The Love of a Cowboy

by Anna Jeffrey

  “Piggy, can’t you see? This is my fault. I knew he didn’t want any more kids and I lied to him.”

  “Bullpuckey. Getting pregnant is not a solo event.”

  “I will not, Pegeen—repeat, will not—use a baby to club Luke into doing something he has never wanted to do.”

  “If he doesn’t know about it, how can you tell what he might want?”

  Dahlia drew herself up and glared at her friend. “I’m not going to keep arguing with you about this. If he finds out, I’ll know who told him. . . . And I’ll kill you, Piggy. Absolutely kill you. Dead, dead, dead.”

  “Okay. Go ahead. Pout to beat hell. Just remember this—once you’ve had a baby, you can’t put it back. It’s forever. Someday you’ll wish you’d told him.”

  “Piggy, stop it. Don’t I have enough on my mind already?”

  Piggy’s eyes scanned Dahlia’s body. “By Christmas, you’ll be showing.”

  “I don’t know.” Dahlia looked down at her stomach. “I’m pretty thin—”

  “I’ll have a round-bellied maid of honor at my wedding.”

  Dahlia rose and took their lunch sack to a trashcan. “What wedding?”

  “I’m getting married. Christmas Eve.”

  Hearing that brought Dahlia to a stop and she gasped. “To Pete? You’re not.”

  “Not Pete.”

  “Don’t pull my leg. I’m in no mood for it.”

  “No joke. I’m getting married. William Bailey Porter. The best damn welder in Texas.”

  Stunned, Dahlia returned to the table and sank to the concrete bench. “Bill Porter? From high school? You just spent the summer in bed with Pete Hand.”

  “What can I say? He’s up there and I’m down here. Bill missed me. He asked me last night and I said let’s go for it.”

  “Why, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t act so shocked. You know he and I have had a thing since we were kids. No matter how far I go, I always seem to find my way back to good ol’ Bill. He came over with a six-pack. Got down on his knee and everything. Kinda romantic. Said he’s been waiting for me to find myself, wanted to catch me before I go off on another wild tear.”

  “Surely he hasn’t really been waiting all these years.”

  “Patient guy, huh? That’s the way he is—solid and dependable. Works hard. Doesn’t owe any money except on his equipment. And he’s good-looking. We’ll have pretty kids. What more could a girl want?”

  “You’re rationalizing. You may like sex with Bill Porter, but you don’t love him.”

  “Well, he is hell in bed. Makes me shriek like a banshee. That ain’t all bad. Who’s to say I don’t love him? Maybe I always have. Not with thunder and lightning like you and Luke. More like a comfortable old robe, but . . . Anyway, he told me it’s high time I got my act together and he’s right. Unlike you, girlfriend, I’ve never been married and I’m already thirty. I want a kid or two and a steady partner. It’s either this or go to Fort Worth and get one of those real jobs.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say. I feel sorry for Bill.”

  “You know I’m kidding. I can’t wait. I’m tired of the hunt, you know? I’m gonna make him a good wife. I can cook and I’m clean. All four of my brothers like him.”

  “I suppose there are worse reasons to get married. He is sort of like a cousin or something.”

  “Christmas Eve at my folks’ house. We do the deed.”

  “Good grief. I’d better start planning a shower.” Still awed, Dahlia shook her head. “I can’t believe it. All of a sudden, your life’s turning conventional. And here I am having a baby with no husband.”

  “Yeah. Irony’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Piggy scooted off the bench. “Listen, I gotta get back to work. Without me there, there’ll be chaos.”

  They strolled back toward the Handy Pantry. “Okay,” Piggy said, “so you’re gonna have this kid. I talked to Bill about it. We’ll both be here for you, no matter what.”

  “You told Bill, too? Can’t you keep anything quiet?”

  “We were in bed, for chrissakes.”

  “And my problems are pillow talk?”

  “We were talking above love. I was telling him how much Luke meant to you and how worried I was. And you know what he said? He said, ‘You don’t need to worry. A love child is always perfect.’”

  Love child. Dahlia tried to imagine herself with belly bulging, lifting boxes, sorting fruits and vegetables. A flurry of emotions darted around inside her, including plain old fear.“God, Piggy. Me with a love child. Who’d have thought it?”

  “Not me. I remember in school, when we used to say if you ever got pregnant, there’d be a new star in the East. . . . So what’s the plan? Loretta ain’t exactly a mecca of liberal thinking. Around here, single mothers are a Hollywood anomaly.”

  “I don’t have a plan. Crisis management. That’s always been my forte.”

  “It ain’t gonna be easy. These old farmers already think you’ve left the fold because you drive a yuppie car.”

  “They’ll have to get over it.”

  “And Elton?”

  “When he’s up to it, I’ll tell him. He’s looking forward to grandchildren according to Dr. Webb. This could be the only one he ever has.”

  Chapter 21

  With Dahlia’s marketing skills and innovative ideas, the Handy Pantry began to recover, if only by inches. Her dad bounced back with nothing more than a limp and a handicapped hand to show for his ordeal.

  Dahlia plunged with a vengeance into preparing the grocery store to reap full advantage of the fall holidays, not allowing herself to grieve over her situation. She picked Piggy’s mother’s brain about pregnancy and childbirth, checked out library books and learned what to expect from the coming months.

  The calendar pages turned to October. The debilitating fatigue that had plagued her at first went away and she began to feel energized and upbeat. She had always wanted a child, or children, and enthusiasm evolved for the prospect of bringing a new life into the world, even if her circumstances defied the most ideal.

  She decorated the store for Halloween and brought in candy, novelties and costumes, designated a day employees could come to work in costume. Two days later two church women came and met with her about Elton Montgomery’s daughter lending support to a celebration of evil for the sake of profit. Her spirits were so high, she was able to smile and serve them coffee and pumpkin cookies in her office.

  The week after Thanksgiving, as she stood at the filing cabinet in the office, a faint flutter in her stomach stopped her. A few seconds later, she felt it again. Her hand went to her belly and she moved to the desk chair and sat down, fearing the worst. Before she could plunge into a full-scale fit of anxiety, it dawned on her the baby had moved.

  Tears sprang to her eyes as profound emotions filled her heart. She stared at the phone, fighting a desperate urge to hear Luke’s voice. She couldn’t think of anything she had ever wanted as much as she desired to share this moment with the man who had spawned the life growing inside her.

  He didn’t want you, she reminded herself. To him, being a father for the fourth time would be viewed, at best, as an unfortunate accident. This precious experience belonged to her and her alone.

  She tamped down those maudlin sentiments, dried her eyes and blew her nose, reminded herself she had already determined she didn’t need Luke McRae. But, dammit, she had to tell somebody.

  She yanked up the receiver and keyed in Piggy’s number. Piggy squealed with delight at the news and together they laughed and cried and made a flurry of plans for the baby’s room. When they hung up, Dahlia’s mood had improved. She placed both hands on her thickening middle and faced that it was time to tell her dad she was pregnant.

  To her surprise, her father was overjoyed at the news. If words of censure passed through his mind, they didn’t manifest themselves on his lips. He made plans for turning the bedroom next to hers into a nursery. The room had once been her own nursery.
He didn’t question her, but she told him a little about her Idaho lover, assured him the father of her child was a good and decent man. They simply had irreconcilable issues.

  As the Christmas frenzy of shopping and cooking swooped down and the grocery store’s tasks became increasingly demanding, the next thing she knew, against Dr. Webb’s advice, her dad returned to work in the Handy Pantry. Nothing she or the doctor said persuaded him to stay home.

  Christmas Eve and Piggy’s wedding date arrived. Pegeen Murphy and Bill Porter were married beside a beautiful Christmas tree at Piggy’s parents’ house. Dahlia couldn’t make it through the sentimental ceremony dry-eyed. Only the loud family party that followed kept her from sinking into a mire of depression.

  By February, she was into maternity clothes. She had worn oversized street clothes as long as she could get by with it. Her belly had grown huge overnight it seemed and Piggy joked about her giving birth to a kid of record-breaking weight.

  She left the store in her dad’s hands after lunch on Ground Hog Day and drove to Abilene, shopping for baby furniture and supplies. She returned after dark and found her home lit inside and out and Piggy’s car parked haphazardly in the driveway.

  Piggy met her outside, breathless. “Elton had one of his spells. He went to the hospital in the ambulance, but he’s not . . . he’s okay.”

  A sweep of panic set Dahlia to shaking. “Did he collapse? What happened?”

  “He must have felt it coming on. He called nine-one-one himself. My cousin was at the hospital. When she couldn’t reach you, she called me.”

  Dahlia turned back to the Lumina. “I have to go over there.”

  Piggy came behind her. “I’ll go, too. Let me drive.”

  Dr. Webb had left when they reached the hospital. Her dad appeared to be asleep in the ICU. Piggy’s cousin explained as much as protocol allowed. CVA, “guarded” condition. Dahlia could do nothing but get in the way.

  “Just five minutes.” The nurse opened the door to the ICU. After spending a sleepless night, Dahlia had arrived at the hospital early. She slipped through the doorway, moved to Dad’s bedside and saw his crinkled face drawn and white as the pillow on which he lay. He needed a shave. She kissed his brow, found his skin cold against her lips. Avoiding IV tubes, she lifted his hand into hers, aware that it, too, was ice cold. His appearance seemed to be much the same as after the previous stroke. “How you feel today, Pops?”

  A guttural groan rumbled from him.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t home last night, Dad. I shouldn’t have gotten back earlier.”

  He squeezed her hand weakly. “Fire,” he mumbled.

  “Fire?”

  “Pasture.” He struggled to lift a shaking finger.

  She turned and looked out the window. Indeed, across the highway lay a fenced pasture, but she saw no sign of a fire.

  “Cory? . . . Man . . . Black suit . . . ”

  A chill zig-zagged down Dahlia’s spine. Did he think she was her mother? She watched his eyelids flutter, felt his grip on her hand loosen. Her heart stuttered. She reached for his wrist, seeking a pulse. Finding the beat, she let out a held breath.

  Something was different. After his previous stroke, though he had been physically disabled, his mind had been unaffected. The possibility of his failing to recover flew at her like a giant, evil bird.

  “Listen, Pops,” she said in a tinny voice, “the Budweiser truck is due this morning and I need to be there. Wait ’til you see the promotion we’re doing. You go right ahead and nap now. I’ll check on you after a while.”

  She left his room, stopped at the nurse’s station and questioned the RN on duty. The nurse gave her reassuring answers that told her little more than nothing. She left a message for Dr. Webb to call her and hurried to the Handy Pantry.

  Except for the worry over her dad’s illness and his cryptic reference to her mother, her day went well. The Budweiser truck’s unmarried driver flirted with her as usual, as if he didn’t notice her bulging belly. Customers were steadily buying the Valentine’s Day candy and gifts she had brought in and it appeared the store wouldn’t be left with a large overstock after the holiday.

  “Dr. Webb’s on the phone, Dahlia.”

  Dahlia looked up from straightening the tomato display and glanced at the clock mounted above the storeroom door. Five-thirty. “I’ll take it upstairs.” The trip up the stairs to the office had become more laborious with her advanced pregnancy and she climbed them more slowly. At her desk, she lifted her feet to a neighboring chair seat before she picked up the phone. After standing all day, her feet were so swollen even her Nikes felt tight.

  “I don’t think Dad knew who I was this morning,” she told the doctor. “It was worse this time, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ll be frank, Dahlia. It’s hard to say about the future, but try not to worry. We’re keeping a close eye on him. When he’s better, we’ll get him in to Dr. Colson again.”

  She bit her lip. After Dad’s first stroke, Dr. Webb’s tone had held an expectation for improvement. “Okay,” she said, accepting the pessimistic prognosis.

  “And how are you,” Dr. Webb asked.

  She told him she was fine except for a little swelling in her feet. He instructed her to put them up every chance she got and to call him she had any problems.”

  At the hospital that evening, she found Dr. Webb there. Her dad’s condition had been downgraded. He no longer showed any sign of awareness. She followed the doctor out to the hallway, glancing back one more time back at the array of equipment around her father’s bed. “He looks so bad. Is—is he going to be okay?”

  The doctor didn’t meet her gaze. He gave her shoulder a pat. “He isn’t suffering. Go on home now. You need to rest. Try not to worry. I don’t expect anything to happen suddenly.”

  He left her standing alone in the hospital corridor’s dim, cool quiet. Dishes clattered in a room down the hall, phones chirped, nurses scurried. Patients were being readied for the night. She melted into the chair outside the ICU room door.

  . . . I don’t expect anything to happen suddenly . . .

  Was this the end?

  Dad. Her last connection to the planet.

  An avalanche of grief rolled over her. She closed her eyes and dropped her forehead into her hand, tuning out the activity in front of her. Though surrounded by people, all of whom she knew, she felt totally, utterly alone. White noise began to roar in her head. She began to shake inside. She leapt from the chair and quick-stepped outside to her car.

  The ensuing days brought little change except in the increased activity of the life growing inside her. Besides knowing she would give birth to a son, she now knew he must surely have powerful little limbs. His movement became something she enjoyed feeling even when it kept her awake at night. She caught herself often wondering if Luke would find it in his heart to be happy if he knew she carried his son and the fetus appeared to be hale and healthy, but she tried not to dwell on the question. The answer was too depressing.

  Her father breathed on his own, but he was comatose and being fed with through a stomach tube. A knot the size of Dallas had taken a permanent place in her throat and she was able to force herself to eat only for the baby’s sake.

  Dr. Webb ordered Dad moved out of the ICU, into a private room. This is better, she assured herself. She could help the nurses care for him and spend as much time as she wanted when she visited.

  On a blustery, chilly day in the middle of March, Dr. Webb placed his hand on her shoulder and said, “Let’s go down to the lunchroom and get a cup of coffee.”

  Dahlia closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Such a statement always held grave portent. She had seen too many movies, she told herself.

  She and the doctor didn’t talk as they walked side-by-side to the hospital’s tiny cafeteria. She declined coffee. While he poured a cup for himself, she found a seat in the corner, grateful they were the only two people in the room. He brought his coffee to the table, along with a gl
ass of amber liquid. “Apple juice,” he said and placed it in front of her. He took the seat across from her, a stony expression on his face.

  She gathered her courage. “So what’s up?”

  “I’d like to remove Elton’s feeding tube, Dahlia.”

  She stared at him, not wanting to believe what she had heard. “But—but . . . He . . .”

  Dr. Webb reached across the table and put his hand on her arm. “He can’t move. There’s no brain activity. We can keep him alive a long time, but . . . It’s my opinion he won’t improve.”

  “But he—he makes . . . sounds sometimes.” She struggled to remember the last time she had heard anything from him other than raspy breathing. “Doesn’t he?” she said in a small voice.

  Dr. Webb shook his head.

  An out-of-breath feeling overtook her. “If—if you take out the tube, won’t he starve?”

  The doctor held her gaze.

  “That’s terrible. No! The answer’s no!”

  “He won’t know—”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Elton and I have been friends since he came home from the war, Dahlia. He’s like my brother. He wouldn’t want to go on like he is.”

  She fought for a deep breath. Only a whisper came out of her mouth. “This is what they call pulling the plug, isn’t it?”

  The doctor frowned and shook his head. “Dahlia . . .”

  She stared into space, stifling a scream and groping to put together a coherent sentence. Finally, she swallowed her tears. “Tell me what happens.”

  She flew home, barely controlling her anguish until she arrived. Sobs wracked her. What had she done? How could she live with herself? She charged to the phone. It wasn’t too late to call the nurses’ station and tell them to keep her dad alive for as long as possible.

  But as she reached for the receiver, something stayed her hand, redirected it to the nearby cupboard. She dragged a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, carried it into the living room and sat down on the twenty-year old sofa that had so rarely been sat on it looked brand new. She held the cool glass against her forehead. Dad was leaving her. It was really happening. Maybe in reality he had already left her. Dr. Webb had said a matter of days, perhaps a week.