Necessary Secrets

by Barbara Phinney

  She tightened her jaw. Had he lived, would they have resumed their platonic relationship, knowing that they’d—that she was carrying his child?

  But he hadn’t lived.

  Her stomach heaved and she threw open her eyes. “Is there anything else you need?” she asked, pushing away the horror on the off chance Jon might really be able to read her mind.

  With his shoulder pressed against the door frame, he folded his arms. He looked as though he belonged here, for Pete’s sake. As if he didn’t need an invitation to enter her bedroom.

  She slammed shut the lid on that thought.

  Finally he spoke. “Nothing. I was going to ask you if you needed anything to make yourself more comfortable.”

  There he went, insinuating himself into her life. She’d only known him a few hours and he seemed fully prepared to take over the role of father to her child.

  Forget it. And forget about thinking of all the other duties he might perform. He’ll be gone in September.

  Rolling over, she stared at the far wall, where several busy landscapes Andrea had painted hung. “No, I’m fine. I just need to rest for a few minutes.”

  But however she felt didn’t stop him from watching her with that dark, suspicious-cop expression, the one that rolled around her like a cold draft. She twisted back. “Stop that!”

  He lifted his brows. “Stop what?”

  “Stop looking at me like a cop.”

  “I didn’t realize that I was.” He offered a careless smile. Briefly, a glimpse of Rick danced over his expression. She shut her eyes, wishing there wasn’t such an indefinable resemblance.

  No, Jon was uniquely himself.

  Riding in on a moment of warm fatigue, a fantasy of him kneading away her tension drifted over her.

  “I just want to be alone for a few minutes, okay?” She forced out her words, praying they’d dispel that damn tempting vision.

  Silence answered her, until the sound of Jon clicking shut the door sliced through her brain. Without peeking through half-closed eyelids, she knew he’d left her alone.

  Alone with her regret and a headache.

  And a fantasy that had inexplicably soothed her in a way she figured she’d never be soothed.

  By the time the sun had moved over to glare into his face, Jon was ready to quit for the day. He worked out regularly in Toronto, but here, outside with the strong wind and sun, hauling fencing, pounding poles and completing the chores Sylvie had assigned him, he needed a break.

  He tore off his new Stetson and wiped his brow, recalling how he’d quietly shut Sylvie’s bedroom door and headed outside, all the while mentally organizing his agenda. Do the work, get settled in the bunkhouse, then call his shift sergeant to confirm his leave arrangements. Then, if he was still standing, he’d call the neighbor who was minding his house while he was gone.

  Static on the two-way radio Lawrence had offered told him the old man was trying to reach him. Jon moved into the open field and keyed the send button.

  “Lawrence? You trying to call me?”

  The old man’s voice cut through the static. “Yup. Supper’s ready. Main house. You can clean up in the back porch.”

  Finally. But the main house? Did that mean Sylvie was responsible for feeding them?

  He thinned his lips. She hadn’t been in any shape to even stand up, let alone cook a meal for a bunch of hungry men. He climbed onto the ATV and headed back across the dry landscape toward the house.

  Fifteen minutes later he found Sylvie hovering over the stove, swiping her brow as she stirred the contents of a deep pot. Its scent filled the air, a savory mix of Italian seasonings, tomatoes and rich meat, rivaling any of the delicious dishes he could sample in Toronto. “Smells great,” he announced as he stepped into the kitchen.

  She eyed his hat before speaking. “Marg can whip up the greatest Italian dishes.” She moved a large bowl of steaming pasta to the center of the table, beside a wide tray of bubbling cheese bread.

  “Marg?”

  “Our housekeeper. She comes in Mondays and Thursdays, cleans the entire house and prepares enough food to feed all of us until she comes back. All I have to do is throw it in the oven, or reheat it.” She glanced at him, her eyebrows raised. “You didn’t think I slaved over a hot stove all afternoon?”

  Yes, he had, and he hadn’t liked it. And how did he feel now that he learned she wasn’t responsible for the tempting food in front of them? Relieved?

  Yeah, of course he was relieved. Now he wouldn’t have to play the bad guy and order her to rest.

  He cleared his throat. When had he ever balked at being tough?

  When he’d seen that butting heads with Sylvie would only widen the rift in their already-uneasy relationship.

  Hell, relationships, especially those with women, weren’t exactly his forte. He’d blown it with his ex-wife, leaving him to take his women like he took his coffee breaks—few and far between.

  He glanced at Lawrence who watched his lengthening silence with interest. He looked again at Sylvie. “I’m glad you didn’t have to cook, but I saw you here and figured you’d felt better after I left, that’s all.”

  She wiped her hands on the boldly printed apron tied around her waist. It didn’t match her style, so he figured it must be Marg’s. “I rested a bit, but I’m not used to lounging around all day. So I got up, threw this stuff in the oven and started unpacking.”

  She smiled across at Lawrence, who’d already sat down and begun helping himself to the pitcher of dark-red juice in front of him. “I found your present, Lawrence. Want it now?”

  “Nope. After supper would be better. Jon and I worked like the dickens this afternoon, and I’m looking to feed myself first and foremost.” He pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Jon, you make a man nervous.”

  Jon shot a glance at Sylvie, as she sat herself down across from Lawrence. There were three other chairs, and, judging by the sounds from the back porch, the other two ranch hands were cleaning up. Jon chose the chair beside Sylvie.

  She smelled like tomatoes and bread, and he wondered if she hadn’t done more than she’d claimed.

  “Let’s hope you feel better soon, Sylvie,” Lawrence said as the other men sat down. “We’ll need you out at the line shack. We have to make a decision on it in the next couple of weeks. I’d like to see it torn down, but we still need the damn thing.”

  Jon grabbed some cheese bread from the tray that one of the other men, Purley, handed him. “Where’s this line shack?”

  “A few miles west of here.” Lawrence helped himself to pasta and sauce. “Right close to where the trails begin. Tough terrain, though. Up and down.”

  Sylvie must have seen his confused expression. “Our land ends at the line shack. It’s government land after that and we keep the rights to graze the cattle there, but more important, we have access to those national walking trails through K-country, that’s the park area half a mile west of the line shack. Purley takes any campers who can ride up there. They get the choice of either riding the trails or herding cattle.” She accepted the tray of bread from Jon, keeping her hands well away from his, he noted. “Did you get a carpenter to look at that shack, Lawrence?”

  “Don’t need a carpenter to tell me that mess of lumber is ready to be bulldozed.”

  “We need something out there. It’s a long ways in on a bad day, especially if you’ve been riding the trails all day. And it’s right beside the well.” She stopped. “But we can’t do anything until the end of the camping season. How about I ride out and check it in the next week or so? It’ll give me an idea of what I’m talking about when I call the carpenter.”

  “Suit yourself.” Lawrence dug into his meal.

  Jon couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “You’re going to ride out? As on a horse? Are you nuts? You can’t ride all the way out there. Lawrence said the terrain’s rough.”

  Sylvie threw him a lethal look. A heavy silence dropped like a boulder on the huge kitchen. The two men, Pu
rley and Michael, froze, their forks halfway between their plates and their open mouths. Lawrence lifted his eyebrows, obviously amused, it appeared.

  Jon ignored them all. “When was the last time you rode a horse?”

  Color flooded into Sylvie’s cheeks. “I’m fine. This isn’t any of your concern.”

  “It is.” He didn’t elaborate, but from the intensifying glare, he knew she understood his meaning.

  She glanced at Lawrence, but he cleared his throat. “I’m with Jon on this one, Sylvie. You haven’t rode since last fall when you came home on that embarkation leave you got before Bosnia.”

  Sylvie’s mouth formed a thin line, and Jon felt a pang of sympathy for her. A damn large pang, too, but not large enough to back down. She’d returned home after a career in the army, no doubt hoping to run this ranch, and now was being coddled like a baby. One taste of her tough disposition and he knew she hadn’t been pampered in the military and didn’t want to be now.

  But she was pregnant, damn it. Hadn’t she considered that?

  “You know,” Lawrence continued, “I’m no expert here, but if you’d been riding regularly since fall, I’d say sure, continue. But you haven’t. I don’t think any woman in your condition should start something new.”

  “It’s not new. I’ve ridden all my life.”

  Lawrence set down his fork. “Hon, you haven’t,” he told her quietly. “You rode for the first seventeen years of your life. For the last thirteen, you’ve only ridden whenever you came home for a visit. And we both know those visits were few and far between.”

  Sylvie cast a furtive look down the table, where the two other hands were already digging into the excellent meal, their focuses on their food. Jon felt her sharp look glance off him on the return trip back to Lawrence. Her lips tightened and again the sympathy struck him.

  She set her fork down. “Lawrence, you’d listen to a man you didn’t know existed yesterday?”

  “Nope, but I’d listen to a man who has some common sense.”

  “Fine, since your man will be using the pickup, I’ll take the ATV.” She threw a challenging look at Jon. “And don’t tell me an ATV is no good for me, either. I’ve been riding around in four-wheel-drive ten-ton trucks for the past thirteen years. Done nothing but that for the last six months.” Her voice hitched abruptly. “I think I can handle an ATV.”

  Jon started to smile, to offer her something encouraging, but catching her glare, he carefully hid his satisfaction behind a huge bite of bread.

  “Be careful of the ATV,” Lawrence warned, unruffled by her fume. “It’s been acting up lately.”

  Quiet reigned through the rest of the meal. The two other hands departed after a short compliment. Lawrence, however, dawdled, leaving Jon to wonder if he was waiting for him to depart first. A chaperon, perhaps? Had Lawrence actually sensed something between him and Sylvie in the barn?

  Rising, Jon grabbed his dishes. When he reached the sink, Sylvie spoke. “I’ll do up the dishes later.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind doing them.”

  “I think you’ve done enough already.” Her cold tone made him turn to face her.

  “That’s right,” she said. “I’m not talking about all the fencing you mended, either. I’m talking about acting like my nursemaid. I don’t need one.”

  He set his dishes on the counter and rode out the storm her confrontational attitude caused in him. “I think you do. The sooner you admit that you can’t do everything you’ve done before, at least until the baby is born, the better it will be for both you and the baby.”

  “It was only going to be a short stint on horseback. I wasn’t planning to join the rodeo.”

  “It wouldn’t have been a short ride, or else Lawrence wouldn’t have minded you going out there on horseback.”

  She stood and, grabbing the half-filled sauce bowl, stalked to the counter. “I’m well aware that I’m pregnant. And I’m prepared to give my baby the best care I can. Without your help or Lawrence’s or even my father’s—” She shut her mouth for a moment. “Without anyone’s help. Just as I can do these damn dishes without help, as well!”

  Her outburst caught Lawrence’s interest and he stood. “That’s our cue to leave, Jon, my boy. Don’t you have some settling in to do?”

  Jon heard him, but focused on Sylvie. Hormones. It had to be pregnancy hormones for her to become so rattled, so refusing to accept help.

  This wasn’t the woman Rick had described to him. Nor was this the kind of sweet, gentle woman his brother would no doubt make love to.

  A burst of surprising pride hit him. Rick had made love to this woman. Had pinned her down and impregnated her. Their lovemaking had to have been regular. And protected some of the time. An efficient, career soldier like Sylvie would plan her own pregnancy.

  He gritted his teeth. Hot on the heels of the sibling pride was another heated emotion, but he refused to allow it to surface. Instead he focused on Sylvie’s pinkened cheeks and bright, flashing eyes.

  Somewhere in that tumultuous, defensive mother-to-be was the woman Rick had loved. Jon would simply have to wait for her to appear.

  When that gentle woman showed herself, he’d be ready to persuade the truth out of her.

  Settling in didn’t take long. Once his summer arrangements were made, Jon pulled from his car what he’d bought and packed. On top of the pile he’d just carried in was the new Stetson.

  For a bunkhouse, it wasn’t what he expected. There was a large, comfortable TV room, heated in the winter by a wood stove. Along a short hallway were four small bedrooms and a bathroom. Austere by his Torontonian standards, but not too shabby.

  “What’s that smell?” From in front of the TV, Purley lifted his nose to the ceiling and sniffed. “Is that the stink of a new Stetson?”

  At the edge of the sofa, and still carrying his luggage, Jon shrugged. He hadn’t expected his added presence to go unnoticed, but considering his comments at the supper table, he figured he’d get the cold shoulder from the other men.

  He offered a friendly smile. “Sorry about the smell, boys.”

  “Don’t let Sylvie catch a whiff of that hat at breakfast. Might set off some morning sickness.”

  Michael looked up from the TV. “Might do it some good to get thrown up on, eh, Purley? Break it in and all.”

  “Coffee.”

  Everyone turned to face Lawrence. He was sitting at the small table near the woodstove, reading. He lifted the book. It was the father and pregnancy one. “Says here coffee is most likely to send a pregnant woman running to the toilet. And not just to pee.”

  Purley twisted around. “Hope you’re not suggesting we forfeit our coffee. What else does it say?”

  “Says that a woman is usually calmer when pregnant.”

  Purley turned back to watch TV, chuckling. “That’s true. Sylvie would have never agreed to take the ATV instead of a horse. We all know that.”

  Jon frowned. He didn’t know that, and quite frankly he didn’t find Sylvie calm at all.

  “She’s gonna look mighty cute all fattened up,” Purley continued. “She was always pretty, but she’ll be right sweet all swelled up like an udder at sundown.”

  No wonder Sylvie had so eagerly offered the bunkhouse. Bristling at her craftiness, Jon dropped off his stuff in his room and grabbed his Stetson. He needed some air.

  Outside, his gaze automatically gravitated toward the house. One window at the far end glowed, the future nursery, and he watched it, holding his breath.

  Over the sounds of the night, and Purley’s muffled laugh at the sitcom he was watching, Jon waited.

  The scents of campfires and barbecues wound their way from the campground. No fire ban yet for this dry province. A small dog yipped and howled somewhere by the trailer sites.

  And still he stared at the window.

  Sylvie appeared briefly to shut the curtains and, a moment later, to switch off the light.

  Jon rubbed his face. Hell, what was he d
oing? Waiting for a glimpse of her?

  One potent sexual moment hours ago and he was mooning like a teenager? She was carrying his brother’s baby, for crying out loud. She’d been his brother’s lover.

  Again he tried to make some sense of Rick’s relationship with her. His brother had respect for her, noting in his e-mails that she was a good supervisor, someone who’d go to bat, all the way if necessary, to see justice done for her subordinates. Not a hint of any budding or covert romance.

  In his chest Jon’s heart squeezed tight, pushing some hard lump up into his throat. Normally he’d respect Sylvie’s privacy, but hell, his brother was dead.

  And not once had Rick even hinted to Jon anything about being intimate with Sylvie. Damn strange.

  Anger bubbled up, hot and well justified in the cop and older brother part of him. He couldn’t ask Rick anymore—

  The kitchen light flicked on and Jon caught a glimpse of Sylvie walking around the table.

  Rick was dead. The words hurt, even if he couldn’t form them on his lips. Suddenly the need to keep his memory alive became more important than Sylvie’s privacy. She was with Rick when he died.

  And it was about time she told him what really happened that night.

  Chapter 6

  Sylvie wrapped Marg’s apron around her. Too bad that brief nap had to screw up her sleep. But at least she could do some cleaning, though there wasn’t much to do. It was too late in the day to do anything else. The endless paperwork that came with running a ranch and a campground didn’t appeal to her. She needed to release some of this restless energy.

  Besides, the refrigerator could get sorted out. A rare moment, indeed, she considered grimly. Nesting instinct, perhaps?

  Throwing open its door, she studied the refrigerator’s contents. Among other things, there were two open jars of pickles, three kinds of jam and several near-empty sauce bottles that she was sure she could combine.