A Cowboy's Tears

by Anne McAllister

  The paper was still crumpled in Jenny's fist. Wordlessly she pulled it out.

  Felicity spread it out and read it, then looked up, shocked. "It's not true," she said. "It's a joke. A sick joke. I wonder who would do a thing like that."

  "Mace," Jenny said. It was a sick joke, all right. But it was Mace's sick joke. Jenny knew that.

  "It doesn't make sense. You two have the best marriage I know! Why does he want a divorce?"

  Jenny couldn't answer that.

  If Mace chose to tell people, he could. But she didn't think it was likely. Mace was an intensely private man. He had allowed doctors and nurses to invade that privacy for Jenny's sake. She owed him the respect of what he had left. She shook her head.

  "It's insane," Felicity said.

  "Yes." Jenny could agree with that.

  "It doesn't make sense."

  "To him it does."

  "But—"

  "I'm sorry I didn't answer the phone," Jenny said. "I was … upset."

  "An understatement, I think," Felicity said gently. "Where is Mace?"

  "He moved out two weeks ago."

  Felicity's eyes widened. "Moved out? So it's not a surprise? The letter?"

  "It is," Jenny said. "Moving out isn't the same as wanting a divorce. He talked about it … but I didn't believe he'd go through with it." She pressed her lips together and swallowed. "I should have known."

  That was nothing but the truth. She should have realized how strongly Mace felt about this.

  It was exactly what an idealistic idiot like Mace would do. He knew how badly she wanted a family. It was all she'd talked about. He was right. It had been her dream, her hope, her plan—the way the ranch had been his.

  But not at the cost of her marriage, damn it!

  "What can I do?" Felicity asked her. "Can I help? Can Taggart help? Do you want Taggart to talk to him?"

  "No."

  "They've been friends for years."

  "We've all been friends for years," Jenny said dully. "That's why I know. Taggart can't help."

  "But—"

  "No."

  "You mean you're just going to let him do it?" Felicity was indignant.

  "I don't know what I'm going to do."

  "You ought to hit him upside the head. He's got the best wife in the world. What's he throwing it all away for?" She stalked across the room, then whirled and confronted Jenny. "Don't tell me he found someone else?"

  "No." Jenny could defend him from that accusation, at least.

  "Well, thank God for that." Felicity breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought he had more sense," she said, justified.

  "Oh, yes. Mace is very big on sense." He thought what he was doing was eminently sensible—even though it was cutting out her heart.

  "Then why—?" The words were almost a wail. Then Felicity clamped her mouth shut. "Never mind. It's none of my business. I know it's none of my business! Taggart would say I'm poking my nose in where it has no right to be and that's true. But I care, damn it! I care about you. And," she added, "as much as I might like to punch his lights out right now, I care about Mace."

  Jenny believed her. She was even grateful—for all the good it would do. She smiled wanly. "Thanks."

  "So what I can do to help?"

  Jenny shook her head. This wasn't like their ranching operation where you could solve your infertility problems with a straw of sperm. Men were not interchangeable. Men had egos. Pride. Determination. And this man was more stubborn than any bull.

  Felicity, disgusted at Jenny's lack of initiative, slapped her hands on her hips. "So, that's it? You're just going to let him go?"

  Was she?

  Was she just going to knuckle under and join Mace in the petition?

  Or was she going to try to salvage their marriage? Try to get through to him?

  "No," she said, sitting up straighter, "I'm not just going to let him go."

  "A divorce?"

  "Shh, Taggart! Stop shouting! You'll wake the children!"

  One of them was already awake, thanks very much.

  Awake and sitting scrunched at the top of the stairs where they couldn't see her but she could hear them.

  But Becky knew they didn't mean her, in any case.

  They meant Willy and Abby, who had both been colicky all evening and had yelled so much she'd slammed her book down and put her hands over her ears.

  Her father, pacing with a frantic Willy against his shoulder, had shot her a hard glare. "If you don't want to listen, leave!"

  She wasn't used to her dad being impatient. Not that impatient. It wasn't as if she was the one doing the yelling, after all!

  She'd dropped her hands, hunched her shoulders and said, "All right. I will."

  She went out without looking back, determined to sit on the fence and wait until the noise was over and he came to tell her to come in.

  From the fence she could still hear Willy wailing, but it wasn't so loud. She sat and watched the sun set and wondered if Willy would stop, by the time it got dark. If he did, maybe her dad would come and sit on the fence with her the way they used to, just the two of them, looking for the first star.

  They hadn't done that since the babies were born. It was one of a lot of things they hadn't done since the babies were born. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder to see if he might be coming. He wasn't.

  She waited … and waited. The sun went down. The stars came out. It got dark. He didn't even seem to remember that she was gone.

  She stayed out until ten—past her bedtime, even for summer. And when she finally came back in—she found him asleep on the sofa.

  There was the sound of clinking dishes in the kitchen. Becky supposed she ought to offer to help. Felicity had to be as tired as Taggart, and Becky knew she would smile and give her a hug. Felicity gave good hugs.

  But she didn't want one of Felicity's hugs right then.

  She wanted her dad's.

  She sat in Grandpa's old overstuffed chair where Taggart would see her when he woke up.

  He did, half an hour later. He blinked and frowned at her as he hauled himself to a sitting position and glanced at his watch. "What are you still doing up? Go to bed."

  So she'd gone to bed.

  But not to sleep.

  She'd fumed silently until she was sure they'd forgotten her, though she doubted it would take that long. And then she slipped out of bed and went to sit at the top of the stairs to listen.

  She didn't know what she expected to hear. She knew what she hoped to hear. She wanted to hear her father say he regretted snapping at her this evening. She wanted to hear him say what a good kid she was.

  But they weren't talking about her at all.

  "A divorce? Mace and Jenny?" Taggart lowered his voice, but not much. "I don't believe it!"

  Neither did Becky. She felt like she'd been punched in the belly.

  "I didn't believe it, either," Felicity said. "But apparently he moved out a couple of weeks ago."

  Becky's jaw dropped. Then Mace hadn't been just staying at the cabin for a few days.

  "Moved out?" Taggart's voice rose again.

  "That's what Jenny said. She didn't say where."

  "Question is why," Taggart muttered.

  Amen, Becky thought. She tried to remember anything Mace might have said that would answer it. Nothing came to mind. He'd been short-tempered, she remembered. He'd almost sent her away.

  "Jenny didn't say," Felicity was saying. "She wouldn't."

  He was pacing now. Becky could hear him. She unfolded enough to lean around and peek past the banister to try to see his face.

  Taggart raked a hand through his hair. "Maybe they just had a fight. Maybe he just left to cool off."

  "For two weeks? He got a lawyer."

  "A lawyer? Mace?" Taggart was incredulous.

  So was Becky. Mace wasn't a lawyer sort of guy. As far as Becky knew, he never turned to anyone else for anything. And he always tackled things head-on.

  Old-f
ashioned, her grandpa called it. It was a compliment.

  Becky could go along with that. Of course as far as she was concerned, Mace Nichols could do no wrong.

  So, if he and Jenny had problems, how come he wasn't solving them by himself?

  How come he was getting a lawyer—and a divorce?

  She edged forward, hoping her father had the answer to that.

  "I asked her if she wanted you to talk to Mace, but she said no," Felicity was saying. "It wouldn't do any good."

  "It wouldn't," Taggart agreed. "He's as stubborn as Aunt Harry's mule." He scowled and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. "What the hell's wrong with him? He's been in love with Jenny since he was wet behind the ears." He sounded angry now, as if Mace was letting him down, too, and he stalked to the other end of the room.

  Becky wondered if anyone had considered that maybe it was Jenny's fault. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. There was no way she could point that out.

  She wrapped her arms around her knees tightly and rocked forward to see where her father was.

  A mistake.

  Before she could stop herself, she tumbled like a bowling ball all the way down the stairs! "What the—" Taggart barked.

  "Oh, heavens, Becky! Are you all right?" Felicity cried.

  When Becky stopped bouncing, she lay there a minute and wondered if she could pretend not to breathe until they gave her up for dead and buried her.

  Probably not.

  Reluctantly she opened her eyes. Felicity looked worried. Taggart looked, well, just short of murderous.

  Felicity crouched beside her, patting her. "Where does it hurt, honey?"

  "I can tell you where it's going to hurt," her father said ominously. "Get up."

  Felicity shot him a hard look. "For goodness' sake, Taggart. She might have broken something."

  Taggart's gaze met Becky's. If she thought he'd barely seen her earlier this evening, she was under no such illusion now.

  She wiggled experimentally, as Felicity patted her all over. Nothing hurt that much. She struggled to sit up.

  "I'm okay. I just … tripped." Her gaze slid away from her father's.

  "Tripped?" It was hard to believe a man could get that much disbelief in one word.

  Maybe, she thought glumly, it was because she gave him so much practice.

  "Um," she said. She got to her feet, trying to smile at Felicity to reassure her.

  Felicity didn't look reassured.

  All of a sudden there was a wail from upstairs. Felicity looked up. The first wail was joined by another one. And followed by the sound of Taggart gritting his teeth. He said a rude word under his breath and nailed Becky with a glare.

  She did her best to sidle out of reach.

  "You get one. I'll get the other," Felicity said to Taggart.

  Becky thought she was the one her father wanted to get.

  Taggart stood there, indecisive, his gaze still fixed on Becky. The wails grew louder and more insistent.

  "Oh, hell," he muttered. "Get to bed. But we're not finished, Rebecca. Believe me." Then he followed Felicity up the steps.

  Becky waited until they were both busy with Willy and Abby before she went after them. She climbed the stairs slowly and edged past the twins' room.

  She could hear the creak of the old rocker her grandma had rocked her in when she was little. She could hear the soft murmur of Felicity's voice as she soothed the baby she was nursing. She could hear her father's footsteps as he paced and jiggled and tried to distract the other twin. He was singing softly. It was a song she remembered him singing to her when she was little.

  Nobody heard her.

  It was just as well.

  Becky got to bed and slid between the covers.

  Then she lay there and tried to feel relieved that her dad hadn't yelled more or swatted her bottom. In the old days he wouldn't have been so easily distracted. She supposed she ought to be grateful to Willy and Abby for yelling their heads off.

  She twisted against the sheets, hoping to settle in. She tried to feel tired and content, the way she used to feel right after her dad and Felicity got married—as if finally things were all right in her world.

  But things weren't all right.

  Nothing was all right. And she didn't know what to do. It didn't seem as easy as the last time she'd had to fix things. Then it had been obvious what the problem was—and how to fix it. All she'd had to do was find her father a wife.

  She'd done that. Now they were supposed to live happily ever after. That was the way it worked. Wasn't it?

  Becky folded her hands and stared at the ceiling. "If this is happily ever after," she told God, "You've got a little work to do."

  It was the middle of the night and she was still awake and no nearer figuring out how to help God sort things out, when Becky remembered what Felicity had said about Mace and Jenny getting a divorce.

  Becky's eyes shot wide open as the implications hit.

  Her stomach clenched. So did her toes and fists.

  Did that mean God had been listening to all those childish ramblings she'd shared with Him all those years ago?

  Back then—she must have been five or maybe six—she'd wanted to marry Mace. But Mace was already married. Becky wasn't sure how to dispose of Jenny until she came up with the idea of them getting a divorce so Jenny could marry her dad.

  Once or twice she might have even prayed for it to happen. Well, all right, she had prayed for it to happen. But that was before she got older and knew better and figured out that just as Felicity was the right woman for her dad, Jenny was the right woman for Mace.

  Then she'd stopped praying for it, though she'd never stopped loving Mace.

  So, what was this?

  Some sort of delayed reaction? An incubation period, like when she got the chicken pox a couple of weeks after she'd been exposed to Tuck's?

  Did God have some sort of divine in-box where her request kind of got shoved to the back for a few years and just now came to His attention?

  And if so, did that make Mace and Jenny's divorce her fault? The thought made her stomach hurt.

  "I didn't mean it," she told God. "I was just a little kid."

  If that made any difference to God, He didn't say. Becky waited, eyes on the ceiling, wishing He'd answer. But all she heard was silence.

  Finally she turned onto her side and curved herself around her pillow with the bronc rider pillowcase and tried to sleep.

  Then she remembered all the nights she'd pretended the pillow was Mace.

  She sat up and deliberately shoved it away.

  She could see it still, though, out of the corner of her eye. Her stomach didn't hurt now, but it felt hollow and cold where the warmth of the pillow had been. She tried hugging her arms across her chest. It didn't help.

  She couldn't go to sleep without her pillow.

  Was Mace sleeping alone tonight wishing he was holding Jenny?

  Becky sat up again and picked up the pillow. She tugged the pillowcase off and set it on the nightstand next to her bed. The pillow looked lumpy and old and sort of forlorn without it. She knew how it felt.

  The ticking scratched her cheek. She didn't care. She laid it down and settled next to it, curving her body around it once more.

  That felt a little better.

  She could still see the pillowcase. Putting out her hand, she touched the edge of it, rubbed it between her fingers, then closed them over it.

  "It'll be all right, Mace," she said softly, hoping it was true.

  She still had it twined between her fingers when she fell asleep.

  Life went on.

  Wasn't that what the sitcoms said? Of course it did. Jenny knew that. "There is life after divorce," her friend Mary Alice at the beauty parlor, who'd had five husbands, told her. Of course there was.

  But Jenny didn't want to find out. "I'm not getting a divorce," she told Mary Alice.

  "Maybe not," Mary Alice said. "But Mace is."

  "
Not if I don't agree."

  Mary Alice made a tsking noise. "That's where you're wrong, kiddo. Doesn't matter whether you want it or not. This is a no-fault state."

  Jenny knew there was no fault in the split between Mace and her—unless you counted his pigheadedness.

  She found out a couple of days later that by no-fault, a lack of pigheadedness wasn't what the Montana legislature had in mind.

  What they meant, Jenny learned by going down to the courthouse in Livingston and reading the laws, was that if Mace could prove he and his wife had lived apart for 180 days, he could get a divorce from her whether she wanted him to or not.

  "Damn it!" She slammed the book shut.

  Three clerks and a patron jumped.

  "Sorry," Jenny muttered. She gathered up her things and left, still fuming. How dare legislators mess up her life this way? What did they know about the vagaries of marriages? What did they know about pigheaded, stubborn cowboys who were too damn noble for their own good?

  Nothing, obviously.

  Well, if that was the law, that was the law. She wasn't going to be able to get it changed.

  So she had—she calculated as she hurried back to her car—164 days to change her misguided husband's mind.

  Even for a man as stubborn as Mace, surely that would be enough.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  On Saturday morning when Mace showed up at Taggart's to help out with the bull-riding school, he could tell they knew.

  Not about his infertility—he still could barely make himself think the word—he knew Jenny wouldn't have betrayed his privacy about that.

  But she had obviously told people they were getting a divorce.

  He could see disapproval in the hard stares Taggart and Noah gave him when he got out of his truck.

  He could feel the censure in Jed's narrow gaze.

  He tried to ignore it. He knew they wouldn't challenge him directly. He'd have told them to mind their own business if they had.

  He hoped they'd be polite, tolerant. They were simply silent.

  "Want some help with the bulls?" he asked Jed, doing his best to sound everyday natural.