by Heidi Hormel
They needed dinner—an amazing dinner with a spectacular dessert to celebrate. It was their honeymoon, and they were going to have a baby.
“Olympia, I’m ordering room service. Steak, beans, salad, with something decadent and chocolate for dessert. Is there anything you want?” He stepped back surprised when the door opened.
“That’ll be fine,” she said.
He looked her over. Other than the pale face, she appeared composed, her usual competent, cowgirl self. Actually, she looked better than when they’d said, “I do” this morning. Had it only been this morning? He waited for her to say more, but she just walked past him and sat on the couch. He called in the order and worked hard to wipe the stupid, sappy grin off his face before sitting down with Olympia. She’d turned on the TV, putting it on mute.
“The food should be here in fifteen, twenty minutes.” He paused, letting his brain sort through possible ways to get them on better footing. “You know Jessie from some rodeo camp you went to as kids, right?”
Olympia nodded, her eyes not meeting his. “Is there something to drink?”
“I can go to the soda machine. What would you like?”
She sat for a moment, her face blank. Then she shook herself and said, “An orange soda?”
“Sure thing. If room service comes, just put it on the room tab.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket and gave her a twenty. “Here’s a tip, too.”
He hurried from the room. Olympia’s blank eyes were disturbing. He needed to remember that she’d never gone through this before—the delight and fear of pregnancy.
* * *
HE SMELLED THE FOOD as soon as he stepped back into the room with four cans of soda, none of them orange. He’d even tried different floors, hoping that the machines had different offerings. But no orange, so he’d gotten a variety that excluded caffeine—not good for the baby, not that any of the other ingredients were exactly healthy.
The room-service table sat by the window, covered with silver-lidded dishes. Olympia stood by it, looking out at the peaceful desert, just as he’d done.
“Why don’t we eat? You’ll feel better. It’ll help with the nausea,” he said. Her shoulders went up around her ears. “Come on. I know you’re hungry. I’m starved. Plus we need to celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” she whirled around, her mouth contorted in rage, pain or maybe terror.
“Sure. A baby and a wedding.”
“A fake wedding and a baby that neither of us wants.”
“Well, at least you’re admitting you’re pregnant.”
She barked out a laugh. “Three pee sticks don’t lie. I’m a James. Of course I’m pregnant. It’s what we do. Hook up with some random guy, get pregnant, hope that it’ll last, then when it doesn’t, look for the next guy willing to—”
“Whoa. Hold on. I won’t abandon—”
“You’re all puffed up and proud because your swimmers won, but it doesn’t last. It never lasts.” Her words devolved into a sob.
Spence took one small, slow step closer, wanting to comfort and reassure her. He picked up her hand and held it. She didn’t pull back. “I’m fighting for custody of my son. I won’t walk away from another child.” His heart flopped again as he thought about another baby in his life.
“No,” she said, pulling away. “You’re not going to negotiate or talk me into this.”
“I’m not talking you into anything.”
“I know we’re married, but it’s fake. We’re not a forever kind of thing.”
“Maybe, but—”
She cut him off again. Her face lightened two shades, and her mouth clamped into a firm line. “I’m giving the baby up for adoption.”
“What? This is my child. You can’t do that.”
“No. It’s mine.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who’s the one who’s pregnant? Huh? Plus, we’ll be divorced before I have the baby.” Her chin thrust out again.
“Whether we’re divorced or not, the baby is mine, too, just like Calvin. A real man doesn’t walk out on his family. My God, the whole reason we’re married is because I want my son in my life. Why do you think this baby will be any different? You can’t give the baby up for adoption without my consent.”
“What if I run away? I bet they wouldn’t care in Mexico.”
His hands went clammy, and the collar on his shirt suddenly felt too tight. Would she really do that? Or was it just fear talking? He stared at her hard, assessing her as he would an opponent across the negotiating table. Her lips trembled just a little. She wasn’t an opponent. She was the mother of his baby and, for now, his wife. “You’re not runnin’ away, darlin’. We’ll work this out,” he said in his most reasonable voice.
“You can’t stop me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. We have a contract, and I know the law.” He let that hang there because she was right. He couldn’t force her to have the baby or to stay in Arizona, but by the time she figured out all that, he’d have her sign an addendum to their contract. He waited for her to say something. He hated to lie to her, but this was about his baby. He’d do whatever it took to save his child.
Chapter Three
Olympia sat down suddenly. Her head whirled; the room wavered. She couldn’t think about keeping a baby, even if he told her he’d stick around. A big lump settled midway up her throat. Throw up or pass out—those were her options. Her vision started to darken around the edges. She swallowed hard.
“For God’s sake,” Spence said, firmly grasping her by the neck and pushing down her head.
She tried to suck in a deep breath, but her insides were being crushed. Was that what happened? She remembered Mama waddling around, pregnant with her sister Rickie. She couldn’t train for the rodeo while she was pregnant, could she? What would she do? She’d waited so long to get on the circuit. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” she moaned. A garbage can appeared under her nose. She batted at it. She wasn’t going to be sick, and the dark spots were disappearing. She sat up and stopped moving abruptly when the room whirled again.
“Here,” Spence said, thrusting a doughy white roll at her. “You said that you haven’t had any food, and even if you did, you left it out there along the 10.”
She cautiously took the roll. Regardless of her state of knocked-up-ness, not eating would make anyone sick. She nibbled at the bread while he lifted the silver covers from the plates and put them back. After a deep breath, he smiled at her. She guessed it was the smile he used in court to win over the ladies on the jury.
“Looks good,” he said, his dimple deepening.
She continued to munch on the bread, which seemed to settle just fine. Spence didn’t sit down but watched her as though he’d taken up guard duty.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked after finishing the roll and thinking that the steak and cowboy beans—even cooled—smelled good.
He gave her another for-the-jury smile. “No, ma’am. Not right now. Maybe later.”
Great. He was back to pretending he was a cowboy. Annoyance flooded her, and bile threatened to choke her. The food was no longer tempting. “So you have me trapped in this room. What are we going to do?” she asked, not caring that she sounded belligerent.
“Well,” he drawled, “I’m going to finish my drink here, then mosey on down to the bar.”
“I thought you were proving to anyone who cared that we’d actually gone on a honeymoon.”
“The receipts will be enough. There isn’t a PI tracking us.”
“Whatever.” She lifted the cover on the food again, just to give her something to do, because she was not going to eat it. Maybe a milk shake would be okay. She’d call room service once he left.
“I’ll see you later. Make sure you lock the door. I have my key. By the way,
I’m sure I can see the lobby from the bar,” Spence said.
She heard the implied threat. Still, after he’d gone, she almost missed his hint of licorice and leather. For the first time since Spence had pulled off the road for her to be sick, Olympia took a deep breath. She pushed the cart away. After calling for a triple-thick vanilla shake, she went to look through the bag of things he’d bought for their overnight stay. Thank goodness there was a T-shirt and sweatpants. At least she wouldn’t have to sleep in her clothes.
She got as comfy as she could while ignoring the reality of her situation. She turned on the TV, loud, and forced herself to enjoy her extralarge milk shake.
* * *
“WHY ARE YOU sleeping here?” Spence asked later, appearing over her nest of pillows on the couch.
“This is more comfortable.” The king-size bed in the other room intimidated her.
“This is where I’m sleeping. I’m not going to let a pregnant woman sleep on a couch when there’s a perfectly good bed.”
Fully awake now, she felt her gorge rising again at the word pregnant. Why had he said that? She swallowed.
“Are you going to be sick?”
“No.” She shook her head but stopped quickly. Maybe the overly rich shake hadn’t been such a good idea after not eating all day. She didn’t move and closed her eyes again, turning her head away and slowly rolling so her back was to him. She didn’t care what Spence thought or wanted. She was staying right here.
His hand, with its smooth—but not girlie—palm, rested against her forehead as she tried to move farther away.
“No fever,” he grunted.
“You woke me out of a sound sleep.”
“I wouldn’t have woken you if you’d been in the bed.”
“I was comfortable here.”
“I’ll help you to bed.”
“You will not. I’m staying here.”
“Olympia, I’m not letting you sleep here. Come on.” She turned enough to see him towering over the couch, his arms crossed over his chest—his broad chest, where she’d laid her cheek after they’d made love.
“Go away.” She squinched her eyes closed against him and the memories of that night. Dear Lord, the night she’d gotten pregnant. Her stomach heaved, and she fought her way out of her nest of pillows.
When she finally came out of the bathroom, she didn’t fight Spence as he helped her to the bed. Exhausted, she just wanted to lie down and have her head stop spinning. Spence held up the covers for her, and she carefully slid in. She lay there in the middle of the huge empty bed, listening to him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and doing all those domestic things that she’d imagined in her silly girlhood would mean that she finally belonged somewhere and to someone. Now here she was, married to a man she didn’t like most hours of the day, pregnant—there, she’d thought it without hyperventilating—and alone on her wedding night.
Tears tracked down her cheeks. She wiped at them and buried her face farther into the pillow. She hated crying but couldn’t stop the sob that bubbled up and out. She tightened her jaw to keep the next one in. Her chest hurt from holding back her gasping breaths. Her eyes burned from the tears, then the sob parted her lips and she couldn’t stop. What the hell was she crying about? The bed dipped. She popped up, wrestling with the blankets and sheets.
“Everything’s okay,” Spence whispered, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Lie down.” He pulled her toward him, bringing her cheek to rest on that solid chest, where she could hear the thud of his heart. His hand rubbed her back. She wanted to tell him to get away from her. Instead, she lay there, clutching his shirt and blubbering. Damn it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who cried. She’d always prided herself on that.
Hours passed. It had to be hours. Her tears left tight, salty trails on her cheeks. Her eyelids rasped across her eyes. She tried to push herself away from Spence, but he just tightened his hold.
“Relax. Go to sleep. Morning will be here before we know it.”
Even those inane words made her feel better as she drifted into sleep, thinking that this would be something to tell their children. She jerked awake. She wasn’t keeping the baby, and she wasn’t keeping Spence. None of that was in the life she had planned. James women made horrible wives and even worse mothers.
* * *
THE COMBINATION OF a vibrating pocket and deliciously round female butt against his crotch brought Spence slowly and pleasantly from sleep as an imaginary Olympia asked him, “Is that your phone? Or are you just happy to feel me?”
The vibration paused for five breaths as he gathered himself to figure out where he was and why his mouth tasted as if he’d eaten dead coyote for dinner. He rolled slowly away from Olympia. His wife. Had he really married her? Had they really gotten pregnant? Was that the sun coming in through the curtains?
He sat up slowly, making sure he didn’t jar his head. He knew that once he really woke up, the hangover he deserved would pierce his brain. “Hello,” he whispered hoarsely into the phone.
“Daddy,” Calvin said. “You forgot to call.”
Spence stood quickly and hustled from the bed to the window. Crap. The sun was bright and way up in the sky. Then the spike-through-the-head hangover hit. Why had he sucked down four whiskeys? Whiskey always gave him a bad hangover. “Calvin...” Spence started, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, buddy. I got busy.”
“You’re always busy. When are you going to come and get me? I don’t want to live here anymore.”
Spence choked on his response. Calvin actually sounded cranky, like a normal little boy. Not the quiet and older-than-his-years boy who’d learned tough lessons from his years of illness. His son’s idea of defiance was not putting his LEGOs away. “We’ve got to talk to the judge—”
“He’s a poopy head.”
Spence stifled a laugh to stop the tears. He wanted Calvin with him now. Not months from now when the legal system figured out that Spence was the boy’s father and the person who had the “greatest concern for his physical and emotional well-being.” He dug deep for his calm, firm dad voice. “That’s not nice. He’s the judge, and we’ve got to listen to what he says. It won’t be long.”
“Uh-oh.” Calvin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Grandma...Mimi is in the hall. Bye, Daddy.”
Spence’s knuckles turned white as he fought the urge to hurl the phone across the room. Just the sound of Calvin’s grandma in the hall was enough to send the boy running. He didn’t know how Calvin had found a phone to use, but his son clearly needed to talk with him. When he calmed down, he’d call and ask to speak with the little boy. Hopefully, Eugenia and Stuart Smythe-Ferris—the pretentious last name Missy was back to using—would be open to a brief conversation, despite being sticklers for following every comma of the custody agreement.
He glanced over at Olympia, who’d scooted into the divot made by his body. She didn’t look close to waking up. Wasn’t she a cowgirl? Weren’t they up at the crack of dawn? The only other cowgirl he knew was his sister-in-law, Jessie, and she was out in the barn before the sun rose most days.
He moved to the in-room coffeepot to brew something to combat the headache. They needed to get on the road because he had to be at the office by noon. He’d given some crap-ass excuse to get the time off. No one at the office knew about his marriage, except HR.
“Olympia,” he said more sharply than he’d meant to. She jerked.
“Wha—?” she mumbled, her head coming up, then falling back down with a thump.
“It’s nearly checkout time, and I’ve got to get to the office.”
Olympia squeezed her eyes shut and moaned.
Crap. She was going to be sick. Sympathy jabbed at his conscience. After all, it was his baby making her so ill. He said calmly, “There’s soda there for your stomach.”
She c
limbed out of the bed and slammed into the bathroom. He heard retching. He refocused on the coffeepot, watching with extreme concentration the drip of the magical brew. His head pounded, but the first slug of coffee would help.
“Olympia,” he called through the closed door. “Are you okay? I need to use the bathroom, and we’ve got to get going.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to die.” She groaned.
“Try the soda.” He cared about how she felt, really he did, but work was waiting and so was convincing his ex in-laws that he had to talk with Calvin today. The anxious tone of his son’s voice played again in his mind.
“Maybe ginger ale?”
“I’m going downstairs to get one.”
How had his simple plan spiraled so out of control? he asked himself as he searched through the overpriced convenience store in the lobby for ginger ale. He could feel the time ticking away. Finally, he paid the three dollars for a bottle and made his way back upstairs in the world’s slowest elevator.
“Got the ginger ale,” he said as he opened the door. The room was quiet. He walked through and saw the bathroom door was open. “Olympia?”
She was back in bed, with the covers over her head.
“Olympia, we’ve got to go. You can sleep in the truck.” She shook her head like a toddler. He didn’t have time for this. He yanked all the covers off. “Let’s go.”
“If I get in your truck, I’ll be sick.”
“Drink this,” he said, holding out the soda. She cracked open one eye, then held out her hand for the bottle. She sat up slowly. He wanted to tell her to hurry, but he also didn’t want her back in the bathroom. “While you drink that, I’ll get ready. Five minutes.”
She was sitting propped against the pillows when he came out of the bathroom, about half the soda gone. Her just-below-the-chin, deep brunette hair was messy, and dark circles still ringed her eyes, but she no longer looked whiter than the sheets.
“Good. You’re ready.”
He refilled his coffee and shoved their stuff into the duffel. They had to get going now.