by Laura Drake
Her cottony tone and softer sympathy pull a sob-filled cough from my chest. There’s a wad of something down there. Soft, sticky, and a little nasty—like chewed-up black licorice. I push it deeper. I’ll fall apart when I can afford to. “There’s more, but I can’t talk about it right now. I’ve got to git, Carly.”
“I know, but you call me the minute you hit the Las Cruces city limits, y’hear? I’m going to worry until then. It won’t help, but it’s all I can do.”
I check traffic and take the car out of park. “Don’t you worry, or you’ll end up popping out that baby, and then where’ll we be? I’ll call you later.” I hit End, knowing she’ll understand the hang-up. Thinking about any baby makes my voice wobble, and I can’t afford that right now.
Tossing the phone in the passenger seat, I check the mirror and ease onto the road. Two hundred miles is four hours, but if Einstein holds up, I can make it in three and a half. And God help the cop that stops me. When the message pings, I punch the address into my phone’s program and let the GPS lady tell me what to do. I drive, my vision narrowing to only the pavement unrolling ahead, my thoughts zipping past like the white dashed lines down the middle—here, then gone.
Patsy at four, hair tousled from sleep, opens her faded blue eyes and reaches for me. Will the baby have her eyes? The fight we had when she borrowed my favorite sweater for a date, then hot-water washed it to Barbie-size. How do I tell Momma her daughter is gone? I hope Carly’s okay on her feet today. I still need to call Mrs. Wheelwright. Who was the baby’s father? How can there be a future without my sister in it? I’m so sorry, Patsy.
I’m washed out on a surge of helplessness, into a sea of sadness, and the road shimmers. Stop. Stop. Stop it. Look only at the next thing to be done. Then the next. That’s how you’ll do this. I look at the dashboard. The next thing is gas, or I’m going to have to walk to Las Cruces.
* * *
Reese
Late afternoon, I push back from the desk in my bedroom/office to stretch. My muscles are the good kind of tired from a day of riding and checking the herd. I’ve got to solve the breeding problem. God knows, we’ve got land, but keeping the test herd separate is a challenge.
I glance at the shelf over my desk, to the carved wooden pony, an Appaloosa, painted in pastels, prancing. My mother got it for me when I was just little. It’s one of my favorite remembrances of her—a sepia-tinged memory of her warmth and smile, filled with the scent of her perfume.
Hi, Mom.
My phone buzzes on the desk. A number I don’t recognize. “Reese St. James.”
“Mr. St. James, this is Officer Morales, of the New Mexico State Police. Do you have a brother, Carson St. James?”
What has he gotten into now? “I do. Why?”
“Sir, I’m sorry to inform you…”
The rest is a buzz in my ear as shock, like liquid lead, races through my body. The call is short, just the facts. I hang up, thoughts hitting like shrapnel. How can my twin be dead and I’m still here? Bo would be so pissed; his favorite son is gone, and his least is left—the sole surviving St. James.
I toss clothes in a bag and jog for my Cessna. On the way, I stop to inform my ranch manager, and in minutes I’m in the air, the plane on autopilot, and try to absorb the enormity of what’s happened. I always thought that if my crazy brother died in an accident, it would be a collision with a bull’s head, not a deer. The statie said there was a woman driving—another fatality. Carson always had a taste for the wild ones, and this one did more damage than any bull.
I’m not unfeeling; I’m sure his death will sink in and I’ll mourn. But despite being identical twins, we’ve never been close. I was born considered and deliberate (weak, according to Carson and my father), and my brother lives like his ass is on fire.
Lived.
This news would have killed our father, if he weren’t already dead. Bo “Balls-Out” St. James was bigger than life and believed himself bigger than death, until a massive heart attack a year ago proved him wrong. And if he could talk now, I doubt he’d admit his mistake.
Then it hits me; I’m now the sole owner of Katy Cattle Co. Bo began it before we were born, named it after my mother, and through his bullheadedness, brawn, and (some say) bribery made it into one of the largest cattle ranches in the state. And this is Texas—four hundred thousand acres. A business that big has contingencies to put in motion. I’ve got calls to make, starting with our attorney.
* * *
Lorelei
Three hours, forty-three minutes later, I pull into the state police annex parking lot and sit listening to the wind moan around the window’s worn weather stripping, feeling the push-pull of my wants. Wanting to see Patsy’s baby is a throbbing, bone-deep ache that’s gotten stronger the closer I got to Las Cruces. But pulling open that glass door will mean crossing a barrier, a point of no return, leaving my bigger-than-life sister behind. If I stay here, could it remain not real? Oh, if that were true, I swear I’d sit here until the car rotted out from under me.
Except, there’s a baby. She’s the most innocent victim, and she has to be all that matters right now. I open my door and step out, snatch my purse from the floorboards, and clutch it to my chest like a shield. I force my feet across the tarmac, schooling myself with each step: You can do this. You have to do this. It isn’t about you. Or Momma, or even Patsy. It’s about a baby.
I pull open the door and hike across the dull linoleum to the reception desk. It’s manned by a handsome young man in blue.
“I’m Lorelei West. I’m here about”—focus on what you can handle—“the West baby.”
A line appears between his brows, but when he figures it out, his face falls to official planes. “Could I see some ID, miss?”
He’s just being polite. Thirty-seven is a bit past the “miss” stage. I root in my bag and finally come up with my wallet and flip it open to my license.
He studies it, then me. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. West.”
Not going there. Not now. “Can you tell me where the baby is?”
He shuffles papers. “The bod—um—your sister is at the hospital. You’ll need to go there and fill out paperwork about who to expect to pick up…”
I just stare at him, trying not to think ahead. “The baby?”
“Since you said you’d be here this afternoon, they are keeping her at CYFD.” He pulls off a Post-it and writes. “Here is their address, and the hospital’s. And in case you didn’t know, the passenger in the car also died in the crash.”
“Patsy was driving?”
He looks down at his papers. “Yes. It seems they hit a deer, and she lost control of the vehicle.” He looks up, and his blue eyes find mine. “It doesn’t appear that alcohol was involved, but toxicology reports aren’t back yet.”
I haven’t spared a thought for the passenger. And I can’t right now. “Thank you.” I take the directions and step away from the desk.
“Ma’am?”
I stop.
“They’re running your background check now, and depending, they might release the baby.”
It hadn’t occurred to me I could be going home without the baby. “Depending on what?”
“They’ll have questions for you there.” He points to the note in my hand.
My anger flares, then dies. Of course they have to be sure they’re giving Sawyer to a relative and a good person, not some degenerate. It’s now critical that I hold it together. “Okay, got it.”
My need to see Patsy’s baby propels me to a low-slung building in a not-so-great section of town. I get out and jog to the door, but before I pull it open, I check my shadow in the window and stop to smooth my windblown hair. I don’t want to look unhinged to the decision makers. Thank God they can’t glimpse what’s going on inside. I take a deep breath.
Lord, if you’re not too busy, I could use a hand here.
I pull open the door.
The office is as utilitarian as the DMV, with cubicles marc
hing away into the distance. I tell the receptionist why I’m here, and she buzzes someone, then asks me to have a seat; they’ll be with me in a few.
I sit but can’t keep still. My foot taps and I squirm like a toddler who has to go.
A baby. A shot of adrenaline hits my bloodstream, speeding my heart and weakening my knees.
I gave up hope of a family of my own years ago. I remember my parents when I was young. Loving. Not in big ways, but the small ones that spoke louder: a brush of his hand at her waist when he walked by. Her fixing his collar every morning before he left for work. The way her eyes lit when he walked in the door at the end of the day and said, “There you are.” I’m not sure I ever even saw them kiss, but the love was as plain as the no-smoking sign on the wall in front of me. Daddy knew how to love my momma. I’ve always held out for that.
But I was real about my chances. I’m one of those girls who is so average, I blend in. The beige undertone compared to the bold colors of girls in the high school halls. I’m not saying I don’t have anything to offer. I’m reasonably intelligent, even-keeled and loyal, steadfast and…boring. I have none of Patsy’s fireworks. Oh, I got asked out. Still do, now and again, but I believe there’s a time for everything in life, and that time has passed me by. The men left in the dating pool are the ones who never married (and it’s obvious why), or the divorced men wanting a do-over, trailing kids in their wake and desperate to recapture what they had before they married—youth.
No thanks.
I stand and pace the seven steps between the walls of the reception area. But a baby. God, I love babies. I love kids. I may not ever forgive my poor sister for robbing Momma and me of experiencing her pregnancy and birth.
I sit. Patsy…the details and decisions yet to be made swoop and dive like wasps in my head. Were she and the cowboy married? Surely we’d have heard about that, wouldn’t we? Maybe not. A baby trumps a wedding, and she didn’t tell us about that.
“Ms. West?” A woman about my age in a blue polyester pantsuit stands at the desk.
I hop up like the chair shocked me. “That’s me. I’m here.” I sound like a first-day kindergarten teacher, full of fake cheeriness.
She pushes open the little spring-loaded gate to the side of the counter. “I’m Ms. Brown. Come with me, won’t you?” She leads me to a small conference room and sits next to a file folder with pages of forms on top. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Like that’s going to happen. I perch on the edge of an office chair.
“First, could you show me some ID?”
I pull it out and lay it on the table.
She looks from the license to me, as if it’s fake. “We’ve tried to contact the father’s family but haven’t reached them yet, as far as I’ve heard. As of now, you are the closest next of kin.”
I want to ask her if they were married, but how would that look? Oh yes, we were close. No, she didn’t tell us about the baby, or much of anything, apparently. “If I satisfy all your questions, I can take the baby home today?”
“First things first, shall we?” She opens the file folder. On top is a blown-up photocopy of Patsy’s driver’s license.
Such an ordinary, everyday thing. But seeing my gorgeous sister smiling for the camera ratchets taut the muscles in my chest. Patsy is the only person I’ve ever known who can make a DMV photo look like a model shoot. I still can’t—
“She listed her address as yours.”
“Of course she did. That’s where she lives. At least, that’s her permanent address.”
“Is that a house or an apartment?”
“A home.”
“Who lives there?” She looks up, and her eyes seem to penetrate my skin to root around inside, searching for lies.
Well, I have nothing to hide. “My mother, me, and Patsy, when she’s home.”
“No other children in the home?”
“No.”
“Are you employed?”
“Yes. I’m the manager of the Chestnut Creek Café in Unforgiven. Have been for seven years.”
She’s checking a paper as I speak. I read upside down—it’s my background report. “Isn’t all this in there?”
“I need to have a feel for any potential guardian.”
The strain of today tugs on my last nerve. “By asking me questions you already have the answers to?” I’m trying, but really.
Her head snaps up.
“Look, you don’t know me, but trust me when I tell you, I do not lie. I detest liars. Ask me anything you want. You want to know about the bubble gum I stole from O’Grady’s when I was six? I did it. Momma about snatched me bald. Want to know when I last had sex? It was—”
“Ms. West.” She puts up a hand. “I know this is stressful. You’ve had what I’m sure is a very bad day. I appreciate that. But I am responsible for this baby, and—”
“She’s not ‘this baby.’ Her name is Sawyer.” The woman cocks one eyebrow, and I know I need to stop. But it’s like someone threw a bath bomb of emotion in my chest, and there’s no pushing it down this time. “She’s not just any baby. She’s my baby sister Patsy’s baby. I’ll fill out paperwork until I’m gray if you want me to”—my voice goes all wobbly—“and I know you have a very hard job to do. But please, if you have the least bit of empathy in you, can I see the baby?” I clench my hands in my lap and lock my jaw to make the words stop. She’s either going to agree, or say no, and there isn’t screw-all I can do about it. I make myself still and send up a prayer.
She looks me over hard for what seems like forever. Then she stands and walks out.
I sit on my hands and try to hold it together. Has she just ended the interview?
Two minutes later, she walks back in, carrying my niece.
“Oh.” I’m on my feet, my hand over my mouth. I’ve been trying so hard to get to this point, I realize I haven’t thought one nanosecond beyond it.
Her eyes are big and round as a Disney bunny’s. Patsy’s pale-blue eyes stare back at me, like the sky some days: a watercolor wash of white on blue. She has straight brown hair, from her father, I assume, since the Wests are blond. She’s wearing a red-and-white-striped onesie that makes her look like a little pixie.
Her cheeks aren’t pink; they’re red. “Does she have a fever?”
“No. She’s just starting to teethe.”
Without warning, the long, horrific day catches up to me. My knees give way and I plop into the chair. A strangled wail works its way past the licorice glob in my throat. I stick my fist in my mouth and bite down, but it gets around that, too. “Oh, Patsy.” I put my face in my hands, bend double as the shocked grief I’ve stuffed all day spews.
This woman has got to think I’m unhinged. Stop, stop, stop it. She won’t give you Sawyer.
It makes no difference. I have no control.
Something brushes my hand, and I turn my head to see a tissue dangling. I snatch it like it’s a life jacket and cry some more.
In time, the worst is over. Oh, I don’t kid myself. I’m raw and seeping, and it’s going to build again, but for now…I look up.
The lady bounces Sawyer on her hip and hands me the tissue box.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re thinking.” I pull tissues, blow my nose, and mop my face.
“I think that this baby is wanted.” Her eyes are a bit shiny, and her smile is lopsided. “We’ll have someone visit, of course, to be sure the home is appropriate and safe, but for today, I’m comfortable turning her over to you.”
She hands the baby down, into my lap.
Sawyer is warm and soft and looks up at me with wise eyes. Then she reaches up and touches my wet cheek.
“It’s okay, hon.” Another tear tracks down my face. “You had a long, hard fall, but I’ve got you. I’m going to make everything okay from now on. I swear it.”
* * *
Reese
It’s dusk when I land in Las Cruces. It takes forever to get a rental car and longer to get to t
he hospital: a modern, three-story structure overlooking barren landscape.
The lobby is almost deserted.
I explain to the security guard at the desk that I want to see my brother.
He tells me he’s sorry for my loss, picks up a phone, and relays the message. When he hangs up, he directs me to the basement.
I’m ushered into a “viewing room,” where they leave me alone with Carson. I take off my Stetson. Doing this would never be easy, but pulling a sheet down to see your own face? Except for the scar across my forehead, the reminder of just how different we are—were. I gulp deep lungfuls of air until the dizziness passes and do it. His face escaped injury, a detail I know he’d be happy about. For whatever good that does.
Anger forms under my breastbone, pushing out. Hard to believe they hadn’t been drinking, but the statie said it didn’t look that way. Yeah, they hit a deer, but a bull rider’s reaction time is better than a normal human’s. “Dammit, Carson, why weren’t you driving?”
I search for something profound to say but find I have even less to say to him than I did when he was alive. We take after our mother in looks and build, but Carson got Bo’s personality. He was Bo’s legacy—the favorite child.
According to the will, we were to work together to run the ranch, but Carson wasn’t done rodeoing. I’d always hoped we’d find more in common when we were both back on the ranch. I mean, we’re twins, for cripes’ sake. But now the chance to get close to my brother—to understand him—is gone, and I’m only just beginning to realize how much I’d wanted that. Could we have forged a relationship without Bo between us? I’ll never know. Shit. The unfairness ignites my anger like sulfur in a burning flash of heat.
And when it consumes itself, I’m left empty and cold. I don’t know what I expected to gain by coming here. To make it real, maybe? Well, it is that. “I’ll take good care of the ranch. You know you don’t have to worry about that.” Not that he worried about it much when he was alive. God, I sound cold. But screw it. I’m not enough of a hypocrite to try to conjure soft memories from my childhood when there weren’t any.