You're My Baby (12 page)

She shivered. “Grant, I—”

He tilted her chin and his eyes were dusky in the moonlight. She held her breath, fascinated by the planes of his cheeks, the light stubble of his beard, the nearness of his lips. “Shh. I know,” he murmured. “It's been a heck of an evening, but we need to get you back to bed.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. She was acutely aware of his powerful body, sheathed only in boxer shorts. “C'mon. I'll tuck you in.”

And he did. Gently. Thoroughly. As if she were precious.

When he left the room, she experienced a stabbing sense of loss. What would it be like if he were her husband—
really?

 

P
AM CRACKED OPEN
her lids, simultaneously sensing the spinning bedroom and harsh sunlight spearing her through a slit in the drapes. Trying not to move more than necessary, she snagged the container of soda crackers on the nightstand and forced herself to eat one. Then another. Slowly her stomach settled enough so she could ease up and lounge against the pillows. When she turned her head, she was surprised to find a pot of tea and a mug on the nightstand. Gratefully she poured half a cup, then let the warm brew soothe her stomach.

How had Grant known she'd need it? She squinted at the clock, then flopped her head back. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept this late.

But then, with alarming suddenness, she remembered. In the cold light of day, it seemed incomprehensible that
she had gone to Grant, that she had let him hold her, that for one wild moment she had actually thought—hoped—he was going to kiss her. Surely that last part had been her imagination. While she appreciated his care of her, like the gesture of the tea, he hadn't signed up for more than a housekeeper and she needed to remember that, however comfortable, theirs was a temporary arrangement. She had to be careful not to take advantage of his goodwill. Even if last night she'd experienced what could only be described as intense sexual desire.

The hormones of a crazy pregnant woman. That had to be it.

When she heard a knock on the door, she pushed her hair back and said, “Come in.”

“Hi, sleepyhead.” Grant stood in the doorway, wearing a gray Keystone practice T-shirt and snug, worn jeans that did nothing to help her recover from her hormone-induced urgings. “How're you feeling?”

“Thanks to the room service, I think I'll live.” She managed a smile.

“It was the least I could do for you and Barney after your help last night.”

“Is Andy up yet?”

Grant leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms over his chest. “Oh, yeah. Not only up, but at 'em.”

“The flower beds?”

“You got it. I wouldn't describe him as a particularly happy camper, though.”

“And how about you, Dad? Are you okay?”

He shrugged. “I've been better. I don't think Shelley's kept a very tight rein on Andy. I suppose it's natural for him to resent me.”

“Expectations are good for him,” Pam said.

“In the long run, I know you've got a point, but—”

“Right now it's hard.”

“It's not going to get any easier. Preseason basketball practice starts in another couple of weeks. I won't have as much time for him then.” Grant approached the bed and refilled her teacup. “Darn, I wish he'd come out for the team.”

“What if he didn't make it?”

“You've got a point there, but I keep thinking it might be a way for us to bond.”

“Don't force it, Grant.”

“Well, anyway, thanks for your support last night. I was glad you were here.” He paused near the bed as if waiting for her to say something else.

Surely he didn't expect her to comment on her nocturnal visit to his room. Feeling uncomfortably warm, she needed a change of subject. “I promised my father we'd come see him.” She ducked her head. “He wants to meet you and Andy. Do you suppose we could drive out over the Columbus Day break? It'll be awkward, but—”

“Of course. He must think it's odd we haven't been there already.”

“I'll call him today, then.”

“Later, if you feel up to it, maybe you could go to the nursery for some bulbs.”

“I'd like that, Grant.” After he left, she remained in bed a few minutes longer, trying to figure out what she'd done to deserve such an accommodating make-believe husband.

 

A
NDY SAT
in old man Jeffers's study hall staring at his reddened hands, raw from holding the damn spade.
Thank God he was finished with the digging. Now all he had to do was pull a “hunchback of Notre Dame” routine planting the stupid bulbs. He didn't know why his father had had to get all parental over his going to the park with the guys. The time had gotten away from him. But still, he'd never dreamed Dad and Pam would get home so early. In the future, he'd have to watch his butt.

Yawning, he stared at the slow-moving minute hand of the wall clock, then idly scanned the assignment sheet again. Ms. Carver had given out a list of suggestions to help with journal writing. She'd yapped on and on about the value of free writing, about topics in which they could let their “imaginations soar,” about how these would be ungraded in the usual sense.

All this touchy-feely stuff made him want to puke. “I am happiest when…” “My most embarrassing moment was when…” “The person I most admire is…”

He supposed he'd have to do it. It was an easy way to help his grade, tons better than figuring out the difference between a gerund phrase and a noun clause.

He could write a damn volume about how it was the pits being a teenager. What it was like, all of a sudden, to have his dad acting like a real father. “Acting.” That said it. He could remember when he'd desperately wanted his dad to come to Florida for his twelfth birthday. He should've known better because it was basketball season. His mother hadn't even put it tactfully. “Andy,” she'd said, “your father is never going to be there for you. That's a fact. But you can always count on me.” Famous last words. The only person he could count on was himself.

Across the aisle two girls started giggling, and when old man Jeffers fixed his evil eye on them, that made
them laugh all the harder. “Quiet, you two. Respect the fact that others are trying to study.” Andy swallowed a grin. The guy in front of him was flipping through a
Playboy
concealed in the middle of a library book, and the kid across the aisle was drawing juvenile-looking rocket ships on a piece of notebook paper. Two freshmen, under the guise of working on a group project, were playing Hangman.

For something to do, Andy opened his spiral notebook and started writing in his journal. Not one of the assigned topics, though. No way.

Crap! He crossed out that sentence. The last thing he needed was Pam getting nosy about his hoops buddies.

He scrawled his name and class hour at the top, then stuffed the notebook into his backpack. When he glanced up, he was elated. Only five more minutes in this holding pen. Finally the bell rang. He took his time going to his locker. No need to rush to biology, where the odor of formaldehyde about made him gag.

“Gilbert?”

There he was again. Chip Kennedy. Andy slumped against his locker door, morbidly curious about the next inevitable question.

“What're you doin' Friday night?”

“Not much. Why?”

“Since the football game's in Houston, a bunch of guys are comin' over to my house to play pool. Wanna come?”

Andy thought about it. He didn't plan to form any of those lifetime guy-friendships here, but what else did he have to do Friday night? It beat watching his Dad and Pam watch him. Besides, maybe the old man would get off his back if he hung around with some of the Keystone kids. He shrugged. “Sounds good. Thanks.”

“Great. Danny Martinez said he could pick you up about seven.”

Danny Martinez? Oh yeah, the dark-haired, intense kid in his English class. “Okay, see ya.”

Andy grabbed his biology book, slammed his locker and started down the hall. Maybe Chip wasn't such a bad guy after all.

 

F
OR ONE OF THE FEW TIMES
in recent memory, Pam ventured into the teachers' lounge the next week, waiting until after lunch when she was reasonably certain her stomach would cooperate. Connie sat at the corner table grading papers, Carolee Simmons huddled by the phone, obviously deflecting a parent complaint, and Jessie Flanders, true to form, was crocheting, as if school were the least of her worries. Which, sadly, it probably was.

“What's up?” Connie mouthed.

Pam waved a sheet of paper before tacking it to the bulletin board. “The faculty pep skit cast.”

“Pamela, re-ally. When will you outgrow this infantile nonsense?” Oblivious to Carolee's frantic shushing motion, Jessie spoke in her normal trumpet blare.

“The kids love it,” Pam whispered by way of justification. The irony was that Jessie would have been the first one to get in a snit if she wasn't cast.

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Piper, but this
is
a conversational French course.” Carolee held the phone at arm's length in disbelief, before dropping it onto the receiver. “Lord help us. Jerry's got enough trouble without a mother making excuses for him.”

Jessie sniffed indignantly. “Children just aren't like they used to be.”

“Phooey,” said Pam. “It's the parents who are different these days. All too eager to help their kids avoid responsibility for their actions.”

“Speaking of teens,” Connie piped up, “how are things going with Andy?”

Pam slipped into the chair next to her friend. “It's been tough on him.” She lowered her voice. “He's his own worst enemy, daring everyone to love him at his most unlovable.”

Connie laid a comforting hand on Pam's forearm. “Kind of reminds me of Jim's challenge to us at the first of school.”

Pam smiled ruefully. “Only mine's a twenty-four-hour-a-day challenge. But I'm seeing a ray of hope.”

“That sounds promising.”

“He went over to Chip Kennedy's house to play pool Friday night and Sunday Angela Beeman called to invite him to her church youth group meeting. I think he may screw up his courage to ask her to the Homecoming dance.”

“Now that's progress.”

“One other thing. Although he clams up at home, he's starting to open up to me in his journals. He's harboring a lot of anger, but at least we're communicating through his writing.”

“He must trust you, Pam.”

“It's a heavy responsibility.”

Jessie stood by the bulletin board, her owl eyes the size of fifty-cent pieces. “Pamela, how could you have cast me as a munchkin?”

How could I not?
“Our theme this year is the Wizard of Oz. You know, unmasking the Porter School Warriors as impostors.”

“Jessie, thank your lucky stars. It could be worse. I'm a flying monkey,” Carolee offered with a grin.

“Humph.”

Connie arched a brow at Jessie. “Typical,” she muttered under her breath.

Pam rubbed her temples in an attempt to soothe away the headache gathering there. “But somehow the show always goes on.” She scooted back her chair and stood. “Duty calls.”

“You look tired. Are you okay?”

Nothing a long nap wouldn't cure.
“I'm fine. Just bogged down in midterm deficiency reports, college recommendations, a few hundred papers to grade and a list of suggestions for the curriculum committee. Business as usual, in other words.”

Except it wasn't business as usual, Pam reflected as she walked back to her classroom. She was pregnant. And worried.

She, Grant and Andy were leaving Saturday for the trip to West Texas to visit her dad. Her father's opinion and goodwill mattered more than she cared to admit. They shared a special bond—the lonely widower and the motherless child doing their best to carry on, despite their loss. She had no way to anticipate how this meeting with Grant and Andy would go.

Nor did she have any way to anticipate how she and Grant would handle the sleeping arrangements. She pictured the home where she'd grown up. There were two guest rooms. Neither had twin beds.

H
E WAS A
LONG
WAY
from Florida, Andy thought, as he studied the miles of dusty wasteland out the car window. It was a monumental event to spot a grove of trees. Add to that the gross smell from the feedlots. The good thing, though, was his dad had asked him to sit in front so he could give him some driving instruction along the way to Will Carver's. They'd gone to the school parking lot a coupla times last week for his first actual lessons, and even his old man had said he'd done pretty well. The trouble was, he wouldn't have wheels before the Homecoming dance. But if Angie turned him down, it wouldn't matter anyway.

He was kinda curious to meet Pam's father, even if he did live in this barren place. He'd never been to a real ranch before. It could be cool.

He'd figured it would be weird to have Pam for a teacher, but it was turning out all right. He liked that she wrote back to him in his journals. He'd thought a lot about her answer to his question about why she'd married his father so suddenly.

She said she'd always admired his dad and hoped that while Andy was living with them, he'd learn what a fine man his father was. Well, never mind that part. Then she'd said sometimes when a certain relationship exists, like hers and his dad's, it can change just like that and you realize you're supposed to be together.

The funny part was he guessed old people who got married weren't as hot to trot as young people. He sure didn't notice any lovey-dovey stuff. You'd think his dad wouldn't be able to keep his hands off a babe like Pam. Go figure.

 

P
AM EXPERIENCED
a flood of emotions when they pulled up in front of the one-story brick ranch house. The trim needed paint and the flower beds her dad had always carefully tended were overgrown. He stubbornly refused to get help and even though he'd leased the cattle operation, he clung to the home place. She worried about him, particularly now that his knee was giving him so much trouble. Then there was the immediate concern—passing off hers as a marriage made in heaven.

While Andy stood awkwardly by the car, Grant opened the back door and helped her out, catching her hand in a steadying grip. “Are you ready for this?” she asked, checking his expression for signs of reluctance.

“Piece of cake,” he said with a reassuring smile.

They were halfway to the door when Will Carver stepped onto the porch. “Welcome to God's country, ever'body.”

Pam raced ahead and threw her arms around him. He smelled of leather, shaving cream and Ben-Gay. “Daddy, I'm so glad to see you.”

“You're a sight for sore old eyes, dumplin'.” He nodded over her shoulder. “And I thought you'd never bring these two to meet me.”

Pam turned and made the introductions. Grant smiled broadly and extended his hand. Andy hung behind his father, muttering a “Glad to meetcha.”

Will showed them inside. Pam sighed inwardly. Dust was thick on the furniture and old newspapers lay hap
hazardly stacked by the recliner, but in the middle of the dining table was a vase of fresh chrysanthemums and filling the house was the familiar aroma of her father's famous chili. “Let's get you settled, then we can chew the fat at dinner.” Will turned to Andy. “Son, you're in the first room on the left. Grant, I figured you and Pam'd like a little more privacy—” he winked “—so you're at the end of the hall.”

Pam groaned. The room with the extralong double bed and the private bath. When she'd mentioned the limitations of the guest quarters to Grant, he'd simply said, “We'll make it work, somehow.”

But she didn't know how.

After getting settled, Pam helped dish up the chili and they gathered around the table. “Now tell me all about how you got hooked up with my daughter,” her father said to Grant.

Maybe it was because the story had now been oft rehearsed, but Grant almost made her believe they'd been struck by a lightning bolt, realizing with swiftness and certainty that they were in love. He went on to make a convincing case for the need to marry before Andy arrived and school started. It all sounded so logical.

And so magical.

“Well, I couldn't be happier for you both,” her beaming father said when Grant finished. “The main thing is you're happy.”

She gave what she hoped was an enthusiastic smile.

“And I've got a new grandson, to boot. Can't ask for much better 'n that.” Will helped himself to a spoonful of chili, then turned his attention to Andy. “Ever been on a ranch, son?”

Andy shook his head. “No sir.”

“Tell you what. After supper, you and me and your dad'll take a little tour. Would you like that?”

Pam had to hand it to Andy. He was being a lamb. Her dad had always missed having a son and, in the summers, used to hire all kinds of strays from the local high school who needed a father figure. Maybe his spell would work with her stepson, too.

She was grateful when the dinner ended and the men-folk left for their ranch tour. Doing the dishes was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet—and the opportunity to get ready for bed before she had to share the room with Grant.

One niggling thought ate away at her calm. Although he'd tried to hide it, her dad had winced when he'd stood up from the table, and had moved slowly, favoring his left leg. Hardly the loose, athletic gait of an expert horseman.

How much worse, exactly, was his knee?

 

G
RANT WAS FASCINATED
by Will Carver's running commentary about ranching and the glories of West Texas, and it was clear Andy was equally enthralled. With his broad paunch hanging over his large silver belt buckle, a salt-and-pepper mustache and silver-rimmed glasses, Will looked like a crusty version of Wilfred Brimley. Every now and then he'd stop the Jeep, peer out over the pastureland and point to a particular herd, commenting on its bloodline.

Back at the barn, he eyed Andy's baggy shorts. “You got any jeans with you, son?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Those duds you got on aren't real suitable for riding. You like horses?”

“I dunno.”

“Figure you'd wanna find out?”

“You mean go horseback riding?” Caution and elation warred in Andy's tone. “I, uh, I've never been.”

“Then it's high time. Sunup, boy. I'll wake you.”

After a tour of the barn and an introduction to the horses, Will led them back to the house. Andy ran ahead. “Didn't think to ask, Grant. You wanna ride, too?”

“I think I'll pass.”

“Yeah, I expect it wouldn't be too good to roust a newlywed at the crack of dawn.” He chortled, then clamped a callused hand on Grant's back. “I like you. And I like your boy there, too.” He paused at the foot of the porch steps. “I figure we'll keep you both.”

Later, when Grant entered the bedroom and stood watching Pam hugging the edge of the mattress, seemingly asleep, he thought about Will's words. The man's acceptance had been straightforward and complete. As if he had no doubt that Grant would take care of his daughter—always. It was getting harder and harder to face the reality that they would disappoint so many people who believed in them.

Grant eyed the cramped bedroom. A gun cabinet and bookcase took up the only available wall and there was scant room between the window and the bed. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and began removing his shoes.

“Grant?” Pam sounded sleepy.

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

“It's okay.” She turned on her side to study him in the half-light of the moon. “I'm sorry. About the bed. I'll try not to move.”

Damn. Why did she have to smell like a bower of roses? Just thinking about climbing under the covers
beside her was making him hard. What if, in the middle of the night, half-asleep, he forgot where he was and reached out for her?

It wasn't just that she was a woman and he'd been a long time without. No, that wasn't the half of it. The trouble was, this was Pam. Pam, who was becoming
way
too important to him.

He shoved his shoes under the bed, then went into the bathroom to finish getting ready. He hadn't worn pajamas in years, preferring to sleep in his boxers, but he'd brought them for this trip. Putting them on only served to remind him how different this night was.

Back in the bedroom, he started to pull the covers back when Pam whispered to him. “You get under the sheet. I'll stay between the top sheet and the blanket.”

So that was her plan. The twenty-first-century version of bundling. He supposed it was the best they could do under the circumstances.

Unless, of course, he ripped off the covers and pulled her into his arms and loved her the way he wanted to, the way his body was demanding.

Instead, he dutifully climbed beneath the sheet, cradled his head in his hands and stared at the ceiling, careful not to move. He could hear her measured breathing, feel her body warmth, inhale her special fragrance.

Pure torture.

 

I
T WAS THE EVERLOVIN'
crack of dawn. Andy squinted at the luminous dial of his watch. Five-thirty. Crap. He'd thought when the old man said “sunup,” it was one of those figures of speech Pam talked about in class. Only the smell of bacon kept him from chucking it in and going back to sleep. He stepped into his jeans,
pulled on a sweatshirt and ran his fingers through his hair.

In the kitchen, Pam's dad handed him a cup of hot chocolate, then asked him how he liked his eggs. “You always get up this early?” Andy asked.

The man's eyes widened. “You call this early? Why, in my heyday I was up by four-thirty every day but Sunday.”

Andy couldn't imagine it. “Gosh, Mr. Carver, that had to be the pits.”

“Let's get one thing straight, pardner.” Will set down two plates of eggs and bacon and joined Andy at the table. “You can't go on callin' me ‘Mr. Carver.' Not now that I'm your stepgrandpa.”

“I guess that would be kinda weird.” He thought for a moment. “But I don't know what—”

“How 'bout plain old Gramps?”

“Sounds good.”

Gramps eyed him over his coffee cup. “So you've never been on a horse at all?”

“Once on a pony at this kid's birthday party, but I figured that didn't count.”

“You're right. Now shovel that food in, son. We've got lots to do if we're gonna make it to the Ghost Gulch pasture in time.”

“In time for what?”

“A glorious West Texas sunrise. I guarantee you haven't seen anything like it.”

At the barn Andy tried manfully not to reveal his fear, nor to think about the lump of eggs and biscuit sliding around in his stomach. Pepper, the horse Gramps was saddling for him, was big, and his ears twitched kinda funny, and he stared at Andy with these big rolling eyes. “There,” Gramps said, drawing the belt-thing tight
around the animal's stomach. “All cinched. Ready to mount up?”

No way was he going to let Gramps see that he was scared shitless. “Sure.” He put his left foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Feeling the horse shift beneath him, he grabbed the handle on the saddle and tried not to think about how high off the ground he was.

“Here's how you hold the reins.” Gramps wrapped his fingers around skinny strings of leather, then stood back. “Just talk nice to ol' Pepper. He's as gentle as they come.”

When the old man pulled himself into the saddle atop a brown-and-white spotted horse, Andy couldn't help noticing how he grimaced and let out a sharp moan, but, recovering, clucked his tongue and the two horses started walking side by side out the corral gate. It was just light enough that the buildings were dark silhouettes against a light gray sky. Around them, Andy heard the twitters of birds and, farther away, the lowing of cattle.

Gramps pulled up the collar of his denim jacket and rode alongside him, not saying anything. Yet it wasn't like he was ignoring him. More like they were com-padres who'd known each other so long they didn't need words to communicate.

Andy was doing his best to concentrate on steering Pepper, but the horse kinda knew what to do without being told. Gradually Andy gained confidence. Until they broke into a trot and everything changed. He felt as if his teeth were loose marbles and his butt, a punching bag. Thank God for the handle on the saddle. He gripped it for dear life. Beside him he heard Gramps say, “Try not to bounce. Keep your hind parts in touch
with the saddle.” Surprisingly, when he tried it, he didn't bounce as badly as before.

Finally they stopped beside a watering trough in the middle of nowhere. Gritting his teeth, Gramps dismounted, then tested his left knee. “Hanging in there,” he muttered to himself. Then he walked over to Pepper, took the reins from Andy and helped him get off. When his feet hit the ground, Andy's legs nearly buckled. “Not too bad, son, for your first ride.”

Even though his butt was sore and his knees refused to cooperate, Andy was exhilarated, and when Pepper turned his head and gave him an affectionate nip on the shoulder, Andy considered himself a regular John Wayne.

Gramps tethered the horses and then turned to Andy. “C'mon, son.” He led him to a rotted tree stump where they sat down. As far as you could see, there was nothing but land, undulating, then flat, marked by an occasional tree or outbuilding. “Watch.”

They sat silently. Then, like an eruption on the horizon, the earth gave birth to a giant red-orange ball. Wisps of gray-blue clouds drifted across the face of the sun and in the distance the bird and animal noises intensified.

“Pretty amazing, huh?”

“Awesome,” Andy said. Did they have sunrises like this in Florida? How would he know? He was never up this early.

The old man tilted back his Stetson and sat motionless, his gnarled hands folded between his legs. After several minutes, he spoke. “You must feel like a lost dogie.”