One of the things Gus always told the wannabe bronc riders was to "be in the here and now."
When you were riding a bronc, he said bluntly, that wasn't the time to pick your nose. Or think about the fight you had with your wife. Or figure out whether you were going to the movies. Or decide what to have for dinner.
To ride broncs a guy had to focus, stay in the moment, pay attention.
And then he proved it. He went out and promptly got bucked off and stepped on by a horse he could have ridden when he was seven—and should have ridden today.
He would have ridden him just fine, thank you very much, if he hadn't been thinking about Mary.
"You okay?" Taggart, who was acting as pickup man, rode up alongside him.
Gus snagged his hat out of the dirt and slapped it against his thigh as he hobbled toward the fence. His ankle hurt like Hades where the bronc had stomped him. "Just dandy," he muttered. "Swell."
Taggart grinned. "Always instructive, taking a dive like that," he said cheerfully. "Makes 'em realize that not even the best of us has it licked."
Like he'd done it on purpose. Gus grunted.
"What do you know about Mary McLean?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Your daughter's teacher!" Gus glowered up at him. "What kind of a concerned parent are you?"
"A pretty damn good one most of the time," Taggart said, affronted. Then he grinned. "What about Mary?"
"Who's she married to?"
Taggart's brows lifted at Gus's harsh tone. "Who wants to know?"
"I do, damn it!" Gus drew a careful breath and did his best to sound rational. "We go back a long way, me an' Mary. I hadn't seen her in a while. I saw her yesterday when I picked Beck' up. An' she's pregnant!" He stopped because he knew he was sounding indignant. "I just wondered who her husband was. Anybody I know?"
"Doubt it," Taggart said. "She's not married."
"What?"
"She's not married," Taggart repeated.
"She's expectin' a baby!" Gus shouted.
"Mmm. Tell the world while you're at it," Taggart said mildly, looking around at a dozen pairs of interested eyes. All the cowboys in the place were staring at them.
"I don't have to tell anybody," Gus muttered. "You can damned well see it." He leveled an accusing glare on Taggart. "She's not married an' you're lettin' her teach in your schools?"
A slow grin spread across Taggart's face. One brow lifted. "Gettin' just a little prudish, are we, now?"
Gus ground his teeth. "I'm not a prude. I'm just … wonderin'. Beck' said she was new here. Reckoned you guys would've had to hire her when she was pregnant, and I just sorta thought the Elmer school board might be worryin' about what sort of example she would be settin' for your students if she didn't have a husband."
"Yeah, well, as I recall it was discussed," Taggart said. He turned his attention to the next bronc rider who was getting ready to go. "Felicity's on the board."
"So she hired her."
"She thought it would be a good idea to hire her."
"Even though she's an unwed mother."
"Hell, Gus, you really do have an ax to grind, don't you?"
"I just want to know why!"
"Ask her."
"Felicity?"
"No. Mary."
He didn't want to do that.
* * *
Gus was off to her right, somewhere behind her shoulder.
Mary knew it without even having to turn around.
It was as if the air had changed the moment he'd come into the classroom. She'd had half a dozen students come in this afternoon to run through their speeches again. Becky had been one of them, and Mary had made her go first so she'd be ready to leave by the time her ride came—in case her ride was Gus.
It worked.
Becky was ready. But she didn't go.
Just as she'd finished, Mary had felt a well-remembered prickle of awareness on the back of her neck. Becky had smiled at someone in the back of the room. She'd started to pick up her things.
Then she'd stopped, looked quizzical, frowned slightly and had settled back into her chair with a shrug.
Mary frowned, too.
Why weren't they leaving? Then she thought maybe Gus had just come to tell Becky be had some errands to run and he'd be back. She took a deep breath, steadied herself and waited for the prickle to go away.
It never did.
He was there. Just behind her shoulder. Just beyond the corner of her eye.
And she couldn't concentrate on anything—but him! He shoulders felt warm, as if touched by his breath. Hot—the way her mouth had been last night when he'd kissed her.
Which was the last thing she wanted to think about now!
She'd thought about it way too much already.
She'd scrubbed her face thoroughly—two or three times!—before she'd gone to bed last night. But if the taste of Gus was gone, the impression was still there. Even now she could feel his lips on hers.
She lifted a hand to touch her mouth, as if she needed to be sure they weren't still locked at the lips! Then she jerked her hand right back down again, furious at herself.
She knew he'd be watching—and remembering—and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Suddenly she was aware of dead silence in the room. And was somehow equally aware that it had been going on a long time.
Sam Bacon stood at the podium, looking at her, waiting for her comments—and she didn't have a clue what to say.
She hadn't listened. And even if she had, she wouldn't have been able to say a word. Her tongue felt welded to the roof of her mouth. She cleared her throat, did her best to dredge up some saliva. She rubbed her palms briskly on the folds of her dress.
"Very well done," she said firmly. "Very strong delivery, Sam. Excellent!"
He looked startled at the praise. "You think it's better, me leavin' that whole section on Indian wood carving out accidentally?"
Had he? Oh, Lord.
"Well," Mary waffled, "you certainly, urn, cut to the chase this time. Let me … think about it." Behind her she heard Gus snicker. She turned and shot him a quick, hard glare.
He grinned unrepentantly. Cheerfully. And then, damned if he didn't wink at her. Like they were sharing a joke.
Mary didn't want to share a joke with him. She didn't want to share anything with him. She wanted him gone. Determinedly she lumbered to her feet, intent on giving him a good eyeful of her burgeoning belly.
She wanted to remind him—wanted to make him think about her pregnant, about her with another man. She wanted him to go away and leave her alone!
But he just leaned against the doorjamb negligently, as if he had no intention of going anywhere.
"Becky is finished," Mary told him. "She can go."
"We'll listen," he said cheerfully and, whether Becky wanted to or not, they stayed.
Mary moved to the far side of the room and leaned against one of the bookcases. It wasn't as comfortable as sitting down, but it had the advantage of keeping her belly in plain view where Gus could see it every time he glanced her way.
But if it gave him a clear view of her, it gave her one of him, as well.
If she had changed, so had he. He was no longer the thin, wiry boy with the rust-colored hair and the quicksilver grin she remembered. Oh, the hair was still rust colored, what she could see peeking out from beneath his hat, and it wasn't even flecked with gray. The grin was even more lethal these days. But the boy's frame was gone now. Gus's shoulders were broader, his chest deeper. He was still lean and hard, though, with not a spare ounce of fat on him anywhere.
He still wore faded Wranglers and long-sleeved, muted-plaid shirts and his standard winter sheepskin jacket. His hat, too, was the same wool felt and, as always, black.
"Does that make you one of the bad guys?" she remembered asking him years ago.
He'd grinned and winked. "What do you think?"
At the time, fool that she was, she'd thought he was very good i
ndeed.
Now she knew better.
Now she wished he'd just go away.
* * *
Mary had always been willowy. That had been her word for it at least.
"Bony," he used to call her back in high school, teasing her because he knew how much she envied her older sister, Ruthie's, curves.
"Willowy," Mary had insisted. "Svelte."
Then she'd thump him over the head with her history book or poke his ribs and say, "Talk about bony!" because in those days he'd been lanky, too.
She wasn't bony now. She looked like she had a beach ball stuffed under her dress. But it wasn't a beach ball. It was a baby.
Some other guy's baby.
Some guy she wasn't married to.
Why?
Try as he might, Gus couldn't make sense of it.
And no amount of badgering had gotten an answer out of Taggart—or Felicity. He'd tried her, too.
But she'd said, "You ought to talk to Mary."
He'd muttered and grumbled, but his curiosity had been too great. He'd told Taggart he would pick Becky up after her speech practice. He'd come in and sat down, determined to wait, to ask.
It was true—it had to be—what Taggart and Felicity had said. Mary wasn't wearing a ring.
She'd worn his ring.
He remembered the day he'd slipped it on her finger. It had been, in his words, "the smallest diamond in Montana." But she'd been thrilled, and she'd thrown her arms around him and kissed him.
And she'd loved him—loved him with the sweet desperate innocence of youth.
She'd given him the gift of her virginity.
She'd been eighteen, he'd been nineteen. It had been both scary and beautiful. Neither of them had known what they were doing.
Mary wasn't supposed to know, of course. And Gus had figured anything that basic ought to be instinct.
He hadn't known much about giving and taking in those days. It had been quick—way too quick—and kind of messy when at last he and Mary had fumbled through it together. He had taken way more than he had given.
And it had been beautiful.
She had been beautiful, lying there on that blanket in the meadow, looking up at him, kissing him, touching him.
He groaned now.
The girl giving her speech at the front of the room stopped abruptly and looked straight at him.
Gus turned bright red.
"What's the matter?" Becky hissed in his ear.
Mortified, he shook his head. "Sorry," he muttered to the girl whose speech he'd interrupted. "I was … distracted."
He didn't look at Mary. Couldn't. His face was burning.
"We should go," Becky said out of the corner of her mouth.
But Gus wasn't leaving. Not until he'd talked to Mary. Resolutely he shook his bead.
"Why not?"
But Gus didn't answer. He sat up straight, adjusted his jeans, which had become embarrassingly snug—cripes, it was exactly like being back in high school again!—and forced himself to pay attention. To act like an adult. To get a grip.
The girl finished, then Mary critiqued her speech. Her words were thoughtful and measured. Clearly she wasn't having problems concentrating.
Gus hoped the girl would be the last speaker. But no, a lean, wiry boy headed to the podium next. Gus sighed.
First the boy dropped his notes, then he dropped his pencil. Then he banged his head against the podium. Gus swallowed his snicker this time.
Mary was determinedly smiling and nodding at the boy, telling the kid to take his time, to breathe deeply and compose himself, then to start when he was ready.
Just do it and get it over with, Gus would have told him.
Patience had never been Gus's long suit.
As if the kid realized it, he looked at Gus, then gulped, then hiccupped. His face went bright red.
"It's all right, Race," Mary said. "Just begin."
"But he's—"
"He's listening," Mary said through her teeth.
The kid sighed, then began. After the first sentence was out, Gus was astonished to discover that the boy was actually damn good. And he was talking about bronc riding, of all things, just the way Gus had said he'd like to do.
Shooting periodic nervous glances in Gus's direction, the boy explained what went into a ride—how he prepared mentally and physically—and Gus sat there, nodding his head, understanding and agreeing.
The kid glanced up, saw him nod and turned even redder. He talked faster, his hands jammed into his pockets, finished in a rush, then didn't even wait for Mary's comments, but grabbed his notes and bolted back to his desk and sat down.
Mary took a deep breath. "Very well done, Race There's lots of good information there. I know it's a little nerve-racking giving a talk on a subject with an expert in the audience, but I think you did really well, considering."
Gus looked around for the expert, and suddenly realized they were all looking at him!
He shook his head quickly. "Not me!"
He was used to being recognized on the rodeo circuit. He liked it there, thrived on it. But here it made him feel awkward. Especially when Mary looked at him, too, expectantly, as if he should be making intelligent comments.
She turned to her students. "For those of you who don't know him, Gus Holt is one of the premier bronc riders in America today. And from his reaction to your speech, Race I'd say he thinks you did a pretty fine job. Do you have any suggestions, Mr. Holt?"
Mr. Holt?
Nobody called Gus Mr. Holt.
"That's my father," he said, then felt dumber than ever—and put on the spot—the way he often had when called on in school. And Mary, damn it all, knew it!
"He did good. You did real good," he said directly to the boy, who blushed to the roots of his hair. "You were right, too," he went on, Taggart having taught him that specifics were important when you were trying to get something across. "It is mostly mental preparation. But then you just gotta get out there and do it."
Like now, he thought, took a single desperate gulp of air and looked square at Mary.
"Have dinner with me tonight," he blurted.
You could have heard the chalk dust settle. The entire room went absolutely still. The students, all of them from Race to Becky, stared first at him and then—as if they were watching a tennis match and the ball had been smacked into the other court—their heads swiveled as one to stare at Mary.
She looked dumbfounded—and as uncomfortable as he had felt when she'd put him on the spot a minute before.
Her face was red, too, Gus was pleased to see. And she was opening and closing her mouth like a fish.
Then, "Thank you," she said politely. "But, no."
He gaped at her.
She had already turned her attention to another student. "All right, Tom. You're next. The rest of you don't need to hang around," she said to the group at large, but she wasn't talking to them, and both she and Gus knew it. Her words were aimed at him.
But he wasn't going anywhere. No sir. Everyone else got up and, gathering their things, began to head for the door—including Becky.
"Let's go," she said.
He didn't move. He continued to stand there, his fingers balled in frustration.
"Gus?" Becky said impatiently.
But he didn't even glance her way. He kept his gaze on Mary who would not look at him. It was like she was afraid of him. The thought startled him.
She couldn't be! When had he ever done anything to—
He didn't even have to finish the sentence. To hurt her? He began to understand for the first time just how badly he probably had.
Bad enough that things had changed—and not just because she was pregnant. Bad enough that she didn't even want to talk to him.
The room was silent.
Becky waited.
The boy, Tom, was at the podium, looking nervously at Mary, then at him.
Gus jammed his hands into his pockets. He sighed, then slanted Mary a glance. "
Right," he muttered. "Sorry." Then he turned and followed Becky.
Mary's voice stopped him at the door. "Gus." He spun back. "What?"
She was pale as she ran her tongue over her lips. She swallowed. "Come by at eight."
* * *
She was clearly out of her mind.
Why else, Mary asked herself as she paced around her living room, would she have done anything so stupid as to invite Gus over this evening?
It wasn't as if she wanted to see him!
In fact she didn't want to see him!
But if she didn't face him, she knew he'd think she was afraid to, that he'd think she hadn't ever gotten over him.
And she had, damn it!
She was over him. Completely.
More or less.
Facing him, she would get over him, Mary assured herself. She would tell him about the baby, inquire politely into the past dozen years of his life—and then she would say good-night. He would leave—and that would be that.
She just wished her heart didn't still kick over in her chest every time she thought about him. It would be so much easier if she could be indifferent to him.
She sighed. She didn't think she'd be indifferent to Gus even when she was dead.
The old oak mantel clock chimed eight times. As it finished, there was a knock on the door.
Even though she'd told him to come by at eight, the sound startled her.
She'd been glancing out the window every few minutes, looking for his truck, listening for the sound of an engine. But she'd never seen headlights. She hadn't heard a thing.
Maybe it wasn't Gus, she thought with a spurt of hope. Maybe it was Alice or Cloris dropping by to visit. She opened the door.
It was Gus.
She frowned.
"You said eight," he reminded her.
"I didn't hear your truck. I didn't see…" She stopped. She wasn't going to tell him she'd been watching out the window.
"You didn't see me pacing around out there?" A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I saw you."
Her face flamed at the knowledge that he'd seen her peeking through the curtains. "What do you mean, pacing out there? Where were you?"
"I parked down by the Dew Drop. Got a little fortification–" his mouth twisted wryly "–and walked up from there."
"Fortification?" Mary said warily. She'd seen Gus "fortified" in the past.
A COWBOY'S GIFT Page 4