by Verna Clay
Tooty shifted and lifted above him and moved her mouth over his. "Well, this pregnant woman needs some kissing, think you can help her out?"
Miles smiled against her lips and reached his hand to flip off the lamp.
Chapter 3: Dislike at first Sight
Monica smoothed a hand down the front of her Armani suit jacket and swallowed back the nausea that had become her constant companion. Now, in addition to nausea, she was nervous about leaving New York for the Wild West—specifically, Colorado. Surely, pregnancy had made her lose her rational mind. No. It's called desperation.
When Miles had called and said he'd found her a job and a place to live for a few months, she'd been overjoyed. That is until he'd told her what and where it was. Housekeeper and cook! And caregiver to a ten year old! In Colorado!
At first she'd refused. But later that day she'd received her final eviction notice. In ten days she would be on the streets of New York. After the eviction notice, she'd stressed her way through balancing her pitiful checking account and cried the whole time. All that was standing between her and utter destitution was three thousand dollars. Struggling to suppress sobs she had called Miles' back and said she'd had a change of heart.
Now, with her plane descending into Denver International, she was faced with the reality of her plight. She was domestic help. That thought alone made her even more nauseous.
After the pilot announced twice that they were circling before landing, her nerves twisted to the breaking point. When they finally did land she watched the first class passengers debark and felt the green monster of envy. The fact that she was traveling coach class with a teenage girl on one side of her and an adolescent one on the other, both of whom had to be related to Chatty Cathy dolls, hadn't improved her frame of mind or doubts about raising a child. Surely she was crazed to go through with this pregnancy. Tears welled and she blinked rapidly to stop them. The little girl next to her tapped her arm and said, "You sure are pretty."
Monica swallowed her tears and replied, "Thank you. I needed to hear that."
After struggling unsuccessfully to get her carry-on case out of the overhead compartment, a slick salesman-type reached to assist. "Here ya go, ma'am," he said with a good ol' boy accent.
"Thank you."
He gave her a calculated look. "How'd you like to get together for a drink?" He flashed pearly white teeth and added, "I'm payin'."
"Uh, no way." Monica pushed the strap of her Louis Vuitton purse over her shoulder, held her Ghurka traveling case in front of her to keep it from bumping the seats while walking the narrow aisle, and hastened as fast as she could away from the overly friendly man. Unfortunately, he was right behind her and when the parade of debarking passengers halted, she could feel the creep's breath against her neck and heard him say low, "You think you're too good for me?"
Monica lifted her eyes heavenward. Why me? With a bravado she didn't feel, she turned and said, "Mr. Whoever-you-are, right now, I feel like I'm going to puke because I have morning sickness that doesn't know when morning is over, and I'm about to become domestic help in Cow Paddy, USA. Would you like me to go on? Because I can."
The salesman narrowed his eyes and lifted his hands in mock surrender.
Monica whirled back around and thanked a "higher power" that the line was moving again.
After finding baggage claim, she waited for her two matching Ghurka bags to plop out on the conveyor. She'd stuffed them with as much clothing as she could, wishing she could afford to take two more bags. It was while she was lifting the second bag off the belt that another character tried to help her.
Acidly, she said, "I've got it."
"Yes, ma'am." The old geezer lifted the bag anyway. "Are you Miz Monica Newport?"
Monica looked sharply at him. "Perhaps. It depends on who you are?"
The old cowboy scratched the gray stubble on his chin. "I been sent by Dirk Branigan to pick up a woman who said she'd be dressed in red. If you're her, my name's Newt Tucker."
Monica sighed with relief. She'd had visions of being stranded at the airport and having to spend her precious resources on a cab and then, God forbid, a bus to Cow Paddyville.
The pukey feeling was back and she said impatiently, "Yes. Yes, I'm Monica. Let's get out of here."
Thankfully, after a few attempts at small talk, the old cowboy picked up on her vibe that she didn't want to converse and left her to her own thoughts. The drive to the town of Paxtonville took so long and the terrain became so remote that Monica feared she had made the biggest mistake of her life in coming here, well, second biggest. The first had been trusting the weasel who'd gotten her pregnant.
She looked toward the relic of a cowboy next to her. "So, Mr. Tucker, what can you tell me about my employer, Mr. Branigan? It seems I should know something if I'm going to…" she gulped, "become his employee for three months."
Newt turned to give her a huge grin that increased his wrinkles a hundred fold. "First off, please call me Newt. As for Dirk, he's a legend 'round our town…no, make that several counties and state. He's won the gold buckle for bull riding more times than I can count and the silver just as many."
"Um, that's nice." Monica said without enthusiasm.
Newt gave her a look that clearly expressed disbelief of her lukewarm reply.
A sudden wave of nausea slammed Monica and she said, "Newt, pull over! Quick!"
At the alarm in her voice, Newt jammed on the brakes and skidded into the gravel of the shoulder. Before the truck stopped, she had her door open. As soon as it was fully stopped she jumped down and ran to the back of the truck. Humiliation engulfed her as she vomited the measly complimentary peanuts she'd eaten during her coach flight from New York.
While she was bent over, Newt thrust a handkerchief and bottle of water into her line of sight. "Ain't pukin' the pits, ma'am?" he said with compassion.
Monica reached for the water and rinsed her mouth and then moistened the cloth to wipe her face. Weakly, she said, "Thank you." Feeling like a prisoner facing the gallows, she made a waving motion toward the cab. "Shall we continue onward, Newt?" Newt helped her back into the rusty old red pickup that had surely been salvaged from a wrecking yard.
The rest of the drive she spent leaning her head against the door and even fell asleep for a time. The slowing of the rattle trap vehicle roused her and her eyelids felt glued together when she attempted to open them. I really need to get some decent sleep. "Where are we?"
"We're comin' into town, ma'am. You been sleepin' 'bout an hour." He pointed to a business with a blue façade and wide windows between a brown façade business and a white one. We got a real fancy coffee shop. That there's Dixie's Cuppa Joe. Cute name, ain't it? Ya wanna stop fer a cup o' coffee or a fancy frappie?"
"Yeah, cute name," she said sarcastically. "And no, I'm not in the mood for anything." The thought of coffee started her stomach churning again. "Let's just go to Mr. Branigan's ranch. I'll sightsee later."
"Yes, ma'am." The old cowboy didn't sound offended as he drove past quaint businesses lining Main Street and exited town three minutes later. Outside of town, small clapboard houses with rusted farm equipment sitting in gravel drives or fallow fields intensified her dread of what lay ahead. However, after ten minutes the small houses and rusty equipment gave way to larger ranches that just kept getting bigger the further they drove. Now this is more like it. Maybe this place will be tolerable.
They passed some huge ornately constructed gates with the words Lazy M Ranch molded into the iron, and Newt said, "That there's where I work and live with Molly, my missus. Sage and Sarah Tanner own it. It's a right nice ranch and I been there fer more years then I can count. You can't see the ranch from here, but it's the finest in ten counties."
"Well, if the house is as nice as the entrance, I'm impressed."
After passing more beautiful homes and pastures with cows and horses roaming happily, Monica felt herself relax. Yes, this might turn out better than she'd expected.
/> Newt pulled off the highway and stopped in front of a gated entrance—not as elaborate as the Tanners, but still impressive. When he rolled down his window and pressed the button on a call box, she was even more impressed. She didn't ask, but Newt volunteered, "Since Dirk's such a celebrity, he has to let people in this-a-way. If he didn't, he'd have fans flooding his place and he likes his solitude." Newt grinned. "He has to swat the gals off like flies. There ain't no woman who don't love a rodeo star."
Monica sighed. Except me.
"Yo, who's there?" a deep voice crackled over the speaker.
"It's Newt with yer housekeeper."
Monica winced at her new job title.
After a short wait, the gates creaked slowly open. The road to the main house was nicely paved and Monica breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be all right.
Newt rounded a bend of tall trees and said, "There's yer new home, missy. Ain't it beautiful?"
Monica sat straight and stared at a log cabin. "He lives in a log cabin?"
"Yep. It's a beaut! He used to live in town, but when he started gettin' famous he was able to buy this place. I even helped him get it ready fer livin' in seeins' as how it hadn't been inhabited fer years. He bought the place when Tessa was 'bout five, so he's been here fer nigh on five years."
"Did his wife live here, too?"
"Yep."
Monica waited for Newt to fill her in on the mystery wife, but he remained silent. All she knew was that the man didn't have a wife now, but he did have a broken leg and a ten year old daughter. Wifey probably left him to escape pioneer life. Monica pressed her fingers to her temple. Surely the interior would be modernized.
Newt pulled the car to the front porch and Monica, well trained in architectural design, swept her gaze around the cabin and outbuildings. The barn was magnificent. As for the cabin itself, it was basically a large square with a smaller detached square in the rear that she had seen as they drove up.
Newt said, "The garage is in the back."
Monica nodded and stepped from the truck before Newt could help her down. At least the old guy had manners, even if she didn't take advantage of them. Stepping onto the porch running half the length of the cabin, her designer mind immediately went to work redesigning it as a wraparound porch. She sighed and returned her attention to Newt opening the front door.
He said, "Since Dirk's leg is in a cast and he's not 'sposed to get up 'ceptin' to use the head, er bathroom, we're jes gonna go on in. After I get ya'll acquainted, I'll come back fer yer things."
Monica nodded and stepped beyond the large, split log door that Newt pushed open. Her first impression wasn't a good one. OMG, the inside is as rough as the outside.
Newt entered behind her. "Like I said, it's a beaut."
*
Dirk heard the opening of the front door and laid his newspaper on the table beside his now reclined recliner and winced when he adjusted his busted leg propped beside his good one. In his semi-prone position he waited to meet Miz Monica Newport. She stepped into the living room and he wanted to groan. Dressed in an ultra fashionable tight red suit, she looked like a neon sign. The kind of sign that said, Yes, I'm beautiful, but I have hidden agendas. Basically, I'm a gold digger.
Newt, in his usual jovial mood—only since his marriage to Molly—followed her in and said, "Howdy, Dirk. This here's Miz Monica Newport that's gonna work fer ya."
Miz Newport glanced disdainfully around his living room, took a step forward, got her "Empire State Building" heel caught on a throw rug and started to pitch forward.
Dirk said, "Oh, shit!" and jerked the lever on his recliner forward, which not only lowered the leg lift, but shot pain from his toenails to the top of his head. Thankfully, Newt grabbed the woman by her armpit and kept her from landing on her ass.
Dirk could hear Newt and the woman talking but couldn't make out their words through his pain haze. Inhaling deeply a few times, he returned his chair to its reclined position and narrowed his eyes at "Trouble" with a capital "T."
Finally, he said through gritted teeth, "I'm pleased to meet you, Miz Newport. May I call you Monica?"
The woman shifted her glance from the elk head mounted above his three-quarter wall fireplace and said without a smile, "Of course, Mr. Branigan."
Dirk ground his molars. "And you must call me Dirk."
Monica nodded and shifted her gaze to the bear head hanging over the bank of windows with views of towering mountains, and then to the mounted trouts on either side of it, while Newt kept up a one-sided conversation. "Yep, I was tellin' Miz Monica just how purdy yer place is and how I helped ya work on it. I sure…"
Dirk tuned Newt out. Hell, now I'm stuck for three months with a prissy city gal. Sage and Miles are gonna owe me for this one. And she's pregnant. Lordy!
When Newt paused for breath, Dirk jumped in. "Monica, you're probably exhausted. How about Newt showing you to your room so you can relax the rest of the day? My daughter Tessa won't be home from her friend's until around five. Then the two of you can make dinner and she'll give you a tour of the place. I'd do it, but Doc says I can only use my crutches when absolutely necessary."
Monica moved her gaze from his entire wall of freestanding bookshelves with books stacked haphazardly and in no particular order, back to him. She seemed to wilt before his eyes.
"Thank you. That would be appropriate."
That would be appropriate? What the hell kind of talk is that.
Newt said, "Yep, that's a good idea, seeins' as how Miz Monica puked her guts up on the way here."
Dirk silently groaned and watched Monica impale Newt with a chilling look. Quickly, he said, "Newt, show Monica to the last door on the right at the end of the hall."
"Sure thing. Then I'll bring her bags in."
*
Monica followed Newt to her room and although the old geezer had diarrhea of the mouth, there was something endearing about his constant faux pas. He opened the door to her room and she wanted to cry. There was no king size bed, no wall mounted flat screen television, no expensive wood vanity with matching furniture, no soft velvet divan. No, of course not. There were log walls with some kind of mortar oozing out that had dried long ago. There was a metal frame twin bed covered with a quilt of alternating lime green and sky blue squares, and the only furniture was an overstuffed lime green chair, a nightstand, and a battered old chest that didn't match anything unless you counted the blue scarf on top of it that matched the quilt. Monica swallowed the bile that had suddenly risen into her throat.
"It's a right nice room, Missy. I'm sure you'll be very happy here." Newt waved his hand around the pitiful ten by twelve bedroom. "I'll go grab yer suitcases and be back faster than a turkey runnin' fer cover on Thanksgivin'."
Monica gave Newt a weak smile. Walking to the bed, she sat on the side of it, placed a hand on her stomach, and said, "Little baby, what's to become of us?"
Chapter 4: Tessa
Monica heard a noise, pulled the soft coverlet up to her chin, turned over, and heard it again—a little knock. She felt so comfortable and wondered where she was. Slowly, the reality of her situation descended like fog in a fright movie. She was in a tiny bedroom in a pioneer home in Cowboy Country, America.
At least the bed was comfortable.
Hastily sitting on the side of it, she patted her hair and straightened her blouse and skirt just as the knock sounded again. "Come in," she called, hoping she didn't look like she'd slept in her clothes.
Cautiously the door opened and dark brunette hair popped around it. There was so much hair and it was so curly that Monica had to search for the face. Rounded eyes met hers and a sweet little voice said, "Are…are you Miz Newport?"
"I am. Why don't you come in?"
The little girl stepped hesitantly inside the room. She said, "I'm Tessa."
Monica took one look at the extra chubby child and her heart melted. The girl reminded her of herself at that age. "Hello Tessa. You can call me Monica
if you want."
"Okay. That's a pretty name."
"Thank you, but I think your name is even prettier."
The child smiled, revealing a deep dimple in one cheek. Did her father have that same dimple? Monica couldn't remember. She'd been too busy staring at the dead animals decorating his walls and fighting nausea.
"My daddy said I should wake you cause its supper time."
"Oh, okay. Just let me brush my hair."
Monica reached for her travel case beside the bed and opened it to withdraw her pearl-handled brush. A quick glance in her compact mirror made her groan. She looked like she'd been traveling hours on a plane, hours in a pitiful truck, thrown up along the way, and then walked into the biggest disaster of a house she'd ever seen, to become domestic help for, God help her, a rodeo star living in a log cabin. The only bright spot in the nightmare was this sweet little girl named Tessa. Monica slipped her heels on.
"Okay, Tessa, let's go see what we can do about dinner."
Tessa eyed Monica's heels. "You wear high heels in the house?"
"Until I can unpack something more suitable, I'm stuck with these."
Tessa nodded. "Yes, ma'am"
Monica followed the child back to the living room where Mr. Rodeo Star remained in the same chair, still reclined. However, instead of reading the newspaper, he was channel surfing with his remote. On the opposite wall a huge, flat screen TV, the best on the market, finally halted on football players in a huddle. Monica sighed audibly and the sound brought the cowboy's attention from his big screen to her and Tessa.
Politely, he said, "I hope you were able to get some rest."
"Somewhat."
There was an awkward silence and then he said, "Um, we usually eat supper around five or six. In the mornings, a neighbor picks Tessa up for school at seven-thirty, so she eats around seven. Of course, for lunch, she's at school and buys it there."
Monica nodded her understanding. "Uh, what do you usually eat for dinner?"