herself for not being more careful, she checked the calendar one more time. She’d just been too busy with her worries for Adam and her relationship with Turner to consider the fact that she might be pregnant. It had been stupid—as often as she and Turner made love. This was bound to happen…and deep down, she knew, she’d hoped it would occur. But not just yet. Not until things were settled.

A part of her thrilled at the prospect of pregnancy, but the saner side of her nature was scared to death. She wasn’t married, for crying out loud. What would Turner do? What would he think? Just when everything was going so well…

She thought about confiding in him, but decided to wait until she was more certain. He had enough on his mind and shouldn’t have to worry about another baby until Heather was positive of her condition, until she’d checked with a gynecologist or done a home pregnancy test.

While Turner was working with the cattle, she and Adam drove into town, and after a frantic meeting with Rachelle, who was dead certain the florist and band were going to foul up everything, Heather stopped by the pharmacy. She bought Adam a butterscotch soda, and while he was slurping up the gooey concoction, she purchased a few supplies—tissues, candles, wrapping paper and a pregnancy test. A young girl she didn’t recognize helped her, and all her items were packed carefully in a brown sack before she returned to the soda fountain.

Glancing nervously over her shoulder to the pharmaceutical counter where Scott McDonald worked, she saw him at his elevated station, busy filling prescriptions. Though he had a bird’s-eye view of the counters, fountain and shelves, she doubted he had paid much attention to her purchase.

As Adam finished his soda, she sipped a diet soda and chatted with Thelma about Carlie’s arrival, which was scheduled for the very next day. Thelma and her husband, Weldon, could hardly wait to see their daughter again.

Hours later, when she returned home, Heather kept the pregnancy test in her large shoulder bag. She had to wait until morning to administer the test, so she planned to pick a morning when Turner got up early to feed the stock. A deceptive whisper touched her heart, but she told herself she was doing the right thing. No need to worry him without cause.

So why did she feel like a criminal?

* * *

P
OSITIVE.

The test results were boldly positive.

Heather, hand trembling, touched her abdomen where, deep within, Turner’s child was growing. She leaned against the wall for support and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A new baby! Ever since Adam had turned one year old, she’d hoped to conceive another child. But Turner’s child? A full-blooded sister or brother to Adam—who would’ve ever thought? Certainly not Heather Tremont Leonetti.

Tears of happiness formed in her eyes. This unborn baby, this miracle baby, was a dream come true.

“Oh, God, thank you,” she whispered. She’d bought the test three days before but had to wait until this morning. Turner hadn’t woken her when he’d gotten up, and though she’d been awake, she’d feigned sleep until she’d heard the kitchen door close shut behind him.

He hadn’t come back in yet, and Heather had enough time to perform the simple test and wait for the results. Without a doubt, the test told her she was pregnant, and with that knowledge came a contentment. Having her children growing up here on the ranch, where the air was fresh, the water clear, the work hard but satisfying, wasn’t such a bad idea. They weren’t that far from the city and could take weekend excursions to San Francisco or anywhere else they wanted to.

She could paint and sculpt and more importantly be a mother to her children and a wife to Turner Brooks.

Yes, life was going to change, but only for the better. Humming to herself, she threw on her robe and walked to the kitchen. Through the back window, past the heavily blossomed clematis that sprawled over the back porch and across a yard parched from the dry summer, she spied Turner deep in conversation with Fred McDonald. Fred had his own spread to run, but he spent his extra time here, with Turner, helping out and making a few extra bucks. Turner’s ranch wasn’t as large or as busy as the Lazy K, but it was paid for and, along with her own income, could provide well enough for a small family.

Smiling to herself with the knowledge of her secret, she plugged in the coffeemaker and added coffee and water. After checking on Adam, who was still sleeping soundly, she quickly showered and slipped into a sundress and planned what she would say to Turner and when. Maybe tonight. After Adam was asleep. She’d make a dinner, light candles, and in the warm candle glow, reach across the table for Turner’s hand and tell him of the child…

Pregnant!
The word whirled through her mind. She thought of her maternity clothes, sophisticated expensive outfits tucked away in her house in San Francisco. The silks, wool blends and velours would hardly do on the ranch. She didn’t even own a pair of maternity jeans. That would have to change.

She combed her wet hair and decided to let it dry in the sun. With only a quick touch of lipstick and blush, she padded back to the kitchen, set out three empty cups and arranged the sugar and creamer and three spoons beside a vase she’d filled with roses the day before.

Feeling unusually domestic, she decided to bake biscuits. She was busy with her work, her mind already moving ahead to planning a nursery here on the ranch, as she rolled out the dough on an old breadboard.

She heard the grind of a pickup’s engine. Looking out the window, she spied Fred’s old truck lumbering out of the drive, which was strange, considering he’d just arrived. But maybe he was running into town for parts or supplies… . Turner’s tractor was acting up again and he’d ordered a part from the farm machine store in Gold Creek. She’d convinced herself that she’d figured out the reasons for Fred’s abrupt departure when she spied Turner walking toward the back porch. Smiling, she lifted her hand to wave to him when she noticed his expression—hard and grim, his skin stretched tight across his nose and the blades of his cheekbones. His mouth was a thin white line and his nostrils were flared in rage, not unlike those of an angry stallion.

Heather’s heart plummeted. She barely noticed the dog romping at his heels, a half-grown puppy, part German shepherd from the looks of him, bounding playfully in the dust that Turner’s furious strides stirred. Every once in a while the pup would stop, snap at the air to capture a fly, then romp forward again.

“What’s going on?” she asked, as Turner shoved open the door and the dog followed him into the kitchen.

“You tell me.”

“Fred left…and this dog…?”

“For Adam.” He glared at her then, and her throat closed in upon itself, for the hatred that glittered in his gunmetal eyes was unmistakable. “Every kid needs a dog.”

“Something’s wrong…” The temperature in the cozy kitchen had seemed to plummet and Heather’s stomach turned sour. She dropped her rolling pin and wiped her flour-dusted hands on a towel. “What is it, Turner?” she asked, her mind racing before landing upon the answer. There could only be one reason for the anger seething from him.

He knew. Somehow he knew about the baby. And rather than the happiness she’d expected he would feel, his emotions had turned the other direction until he was in a black rage.

“What, Heather?” he said, striding over to her and glaring down at her with condemning eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I…I…”

“Spit it out, woman. You’re pregnant.”

She felt like a Judas. All the happiness she’d felt just moments before melted away. “Yes, but I just found out—”

“Like hell! How come half the town already knows?”

“It couldn’t…I mean I just took the test this morning…” she said, as her words faded, for she understood what had happened. This town. This bloody small town! When she’d bought the pregnancy detection kit, someone at the drugstore had put two and two together, and though most clerks weren’t supposed to discuss their customer’s purchases, someone had. The clerk at the drugstore, or Scott McDonald, or even Thelma Surrett, must have seen her and started speculating.

Heather’s insides churned. Her hands shook.

“The whole damned town knows I’m gonna be a father before I do,” he spat out, kicking the wall. The puppy, nervous already, slithered to a hiding spot beneath the table and cowered against the wall, whining pitifully. “Hell, Heather, didn’t you think I might want to know?”

“I was going to tell you—”

He grabbed her then, his grip on her arms punishing, the fierce fire in his eyes reminding her of the very devil himself. “When?”

“As soon as I—”

“When we were married? Or before? You know, I’ve heard of a lot of low-down, despicable things to do, but to get pregnant, plan it all out, just to make sure you had a donor—”

“What are you talking about?”

His voice was as cold as a bottomless well. “Don’t pretend, Heather. It belittles us both.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” she demanded, but back in the darkest corner of her mind, she knew, and, God help her, some of those very thoughts had been with her. Hadn’t she once considered making love to him just to create a child so like Adam that the baby might be able to eventually become a bone-marrow donor? But that would never have been the sole reason. No. She’d wanted another child for years. Her thoughts must’ve reflected in her eyes, because he let go of her then and his lips curled in disgust. “I don’t like being used, Heather. Not for any reason.”

“I didn’t use you,” she protested.

“Like hell! I was a stud. Nothing more.”

She felt as if he’d hit her hard in the stomach. “Oh, Turner, you can’t believe—”

“Do you deny that you thought about this? That you hoped we could start a new child? A sibling for Adam? A damned
donor?
”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, as the color drained from her body and she had to hold on to the counter for support.