by Wendy Warren
Rosemary crossed the threshold of the apartment with all the momentum of sap trying to move up a maple tree. The room was attractive, with an exposed brick wall and handsome furniture, but her anxiety turned everything sort of fuzzy.
Three steps in, she turned to him. “Look, I do not belong here. It isn’t right.” And why was he so damned composed, anyway? Seeing no point in quibbling, she hit him with her best shot. “Engaged men should be with their fiancées, not with other women. I can’t imagine that your fiancée would be okay with the fact that I’m here, much less—” she lowered her voice and hissed again “—with the reason for it.”
Dean plowed fingers through his hair then dragged his hand down his face. He also winced.
Crossing her arms, Rosemary waited. Caught red-handed. She’d give him a minute to try to wriggle out of it then take her test kit and go.
“I’m not engaged, Rosie. I was,” he hastened to add before she could respond. “We called it quits two days ago.”
She was surprised, but hardly placated. “That’s two and a half months too late,” she pointed out. “You should have called it quits before you slept with someone else. And for the record, it is not fair to ‘the other woman’ not to tell her she’s the other woman. Some people believe women should stand together, not destroy each other’s lives.”
Dean shut his front door. “Wait a minute. You think I was engaged the night I met you?”
“Oh, please.” Rosemary shook her head firmly. “Don’t put a spin on it. Whether you were engaged then or still dating, you belonged with her, not me. I’ve heard every rationalization there could possibly be for cheating, and they’re all bull. There is no justification for that kind of dishonesty.”
“You’ve been cheated on?”
Rosemary stiffened. Concern turned Dean’s features into his the-doctor-is-in expression that had hooked her in December.
“We’re talking about you,” she said.
“Come sit down.” He gestured toward a chocolate-colored leather sofa. “I’ll try to explain.”
“I don’t need an explanation. I only wanted you to know how I feel about being drawn into this kind of situation.”
“There was no situation when I met you, Rosie.” Dean’s gaze bore into her as he made sure she understood. “Amanda and I were engaged two years ago. Six months into it, we broke up when her job transferred her to Minnesota. I didn’t see her again until a few weeks ago.”
Rosemary blinked dumbly as she processed the information. Dean hadn’t been engaged to or even dating Good English Cheddar on the night she and he had had their fling? That was excellent news. She wasn’t a home wrecker.
And yet…
“You hadn’t seen each other for a year and a half, yet you got engaged again in only a few weeks?” She wanted to bite her tongue the moment the words were out, because she understood exactly why she’d asked: she didn’t like the idea that he had that passion with someone else. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“I wasn’t in touch with Amanda in any way when you and I were together.” Dean had a disconcertingly direct gaze when he needed to make a point. “Trust is something I take seriously.”
Captured by his words and his gaze, she wished he hadn’t said that. Without the specter of infidelity, he was once again the strong, attentive stranger who gave more than he took when they made love and who managed to make her feel more comfortable in her own skin than she’d felt in ages.
They stared at each other, lost for words and unsure of their next actions. Then Dean pulled the EPT box from the pocket of his lab coat. Looking down, he turned it over in his hands, and Rosemary knew that one way or another, they had to have an answer. She asked him where his bathroom was.
He extended an arm. “This way.”
He seemed to think she was going to precede him to his restroom, but that was where Rosemary drew the line.
Holding out her hand, she gestured to the box. “I’ll take that now.”
Expecting an argument, she was relieved when all he said was, “Right,” and handed the test kit to her.
She progressed slowly down the indicated hallway, feeling more surreal with each step. The only comfort she could dredge up was the knowledge that if she hadn’t gotten pregnant in ten years of marriage, it was unlikely Dean had gotten the job done in a single night.
“Rosie.”
Nearly jumping when she heard her name, she turned.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, his brows drawn together, even features awash in concern. “Good luck.”
For a moment they were comrades, and even though they were bonded by what both now surely viewed as a colossal mistake, Rosemary felt less alone.
She managed a brief smile. “You, too.”
Entering the bathroom, she closed the door, sending up a prayer that in just a few minutes all this would be over.
As Rosemary disappeared from the hallway, the ghost of her frightened smile gave Dean a physical ache.
Immediately after the words good luck had left his lips, he’d realized he wasn’t sure what kind of luck he was hoping for.
March in eastern Oregon was a cold state of affairs, but Dean began to perspire as if it were August in the Everglades. He wanted to phone someone right now—his sister-in-law, perhaps, or maybe his brother—someone to whom he could confess, I may have a pregnant woman in my apartment, and I think…that would be okay.
For weeks he had looked for Rosie, returning to Tavern on the Highway on the off chance he would see her there again. He’d realized the night he met her that she didn’t frequent the place, but hoped he might run into one of her friends. He’d grilled every bartender and all the servers about the women, appearing, he was certain, like a stalker, but he hadn’t cared. Looking for her—and, when he wasn’t looking for her, thinking about her—became his primary occupation. And then Amanda had shown up.
Glancing at his watch, Dean wondered if he ought to offer to time the test for Rosie.
Yeah, she’s in there hoping you’ll hover.
With restless fingers, he rubbed his temples. Love had never been easy for him—a congenital defect, apparently, which both he and his younger brother had inherited. Fletcher, however, was married now and, as unlikely as it seemed, he had become a devoted father to the three children from his lovely wife’s first marriage. Claire Dobbs Kingsley had turned Dean’s bad-tempered half brother into the proverbial pussycat. It hadn’t been easy, and it had come about only because Fletcher had been forced to wed.
Inexplicably, Fletcher was in a marriage of convenience that had turned into a union of souls.
Consciously exhaling, Dean knew he hadn’t breathed properly since the day he’d read his father’s will and discovered that Victor Kingsley required each of his two sons to marry or lose what they loved most—in Fletcher’s case, the ranch that had been in his mother’s family for generations; in Dean’s case, the building in which he now stood.
Ironically, Fletcher had been the one who had seethed over the will, refusing at first to abide by its dictates. Dean, on the other hand, had quickly reconciled himself to a marriage of convenience. Why not? He’d never been impetuous, was not prone to infatuation and seriously doubted his capacity to fall head-over-heels in love. He’d been involved in a few longer relationships; no one had ever broken his heart.
He had an excellent career, a good life. He was only deficient when it came to love, but at least he knew it. Therefore, a marriage of minds and shared values, a relationship entered into because both parties considered it mutually beneficial, would be less a hardship than attempting to fulfill some woman’s dream of true love. He disliked hurting people.
Mentally, at least, he’d accepted his late father’s mandate, relieved to know he would secure title to the building in which he both lived and made his living. He had plans for the block-long set of storefronts, plans that would benefit both the immediate community and beyond.
So when Amanda, his former fi
ancée, had shown up with several clearheaded reasons why they should rekindle their engagement, he’d told her about the will. The unromantic marriage directive hadn’t fazed her a bit. And he had told himself he had no right to be disappointed by that fact.
A slow creak announced the opening of the bathroom door, and Dean’s pulse zoomed. He cast around for something to do so he wouldn’t look as if he’d been standing idle, waiting for Rosie, then recognized the absurdity of the thought and remained where he was.
He’d rebroken his engagement to Amanda shortly after seeing Rosie in the market. Without divulging the details, he’d told Amanda that the woman from the market was someone he’d “dated” and was not yet over. She’d questioned him, argued, pointed out that he had to be married in just a couple of months or default on the will, but not once had she tried to hang on to their relationship by saying she loved him. Ending their engagement—again—hadn’t been nearly as difficult as it should have been.
It seemed to take an aeon for Rosie to emerge from the bathroom, an aeon during which Dean once again wondered what he was hoping for tonight.
Rosie’s desire for a negative result on the test was clear and fervent; how could he hope for anything different?
She entered the hallway, adjusting the strap of her purse securely on her shoulder as she headed toward the living room. Dean’s heart pounded like the hooves of a thousand horses.
In her left hand, she carried the test stick like a spoon with an egg on it, moving so cautiously it appeared she was afraid the slightest jostle might tamper with the results.
As she approached, Dean offered a supportive nod.
Rosie looked exhausted, as if she needed a stiff drink or a long vacation. Dark shadows rimmed her eyes, marring the silky skin he remembered so well. He wished he had the right to take her in his arms as he had that night.
Whatever had happened to change her mind about him, his attraction to her had not lessened. He didn’t expect it to now. Silently, he vowed to see her smile genuinely at least once before she left tonight. In the meantime, he read the stick she handed him. His breath caught and held.
Instantly, his world calmed as he read the results. The thundering hooves slowed and then grew still in his chest. Every tense muscle released. For the first time in a damned long while, he knew exactly what he wanted, and it was exactly what he was getting.
One thin pink line.
Congratulations, Dean Kingsley. You’re going to be a father.
Chapter Four
“You have got to be kidding me.” Fletcher Kingsley gaped at his older brother. “You knocked someone up? In a one-night stand? You?”
Disbelief and—undeniably—enjoyment mingled in Fletcher’s expression.
Dean began seriously to regret coming to his brother for “support.” For too long Fletcher had played the badass while Dean had enjoyed a golden-boy image around town. Expecting Fletcher not to gloat now had obviously been unrealistic.
“I’ll be damned.” Fletch shook his head. “I’d guess this is about the will, but that would really be out of character.” He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing his brother closely. “It’s over with Amanda, I take it?”
“It was over before I knew about the pregnancy.”
Fixing one of his sons’ lariats, Fletcher worked deftly with the rope while muttering, “Thank God for small favors. That would have been a marriage made in hell.”
“Fletcher!” Claire Kingsley emerged from the house, shouldering open the screen door, a tray of refreshments in her hands and a look of gentle admonishment on her pretty face.
As the screen door creaked then slapped shut behind her, Fletcher hopped to his feet, taking the tray while Claire repositioned a small table next to Dean’s chair.
Dean smiled. His brother had struck gold when he’d met the woman who was now his bride of three months. Fletcher was a new man, happy down to his bones.
“I like Amanda,” Claire stated as she set out a pitcher of lemonade, glasses and a plate of homemade molasses snaps. “I know she seems chilly at times—”
“Iceland is chilly,” her husband interjected, “Amanda could freeze lava.”
“Fletcher!” Shaking her head, Claire poured lemonade. “I know for a fact that beneath her defenses, Amanda is a romantic.”
Fletcher coughed loudly as he resumed his seat. Dean didn’t want to disrespect his sister-in-law, whom he had come to care for deeply, but even he had a hard time reconciling Amanda with romantic.
“How do you know?” he asked, accepting a glass of lemonade.
Fletcher winced. “Please don’t go there.”
Pinching her husband’s earlobe while she smiled at her brother-in-law, Claire replied, “Amanda comes to the bakery every couple of days. No matter what else she buys, she always, always gets two strawberry thumbprint cookies. I’m sure those are for her.”
Dean looked at Fletcher for clarification. His brother rolled his eyes. “Wait for it.”
“We use a heart-shaped cookie cutter and add jam to the dough so the cookies turn pink,” Claire explained. “She’s feeding the little girl inside her. The one who still dreams of pink hearts and true love.”
Dean stared.
Fletcher ate half a molasses snap in one bite. “Claire believes every baked good tells a story.”
“It does. Which is why you like bear claws.” She put a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. “They sound scary, but inside they’re sweet as sugar.”
Fletcher, who had indeed sounded scary before being transformed by his wife, grinned. “Can’t argue with logic like that.” He pulled her close against his side.
“It still doesn’t mean I thought Amanda was exactly right for you,” Claire told Dean. “I can’t imagine you spending your life with anyone other than your soul mate, will or no will.”
“My current situation doesn’t have anything to do with the will.” Dean confirmed Fletcher’s earlier assessment.
“So who’s the mother of our future niece or nephew?” Fletcher’s tone was amused, but his gaze turned piercing.
Eight years younger than Dean and raised by a different mother, Fletcher had never exhibited any protective instincts where his older brother was concerned. Yet protectiveness was precisely what Dean saw in the concerned gazes of his family.
“Her name is Rosie,” he said. “She works at the library.”
“Rosie…Rosemary Jeffers, the new librarian? The boys love her!” Claire exclaimed.
“You had a one-nighter with the new librarian?” Fletcher’s frown melted, and he gave a hoot of appreciative laughter. “It figures. Even your indiscretions turn respectable.”
“This one hasn’t.” Irritated and guilt-ridden, Dean downed half the glass of lemonade, wondering whether Rosie had told anyone yet and, if so, what kind of response she’d received.
“Are the two of you getting to know each other better now?” Claire offered him the plate of cookies.
“Not really.” He accepted one of the molasses snaps, but had no appetite. His guilt swelled. “I don’t even know how she feels about the pregnancy, except that she’s scared. We agreed to meet in a couple of days to discuss what we’re going to do.”
“What are the options?” Fletcher squinted at him.
Dean rubbed his head, mussing the hair that was typically neatly combed. “I’m not certain. I don’t know yet how she feels about marriage and kids.”
“Meaning she could decide to terminate the pregnancy?”
“No!” Dean glared at his brother, outraged that Fletcher had asked. Then he saw Claire’s expression—concerned and compassionate, as if she were a step ahead of him in her understanding of the situation—and realized he had no idea what Rosie was thinking. Could abortion be one of the responses she was considering?
“That’s not what you want, then,” Fletcher stated.
“No. Hell, no!” Dean realized he was firm on that. “If she doesn’t want children…I’ll raise the baby.”
Fletc
her and Claire shared a glance, and Dean could see the bubble above their heads. Famous last words from the perennial bachelor.
“Mom! Mom! We need cookies for our fort!”
Dean’s nephew Will raced up to the porch, followed swiftly by his younger brother, Orlando.
“I want lemonade!” Orlando clambered up the heavy railing Fletcher had installed after Claire and her children had moved in. “We’re invitin’ Bigfoot to be in our secret club, so we need a biiig glass! Hi, Dad!” Orlando’s exuberant rush of words ended in a smacking kiss he planted on Fletcher’s lips.
Claire reached for the glasses. “Wow, Mom, that looks delicious. May we have lemonade and cookies, please?”
Fletcher raised a brow at his sons, and, smiling sheepishly at their mother, they rephrased their requests. Claire happily complied, preparing a plate of cookies and three glasses of lemonade—one for Bigfoot.
“We’ll see you tomorrow for Free Friday, right, Uncle Dean?” Will asked in his more customary well-mannered way.
“Absolutely, Will. It’s a Kingsley tradition.” A tradition Fletcher had made up the day he’d met Claire and her children. Realizing she couldn’t afford to buy her kids an ice cream, and feeling guilty for the way he’d initially treated the small family, Fletcher had invented Free Fridays at the pharmacy soda fountain—one scoop of ice cream and one topping on the house, every Friday. Though it ate into his profits a bit, Dean had soon made it a regular promotion, open to the public. The benefits—the giddy smiles of kids and their parents lured by ice cream—outweighed his losses.
Fletcher rose to help Claire carry everything to the boys’ tree house, and Dean watched the young family progress across the lawn, Will sticking close to his new father’s side and Orlando instructing his mother to count as he performed an impressive succession of cartwheels en route to their destination. The fifth member of the family, an enchanting fifteen-month-old named Rosalind, was currently napping inside.
Lucky. That was the word that popped to mind when Dean thought of the family that had been created here on this ranch. Three children who had lost their father now had a man to love and protect them again; a woman who had been shouldering numerous responsibilities on her own had a devoted partner who would lay his life down on her behalf; and a man who formerly had had no life at all now lived as fully as anyone Dean had ever known. Love had made them all whole. Exactly as life should be.