A Cowboy's Tears

by Anne McAllister

Taggart lifted his brows in surprise.

  But Becky held out her arms, and carefully Taggart put Willy in them.

  Her brother was much bigger than the last time she'd held him. He wiggled more. He held his head up. He waved an arm and smacked her in the face.

  She started in surprise, then laughed. "Not bad," she told him, looking over his head to meet her father's eyes. "But I think there's still a few things I can teach you."

  He would go see her in the morning.

  Before church. He would catch her before she left and he would say … he would say…

  He didn't know what he would say.

  What could a guy possibly say to the woman he loved and had left? How could he explain the pain he felt? How could he admit that he had never really considered hers?

  Of course she knew that. It was obvious.

  He shouldn't go.

  There would be no point.

  But there was a point. He understood something now he hadn't understood before. He understood about marriage being a give-and-take between two people. He understood that even though it was his infertility, he was her husband. What they did about it should have been a choice both of them made.

  He could tell her that.

  If she would listen.

  And he could tell her now as well as he could tell her tomorrow. There was no point in waiting.

  He was halfway down the mountain when he saw Becky coming his way on her horse. He slowed when she waved frantically at him.

  "What's up?" he asked.

  "You gotta stop 'em!"

  "Stop who?" He wasn't stopping anyone or anything, not until he talked to Jenny. "Twins givin' you trouble again?"

  "No. They're fine. You gotta stop Jenny. She's leavin' tonight with Uncle Tom. She's going to Iowa!"

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  « ^

  The words hit Mace like a sledgehammer to the heart.

  He couldn't find his voice. He could barely find his breath.

  "You're sure?"

  "That's what my dad says. An' my mom. We were s'posed to have dinner with him tonight at my grandparents'. But we didn't go 'cause, well, I climbed Tiptop and … and my dad came after me." She ducked her head a moment, and Mace got the feeling that there was a lot more to the story than that.

  He'd hear it sometime. Not now.

  "What's that got to do with Jenny going with Tom?"

  "Uncle Tom was gonna meet us at Grandma's. But when Daddy called Grandma to tell her we'd be late, she said Uncle Tom would be late, too, because he was stopping to pick up Jenny! And I told Daddy I couldn't go to Grandma's," she said urgently. "I had to come and tell you."

  Mace shut his eyes. He took a deep breath, but when he opened them again Becky was still looking at him, the same desperate expression on her face that he felt deep inside.

  "Maybe she was just going along to … to say goodbye."

  He was grasping at straws and he knew it. He didn't want to believe—wouldn't let himself believe—and yet in his gut he knew it was true.

  "Maybe," Becky said, but there was no doubt in her voice. She said it only to humor him. "But I don't think so. Come on, Mace. I bet you can catch her if you hurry."

  Still he hesitated. Obviously Jenny had made her decision.

  Or … had he made it for her? "What time does the plane leave?" he demanded.

  Becky beamed. "I knew it! I knew you loved her!"

  Mace stared at her.

  "Daddy thought I shouldn't come. He told me not to meddle." She wrinkled her nose to tell him what she thought of that idea. "But I told him you had a right to know 'cause I was sure you loved her. And then he said since he'd come to his senses today, he guessed you oughta have a chance to do it, too. So, have you?"

  Mace, not following entirely, said, "Have I what?"

  "Come to your senses. Realized you don't want a divorce."

  "I don't want a divorce," Mace said. He just hoped it wasn't too late to convince Jenny.

  "Good," Becky said. Then, "Why did you?"

  He knew Ian would never mention what he'd told him. He was not so convinced about Becky. But it was a question he was going to have to face if he got Jenny back.

  "I can't have kids," he told her.

  "So?"

  He stared at her. Did the words that had sounded so monumental in his head sound small to her? Well, of course they might. She wasn't affected by them.

  "Jenny wants a family," he explained patiently. "She's always wanted a child. And I'm—" he forced another word out "—sterile. I can't have any."

  "So get one." She gave him an impatient look.

  "It isn't that simple. You don't just drop into a supermarket or the hardware store. You can't get a family at Kmart."

  "You could adopt one."

  "It isn't the same."

  "Why not?"

  Why not? The question was so simple. The answer so … so…

  "You don't think Jenny could love a kid that wasn't hers?"

  "Of course she could!" Mace had no doubt about that.

  Becky shrugged. "Then, what's the problem? I know you can."

  He stared at her, not following her logic. His confusion must have been written on his face for she spelled it out. "You love me." It was that simple, after all.

  But just in case he didn't get it, Becky was willing to elaborate. She eased her horse up as close to the truck window as she could and leaned forward in the saddle. "And I love you, Mace." She met his gaze squarely, and he recognized the gift she was giving him. "If I was married to you, it wouldn't make any difference if you couldn't have kids."

  "It wouldn't?" But it wasn't really a question, because he could see the truth of her statement in her face.

  She answered him, anyway. "Of course not. I'd be sad 'cause I'd want 'em to look like you and prob'ly they wouldn't. And Jenny would prob'ly want that, too. You're pretty good-looking, you know." His mouth twitched at that.

  "But," Becky added, "she'd prob'ly be glad in another way."

  "How's that?" Mace asked.

  "If she was lucky, they wouldn't be as pigheaded stubborn as you are, either."

  God, he hoped Becky was right.

  He was staking his life on Becky being right.

  He drove as fast as the road would allow.

  If she hadn't left yet, maybe he could talk to her. Maybe he could tell her—convince her…

  But when he drove around the bend and saw the house, it was dark.

  He ran up the steps, anyway, calling her name, hoping against hope. But the house was dead quiet. There was no clutter. No dishes on the drainboard. Not even a dirty glass in the sink.

  He checked the bedroom, yanked open the closet door and saw exactly what he'd feared to see: her side of the closet was empty now, too.

  She was gone.

  And the airport was a good hour away. He ran back to the truck, jumped in and pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor.

  Montana didn't have a daytime speed limit.

  It did, unfortunately for Mace, have a nighttime one.

  He was frantic. Desperate. Furious when he saw those flashing red lights coming behind him. He was tempted to not stop. When he did, and the cop did a slow Western amble from the patrol car, he was tempted to gun the engine and drive off.

  But if he did, with his luck he'd get caught and hauled off to jail, and there would be no Rooster to call Jenny and no Jenny to come and bail him out.

  He sat and fumed while the cop wrote him the ticket. He gnawed his knuckles and tapped his fingers on the wheel.

  "Where you off to in such an all-fired hurry?" The cop tore the ticket off and handed it to him.

  "The airport."

  "Right." The cop nodded and waved him on his way. "Just don't fly until you get there."

  He parked in a no-parking zone. He practically vaulted over a couple coming out of the door. He ran all the way to the desk.

  "The flight to Minneapolis?" he gasped.

&
nbsp; The desk attendant pointed. Mace turned to see a plane hurtling down the runway and lifting off.

  The adrenaline that had got him down the mountain and over the pass drained right out of him.

  He felt weak. Dizzy. Sick.

  "I can get you a seat on the first flight in the morning," the attendant offered.

  Mace shook his head, watching as the plane rose higher, grew smaller, banked as it began to turn.

  "No," he said, his voice as hollow as he felt. "It's too late for that."

  He was numb as he walked back to the parking lot. His chest felt as if one of Taggart's bulls was sitting on it, pressing down, squeezing the air, the breath, the life right out. He stopped on the curb and tried to steady himself, to draw a breath, to move on.

  In the twilight he could see the lights of the plane as it completed its turn and headed east, taking Jenny away.

  Out of his life.

  And into Tom's.

  His eyes blurred; his throat tightened. He sank down on the curb and put his head in his hands.

  He wasn't aware of the footsteps until they stopped right in front of him. Even then, he didn't look up.

  "Mace?" Her voice was soft, hesitant, worried. Astonishing. Familiar.

  His head jerked up. "Jenny?"

  He lurched to his feet, stunned and self-conscious. He dragged a hand over his face. "What're you doing here?"

  She smiled faintly. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

  She stood looking at him warily, a suitcase in her hand, another at her feet. She pressed her lips together nervously, looking at him, then away, then back at him again.

  Waiting. For him.

  And so he told her.

  The words weren't pretty. He'd never be an orator. He stumbled over them, trying to explain the hurt, the pain.

  "You asked to talk. You wanted to talk. But I couldn't. Not then. All I could feel was the pain. It wasn't just being told I couldn't do the main thing that makes a guy a man. That was bad enough. Hell, it was terrible. But just as bad, maybe worse, was that I also knew I'd failed you."

  "You didn't—"

  He cut her off. "I thought I had. I believed I had. I knew how much you wanted children. It was your dream—"

  "You were my dream."

  "Children with me, maybe," he allowed. "But when I couldn't have any, I assumed you wouldn't want me. I was scared you wouldn't want me," he corrected himself. "So I took the decision out of your hands. I told myself I was being almighty generous letting you out of our marriage." His mouth twisted with self-recrimination as he said the words. He bowed his head. "What I was doing was being an almighty coward. And I was failing our marriage, too."

  He stopped talking then. And the silence seemed to go on and on. He felt it grow around him like the onset of a Montana winter—hard and deep and numbingly cold. He couldn't look at her.

  And then he felt the warmth of a hand against his cheek. A soft touch. A gentle stroke. A lingering.

  He lifted his head.

  "I was so hurt," she said softly, her hand still on his cheek. "When you left, I wanted to die. I didn't know how-to reach you, how to get you to trust me enough to keep our lives together. I thought I could wait you out. I thought you would come to terms … realize it was important, but not most important. But you never did. You asked for a divorce!"

  Mace listened. For the first time he heard it all from her point of view. He understood now the pain she felt had nothing to do with his not being able to have children.

  "Even after we made love that night," she whispered, "you left again."

  "I saw the picture," he told her. "Of Tom and his daughter. I saw the dishes."

  "Dishes?" She wasn't following. He couldn't blame her.

  "I thought you wanted him," he said simply.

  "And I thought, fine, if that's the way he feels, I'll go," she said. "Tom's a good man. A kind man." She dropped her hand.

  He said tonelessly. "I know."

  And he knew if she went to Tom—after all he'd done to drive her away—it was no more than he deserved.

  "I was going with him," she said in a low voice. "I packed. I got all the way to the airport. I couldn't get on the plane." She lifted her gaze and met his. "He's a good man, but he's not my man. When I married you, Mace, I married you for ever and always. In all ways," she added fiercely. "I'll never love anyone else the way I love you."

  It was more than he deserved. It was more than he dared hope for. It was everything he would ever want—Jenny's love—for the rest of his life.

  "I came after you," he said brokenly. "I wouldn't blame you if you said it was too late. I would understand if you told me to go to hell. But I hope to God you won't. Ever." He pulled her into his arms then, and held her close, his forehead resting on hers, her lips touching his own. "I know I hurt you. I know I wrecked our marriage. Help me put it back together again. Help me make it right."

  Jenny's eyes were shining. Her smiling lips were trembling. "You mean it?"

  Mace nodded. "I mean it. There's nothing I can say that will change what I did, except what you already know—I was selfish. I was foolish. I was wrong. I'm sorry. And … I love you, too."

  It was December.

  The night was crystal clear and cold. The snow was thick on the ground. But it wasn't snowing now. The runway was clear. The plane would be landing soon.

  They stood, Mace's arm hugging Jenny's shoulder, Jenny's arm around his waist, as they watched and waited.

  The phone call had come three months ago on a crisp fall day. Mace had finished moving the cattle down that afternoon. They were going to be shipping on Friday. Jenny had taken the day off school to help sort and shape up the herd. She was even going to miss her lit class at the university tonight so she could help.

  Mace had told her she didn't have to.

  She'd said, "I want to."

  And that was why she had still been at home when the phone rang.

  Mace had answered it, heard the crackle of a long-distance connection, the lag and then the faint, "Mace? Is that you? Ian here."

  He stood watching the sky now, waiting to catch the first glimpse of tiny blinking lights—lights that meant a plane was coming—and he remembered how delighted he'd been, how glad he was to hear Ian's voice, how eager to tell Ian he'd come to his senses, that he'd realized what Ian had—that marriage was for better or worse—and that he and Jenny were together again.

  But Ian already knew.

  "Talked to Maggie last week," he'd said. "I have to say, I'm glad. I also have to say, I'm not surprised."

  And then he had got to the point.

  "Now that you're back together, I wonder if you're considering a family?"

  "I can't have kids, Ian. Remember?" It still wasn't easy to say, but he managed it.

  "I remember," Ian said gently. "But there's more than one way to have a family. That's why I'm calling. I have three children here I'd like to see become yours."

  Mace stood dumbfounded, unable to say even one word.

  "Shocked you, have I?" Ian chuckled. "Never considered it?"

  "Yes." They had, just these past weeks. They'd gone so far as to start checking out agencies. "But … th-three?"

  Mace remembered that he'd almost lost his grip on the receiver then. His mouth had gone dry, his stomach flip-flopped. He'd looked wildly around the room.

  "What's wrong?" Jenny asked. She was looking at him worriedly from where she was making spaghetti sauce at the stove.

  Mace couldn't answer. Ian was talking, anyway—explaining—and it was all he could do to listen.

  "A family I knew quite well," Ian was saying. "The parents were killed in the earthquake. They left a boy who's seven, a girl, five, and another boy who's not quite three. They have a grandmother here, but she can't raise them. She's not all that well. So I've been talking to her, discussing alternatives."

  "Alternatives." Mace managed a barely credible echo.

  "And she'll let them go … if I tell
her they'll have parents who will love them … if I can promise they'll go to a good home." He paused. "I can't think of anyone who'd be a better father and mother than you and Jenny, Mace."

  Mace hadn't known what to say.

  He'd looked at Jenny, who was still looking at him with a quizzical, slightly worried expression on her face.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  He nodded numbly. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard.

  "Let me talk to my wife, Ian. I'll call you back."

  Then he hung up and told Jenny what Ian had said. Jenny didn't believe him.

  "Children? Three of them?" She shook her head. "That isn't funny, Mace."

  No, it wasn't funny. It was exhilarating—and it scared him to death.

  "He means it, Jenn," he said with a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

  "Call him back," Jenny demanded. "Tell me about these children. Tell me more."

  Mace called. He and Ian talked. Then Jenny and Ian talked. Then he and Jenny talked all night. For the first time in memory, with shipping only three days off, Mace didn't even think about shaping up the herd.

  "It would mean a huge change," Jenny said cautiously. She looked like she didn't want to hope.

  "Yep," Mace agreed.

  "It wouldn't be just the two of us. There would be five of us—all at once."

  "Yep."

  "That's pretty daunting."

  "It is." He was smiling all over his face.

  She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  "Buying the ranch was pretty daunting," he reminded her. "Starting the herd was a risk. Building the house was a commitment."

  "It's not the same," she said.

  But he knew what she wanted. It was the same thing he wanted. He didn't look away.

  She swallowed and gripped his hands hard. "Are you sure, Mace? What do you really think?"

  "I think I love you, Jenny. I think—I know—you love me. I think we are being given what we've said we wanted for years. We've got enough love to spare, enough to share." He leaned forward and laid a kiss on her lips. "And any kids who get to call you Mom are going to be the luckiest kids on earth."

  She had smiled then.

  And, drawing her close and holding her tight against his heart, so had he.