Baby's First Homecoming

by Cathy McDavid

  Relieved, Clay rushed toward her. “Here, let me help.”

  “Sorry I took so long. Jamie wasn’t cooperating.”

  They added her diaper bag to the assortment of picnic stuff crammed in the truck’s back seat.

  “Should I bring the stroller?” she asked once Jamie was situated in his car seat.

  “Probably.”

  She hurried back to get it.

  Clay watched her, noticing her jeans and sweatshirt were far more “countrified” than her usual attire. It was a style that looked good on her. Almost as good as the little black dress and heels she’d worn to dinner the night they’d spent at the Phoenix Inn.

  He winked at Jamie. “Your mama sure is pretty.”

  “Ma, ma, ma.”

  “That’s right.”

  Sierra reappeared and, after loading the stroller in the truck bed beside the three folding lawn chairs, they left for the park.

  She alternated between yapping a mile a minute and long stretches of silence.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “Some.”

  “We don’t have to stay long.”

  “Will you mind greatly if I don’t join in too much?”

  “Naw. I’m just pleased you’re going.”

  Clay had considered and reconsidered telling Sierra about his conversations with his father and mother, that his father had given Wayne ample opportunity to repay the loan. Ultimately, he’d decided against it.

  He didn’t know everything that had happened between his parents and Wayne. As the old saying went, there was more than one side to every story. If Clay interfered, Sierra might wind up angry at him, too, not just at his dad. It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

  He’d casually suggested on several occasions that she speak to Wayne about what had happened. For Jamie’s sake. She’d refused. Her last reply was “Why rehash a past we can’t change?”

  That sounded more like Wayne than Sierra.

  The only way they’d ever discover the whole truth, once and for all, was to approach Wayne, and Clay wasn’t about to do that. Not when Sierra had finally consented to Jamie meeting his father.

  She was staring out the window, gnawing on her lower lip.

  “Dallas came up with a good idea the other day.”

  “Dallas?” Her head snapped around. “She was at the arena?”

  “No, she called.” Was it his imagination or did Sierra’s eyes narrow? “I mentioned we were brainstorming fundraisers for the wild-mustang adoption.”

  The event was scheduled for next month. Sierra had been toiling diligently, often long into the evenings after Jamie went to bed. Ethan and Gavin had planned a demonstration to show how well-trained the mustangs were and their suitableness as Western pleasure mounts. Cassie was riding one of the older, gentler geldings. Dallas had volunteered to take pictures.

  “She suggested we sell photos with Prince, charge people a nominal fee.”

  “I’m not sure about that.” Sierra scowled. “Remember the wedding? Prince spooks easily.”

  “Dallas suggested we practice with him.”

  “Huh.”

  “He’s a local celebrity. It’s a good idea. I’d like you to coordinate with her on it.”

  “Whatever you say, boss. You’re in charge.”

  Clay let the remark slide, attributing her surliness to nerves.

  The entrance to the park came into view. Sierra offered no more than a murmured comment or two while they unloaded Jamie and the picnic supplies, which took an absurdly long time.

  Clay surveyed the enormous pile. “I could use a third arm about now.” His attempt at levity was ignored. “Sierra, you okay?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Her weak smile barely lifted the corners of her mouth.

  How could he not worry? This meeting was important to him. She was important, too.

  “Why don’t we come up with a safe word? If things get too much for you, just say, ‘Jamie’s tired,’ and we’ll cut the visit short.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “After all you’ve done for me? You bet.”

  She stared at him, as she did when they were practicing their trust exercises but not exactly. It was as if she wanted to see him, the real person inside, wasn’t merely going along with Dr. Brewster’s homework assignment.

  Clay had been waiting weeks for just this moment.

  * * *

  JAMIE SAT IN THE MIDDLE of the blanket, picking raisins off the lint-ridden material and popping them into his mouth.

  Sierra clasped her hands behind her back rather than whisk him away. She kept assuring herself babies didn’t get sick and die from eating raisins off old blankets.

  Bud Duvall, who also sat on the blanket, inched closer to Jamie. “Are those tasty?”

  The boy glanced up from his task but didn’t smile back at his grandfather. The older man’s exuberance faltered briefly before he shored it up.

  “It takes him a while to warm up to people,” she said, then almost bit her tongue.

  They’d been at the park half an hour, during which they’d laid out the blanket, set up the chairs and unpacked the food. This was the first Sierra had spoken to Bud.

  “Well, that’s just fine,” he said, “because I’m in no hurry to leave.”

  Sierra was, but she had to admit Bud was being cordial and considerate. Not the least bit annoying or overbearing, which was what she’d feared. He was, she almost hated to admit it, the man she remembered from her childhood. Her father’s closest friend. The husband of her mother’s best friend.

  How could that be? How could a considerate man practically destroy her family’s lives and livelihood?

  “He’s teething,” Clay explained. Like Sierra, he occupied one of the lawn chairs. “Makes him a little fussy.”

  “I had a root canal a few weeks ago. Hurt like a son of b— Like a son of a buck.” Bud hooked a finger on his lower lip and tugged, showing Jamie his bottom teeth. “Right there,” he muttered.

  Jamie gawked at him with hugely round eyes, then burst into giggles.

  “You like that?” Bud pulled the other side of his lip down.

  Jamie shoved his own fingers into his mouth.

  Bud chuckled and pinched his chin.

  If Sierra didn’t dislike the man, she’d have been enamored by the charming exchange.

  “Anyone want a sandwich?” Clay popped the lid on the ice chest. “I have ham and Swiss, and peanut butter and bananas.”

  Peanut butter and bananas? Her guilty-pleasure favorite.

  He’d remembered.

  She’d made them for him one day when they’d driven to Saguaro Lake to watch the sunset. They’d taken the sandwiches with them and strolled the lakeshore until they found a solitary spot. Such a simple date and a simple meal. Yet it had been the most romantic day of her life.

  “I’ll try one of the ham and Swiss.” Bud pushed to his feet with a grunt and sat in the empty lawn chair.

  Clay rambled on about the wild-mustang adoption while they ate.

  “That’s a worthy cause, son.” Bud dusted crumbs off his lap. “It does my heart good to know there’s mustangs in the valley again, even if they aren’t running wild.”

  “Did you ever see wild mustangs here?” Sierra asked.

  “I did,” Bud said. “I was just a boy. Nine or ten. The mustangs had all but disappeared before I was born. The tales my dad would tell…” He smiled, more to himself. “A small herd of horses made their way into the valley one winter from the mountains. They were skin and bones, and sick to boot. Didn’t put up much of a fight when we rounded them up. There was a yearling, his dam, another mare and a stallion. Never saw horses that abhorred captivity more. They refused to eat and almost died.”

  “My dad saved them,” Clay said.

  “I don’t know if I saved them exactly. I’d mix up a bucket of warm mash and feed the yearling by hand. The poor critter was timid as a church mouse but, eventually, he friendlied up an
d started eating. After that, the other horses did, too. Turned into some of the best horses we ever owned.”

  “What happened to the yearling?” Sierra asked.

  “I kept him. Rode him nearly every day for the next twenty-six years, then retired him. Damn horse survived to be almost thirty. I must have covered a million miles of mountains and valley on his back. Speaking of teeth, his were so bad at the end and he grew so frail, I was back to feeding him warm mash by hand. I buried him at the trailhead behind the back pasture.”

  Sierra sat, transfixed. By the recounting and by Bud. His love of the land and the animals sang in his voice. She could see him as a young boy and an adult, patiently tending his beloved horse.

  How could he have sold off her family’s land? It didn’t make sense.

  “I’m sorry, Sierra. You must hate me, and I deserve it.”

  She drew back. Were her thoughts that apparent?

  “Dad, you don’t have to—”

  “I do. Not a day goes by I don’t think how different things might be if I’d told that investor no.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Sierra’s question hung between them.

  “At the time, I didn’t believe I had a choice.”

  It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was evidently the only one Sierra was going to get.

  Bud stood, gathered up their trash and disposed of it in a nearby barrel. “You think Jamie would like to play in the sandbox?”

  “I don’t know.” Clay turned to Sierra. “Do you think he’s tired?”

  Their safe phrase. All she had to do was agree with him, and, they could leave.

  She started to say yes, but the desperation in Bud’s expression halted her, caused her to reconsider.

  “No,” she told Clay. “I think he’s okay for now.”

  * * *

  FOR THE SECOND TIME that day, Clay craned his neck, seeking a glimpse of Sierra. Tonight, he was in the great room, staring out the French doors at the casita. A light shone in the front window, an indication she hadn’t gone to bed yet despite the lateness of the hour. After almost three weeks of living with him—at his place, he corrected himself—he’d learned her habits. Sierra was early to bed, early to rise.

  Should he check on her? What if Jamie was teething or coming down with a bug? The next instant, he changed his mind. She wouldn’t appreciate him knocking on her door at nearly eleven o’clock, even if his intentions were good.

  Were they good?

  Clay had wanted to talk to Sierra since they’d left the park. She’d been somber and distant on the ride home and unresponsive when he’d queried her.

  They’d parted in the driveway, and he left her alone the rest of the day. It had been an emotionally draining afternoon for all of them. And, for Clay, deeply satisfying.

  Yet, instead of sleeping, he was pacing the floor and borderline stalking Sierra.

  Enough was enough. He had a full day tomorrow. Some of the bucking stock were returning from the Parada del Sol rodeo in Scottsdale, the feed bins had to be cleaned in preparation for Monday’s grain delivery and he had a conference call from a rodeo promoter out of Salt Lake City.

  Clay was about to head to his room when the door to the casita opened. Sierra stepped outside, the exterior light bathing her in a hazy yellow glow. She wore scruffy slippers on her feet and a blanket wrapped around her like a cape. She went to the wrought-iron chairs in front of the kiva fireplace and plunked down.

  Even at a distance, Clay could see her movements were slow and weighted, her shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

  Clearly, Jamie wasn’t teething or sick. Sierra wouldn’t have left his side.

  Perhaps she also had insomnia.

  Stalker-like or not, he watched, unable to tear his gaze away from her. She opened the front of the blanket, revealing Jamie in her arms. A faint cry carried across the yard.

  Clay didn’t think twice before he fetched his jacket. At the door, he shoved his bare feet into the pair of athletic shoes he’d worn to the park. Only when he stepped outside and cool air blasted him did he remember he wore nothing other than cotton pajama bottoms beneath his jacket.

  Sierra glanced up the moment his feet struck the wood-slat walkway, the clacking sound echoing in the still night. If she was surprised by his appearance, she gave no indication. Not even when he hopped over the low gate.

  Jamie stopped crying upon spotting Clay but still fussed.

  “You okay?”

  It seemed as though he was always asking her that question. During their dinners together. After their counseling sessions. At the end of her work day. Before meeting his dad today.

  “Jamie’s been crying for the last two hours. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. The teething gel hasn’t helped, if it’s even that. He doesn’t have a diaper rash. No fever. No stuffy nose. No throwing up.” She jiggled him on her knees. “I wish you could talk, baby. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Jamie hiccupped and shuddered slightly as a muffled sob escaped.

  “He probably had a rough day like the rest of us.”

  “And he’s overtired. He didn’t get much of a nap this afternoon.” She lifted by his underarms and stood him on her thighs. “I came outside hoping the fresh air would relax him.”

  Clay considered offering to hold Jamie. Then, he had a better idea. “Why don’t we take him inside the house?”

  “Yours?”

  “He can play with Oreo, and I’ll make us cups of that herbal tea you like.”

  “I used my last teabag this morning.”

  “I have a box. Bought it at the store the other day.”

  “Really?”

  He could tell the extra effort he’d taken on her behalf pleased her. “We could warm up a can of formula for Jamie.”

  “You have toddler formula, too?”

  “I think that’s what it is. There’s a picture of a kid about Jamie’s age on the label. Supposed to be more nutritious than plain milk.”

  “I suppose you have a bottle, too.”

  “As a matter of fact…” He’d been preparing for when Sierra was ready to leave Jamie with him for extended periods.

  Or when she moved out into her own place and Jamie stayed with Clay on “his days.” Just because things were progressing extraordinarily well was no guarantee they’d stay that way.

  He and Sierra hadn’t kissed since that night by Jamie’s crib. Not that Clay didn’t want to or didn’t think about kissing her. Day in, day out. But Jamie was their priority and main focus.

  “Come on, let’s go.” He inclined his head toward the house.

  She wavered.

  He stood, held out a hand to her. She allowed him to assist her to her feet.

  Her fingers were small and soft and warm inside his.

  Jamie’s fussiness ceased the instant they entered the house. The fluorescent lights in the kitchen seemed to fascinate him. Tilting his head back, he gawked at the ceiling.

  Sierra gawked at Clay, making him a tad self-conscious. He’d taken off his jacket and left his shoes by the door, forgetting that all he wore was his cotton pajama bottoms.

  Well, she’d seen him in less before. A lot less.

  He boiled water for the tea while Sierra set Jamie on the floor and prepared his bottle of toddler formula. He lost interest in the lights the moment Oreo meandered into the kitchen. The dog licked Jamie’s face, then bowed down in a huge stretch and yawned expansively.

  Clay patted Oreo’s head. “I see one of us isn’t having trouble sleeping.”

  When the tea was ready, he transferred the steaming mugs to the table. Sierra tried to pick up Jamie, but he scrambled away from her. Rather than fight, she gave him the bottle, which he drank while sitting on the floor next to Oreo.

  “I’ve been thinking about what your dad said today.” She plucked nervously at her oversize T-shirt and sweatpants.

  Clay was going to bring up the wild-mustang auction. This was an unexpected, and better, subject. “You
want to discuss it?”

  She grimaced. “You sound like Dr. Brewster.”

  “Sorry.” The counseling sessions had definitely influenced him. “Thanks again for letting my dad meet Jamie. Not that you care, but it meant a lot to him.”

  “I did it for Jamie.”

  “And me?”

  She averted her gaze.

  Sometimes saying nothing spoke volumes.

  “I don’t expect you to forgive him,” Clay said.

  “Have you?”

  Clay spoke slowly, aware that if he leveled with Sierra he’d be treading on dangerous ground. “I’m trying. We’ve had some conversations lately. There’s more to my parents’ split than either of them told me.”

  “Isn’t that common in divorce?”

  True. He’d certainly kept facts about his own divorce private. Never at the expense of another person, however.

  “My mom let me make assumptions about my dad and didn’t correct them. Harmful assumptions.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Their divorce was complicated. She was angry at him. When I confronted her with what my dad said, she admitted misleading me.”

  Sierra shook her head. “I can’t see your mom lying.”

  “She didn’t lie so much as omit.”

  “They divorced years ago. Why is this even important?”

  “Closure, I suppose. It started when I told Dad about Jamie. Apparently my parents didn’t want to drag me into the nasty details of their divorce or acknowledge the mistakes they’d made.”

  “Like your dad selling my family’s land to an investor?”

  Up till now, Clay had danced around the subject of Wayne. He decided the time had come for frankness. “There’s more to the sale of your family’s land than either of our parents told us. Ask your dad.”

  “What purpose would that serve?”

  “Learning the truth.”

  She snorted indignantly. “The truth is your father breached the contract he had with mine. Just because he didn’t think he had a choice doesn’t make it acceptable or forgivable.”

  “Sierra—”

  “My dad was depressed for years. He’s finally his old self again. I’m not risking a relapse by hammering him with questions about the darkest days of his life.”

  “Okay. I didn’t mean to push you.” Clay had been struggling to temper that least-desirable trait of his.