The legal aid lawyer she’d talked to about the possibility of tracking Craig down and making him pay child support had explained to her that it would take more resources than she had to go after him and make him live up to his responsibilities. He’d then advised her to apply for public assistance. Of course, she’d have to wait until the remaining money in her bank account had dwindled to almost nothing because until she was totally, completely destitute, she wouldn’t qualify for aid. Then, once she qualified, it could be several weeks before all the paperwork was processed and the first check issued. With an empty bank account and no job, how were she and Timothy supposed to live until that first check arrived?
It was a rhetorical question and she hadn’t expected a real answer from the lawyer. The one she’d expected—and already knew, all too well—she got. This was just the way the system worked.
Eve had left the legal aid office feeling as if the whole world was closing in on her, as if she were being relentlessly, irrevocably forced down a path she didn’t want to take.
That was what came of trusting a man, she thought bitterly, of believing him when he said he loved you, of letting yourself become dependant and needy. You wound up alone and desperate.
Fighting back tears of frustration and weariness, trying not to give in to her steadily growing sense of despair, Eve carefully lifted her sleeping son from his stroller. She placed him on his back in his crib, checked his diaper to make sure he didn’t need to be changed, and tucked a lightweight blanket up under his tiny chin, all without waking him. She watched him for a few moments, her fingers resting lightly on his chest, automatically feeling for the breath moving in and out of his body before she moved away.
Despite her nurse’s training, the boneless, aban doned way he slept had frightened her nearly witless when she’d first brought him home from the hospital. She knew all first-time mothers tended to be overly cautious with their newborns, imagining crises where there were none, but mothers of premature babies with heart defects were even more so. Her son was a so-called “blue baby” and his symptoms ranged from shortness of breath to unconsciousness. Timothy hadn’t had a serious episode since the one that had landed him in the neonatal intensive care unit only minutes after his birth, but Eve never lost sight of the possibility that he might. At first, she’d hung over his crib while he slept, holding her breath, straining to hear his. Now she only checked two or three times an hour, instead of every five minutes.
Satisfied that he was all right for the moment, she pulled out one of the two chairs at the tiny kitchen table in her tiny studio apartment and sat down. Spreading out the newspapers she’d purchased on her way home, she began to search the want ads one more time.
There had to be something in one of them for her. Some job listing she’d previously overlooked. Or a new one that had only just been listed. But there was nothing.
She sat at the table a few moments more, her fingers clenched around the edges of the newspapers, her mind whirring as she tried to think of another way—any other way!—out of her dilemma. Then she got up from the table and went to find the magazine with the article about the cowboy who was looking for a mother for his three little nieces.
She read the article slowly, carefully, trying to find the man behind the words. He sounded sincere and honest. Poorly educated, certainly, but well-meaning and completely up-front about what he wanted and what he expected to give in return. A good heart, he’d said of himself. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? If he truly had a good heart, did it really matter that his grammar wasn’t all it should be? He obviously cared deeply about the welfare of his nieces, just as she cared about Timothy. Surely, in time, a bond like that would be strong enough to overcome whatever superficial differences they had. Wouldn’t it?
She shifted her gaze to the full-page color photograph that accompanied the article, studying it with a critical eye, wondering if she could bring herself to live intimately with the man in the picture.
He certainly looked very fit. He wasn’t massively muscled, which she found distasteful, but he was wide through the shoulders, as Barbara had pointed out, and narrow through the hips, with the long legs and strong thighs Eve somehow associated with all cowboys. Al though it was hard to judge from the picture, he looked as if he’d be tall and lanky when he wasn’t on the back of a bull. He’d have to have some height, she thought, to balance the width of his shoulders. His hair was blond and silky-looking, a bit damp around the edges, tousled from the wild ride, with a crease along the side from where his hat had pressed it flat.
All in all, he reminded her a bit of a young Clint Eastwood, back in his “Rawhide” days before the actor had developed the squinty-eyed menace so evident in his later Westerns. Kind of boyish and sweet. Nonthreatening. Easygoing. And maybe, she thought wistfully, just a little shy around women.
But there was something about his jaw.
It was strong and square, clenched with fierce, unyielding determination. He was looking down, his gaze fixed on some point between the bull’s ears. She couldn’t see his eyes in the picture, but somehow she knew they would be focused and fierce, echoing the determination evident in his square-cut jaw. It seemed, suddenly, as if she were experiencing the intense concentration he must have been feeling at that precise moment in time. His single-minded determination to win, to emerge victorious, to master the animal beneath him at any cost, showed in the hard curve of his tightly clenched jaw.
Eve shivered and closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of him. He wasn’t Clint Eastwood as the affable, easy-going Rowdy Yates, after all; he was that dangerous, pitiless stranger in A Fistful of Dollars; he was Dirty Harry in denim and fringed chaps.
She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t tie her life to his. Couldn’t lie beside him and grant him the privileges he would expect as her husband. There had to be another way. There had to be.
But when she opened her eyes again, the unpaid bills were still there on the table. And the want ads with no openings for a woman with a sick baby. And Timothy, her beautiful, fragile son, asleep in his crib.
Eve reached for a pen and began composing an answer to Travis Holt’s ad for a wife.
“EVERYTHING OKAY, ma’am?”
Startled, Eve looked up to see a dark green pickup alongside her van. The teenage driver was leaning out the window, an expression of friendly concern on his tanned face.
“Everything okay there, ma’am?” he asked again. “Do you need any help?”
“No. Thank you, no.” Eve felt for the edge of Timothy’s baby blanket, tugging it a little higher on her chest as she spoke. “Everything’s fine. I was just taking a break.” She smiled to reassure him, gesturing at the cup of take-out coffee sitting on the dashboard. “Hav ing a little breakfast and watching the sun rise.”
The young man nodded his understanding. “Pretty spot for it,” he agreed. Touching two fingers to the brim of his hat in a brief salute, he drove away.
Eve looked down at her son. Although he still had her nipple in his mouth, he wasn’t nursing. “I guess it’s about time we got on our way, too, sweetie,” she said as she lifted him away from her breast. “We can’t keep loitering out here in the road like a couple of naughty kids who’ve been sent home from school, can we?” She laid the baby on the seat to change him. “Besides it’s not like we’ll wake anybody up, is it?” she said, as if he could understand her. “Country people are early risers, just like nurses. Yes, they are,” she cooed, tickling him under the chin when he gurgled at her. “Just like nurses and their babies.”
She continued talking nonsense and murmuring endearments as she put him into clean clothes from the skin out and strapped him into his car seat. He closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep immediately, as he nearly always did when his tummy was full, leaving Eve free to get herself together. Or as together as she could be after driving all night without stopping for anything but gas.
Climbing into the back of the van for privacy, she washed her face and hands with
one of Timothy’s di aper wipes, freshened her mouth with a toothbrush dipped in tepid water, then exchanged her wrinkled blouse for a marginally less wrinkled but substantially fresher one. After tucking it in to the waistband of her jeans, she slipped back into the front seat and flipped down the vanity mirror to assess the effects of her crosscountry trek.
Despite the vivid orange hue of her blouse—usually one of her best colors—she looked exactly the way she used to look after a long, rough night in cardiac ICU. She leaned over, careful not to jostle the sleeping baby, and pulled her makeup bag out of the enormous canvas purse that sat on the floor of the van.
Lubricating drops, a dab of concealer and a quick application of mascara got rid of the haggard look and added a little life to her eyes. A light dusting of apricot blusher brought some color to her cheeks. A coating of clear lip gloss eased the dryness of her lips. But nothing, she decided, short of a licensed beautician armed with hot rollers, styling gel and a gallon of hair spray was going to make an improvement in her hair. It tumbled in wild disarray to her shoulders—a windblown, unruly mass of springy flame-red curls. She fussed with it a little, untangling it with her fingers and a widetoothed comb.
Having done all she could do with her appearance, she tossed her makeup bag back into the purse, flipped up the vanity mirror, adjusted the seat, took a deep, steadying breath and turned the key in the ignition. The van roared to life immediately, with no hint of mechanical temperamentality.
“I wonder if that’s a sign that I’m doing the right thing?” she murmured, glancing over at the sleeping baby as if expecting an answer.
He lay sprawled in his car seat carrier, his tiny hands curled and flung up on either side of his head, his mouth partially open, intermittently making soft sucking motions as if he was dreaming about nursing. His little legs were drawn up slightly, bowed out at the knees, giving him a look of sweet abandon. His smooth skin was as pale as milk, lacking the rosy hue of most babies. Babies who didn’t have anything wrong with their hearts. That, Eve decided, was all the sign she needed.
She reached over, touching his chest to reassure herself, then put both hands back on the wheel and eased the van onto the road, and toward whatever fate awaited her at the Rocking H Ranch.
3
THE RANCH HOUSE was a complete surprise. Standing in a sheltering copse of tall cottonwoods and hack berry trees at the end of a mile-long dirt road, it looked nothing at all like Eve had imagined a ranch house would look. In place of a sprawling, rough-hewn stone and timber structure along the lines of the Cartwrights’ Ponderosa, the house was a charming old Victorian built of weathered white clapboard. It had dark green shutters and a wide wrap-around porch inhabited by both a wooden swing and a pair of rocking chairs.
The house was surrounded by a struggling patch of green lawn, browning in spots from the fierce summer heat and an apparent lack of regular watering. Rocks painted white, some of which were decorated with children’s handprints in bright colors, formed a narrow border between the lawn and the foundation of the house, defining what must have been a tidy little flower garden, although it was now overgrown with weeds. Along the sunny south side of the house was a large vegetable garden, also in need of attention; it was currently being culled by a small brown goat.
Tethered to one end of the clothesline that ran between the house and the garden, the goat stood with its restraining rope pulled taut, busily chomping on anything within reach, its head stuck through the slats of the white picket fence surrounding the weedy vegetable patch.
On the north side of the house, near the back, a swing made of thick rope and an old tractor tire hung from a huge oak. A tree house was half hidden in its branches. A long wooden picnic table was positioned underneath. Two pickup trucks, one a faded, battered blue, the other shiny red with silhouettes of bucking horses on its mud flaps, were parked off to one side where the road widened and curved away from the house. Beyond the house and yard, the barn and other utility buildings fanned out in a tidy half circle, connected to each other by a network of corrals, chutes and pens.
Eve could hear the faint bawling of cattle, the neighing of horses and—from inside the house—the barking of a dog. She was just about to open the door of the van when, suddenly, the front door of the house burst open and the barking dog bounded out onto the porch, down the steps and across the patch of lawn. He was followed by a small tow-headed child in overalls and red cowboy boots.
They both skidded to a stop at the door of the dust-covered van, the dog still barking furiously. He looked like a cross between a German shepherd and a grizzly, with maybe a little retriever thrown into the mix somewhere. Eve eyed him warily, her fingers still curled around the door handle, and debated whether to roll up the windows, turn on the ignition and back out of the driveway. A ferocious dog was just the excuse she needed to turn tail and run—despite the fact that there was no longer anyplace to run.
Then the child said, “It’s okay,” and reached out to grab hold of the dog’s collar. “Bear don’t bite. He’s just a ‘larm dog. He likes to ‘larm us when someone’s comin’.” She tugged on the dog’s collar. “Hush up, now, Bear,” she commanded. “Hush up and—” she released his collar to push on his haunches “—sit down.”
The dog hushed and sat, sending a small cloud of dust rising up into the air as he plopped his massive hindquarters down. His dark shaggy head was even with the little girl’s blond one when he sat. His mouth hung open in a doggy grin, showing off a long pink tongue and a truly impressive set of canines.
“Good dog,” the child said approvingly, and kissed him on the snout.
He kissed her back, leaving a wet trail of doggy saliva on her cheek. She wiped at it with the back of her hand, adding a smear of what looked like grape jelly to her face at the same time.
“I’m Grade,” she said, peering up at Eve with a sweet smile. Her eyes were the color of Texas bluebonnets; their expression one of innocent friendliness and curiosity. Her piquant little face was framed by a pair of long braids, inexpertly plaited; she had a thick fringe of too long bangs, which she brushed back from her forehead with a quick, impatient hand. “And this is Bear.” The dog’s tail thumped when she said his name, but he remained seated. “You can get out now. It’s okay. Really. He won’t ‘larm you no more.”
Keeping a wary eye on Bear, Eve opened the door, slid out of the van and quickly closed it again, protecting Timothy just in case the dog decided to “‘larm” her, after all. “Hello, Bear,” she said, holding her hand out for him.
He sniffed delicately, then apparently decided he liked the scent, because he shoved his nose under her hand and demanded to be petted.
“He likes you,” Gracie said as Eve gingerly stroked the dog’s huge head. “Bear likes everybody, ‘specially if they scratch him behin’ his ears. Like this.” She demonstrated the correct procedure, then expectantly looked at Eve.
Eve obediently slid her fingers behind the dog’s ear and scratched. Bear moaned in doggy ecstasy and leaned his considerable weight against her leg.
“Are you gonna be our new keeper?” Gracie asked.
“Keeper?” Eve echoed, surreptitiously easing away from Bear and wondering what he’d do if she stopped scratching him.
“Our last keeper quit ‘cause she was scared of Slik. Slik is Gus’s pig. You’re not scared of pigs, are you? You don’t need to be scared of Slik,” she said before Eve could answer the question. “He used to be in the rodeo with Gus and he can do tricks an’ stuff. He’s real smart. Uncle Travis says he’s even smarter than Gus, so I guess he’s really, really smart ‘cause Gus knows prac’ly everything.”
“Uh…where is your Uncle Travis?” Eve glanced nervously toward the house, as if she expected to see him come shooting out the front door on the back of a bull.
“He’s out to the barn with Gus, puttin’ medicine on Hurricane. Uncle Travis said next time that damn fool bull tries to make a newgate in the barb’ wire fence, he’s gonna make hambur
ger out of him.
“Don’t worry, though,” Gracie said, obviously at tributing Eve’s gurgle of surprise to distress over Hurricane’s fate. “Uncle Travis don’t really mean it. He was just mad ‘cause he had to go down to the barn without even his coffee yet. Uncle Travis needs lots an’ lots of coffee in the morning,” she confided artlessly. “A whole-”
“Graciella Lorraine!” hollered someone from the porch.
Both Eve and Gracie turned toward the voice. A young girl about twelve years old, wearing a yellowflowered apron over her jeans and blue bandanna-print shirt, stood on the top step with her hands planted firmly on her nonexistent hips. “What did Mama always tell you about keeping a guest standing out in the hot sun while you jabber on like a magpie?” she scolded. “And get Bear away from there. Not everyone likes to be covered all over with dog hair and slobber.” She clapped her hands together once, sharply. “Get away from the lady, Bear,” she ordered as she descended the stairs. “Go lie down.”
The dog looked up at Gracie, as if asking her if he really had to go.
“You go lie down, Bear,” the older child said, not giving her little sister a chance to intervene.
Eve could have sworn the big dog sighed before he hauled himself up and ambled over to lie in the shade of a cottonwood.
“Please excuse Gracie’s bad manners, ma’am,” the girl said as she came down the stairs. “She’s been taught better—Oh, for heaven’s sake! Clara, you stop that right now!” She changed direction abruptly, racing across the lawn to grab at the rope attached to the little brown goat. “You’re supposed to be keeping down the lawn, not eating all our vegetables.” With her boot heels dug into the grass for leverage, she tugged the goat away from the bounty of the garden. Shortening the rope, she retied it around the clothesline upright with a quick, efficient halter knot, flinging up her hands like a calf roper declaring “time” when she was finished. Then, flipping her long blond ponytail over her shoulder with one hand, she headed determinedly back toward the van. “I’m sorry about that, ma’am. Somebody—” she shot an accusing look at her little sister”—left too much slack in the rope.” Turning her attention back to their guest, she held out her right hand, as self-possessed as someone three times her age. “I’m Amanda Holt. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
Luck Of The Draw Page 3