AFRICAN AMERICAN URBAN FICTION: BWWM ROMANCE: Billionaire Baby Daddy (Billionaire Secret Baby Pregnancy Romance) (Multicultural & Interracial Romance Short Stories)

by Carmella Jones

  He said, “Mary, sit down please.”

  I sat down then, curious. Part of me had understood his purpose in summoning me to the living room. I still had wheat chaff in my hair. I had not even had time to clean myself up. I never did make myself presentable just for him, even though my mother would have found the notion scandalous. Matthew had never minded how I looked. At least, I had always thought so. A little nagging voice deep inside of me had warned me now and again that this would not always be the case. Beauty is ephemeral. The only rule that counts for anything in the world is that all things must pass. Even the most radiant queen must one day become an old woman with black teeth and gnarled hands. I had no illusions that I would be able to outlast anyone else in the world. The restroom mirror never let me fool myself into thinking that I could.

  I said, “Matthew, what is this about?”

  I wanted to believe that he had made a business proposal, or had received a proposition from a prospective buyer. I wanted to believe that we would soon be moving off the ranch to a mansion where we would live on the passive income that our investments produced for the rest of our lives. I wanted very much to believe that. I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.

  He held the folder out for me to take. I took it with both hands. He said, “I had a conversation with Judge Williams the other day.”

  I leaned back, not bothering to open the folder. I’ve never been one for legal documents. I have never been possessed of a head for business that involves writing contracts. I understand prices and people. Reading papers tends to give me a headache. I have always left that to Matthew. As such, I expected him to tell me what the contents of the papers might be. I said, “Yes, I saw you walking in town with him.”

  He coughed into the back of his hand. My stomach sank when I saw him express discomfort. He is, as I have said, a very straightforward man. There aren’t too many reasons why a man who never experiences difficulty in speaking plainly to the men with whom he does business should experience difficulty in speaking to his wife.

  He said, “The fact of the matter is, I have annulled our marriage.”

  Even though a small part of me had known, the rest of me- the largest portion of myself- had never even suspected. There had been no indication that he would do anything of the sort. I dropped the folder to the floor. All the papers spilled out of the folder in front of my feet. For a moment, I dared not breathe. I dared not do anything. My mind whirled as I tried to grasp at anything that might make his statement untrue.

  My hands shook when I said, “Surely- surely this is a jest?”

  He stared straight ahead at me. It seemed to me that the less sure I became of myself, the more sure that he became of himself. He said, “I’m afraid it’s not. The documents were filed with the court seven days ago. Judge Williams required me to wait that long so that I was sure of what I was doing. I’ve spent a great deal of time reflecting on whether to go back to him or not. I haven’t. So as of this morning, our marriage contract is no longer legally binding.”

  I tried to make sense of what he had said. Something had blocked my hearing. I heard him through a filter, as though I had placed cotton balls in my ears. It is only with the wisdom of reflection that I understand this to be a mechanism of survival. If I did not hear it, it could not be true.

  I said, “Then- then…”

  He completed my sentence for me. He said, “We are no longer husband and wife.”

  I found my courage then. I don’t know from where. I couldn’t just sit there shaking like a leaf forever. At some point, human dignity reasserts itself- always, without exception. I said, “How can this happen? Haven’t I been loyal to you these many years? Your constant companion? Your- your---”

  I turned my face away to keep him from seeing my tears. I would not him see my cry. Not for anything would I let him see that. He acted so nonchalant, as if our divorce did not matter at all. Or, if it did matter to him, it was just another business transaction. He had done many of those, so many that I had lost track of them all. His study was filled to the brim with receipts and contracts. He always insisted on having every transaction he conducted put down to paper. There was something impersonal about paper that I just could not become accustomed to. Paper did not reveal a person’s mood, or their state of mind. They did not- in most cases- indicate whether the deal had been good or bad for the other party concerned. That lay in the other party’s estimation of the deal, rather than the actual terms. A man might sell his property at what constituted a loss to him yet consider it a good deal if investment capital was required for another venture. People made deals that went against their own interests every day; they did so because their evaluation of the transaction’s benefit missed the mark, sometimes badly.

  When I thought of a divorce as a business transaction- in this case the termination of a contract- I could not help but think that Matthew had not factored in what the divorce might cost both him, and myself. The best investors don’t plan month to month, or year to year. They plan decade to decade. By saying that he did not wish to stay married to me, he had said that the cost of the marriage outweighed the benefit of it. That made no sense to me. No matter how I turned it over in my head, I could not see where he might find another person to do what I could do better than I could. The frontier was hell to horses and women. Both were worn out in short order. Only those with great fortitude could survive, to say nothing of carving out a piece of the country for oneself.

  He said, “Yes, you have been. And now I wish to find another companion. I have consulted Judge Williams at length on this subject. Believe me when I tell you that it is not a rash decision by any means.”

  “Not rash, is it? Exactly how long have you been considering doing this?”

  I could not help but feel indignant at the situation in which I found myself. I had run away with a man from Boston who, at the time, had dreams that any man considered to be in his right mind would have laughed at. I had followed him into the riskiest venture he had ever made- his first one. If my reward was to be tossed aside like a piece of old newspaper, then what had it all been for? Why had I even bothered being loyal to him if he was not going to be loyal to me?

  “A few months, if you must know. This is not something I take lightly, believe me.”

  My voice became shrill as it rose. I said, “And you did not think to mention this to me at all? Not through all the time when the notion was in your head?”

  He did not react to my anger. That made me even more furious at him. He did not budge easily from a position once he decided upon it. Nor did he show his emotions as I did. That was a skill he learned over time. I often wondered whether he could ever make a living playing seven card stud. He had the demeanor for it, certainly. Yet the minimal reaction that he gave me caused me to bristle inside. I had a feeling of butting my head against a wall. It caused my head to throb.

  Then, he said something that made me want to take a pitchfork to his stomach. I’ve never been a violent woman. Violence is for fools. It is a tool that cuts oneself as often as it cuts that at which it is aimed toward. There were no shortage of violent men in the frontier: not in Nevada, Texas, Wyoming, or Montana. Yet these men, I had often observed, came to a bad end sooner or later. I knew the rule of living by sword and dying by the sword. While I listened to him speak, all of those fancy sentiments went out of my head. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to settle what had come between us.

  He said, “It was none of your business?”

  I screamed at him, “None of my business! I’m your wife! Have you gone sick in the head that you’ve forgotten that?”

  “Not anymore. Not as of nine o’clock this morning.”

  I choked back a response together with my tears. There I was, just on the point of losing my mind even while Matthew sat before in perfect repose. If anything, it looked to me like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

  I said, “Am I to understand that you have sought the company of another woman?”r />
  He said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. Just this morning, a woman from Massachusetts arrived. I put in an advertisement to a Boston newspaper.”

  “This woman, she has come all the way across the continent to marry you has she?”

  “That she has. We’re to be married tomorrow afternoon.”

  I imagined the tines of a pitchfork piercing his torso over and over. There would be blood, a lot of blood. I imagined- but no. Such things as came into my mind then are not fit for a book such as this, however short it may be.

  I put a hand to my forehead while I leaned back. I said, “All right, Matthew. What is it then? Is she a member of some royal family? An heiress to a fortune? A famous theater actress? One of those abolitionists who are calling for women to be granted voting rights throughout the country? Who is she?”

  Matthew’s placid face did not change. He might as well have been describing a wolf that he shot out in the wilderness somewhere. He said, “She writes to tell me that she is twenty-one years of age.”

  All at once, all the rage, all the furious pent up energy that had built inside me during the conversation with Matthew disappeared in an instant. My voice became hollow. I understood only too well what was going on. I said, “You’ve traded in your old mare for a younger philly.”

  He nodded, then said, “That is rather an indecorous way of putting it, but yes, the gist of it is that I wish to be married to someone younger than myself. Now as I understand that you may not find a residence of your own between today and tomorrow, I am prepared to-”

  I stood up. My feet trampled on the documents. That didn’t make me feel better, even though I would never dared to do such a thing a week ago. I walked out of the house and out of his life. I didn’t know where I was going, or where I might end up. I had no sense of the future. There was only the immediate miserable present in which I had to do something other than sitting across for a man who thought so little of me that he would throw me away at the first opportunity he had.

  After about ten minutes of walking away from his house- not long enough a time to leave his ranch- I bent over and emptied my stomach.

  4

  Any woman who means to survive in the frontier had better have a man that can protect her or a firearm with which to protect herself. I had neither. After two hours of walking, the need to protect myself against the untoward behavior of strangers felt stronger than at any point in my life than I can remember. Whenever I had gone to the barter market of a Saturday, I had no fears for my safety. Anyone who treated me ill would have to answer to Matthew. That was no longer the case. With the wedding happening tomorrow, everyone in Sawtooth would know that he would not have to answer to Matthew Callahan if he did anything to me.

  Both general stores in town sell guns. Both store owners are smart enough to keep their guns behind their counters instead of out among the shelves where any fool might grab one, put some bullets in it, and rob the store owner blind. The owner of West General Store, Harold West, had never been mistaken for a fool. He was a thirty-seven year old man with gray hair and a thick pair of glasses. He always wore overalls of the kind that a person never sees in horse country.

  Now I won’t say that all of Nevada was horse country, for it wasn’t. Yet that part of the state we lived in was horse country, for lay close to the northern border with Idaho. Sawtooth sat between the Owyhee and Bruneau Rivers. That part of the state had been Shoshone country for some time until white men with big dreams and deep pockets started pushing them out. Were it not for men like Harold West, the Indians might have stood a better chance at reclaiming the lands of their ancestors. What kept the frontier alive was not men with guns, or women willing to work hard, but supply wagons that ran every which were carrying all kinds of goods.

  I entered the shop, for the first time feeling alone and uncertain. I had passed through the same jangling door with the word “West’s” painted in fanciful brown letters upon the door’s glass window. Before, I had done so with the sure knowledge that I belonged there. Now, I was no longer sure of anything.

  Harold looked up from his counter. As it was a working day, business was slow. Harold made most of his money on Fridays and Saturdays. He had to divvy his resources carefully, for the profits of those two days subsidized the other four days he opened. He had told me this once when he sought out my advice. I told him to spend his money carefully and play the waiting game. The longer he stayed in business, the more of a reputation he would make in the town and its various surrounding communities. That reputation would come in handy, I had told him, while Sawtooth kept growing. If the day ever came when people no longer had a reason to remain in the town, that was the day he should cash out. He had responded by rubbing his chin with his index and middle finger in the way that I imagined Chinamen merchants did.

  He said, “Mrs. Callahan, good to you. How fares the ranch?”

  I blinked in surprise at his greeting. I had not expected to be called “Mrs.” ever again. Yet, he didn’t know. He didn’t know that my husband had divorced me. I walked towards him while my mind worked. There had to be something I could do with that- something…

  Then, it came to me. I said, “I’m faring as well as ever. The ranch is well enough. Matthew is a good hand, as far as it goes. He tends his stock well. It’s our good fortune to have Mr. Renmyer looking after our cattle.”

  Harold’s face brightened as I mentioned the name of the hired hand Matthew had been employing for the last eighteen months. He said, “Funny you should mention that, miss. I hear tell Mr. Renmyer has a new wife- an Irish woman, if I’ve heard rightly. He put himself an advertisement in one of our state’s newspapers. Turns out, a woman in Kansas read that advertisement. She came over here to marry Mr. Renmyer. Now isn’t that the darnedest thing you ever did hear?”

  In fact, I had heard of Mr. Renmyer’s marriage. He had a small ceremony in the courthouse. Matthew and I had been in attendance. Jacob Renmyer had, at that time, his hand wrapped in bandages. He had broke his fist upon some poor man’s face. He and Matthew had exchanged many words in private since then. Knowing what I know now, I suppose that Mr. Renmyer put the idea in Matthew’s head. I could even imagine how it might have been that Matthew would not have divorced me if he had not thought of a way he might be able to have his cake and eat it too. He had found a way to get shrift of me even while finding someone to take my place in the household. I could only hope that she proved unequal to the tasks to which I had devoted myself over the years.

  I said, “Well, Mr. Renmyer must do as he thinks best for himself.”

  Harold’s expression softened by several degrees. He said, “Indeed he must. What can I do ya for today?”

  “I’d like to buy a revolver. One of those Colts, if you have one.”

  He did not react to the request. He could not have been less astonished if I told him that I had signed up to sail on a whaler that planned to leave for the Pacific Ocean at San Francisco. I tried not to become angry with him, for he wasn’t Matthew. He was just a man who was used to hearing people come in and say all manner of ludicrous things. Over time, one becomes desensitized to the outlandish statements of folks who don’t know any better.

  He turned around and pulled a revolver down from three wooden pegs on the shelf, each of which had been placed exactly where they were to accommodate a gun the shape and size of a Colt six-shooter. He laid it on the counter in front of me. The gun produced a loud thumping sound. I almost jumped to hear it.

  He said, “This here is your standard issue Colt Single Action Army revolver. This one here is called a Peacemaker. They make ‘em in a place called Hartford. That’s in Connecticut. Now I should tell you that while many of these weapons look very much like one another. This one here takes .45 caliber bullets. Other ones will take other bullets. If you put the wrong bullet in the wrong gun, you stand a chance at jamming your weapon. In the worst case, you’ll blow your own hand off.”

  He produced a box full of bullets. He slid the box
open, letting me see the little metal objects which were half as large as my index finger.

  I said, “You can kill a man with this?”

  Harold raised his eyebrows at me. He said, “You planning on killing someone, Mrs. Callahan?”

  I answered as honestly as I could. If I ever had need of his services again, I wanted him to understand that I would always be straight with him. A customer who buys a gun and plays the shop owner false is a customer will be distrusted when next he finds himself looking for a weapon. I said, “I don’t know. I just think it might be that I’ll need to protect myself. This is a rough country, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “That’s plain enough. Now I’ll show you the basics of how to use it. You’ll be wanting to practice with the gun on your own. You should also remember to clean your weapon regularly. A dirty gun is of no use to neither man nor beast. It’s just as like to backfire as it is to do nothing at all. Will you be need a pipe stem, rags, oil, and such Mrs. Callahan?”

  Since I had a notion of how the gun might be paid for, I said, “If I don’t like the gun, can I return it to you later?”

  “Nope. You buy it, you keep it.”

  “Then, I’ll take the gun and the bullets for now. If it turns out that I like it, I’ll stop by some other time to buy the cleaning supplies.”

  He produced a brown paper bag. He closed the box of bullets, then put it together with the gun in the bag. He said, “How will be paying for this, missus?”

  “Would it be acceptable to charge it to my husband’s account?”

  He said, “Certainly. In fact, as Mr. Callahan just paid off his account last week, you let him know that he has sixty days to come square with me. Does that sound acceptable to you?”