"One beer," he assured her. "For courage."
"What do you need courage for?"
He looked so pointedly at her belly that she flushed and wrapped her arms across it. "This has nothing to do with you," she told him.
He didn't respond to that, just waited. "Are we going out or am I coming in?"
"Out?"
"I invited you to dinner," he reminded her.
"And I declined. I've eaten. Haven't you?"
"Nope. You could feed me." He gave her a patented Gus Holt grin, equal parts charming and hopeful.
"Some things never change," she muttered.
"And, as you pointed out," he said, looking at her belly, "some things do." He lifted his gaze and it locked with hers.
Mary sighed. "Come on in."
* * *
Gus had always reckoned he'd be willing to follow Mary's curves pretty much anywhere. Now, as he followed her through the living room and dining room he saw no reason to change his opinion. She still had the nicest looking rear end he could remember. Once upon a time he'd been in the habit of coming up behind her and dragging her back against him, fitting her bottom snug against him. He remembered how well she'd fit, how good it felt, how—
Not a good thing to be thinking about right now!
Not if he wanted to keep his cool.
He cleared his throat and glanced around for something to distract him from the physical Mary McLean. So he studied her house, looking for signs of the man who had got her in the family way.
He couldn't see anything that made him think the jerk was living with her. Granted the furniture wasn't the cute feminine stuff he sometimes saw in the apartments of women he met, but even though it was heavy oak stuff in mission style—and not reproduction, either, from the look of it—there was nothing else in the room that made it look as if a guy was living with her. No boots by the door. No hunting magazines on the coffee table. No old socks or rodeo programs or beer bottles.
The room was small and cozy and neat, with light peach-colored walls and dark woodwork, built-in oak bookcases, Charlie Russell paintings and a worn oriental rug that looked as though it had been here since the house had been built some eighty years before. It all looked real homey, comfortable. Permanent.
Yet according to Taggart and Felicity, Mary had only been here since summer.
He tried to figure it out. Couldn't.
"I like your place," he said finally. That was true.
"So do I. There aren't a lot of rental properties in a town the size of Elmer. I was lucky. The principal knew about it because one of her former teachers owns it. Felicity Jones."
"Felicity owns this place?" Gus couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. Well, hell, no wonder she knew about Mary. And why the hell hadn't she said? Why hadn't Taggart said?
"She inherited it from her uncle," Mary went on. "She lived here when she first came to town and was happy to rent it to another teacher when I came. Would you like another beer? More courage?" She raised one brow as she looked at him speculatively.
Gus nodded absently. He probably should have said no. It might be smarter to keep his wits about him. But when Mary turned and opened the refrigerator, then bent to take out a bottle, he decided he'd made the right decision after all.
Mary bending over to snag a beer gave him an even better view than just walking behind her had. Way too soon she straightened up and turned to hand him the bottle.
"Thanks." He opened it and lifted it to his lips when he realized she had only got out one. "You're not having any?" He frowned. Mary had never drunk much, but she hadn't been a teetotaler, either.
"I don't drink. Not now," she explained and laid a hand on her belly as if that was explanation enough.
As far as Gus was concerned, it just posed more questions. How the hell could she be careful with her kid and mislay its father?
Or had the bastard run out on her?
"Where is he?"
Mary had gone back to the refrigerator to take out containers, but at the harshness of his tone, she looked over her shoulder. "He who?"
He jerked his head in the direction of her midsection. "The father." He almost spat the words. "Did he dump you? He's not livin' here."
She set the containers on the counter, then shut the door before she turned to face him. "No." Her tone was even, casual, indifferent almost. "He's not."
"So where is he? You're not married to him."
She blinked. "How do you know?"
"Taggart told me. But I would've known anyhow. You're not wearin' a ring. Why didn't he marry you?"
"He's married to someone else."
It was the last thing on earth he expected her to say.
"What!"
She dumped the contents of one of the containers into a saucepan. "This is green chile stew. Is it okay if I reheat it for you?"
"Whatever." It could have been barbed wire and jingle-bobs for all he cared. How could she talk about food when she'd just told him she'd been sleeping with a married man? "What do you mean, he's married?"
"He's married," she said. "You know, when two people go before a minister or justice of the peace and vow to love and honor and cherish each other for the rest of their natural lives?" She gave him a tight smile.
"Then why the hell was he sleepin' with you!"
She set the spoon on the counter and turned to face him, her arms wrapped across her belly. "Why the hell," she asked quietly, "should I answer that?"
Their gazes locked, hers as blue and frank and guileless as Gus could ever remember. She was Mary. Sweet, pure, innocent Mary.
Mary wouldn't have an affair. Not the Mary he knew.
But she was pregnant.
He shook his head, confused. He couldn't answer her. But knowing her the way he had, he couldn't make sense of the evidence before his eyes. At the same time Gus knew he had no right to ask for an explanation at all.
He'd walked out of her life years ago. He'd given up his claim. And yet…
He took off his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, then jammed it back down again. "It don't make sense," he muttered. "You wouldn't do that." Then he turned to go. "Never mind. I shouldn't have asked." He started for the door.
"Gus."
He looked over his shoulder.
Mary was smiling at him, a little sadly, a little wistfully, it seemed to him. "Thanks," she said.
"Huh?"
"Come on and sit down. I'll fix you dinner. And explain."
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
She didn't begin, though, until she had his dinner on the table in front of him. While Mary sliced bread and put together some cottage cheese and pineapple for a salad, she tried to compose what she would say.
Of course she didn't have to give him any kind of explanation. She hadn't really intended to.
But because he'd believed in her—even despite the evidence and her own words—she found that she wanted to. She could see him simmering with impatience as he paced around the small kitchen.
She knew he wanted answers now. Gus always did. He always wanted everything now. But sometimes, she knew, he could wait.
If he had to. If he thought it was worthwhile.
Now he didn't press her.
"I can fix you a vegetable," she offered. "I have frozen peas and green beans."
"No. Thanks," he added after a moment. He didn't sit down even though she'd set a place for him at the table.
"How about coffee? All I have is decaf. Or would you prefer another beer?"
"Coffee's fine." He tapped his toes and jammed his fingers into the pockets of his jeans, then just as quick, yanked them out again and cracked his knuckles. He took off his hat, rubbed a hand over his hair, then put the hat back on again, then apparently remembered where he was and took it off again and hung it on the hook by the door.
Even then he didn't sit. He tucked his fingers into his pockets, then bounced on his heels and then on his toes.
Mary dished up the
stew and set it on the table, then pointed at the chair.
Gus sat. He didn't eat. He waited, watching like a panther as she poured them each a cup of coffee and finally, when she could think of no other way to stall and avoid the inevitable, came and sat down opposite him.
"Eat," she commanded, "before it gets cold."
He picked up his fork, then met her gaze. He nodded. He waited. It was her show, he seemed to be saying. "I'll eat. You talk."
"I'm wondering where to start."
"Whose kid is it?"
Her mouth twisted. Trust Gus to come right to the point. "My brother-in-law's."
His fork clattered to the table. "What!"
"And my sister's," Mary went on firmly. "You remember Ruthie."
He stared at her, poleaxed, then shook his head.
"It's Jeff and Ruthie's baby," Mary told him.
"I know I didn't do that great in biology, but—" Gus gave his head another shake "—I don't think I was that bad at it."
She smiled wryly. "You were always very good in biology, Gus. This is not … regular biology. It's the high-tech stuff. I'm not the mother. I'm the surrogate. I'm just … carrying their child."
He stared at her, looking a little dazed, a lot disbelieving and still considerably confused.
"Ruthie and Jeff have been married a dozen years. They have been trying to have a baby for almost as long. Ruthie's had seven miscarriages. She can get pregnant, but she can't carry a baby to term. Something to do with her uterus."
Ruthie could explain in precise medical terms exactly what was wrong, but knowing hadn't helped her carry a child. Nothing she or her doctors had done had been able to correct the problem.
"There was no way, given her condition, that she could carry a baby long enough for it to survive. The doctors finally told her that the only way to have one that was theirs biologically was to have some other woman carry it. So—" she shrugged "—I volunteered."
"To carry her baby?" Gus's words were barely audible. Mary nodded. "The doctors fertilized one of Ruthie's eggs with Jeff's sperm, and I'm carrying it." She smiled. "I'm the incubator, that's all."
"All?" Gus looked dazed, the way he had when he'd ridden his father's new sorrel stallion and had landed on his head.
Mary reached out and pushed his cup of coffee at him. "It's not a big deal," she told him briskly. "It's just… Ruthie's my sister. She wants a child. She and Jeff both want a child. Desperately. And I was in a position to help."
She didn't tell him how much she had come to want to do this, too. How much she wanted to share in the miracle of birth—even to a child she knew she wouldn't be able to keep.
For several years after Gus had broken their engagement, Mary had been sure she would find another man, marry and have a family. But time had passed, and though she'd dated other men, somehow the right man had never come along.
She was almost thirty-one now—and no nearer the marriage and family she'd always dreamed of than when she'd first fallen in love with Gus. Farther from it, probably, because then she'd hoped.
Somehow over the past couple of years, her hopes had waned.
She'd dated plenty of men. And none of them had come close to sparking in her the same feelings, the same emotions, the same connection she'd once felt with Gus.
She began to think there never would be another man for her.
And if there wasn't a man, there wouldn't be children, either.
So, when Ruthie had tearfully told her the bad news, that she would never be able to carry a child to term, Mary had found herself saying, "I could do that."
"So this is not … your kid?" Gus's gaze flicked back and forth between her face and her abdomen.
"No." Even though Mary sometimes felt as if it were. She had to keep telling herself she was not really this baby's mother or she'd become far too attached, and she knew it.
"No," she said again. "It's Ruthie and Jeff's baby."
She made herself say it. She said it every chance she got.
"You're just … having it, and then you're giving it up?"
"Yes," Mary said firmly.
There was a long silence.
"So you're not…" He stopped. Swallowed. "There is no other…" He stopped again. He gave a shudder, like a dog shaking off cold water, then began grinning like a fool.
"No other what?" Mary asked.
But he didn't answer. He laughed. It was an odd, breaking laugh. "Well, damn," he said. Then, "How about that?" He laughed again.
Mary watched warily. She didn't want Gus grinning like that.
It did disastrous things to her insides—especially to the inside of her brain. It made her remember happy times with him. Loving times.
"Eat your stew," she commanded gruffly.
Still grinning, Gus did.
* * *
She was his again!
His!
His?
Which meant what? Gus stopped shoveling in the stew and thought about that.
Discovering that not only wasn't there another guy in Mary's life, but that a man hadn't even been responsible for putting the child in her belly, made him euphoric.
Relieved beyond belief.
It was as if he'd been on a bronc, spinning out of control, and had suddenly found the rhythm. The world stopped reeling and came into focus. Life seemed right again.
Because Mary was in it.
He hadn't realized how much he'd missed sitting across the table from her, how much he liked looking up to find her there.
Which, again, meant what?
The M word nudged its way into his brain.
He resisted. He'd been resisting even thinking about marriage for years. The only person he'd ever considered marrying had been Mary. And once that had panicked him, he'd never thought about it again.
And now?
The word nudged its way back in again.
This time he wasn't so quick to push it back out. He let it sit there. He forked up a little stew and carried it to his mouth; all the while he mentally circled the word. Marriage.
Not right now, of course.
He didn't reckon Mary would have him right now. He had some pretty serious fence mending to do as far as Mary was concerned.
And he knew better than to make up his mind about something too quick. At least he thought he did.
But then he looked up and saw Mary sitting across the table from him, a cup of coffee in her hands, and he liked what he saw. He liked how it felt having her there. It didn't seem nearly as scary as it once had.
There had been plenty of years after he'd broken off their engagement when the very mention of the word marriage found him reaching to touch his neck to check for the noose.
If he hadn't been ready to marry Mary, he sure as heck hadn't been interested in a long-term commitment to any of several dozen other women who wanted to take him home to mother.
After so many years he hadn't really thought he'd ever be ready.
He'd expected to go through life on his own. Footloose and fancy-free.
Yet now, when he thought about it, being fancy-free wasn't all that appealing.
And he couldn't feel any noose around his neck. He could swallow his stew perfectly easily. He thought again about sitting down across from Mary not just tonight but during every mealtime. He didn't feel any panic at all.
In fact, it was downright appealing.
Maybe he was ready for marriage.
The sheer novelty of that notion choked him and made him start to cough.
Mary leaped up and slapped him on the back and got him a glass of water, then hovered over him while he gulped it down.
"Are you all right? Do you need more water? Can I get you anything?"
Still gasping, eyes watering, he sputtered and shook his head, then cleared his throat. "N-no. I'm … I'm fine. I … it just … I swallowed wrong."
He shot her a quick glance, wondering what she'd say if he told her. His life was worth more than that! No, he would have to take it
slow and easy around Mary. He'd have to gentle her the way J.D. gentled a skittish horse.
He couldn't expect her to welcome him back with open arms.
But he wanted to come back. He wanted to find out if his panic was truly gone. He wanted to be part of her life again. He wanted her to be part of his.
"Do you need more water, Gus?" She was still hovering, still looking down at him worriedly. "What do you need?"
It was an impulse, pure and simple. But he was on eye level with her burgeoning belly, and he said simply, "This," and he leaned forward and planted a kiss right on it.
Mary jumped a foot.
Then she scrambled away to the other side of the table, where she stood hanging on to the back of her chair, keeping both it and the table between them.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes like saucers as she glared at him.
He slanted a grin up at her. "Just sayin' hi."
"Well, it's not necessary!" Her knuckles were white on the chair back, and it looked like she was trembling. He figured it was probably the shock and not that she was displeased.
He shrugged amiably. "I just wanted you to know I'm happy for you—for him … or her—and for Ruthie and Jeff."
"Well, um, thank you." Mary still looked flustered. She still stayed away across the room from him.
"Hey, I used to kiss you there, Mar'," Gus said gently. Mary's cheeks grew even redder, and she wrapped her arms across her body as if she were huddling behind them "That was a long time ago."
Gus nodded gravely. "Too long."
"Not nearly long enough." Then she gave herself a little shake and said, "I think you'd better go, Gus."
"Aw, Mary. I wasn't tryin' to rile you. I just wanted you—and that baby—to know I was pleased."
"I think you better go."
She looked upset. He didn't want her upset. He didn't figure it was good for pregnant women to be upset. So he nodded and shoved away from the table and stood up. When he did so, Mary backed up even farther.
He frowned. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he told her because for some crazy reason she was acting as if she was scared of him.
She kept her arms wrapped across her belly. "No," she said with obvious determination. "You're not."
Like it was a vow or something. He snagged his hat and set it on his head, then shrugged into his jacket. "It was real good stew, Mary. Thanks."
A COWBOY'S GIFT Page 5