A COWBOY'S GIFT

by Anne McAllister

  He wasn't a cordon bleu chef by any means. But he could put a well-balanced meal on the table. He even cited some nutritional study on the dietary needs of pregnant women that he'd asked Cait to give him to read. He even stood over her, making sure she drank all her milk!

  Mary didn't encourage him. On the contrary she sometimes graded papers right through the meal. She wasn't deliberately trying to be rude. She was just under a lot of pressure to get both the pageant and her classroom work done.

  Gus said he understood. And he persevered.

  He took care of the bunnies. He said terrible things about them, calling them Lunch and Stew and Fricassee and Giblets and promising them dire consequences after their fifteen minutes of fame.

  But he was always right there with them whenever they were needed, and he was careful to make sure no child held one too tightly. More than once Mary found him showing a child how to hold a bunny so that both the bunny and the child lived to tell about it.

  She was struck by his gentleness. The first time she saw him hunkered down, a child and a bunny in his lap, she was entranced. And she would have stood right there and watched, but he'd looked up then and when he saw her he'd winked.

  She'd turned back to her own work immediately, but the image stayed with her.

  So did Gus.

  Wherever she was in the hall—working with the "Frosty the Snowman" troupe, playing Mary in the Nativity sequence, rehearsing the hyperactive angels' choir, or trying to hang lights from the town hall Christmas tree, Gus was there, too.

  He always seemed to be the one to hand her the props she needed or to take the Christmas lights out of her hand and lift her off the ladder and say, "I'll do that."

  He was the one who mopped up wise man Frankie Setsma's bloody nose when the boy's father's bathrobe tripped him up and sent him sprawling into the side of the manger.

  He got the angelic choir to settle down and sing, which was more than she managed sometimes.

  She was good with kids, but she was low on energy. She needed help. Gus gave it. That was that.

  He ran the show with the ease and competence of a five-star general. It surprised her. Gus had always seemed so laid-back and mellow. Now he was organized and efficient. She half expected the kids to be saluting and saying, "Sir! Yes, sir!" as they jumped to obey his commands.

  She had created a monster.

  Or so she told herself.

  But then, one night after everyone else had left, when Mary finally finished working and everything was completely quiet and she thought even Gus was long gone, she found him sitting on the floor backstage.

  Stew-the-bunny was snuggled on his lap, and he was scratching the bunny's ears. He looked up at her when she appeared from behind the set.

  "You softie," Mary chided, her heart feeling strangely large in her chest.

  Gus gave her one of his heart-stopping, lopsided grins—the ones that had been able to melt her since junior high school—and winked. "Don't tell."

  "No," she said. She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but her voice came out sounding rusty, as if she hadn't used it in a while. It was really, she assured herself, that she'd been using it all too much tonight.

  "Ready to go?" Gus got to his feet, still cradling Stew gently in his hands.

  "I'm finished. But you don't have to come with me." Gus put Stew in his cage, then he checked the rabbit's water and food. "I thought we'd settled that."

  "I don't expect—"

  He latched Stew's catch, then turned and caught her by the arms.

  "Gus!" She protested.

  But inexorably, he pulled her closer, until her ballooning belly rested hard against his. Then he leaned forward and touched her lips with his. Firmly. Possessively.

  "Expect," he said. Then he kissed her—really kissed her this time—long and hard.

  * * *

  She dreamed about him that night.

  It was the kiss that caused it. It was the kiss that reminded her of what she'd been trying so hard to forget—the physical side of loving Gus.

  Their close encounters at her class on Wednesday nights brought the memories back. Gus's presence at the town hall kept them simmering.

  But that kiss had been like dumping gasoline on a smoldering ember.

  In her dreams she made love with Gus.

  And this Gus wasn't the nineteen-year-old boy she'd been engaged to, he wasn't the teenager she'd loved in the flesh. This Gus—the Gus of her dreams—was the man he'd become.

  He was the man who'd held Stew so gently and had taught countless kindergartners how to hold him as well. He was the man who had wiped Frankie's nose and who had felt her contractions and who had cooked her supper.

  He was the man who had kissed her senseless tonight.

  It was a memorable dream. A scary dream. What had become of her determined indifference?

  She sat on the bed, trying to hug her knees, but the baby was too big, and she couldn't wrap her arms around her knees anymore, no matter how much she tried.

  The baby shifted and stretched. It bumped and elbowed her. Trying to get more room, no doubt. "Poor thing," she said and patted her belly. "Not long now. Two more months and you'll have lots of room to stretch."

  The minute she said the words, she wished she hadn't.

  It was the one thing—besides Gus—that she really didn't want to think about: what she would do when the baby was gone.

  Her doctor said she needed to consider it, needed to be ready for it.

  "It will be a little like a death for you," he'd told her frankly. "You won't be going home with a baby. Your sister will."

  "I always knew that," Mary had replied. She said it to herself again now. But saying it didn't stop the hollow feeling she got when she dwelt on it.

  "So stop dwelling on it," she muttered. "Get up and get moving. Time to get to work."

  She went to work. She taught her classes. Tonight there was no rehearsal because it was Wednesday, the night for her childbirth class.

  Mary didn't know if she could take another one. Not after the dream she'd had last night!

  Maybe, she thought, Gus wouldn't come.

  Yeah, right.

  * * *

  He was there waiting by the door when she came out of school. It had been a sunny day and not especially cold. "I don't need a ride," she told him.

  "And hello to you, too." He grinned at her, then leaned forward, angled around her belly and dropped a kiss on her lips.

  "Gus!"

  "What?" His look was pure innocence.

  "We're in the middle of a public place!"

  "And that's as far as it will go—here. I promise." He crossed his heart, still grinning.

  "I don't know why you're doing this," she grumbled. "What do you want?"

  He took her arm and led her across the street toward his truck. "You know what I want. You."

  "For the moment," she conceded. "But you won't want me forever."

  "Yes," Gus said firmly. "I will." He put his hand on the truck door, holding it shut, trapping her between him and the door. "I am grown-up now, Mar'. I know you don't trust me yet. I'm tryin' to help you learn to trust me. Give me a chance."

  She turned her head away so she didn't have to look into the jade green depths of his eyes. But he touched her cheek with a finger and turned her head so that she had to meet his gaze.

  "Give me a chance, Mar'," he repeated.

  She swallowed. She blinked.

  "Please."

  She shrugged, annoyed at him for pushing her, annoyed at herself for letting him.

  Gus brushed a hand over her hair, then kissed her lightly once more. "That's my girl."

  * * *

  This Wednesday night was no easier than the others.

  Gus got to put his hands all over her—and he couldn't do a thing. It drove him nuts. It made him horny as hell.

  She made him horny as hell. But when he said she was driving him crazy, she didn't believe a word of it.

  They wer
e in the parking lot after the class and he kept losing track of the conversation because, like any guy who'd just had his hands all over the woman he loved for an hour, Gus wasn't thinking about whether the snowman in the "Frosty" scene needed a top hat or if his father's cowboy hat would do.

  "Huh?" he said for what had to be the fifth or sixth time.

  "Are you listening, Gus? What's the matter with you?"

  "I want you." There it was, stark and simple. Right out there between them as they stood in the light of the parking lot.

  "You want me? Me?" Mary looked at him, then down at her fairly enormous belly, then back up at him in disbelief. "You can't."

  He hauled her sideways against him so she could tell just exactly what he meant.

  "Oh. Oh, my." Her eyes were like saucers as she looked at him again. The color rose in her cheeks. He could see it even in the dim light of the parking lot. She gave a little shake. "You're oversexed," she told him primly.

  He laughed. "No. I'm underprivileged."

  "Well, there are a lot of other women in the world," she reminded him huffily.

  "No," Gus said. "There's only you."

  He guessed it was his penance, having to fight his way back to having what he'd so blithely tossed away years ago. It served him right; he'd be the first to admit it.

  But this was taking forever.

  Mary was right—he'd never been a forever kind of guy. He was having to learn.

  He was determined he would.

  Mary seemed just as determined that he wouldn't.

  "I don't know how you can find me sexy," she said when they were headed back to Elmer.

  Gus didn't think that was worth a reply. A guy would have to be dead not to find Mary sexy.

  "Most men don't," she went on.

  "Did you take a survey?"

  "I didn't have to. Matt—the guy I was dating last summer when I got pregnant in the first place—was totally turned off."

  "Matt was an idiot."

  "He didn't like the idea of me being pregnant with another man's child."

  "That's his problem, not yours."

  "People think it's weird."

  Gus scratched the back of his head. "I have to admit, it made me stop and think, that's for sure. But not about you carrying someone else's baby. I was wondering if you belonged to someone else, too. Once I found out you didn't, I thought it was great. In fact—" he shot her a grin "—I think it's a hell of a nice thing to do."

  "It's not that simple," Mary argued. "It's complicated."

  "Not to me. It's a gift, what you're doing. Helluva gift if you ask me." He reached over and took her hand and squeezed it gently. Then he hung on, curved his fingers around hers and tucked them against his thigh.

  "Don't do this, Gus," she begged.

  "Don't do what?"

  "Don't be so nice. Don't make me fall in love with you again."

  "I want you to, hon'."

  She shook her head silently, determinedly. But she didn't try to pull her hand away.

  Come on, Mar'. Love me. Trust me. Please. But Gus didn't say the words aloud. He'd said them already and she'd resisted, turning a deaf ear.

  This time he said them silently—and hoped she would hear them in her heart.

  * * *

  Two wise men got the chicken pox on Thursday.

  Fricassee had babies—five of them!—on Friday.

  One of the angel choir broke his arm on Saturday.

  It had snowed eighteen inches by Sunday morning.

  And on Sunday afternoon, just hours before the pageant was to begin, Shane, who had been drafted to be Joseph, called to say he was taking Poppy to the hospital in labor.

  "Ah, well," Cloris said as they gathered at the town hall that night. "We shall endure. The show must go on!"

  "But who else knows the lines?" Alice fretted. Angels were beginning to arrive. Frosty was looking for his dad's cowboy hat, worried that they might have left it at home.

  "Gus does," Cloris said.

  She looked at Gus. Becky looked at Gus. Everyone looked at Gus.

  And then at Mary.

  "There aren't that many lines," Mary said testily. She did not want Gus playing Joseph. "He only has to murmur sympathetic things and ask if there's room at the inn. Get your dad," she said to Becky. "He can do it. We need Gus to take care of the bunnies."

  "But—" Becky began.

  "Get your dad!" Mary snapped. Then she shut her eyes and prayed for strength and calm and for her back to stop aching.

  It had been nagging her all day. Finally she opened her eyes again.

  "I'm sorry," she said to Becky who was regarding her worriedly. "I'm just a little … tired. Could you please ask your father if he'll do it? I really need … Gus to do other things."

  That much was true. It wasn't just that she didn't want to play opposite Gus. It was also that she needed Gus to keep everything else running smoothly.

  Gus was the only one who could quell the angels with a look. He was the only one who could keep track of the rabbits and the cowboy hats, and the only one who seemed to make everyone do what they were supposed to do so that she could direct.

  "I'll get my dad," Becky said.

  Mary smiled tightly. "Thank you." She rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension in them. "All right, everybody. Let's get in your places."

  "You okay?" Gus asked her while everyone else was scrambling to be wherever they belonged.

  "Fine," Mary said absently. "Can you keep an eye on the angels. I don't need any blood flowing before they sing."

  "I'll keep an eye on the angels."

  "I don't know why I agreed to do this," Mary mumbled.

  At least the baby wasn't kicking her today. It had been very quiet, which was a good thing, because between her back and the tightness in her shoulders and, every once in a while, across her abdomen, she had all she could deal with right now. She gave her belly a little pat.

  "You're being very good," she told the baby inside. "Think valentines. It won't be long now."

  Somewhere between "Frosty the Snowman" and "Silver Bells" she began to realize how right she was.

  The tightening across her abdomen became rhythmic, surprisingly strong and getting stronger all the time. Periodically Mary pressed a hand against her belly and tried to shift things, to perhaps hint to the baby that now was not the time to be trying to stretch its quarters.

  The tightening eased. She relaxed.

  She went into the single tiny restroom to don her Mary garb, then arranged the shawl and checked herself in the mirror. Talk about type casting. She looked as big as a house.

  There was a frantic banging on the door. "Miz McLean! I gotta pee!" It was Frankie Setsma. "It's urgent," he muttered when she opened the door. He dashed past her into the bathroom.

  She shook her head and started backstage when the tightening began again. Harder. Stronger. Firmer. She pressed her hand on her belly.

  "Don't," she commanded it. "It's too soon. Too early. Not now."

  The angels were bumping and thumping their way onto the stage to be the backup chorus for the Nativity. At least there was no blood yet, though they were getting restless and nervous, a deadly combination.

  Frankie came back, struggling into the bathrobe his mother had hemmed so he wouldn't trip over it this evening.

  "Ready?" Mary asked.

  "What if I have to pee again?"

  "You just did." Gus appeared holding Stew and Lunch. He handed them to Frankie.

  "But what if I have to again?"

  "It's just stage fright, Frankie," Mary said just as a contraction hit her. She wasn't prepared this time, and it came faster and fiercer than the earlier ones. It made her gasp.

  "What's wrong?" Gus demanded.

  "N-nothing." Mary smoothed the long dress and shawl over her abdomen, gritting her teeth as the pain passed. "Nothing's wrong." But for the first time she thought this wasn't just a dress rehearsal.

  Gus looked at her gravely, then
narrowly. He laid a hand next to hers. She tried to swat it away, but even though Frankie's eyes grew round and wondering, Gus held firm.

  "How long?" he demanded after a moment. Mary shrugged. "A while."

  "Strong?"

  "A little."

  "How little?"

  She hesitated. "Not very. They're … stronger than I've ever had them," she admitted.

  His jaw tightened. "How far apart?"

  "I haven't timed them."

  "Mar'!"

  "When have I had time to time them?"

  Gus pushed back his sleeve and glanced at his watch. "Okay. Tell me when the next one hits. Go sit down."

  "I can't go sit down! I have to be ready to go on."

  Even as she spoke, she could hear Polly McMaster, the postmistress, who was the narrator of the piece begin to read the Christmas story. "And you can't stand here staring at your watch. You have to get the rest of the bunnies!"

  Gus said something very rude about the bunnies.

  Frankie looked shocked.

  Mary kicked Gus's shin. "Go get Giblets and the rest of them. You've got to get the donkey, too. Stop worrying about me."

  The donkey was a show time addition. He'd never been to rehearsal, but Taggart had assured her that he would do his part without it.

  "We've got one donkey already," Gus muttered now. "The real one's got nothin' on you. Stubborn woman." He peeled off his watch and handed it to her. "Time them." He strode off.

  In a minute he was back. He gave the other shepherds the rest of the rabbits, then went out and came back with the donkey.

  Taggart appeared in something that looked like one of Cloris's tablecloths. "Shane took his costume with him," he muttered. "It's all there was."

  He moved to boost Mary up onto the donkey's back, but Gus thrust the donkey's lead into his hand instead.

  "I'll do that."

  And the next thing Mary knew, Gus had lifted her onto the donkey. She wobbled. She felt another contraction begin.

  "Ready?" Taggart asked.

  Mary clutched at the donkey's back, but there was nothing to hold on to. Gus was still holding her. And she gripped his hands in her own, grateful to have him there for once.

  "How far apart?" Gus demanded.

  "What?" Taggart looked aghast.

  "Four minutes," Mary said.