“Is there something I can help you with?”
Oh, this was foolish. She straightened her shoulders. “I’m here to find out when the next prenatal classes are.”
The woman pulled a booklet from her drawer and flipped through it. “There’s one starting two weeks from Tuesday, and they run every other week after that. Can I put your name down?”
“Yes. Sylvie Mitchell.”
“And your husband’s name?”
She blinked and pursed her lips. “There is no husband.”
“Oh.” The woman looked as if such a thing wasn’t possible. “But the father can…should come….” The receptionist trailed off, smiling blandly.
Sylvie’s voice came out tight. “He won’t be coming to any classes.” Jeez, it sounded so stupid to say that. “I’ll be having this baby alone.”
The woman looked confused. And uncomfortable. “Oh. But you shouldn’t. The course information states you need a labor partner. A coach.”
“That would be me.”
Sylvie spun around, knowing as she turned who stood behind her.
Jon—filling all too well the entrance to the small reception area.
Couldn’t he leave her alone? Wasn’t it enough that he’d finagled a summer job out of her? Did he have to constantly be there, reminding her of the mistakes she’d made?
As if she needed reminding. All those sleepless nights, plus she hadn’t had a decent breakfast all week, not to mention the ache starting in her hip ligaments.
“What are you doing here?”
His expression chilled her. “You forget who I am. I make it my business to know when people are lying.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“I drove around the block. The way you said you needed to do an errand made me…” He trailed off and, working his jaw, he finished, “Let’s just say I was interested in what errand you had to do without me.”
“Oh, come on, I was hardly lying to you. It’s none of your business what errands I have to run.”
“Perhaps not, but to you, you were lying. And I wanted to know why.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Some people can lie like a sidewalk. You’re not one of them.”
“I’ll have to work on that,” she said dryly, turning around again to speak to the interested receptionist. “Like I said, I have no labor partner. If I get one, I’ll let you know.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
She turned to face him again. “You won’t be around. I’m not due until December.”
“But I’ll be around for your prenatal classes. And you need a breathing coach.”
“No, I don’t.” Again she turned, annoyed at the dizziness all her spinning had caused.
“So, if I’m not going to be around for the delivery, what’s the problem? I’ll help out in the meantime.”
His tone was so bland, she nearly believed his words. Nearly. Thirteen years in the military had taught her not to trust Jon’s casual words.
Still, Jon was nothing if not tenacious. He was determined to prove his sincerity, and the displays so far had gone a long way to that end, she had to admit.
And how had she repaid him for it? With cruel words. And refusing to help him find the closure he desperately wanted.
Why couldn’t he just accept Rick’s death and move on? She knew all too well that he wasn’t going to find peace in the truth she had to keep to herself.
But he was right about one thing. He wasn’t going to be around for the delivery, so what difference would it make if he accompanied her to some prenatal classes? He would see a few extended bellies, listen to some dry facts on motherhood, and he’d soon be gone. If he lasted that long.
“Fine. Suit yourself.” She met the curious receptionist’s gaze and flicked up her hand. “Make that two of us. Sylvie Mitchell and Jon Cahill.” She spelled out his last name.
She took the narrow pamphlet on the course and shoved it into Jon’s hard chest. “This is for you. Keep every other Tuesday evening open.”
Out in the sunshine, Jon watched Sylvie start up her car and drive away. Had she been considering someone else for the role of coach? Her father? No, more likely Lawrence.
Or a boyfriend? A man who’d already told her he’d help her raise her child? Be a father to it?
He gritted his teeth. Too bad. This child was his nephew or niece, his only link to his brother. He might not raise the baby, but he was at least going to strengthen his connection to the little thing, and the best way to start that was to attend prenatal classes.
Still, the idea of a boyfriend waiting somewhere sat like a stone inside of him. Another man involved in his brother’s child’s life? Giving advice, hugs…
Backrubs to the mother?
Hey, Jon, that’s not your concern. The inner voice rang so clearly, he wondered if the young family passing him on his way to the truck might have heard it.
He should get used to the fact Sylvie didn’t want him around, because come September, he wouldn’t be.
At the truck, he toed the dirt that had been blown by the constant wind into a small dune beside his tire. The only reason Sylvie accepted him was because of his bulldozer attitude. And the fact she needed a laborer.
But if his bulldozing attitude continued, he could see Sylvie putting her foot down pretty damn quick. Oh, yeah, right down on him, like a bug.
Feeling the sun beat hot on his head, Jon decided it was best if he bought his work clothes and got back to the ranch. No doubt Sylvie would notice his absence, and not in a fond way.
Less than an hour later he found Lawrence inside the small front corral, coaxing a suspicious pot-bellied pig to come close to the fence. Several barefoot children, obviously campers, stretched tiny arms through the rails, each begging the animal to take their treats. The pig must have had his fill of garbage because he wasn’t budging.
“Hey, Lawrence,” he called out after he’d parked the truck and approached the corral. “If you’re not busy, can you show me where to put Sylvie’s UAB?”
Lawrence lifted his head and frowned. “UAB?”
“Sylvie’s unaccompanied baggage from Bosnia.”
“Oh, yeah.” Lawrence said something to the kids before leaving the corral. “Sure. Did you get my books?”
“Yes. Are you actually going to read that stuff?”
“Why not? Somebody’s gotta know what’s going on around here. And if you think Sylvie’ll read them, I’ve got some land to sell you.”
Jon shook his head at the vision he couldn’t quite form in his head. A crusty old farmhand reading maternity books.
But then again, as a police officer, he’d seen pretty much the weirdest stuff. Lawrence wasn’t harming anyone and maybe he was on the right track.
“Sylvie said to put her stuff in the spare bedroom.”
“Hmm.” The old man scratched the growth of stubble on his chin. “I guess we’ll be calling the spare bedroom the nursery before long.” After he grabbed a duffel bag off the truck, he threw open the front door and stalked inside. It took Jon a few minutes to adjust to the dim interior, but carrying a barrack box, he managed to follow the old man down the hallway to the end room.
“Best room for a nursery, I guess. Gets the morning sun. The afternoon sun gets too hot ’round here. And this room connects with Sylvie’s, anyway.” Lawrence let out a dry chuckle. “That way she won’t disturb her pa.”
And his new wife? Jon couldn’t help but mentally add that phrase for Lawrence. He followed the old hand’s gaze to the open connecting door. Beyond stood a neat, well-made bed, plain and orderly. No fancy pillows or childhood toys for Sylvie. A nightstand beside the bed held a clock, a chain and dog tags. And a stack of disposable tissues.
Curious. Jon scanned the room for a wastebasket. He found it over in the far corner, holding a scrunched-up tissue carton, its whimsical design clearly visible.
A teddy bear in army fatigues, driving an army truck. Sylvie had taken the time to remove, refold and
stack all of the tissues. And then she’d crushed the box into the size of a deck of cards.
Curious indeed.
“Seen enough? Or are you waiting for me to bring in all the UAB?”
Jon jerked back and cleared his throat. “No.”
Lawrence squinted at him. “You married, son?”
“Divorced.”
“Then a woman’s room shouldn’t be a mystery to you. Let’s go.”
As Lawrence walked ahead of Jon, he continued, “Now, me, I’m a whole different breed. Never been married. Don’t know a damn thing about women.”
“That’ll change as soon as you start into one of those books.” He’ll learn way more than he ever wanted to.
Lawrence nodded. “Yep. Expect that to be true. Not that I don’t understand Sylvie. She’s a Mitchell through and through. Stubborn, tough lot. Her pa used to be like that, too, till he got himself married a second time. Andrea softened him up, but good. I guess the right spouse can do just about anything.”
“You’ve known Sylvie long?”
“All her life.”
He followed the man outside. “Why did she join the military? I mean, her father has this ranch. I would think she’d want to stay on it.”
Lawrence stopped at the edge of the porch steps. “The ranch wasn’t doing so good back then. They were tough times back thirteen years. A lot of ranches were lost with high interest rates and all. Allister struggled, too. Sylvie wanted him to sell. She was just a kid, full of ideas and knowing everything. Teenagers aren’t all that big on heritage, either.”
“But she’s back here now.”
Lawrence paused by the truck, nodding pensively. “Yeah, she is.”
For a moment he looked miles away, his eyes narrowing slightly, his leathery face wrinkled into a frown. Jon was about to prompt him, knowing by instinct that something important lingered just below the surface.
But Lawrence cleared his throat as he pulled another square, olive-drab barrack box from the truck bed. “Yeah, she came home, all right. And the minute she got out of her car, I knew she wasn’t the same kid that left for Bosnia.”
“She wasn’t a kid, either.”
Lawrence smiled at him, looking like a hound dog whose jowls had been held back by some mischievous child. “Anyone under fifty is a kid, son.”
“Was Bosnia Sylvie’s only overseas tour?”
Lawrence snapped out of his reverie. “Heck, no. She’s been to the Golan Heights in the Middle East. And three months in Afghanistan, too. I figured she’d come back changed after that one, but she didn’t. Still the same opinionated Sylvie. Now, this time, I don’t know. She’s quieter, more mature.” He grinned abruptly. “Heck, it may be just the baby doing it to her. I’ll let you know after I’ve read those books.”
Good luck, Jon thought. Not the sort of reading material he cared for. He had the latest Sports Illustrated in his suitcase, right beside one of Tom Clancy’s newest. That was his limit on gruesome.
“I’ll get the suitcase. You take the heavier stuff. You’re younger than me.” Lawrence swung the barrack box around and shoved it into Jon’s midriff.
The air left his lungs in one giant whoosh. Lawrence may be in his eighties, and built like a line of barbwire, but he was as strong as any man Jon knew.
The old man chuckled. “Don’t let Sylvie see you wimping out like that. She isn’t the sort to tolerate such nonsense.”
“What nonsense?”
Both men turned to face the voice. Sylvie strode toward them, a confident, defiant stride that bore a touch of wariness he figured only he could detect. Lawrence might see a milder, matured version of Sylvie, but he saw a strong, suspicious woman. One determined to keep him, even though he was the uncle of her child, as distant as possible.
She carried his only relative. He took the moment to imagine her heavy with child, full, lush breasts and softer, rounded features. Glowing and healthy, teeming with womanhood.
His ex-wife had almost looked as good the day they’d signed their divorce papers. Holy-moly. The last time he was involved with a woman, she, too, was carrying another man’s child.
And the way his breath caught and his jeans ached, he knew he couldn’t lie to himself. He was getting involved with Sylvie.
He snapped his attention away from her and scanned the circular driveway for her car, spying it at the far end, away from the small throng of camping children who’d chosen the dust of the road over the sandbox.
“So what nonsense are you two talking about?” she asked again.
“Nothing,” he answered before Lawrence could speak.
“Your new hand can’t handle a bit of decent work, Sylvie,” Lawrence said, anyway. “Why’d ya hire him? He’s a wimpy city boy.”
Jon threw the man a sharp glare, one the smiling Lawrence pointedly ignored as he added, “If there’s not more to do here, I’ve got tack to clean.” He hauled the last of the UAB onto his shoulder and sauntered into the house.
Jon turned to Sylvie. Her eyebrows lifted in watchful curiosity, and he wondered if it would be worth the bother to defend himself. But before he could mind his tongue, he said, “He’s exaggerating. I can handle anything you throw at me.”
She made no comment. But, very briefly, her gaze flicked down his frame and up again.
Wrong thing to say. To any other woman he knew, such a small, sexual innuendo would have yielded a smile. To Sylvie, his words seemed to skitter around her like water on hot pavement.
And yet her eyelids lowered as her jaw relaxed and the barest flush pinkened her cheeks. Was she actually assessing the temptation?
Damn, he’d have to be more careful. He wasn’t usually so loose-lipped, even with the female officers he’d worked with, those who could give as good as they got, sometimes throwing in a tempting offer of their own. Such banter wasn’t his style, and he didn’t want a repeat of that brief episode in the kitchen where he’d actually considered kissing her.
Thankfully, the heat in her eyes cooled, replaced by tired caution. She showed no suggestion that she’d even caught the innuendo.
“I’m sure you can do all the work you’ve been hired to do. Of course, if you can’t, you’ll be fired.” After that bland, tired-sounding warning, she walked past him into the house.
Sylvie needed to lie down. Now. Her feet and her head ached, and the queasiness in between had returned with a vengeance. A dark room and a cold compress sounded so heavenly she nearly cried for it.
A really cold compress, she decided, considering what Jon had said. Oh, yes, she didn’t doubt he could handle anything she threw at him. Anything at all.
Good grief, she needed to rest. She must be absolutely exhausted if the idea of a good, hard man had cut to the top of her list of needs.
As soon as she entered her room, she pulled the drapes shut and flaked out on the bed with a groan.
Sleep, she ordered her body. Forget everything and sleep so long that when you wake up, all your problems will have been sorted out.
A sharp noise from beyond her door hit her pounding temples. Instantly she leaped up and grappled at the air beside her bed.
“What the Sam Hill—”
Chapter 5
Sylvie cut off her own words when she spied Jon standing in the center of the adjoining room.
She shut her mouth to the foul curse that could have easily burst from her lips. Then, forcing her eyes to close tightly, she attempted to will her heart rate back to normal. Such scares could hardly be good for the baby.
“What,” she breathed out on one long exhale, “did you just do? Set off a cannon?” She was almost too scared to open her eyes, afraid she’d find her belongings, her world, in tiny fragments around Jon.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to start afresh.
“I’m sorry.” His smooth deep voice sliced through her body as easily as a warm knife through butter. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She dared to open her eyes. He stood near the adjoining
door, watching her all too attentively with that damn cool, inquisitive expression.
Good grief, he was nothing like his brother. Rick would never stare at her with a look so close to—what the heck was it—suspicion? Rick would have smiled, apologized smoothly and returned to his work.
“The box slipped from my hands just as I was setting it down. I only dropped it a few inches. Would there be anything breakable in it?”
She sighed. “No.” All of her furniture and effects had been shipped back to the ranch before she began her tour of duty. She knew she’d be retiring immediately after. Jon would eat off her favorite china at suppertime when he showed up for the meal the housekeeper had prepared last night, if Sylvie had enough energy to heat the stuff up. “It’s all right.”
It wasn’t all right, but what else could she say? He hadn’t dropped the box deliberately. Fatigue had made her testy.
“I guess you’re tired, eh?”
She lifted her eyebrows and let another sigh waffle through her. “Yes. Look,” she said, gesturing carelessly to the numerous boxes and kit bags scattered about her future nursery. “Just dump what’s left in the hallway. We’ll worry about them all later.” She stifled a yawn as she turned back to the welcoming bed.
“That’s it.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “Hmm?”
“There are no more boxes.”
For a moment she stood in the middle of her room, not more than four feet from him, and wondered what the heck he was talking about.
“This is all your unaccompanied baggage,” he elaborated.
“Oh.” Good grief, she must be beat. Feeling a bit stupid, she offered Jon a simple smile and returned to the bed.
He followed her, only to stop at the threshold. And lying on her bed, with her eyes shut, she could still sense him watching her.
To hell with it. She wasn’t the shy, modest type. That type never lasted in the army, where you might find yourself sharing a tent with just about any other noncommissioned officer. She’d spent the first three months in Bosnia sharing an ISO, a large metal box resembling a sea container, with a female cook. The last three months, through a miserable cold winter, after several ISOs had been shipped to another camp, she lived with two drivers and Rick—
Necessary Secrets Page 6