“Maybe a scoop. I’ve got to go but I wanted to talk to you alone before I do.”
Panic rushed him. Dammit, that kiss had given her ideas he hadn’t been in favor of encouraging.
“Felicia…”
Mrs. Krauss interrupted by taking Felicia’s hand and pulling her toward the ice-cream maker.
“Hurry, scoop it up before it melts,” she said.
Felicia tried to resist. “But—”
She was dragged away by the bigger woman, casting a helpless glance back at Jackson. He took a moment to thank Mrs. Krauss and her bossiness.
There would be no more kisses for him. No more of this madness or the growing need to rely on Felicia’s bright nature.
Bobby’s presence would be a thorn in his side, but he would overcome the agony, keep traveling that new road he’d chosen because the little boy needed a problem-free environment right now—not a wrangler with an allergy to children.
As the distance grew between him and the woman he’d held in his arms today, Jackson breathed easier.
Even if he suspected his nightmares would burn him alive tonight.
Chapter Seven
“S he returns in victory,” Carlota said.
It was the morning after Felicia had come back from the Hanging R, and she was just now getting ready to report back to Oakvale housekeeping duty. Carlota was leaning against her friend’s cottage wall after shutting the door and handing Felicia her mail. ABBA played on the boom box, as usual, and, as the blonde cha-cha-cha-ed to “Fernando,” she gestured for her fellow maid to sit on a beanbag.
The feisty housekeeper, dressed like Felicia in Oakvale’s black-and-white maid uniform, quirked her eyebrow and remained standing. After Emmy had married Deston, she’d left Carlota and Felicia to flip a coin over who would get to live in this quaint shelter in lieu of the mansion’s downstairs quarters, where most of the household staff dwelled.
And guess who’d come out on top? Yes, the same person who’d kissed Jack North yesterday.
In the meantime, Carlota was still doing her best to get over the fact that she’d lost the coin toss for the cottage, acting like she was a guest, probably just to get Felicia’s goat. Her friend was convinced the adorable quarters were meant to be hers. She hadn’t gotten a vision about it—she was just that stubborn. That was one reason she wouldn’t sit down and relax; the other had more to do with antsiness.
“Are you going to tell me about that big, dopey smile on your face or what?” Carlota asked.
Felicia sat on her bed and sorted through her mail with verve. “Things are great. Rip’s nephew is somewhat settled in, and I think he’s latched on to me. He asked me last night whether I’d be around the ranch anymore.”
“And, naturally, you will be.”
Yes, thought Felicia. Not that she would use Bobby as an excuse to see Jack again, but life was making it pretty easy to do so. Truth was, Felicia had taken a great liking to Bobby and would have come back to the Hanging R to see him anyway.
But that happened with a lot of children, even though they all didn’t train big, sad blue eyes on her.
“Oh, yeah,” Felicia added, as if in afterthought, “and I kissed Jack.”
Carlota gave an excited hop away from the wall. “I knew it! Was it…I don’t know. Worthy of the planets aligning?”
“Uh-huh.” Felicia sighed. “Very much so.”
While Carlota took up where Felicia had left off dancing to “Fernando”—one, two, cha-cha-cha—Felicia laughed and concentrated on the mail. And Jack. And that kiss.
The roughness of a five-o’clock shadow against her cheeks, the tempo of his quickened breathing…
Another sigh, then back to reality.
It was relatively boring, as far as mail went. There was nothing but catalogs she wouldn’t order from anyway. She wasn’t a big splurger, except when it had come to Bobby, she guessed. Sure, she was thrifty with the decent wages she earned but, unlike Emmy and Carlota, Felicia hadn’t fully embraced the same “poor complex” they’d all grown up with. In spite of the way Felicia, too, had wished to have nice dresses and pretty ponies like the wealthy guests who frequently visited Oakvale, she had never resented the Rhodes family for their riches or obsessed about what it would be like to have whatever she wanted.
Except when it came to family, of course. And being a woman.
Back in grade school, when she, Emmy and Carlota had attended those first life-altering sex-education classes, the teachers had talked about female reproductive systems and having babies. Felicia had gone home, unpacked all her old dolls and held them while a faraway longing took shape in her chest. She’d chattered nonstop to her now-long-deceased mother about the day she would marry a man who loved her and how they would make sons and daughters—just like all her relatives.
Her mom had hugged her, filling Felicia with joy, making her feel as if she belonged.
Years later, after that heartbreaking “woman’s trip” to the doctor, her dreams had smashed into a million shards.
Adoption is a good alternative, doctor after doctor had said. We can put you on medication, but even though it might help you with the pain you feel with intercourse and your period, it isn’t a cure. We can try surgery, but even that’s no guarantee.
Damaged.
A hollowness seized her. Why had she been given the capacity to love so openly and deeply when she would probably never be rewarded with her own child?
As ABBA and Carlota charged on, Felicia took a cleansing breath, shoving aside the threatening bitterness. Instead, she resumed her mail search, stopping cold when she came to a local newsletter announcing a rodeo that was coming to town.
Toby, the ex, was a featured bull rider.
Carlota danced to Felicia’s side, read the text, stopped. “He’s coming here to compete?”
“You’ve got it.”
Toby Baker. A good old boy with good old dreams. He’d wanted a big family with little rustlers who looked just like him, shaggy hair and all. She’d been very fond of Toby but, in hindsight, hadn’t been in love. Sure, she’d hoped every night that it would turn into something more, but it hadn’t. Even so, he’d had the power to crush her feelings with one horrified reaction.
A meal of sirloin, rosemary-laced green beans and fancy potatoes served amid candlelight and Beethoven. A confession from Toby—who’d slicked down his hair and had been wearing a tie even though Felicia had known it had to be choking him. A spark of optimism lighting her hopes after he’d told her he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life.
Until her confession.
The slow-dawning realization, pulling his lips into a half grimace.
We could adopt if surgery didn’t work, she’d said, grabbing at straws, knowing what his look meant because she’d seen it before with other boyfriends who’d gotten serious. Gradually, she’d learned to keep the matter to herself, until Toby and his “let’s be together forever” talk had come around.
Silently, they’d continued dinner and, later that night, he’d made the phone call to her.
Heck, Toby wasn’t her future anyway. Sure, he’d been the “last cowboy” she’d dated, but Jack North had to be the one instead.
Yet what if Jack reacted the same way? Would he ever want to kiss her again if he knew she didn’t have much chance of being whole?
Felicia refolded the newsletter and calmly put it on the bed. She still didn’t have the guts to tell Carlota about how Toby had treated her or even about how Jack might react. Voicing her fears would only make her feel worse.
Instead, she kept it all inside, putting on a sunny face.
She realized Carlota had been taking stock of her with a worried gaze.
Time for a change of subject. Pronto.
“Do you think Fritz still collects comic books?” she asked Carlota, referring to one of the kitchen workers.
“Are you kidding?” Concern lingered in Carlota’s dark eyes, but she knew better than to say anything once Felicia had made up h
er mind not to talk about it. “Fritz without his comics is like M&M’s without the colorful candy coating. Why?”
Bobby, that’s why. “I know a little boy who’d love to check out any decent books Fritz might want to spare.”
“Then let’s catch him before we start work.”
Thank goodness Carlota wasn’t asking more questions, because Felicia was in no mood to address them.
Not when she didn’t have any answers.
As the sun fell, painting the hilly landscape with brushstrokes of rust, gold and lavender, Felicia pulled into the Hanging R, her passenger seat filled with a box of non-vintage comics Fritz had given her. He’d had some hardbound “funnies” titles, like Captain Underpants and Scooby-Doo, books Fritz hadn’t cared too much about beyond one-time reads. Felicia had forked over thirty dollars to him, thinking it was a deal to procure these light, entertaining stories—no angst-ridden superheroes or end-of-the-world scenarios for Bobby.
She’d arrived just after dinner, in time to catch the hands settling around their campfire, Mrs. Krauss scurrying into the cabin with the dishes and J-Wayne trotting around to the back of the cabin in pursuit of a furry creature.
When Felicia got out of her Pontiac, Bobby was there to meet her as if he’d been rooted to this spot in the ground all along, waiting patiently.
Like yesterday, he was still much too serious for a kid, no smiles, no mischievous gleam in his eyes. Just a Spider-Man T-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes.
“Hi,” she said, taking the comics box out of the car. “Did you have fun today?”
She knew he wouldn’t be starting school until the fall and that gave him all kinds of time to waste on the ranch during the day. Rip had foregone his work duties to be with Bobby, and although Felicia admired him for it, she knew there was now one less worker to get the Hanging R back in fighting shape.
“Uncle Rip put me on a horse for the first time,” Bobby said.
Felicia couldn’t tell whether he’d liked that or not. “Did you fall off?” she joked.
He made a “phhfft” sound, shuffling his feet. “Of course I didn’t. Uncle Rip made me put on a hat and I rode old Candy Cane around and around.”
She knew Bobby probably meant safety helmet instead of hat. She started to walk toward the other adults, who were shouting out hearty welcomes. Waving at them the best she could with a box in her hands, she headed toward the lit porch, where she deposited her load.
Jack wasn’t with the others, and disappointment cloaked her, making the fading colors of the approaching night a little dimmer.
Curiously, the small boy pointed at her box. “What’s that?”
Felicia peeked inside, snapped the lid back down. “Something that doesn’t breathe or bark, but I think you’ll like them all the same.”
Bobby moved closer to her, sat on the porch steps and stared at the box as if that would make it open by itself.
Laughing, Felicia couldn’t stand to tease anymore. “Dig in. See how you like them.”
No time was wasted on Bobby’s part. With Christmas-morning pep, he flung off the lid, then got to his knees to peer inside.
“Whoa,” he said, reaching in and extracting an issue of Pokemon. “This is neat.”
She wondered how much he would be able to read, but knew he would be amused with the pictures. “I was betting you’d like these. Creative people usually do.”
“Thanks.” Immediately, Bobby flopped to his butt, burying himself in the vivid panels and dialogue bubbles.
He moved his mouth while trying to read, and warmth suffused her. Casually, she ruffled his hair, disturbing his curls. Bobby didn’t seem to mind—or maybe he was just too smitten with his presents to care.
When she finally glanced away from him, she realized they weren’t alone.
Jack was loitering near the side edge of the porch, under a slant of shadow. She hadn’t seen him there previously, seated on the ground with his legs drawn up, resting his forearms on his thighs while he whittled.
Under the brim of his hat, he was watching her and Bobby, his knife frozen over the wood, as if he’d been in the middle of a cut and hadn’t ever finished.
From the looks of it, he was in his own world, thinking his own random Jack North thoughts.
He’d been the same way last night, keeping his distance from Bobby, even though they’d been sitting right next to each other at the dinner table.
Didn’t he like children?
Uh-oh.
Felicia chanced a tiny wave at him, wondering if he was even aware she existed.
After a pause, he shook himself out of whatever reverie he was in, nodded back to her.
Went back to whittling.
Snick. Snick….
It was as if they didn’t even know each other.
Her heart dropped to her stomach, flopping around, making her a little ill.
What was with him?
Snick. Snick….
Silence.
He’d come to rest his forearms on his knees now. Huddled over, one hand pushed back his hat so that it exposed the rest of his face. A frown rested on his mouth. He shook his head, then glanced at her.
Well, darn it, if the mountain wouldn’t come to Felicia, Felicia would go to the mountain.
With a pat on Bobby’s leg, she climbed down to the ground, reassuring herself that the child was so caught up in his funnies that he didn’t even know she was gone. In a few more steps, she was in front of Jack, standing over him, still in sight of Bobby.
“Felicia,” Jack said by way of greeting.
He said it softly, gently. His low voice caressed her name, sending shivers over her skin, in spite of the night’s warmth.
“Jack.” She rested her hands on her hips. “What’re you doing over here in purgatory?”
His eyebrows raised, and the word earned a melancholy smile. “Purgatory. Not far from the mark.”
What was he talking about? And what was going on with his mood? She was all for a brooding cowboy, but not after what had happened between them yesterday. Jack was supposed to be the real thing—not some cooked-up fantasy.
Or…yeesh. Maybe she was wasting her time with him, throwing coins into a wishing well that had been dry for years.
“Well, then,” she said, “have a good sulk, Jack.”
She started to go back to Bobby, who’d stopped his comics-gazing long enough to smile at her.
Aw.
“Wait…Felicia.” Jack sounded exasperated—not with her, though. With himself. “I’m…just getting used to things around here lately. And I can’t say the overall tone of the Hanging R is sky high tonight.”
“Why?”
Jack folded the knife back into itself. “I finally talked Rip into selling some land. Six hundred acres, in fact. He’s inside right now, looking over the books, thinking up every excuse to hold on to his property. It’s been in the family for generations, so I can’t blame him for being stubborn. ‘No McCain has ever sold out,’ he keeps telling me.”
“Oh, jeez, Rip.” Why did the worst things happen to the best people? “I’m sorry to hear that.”
The thunk, thunk of footsteps on wood told her that Bobby was coming down the steps. Looking over, she saw that he had a comic book in hand, the pages flapping by his side.
As soon as the boy came to Felicia, Jack stiffened up.
Did his reluctance to mingle have something to do with Bobby, as well as the ranch? Did Jack blame the child for further ruining Rip’s circumstances? After all, it hadn’t escaped her attention that he thought the world of the old man and would defend him against anything.
“See?” Bobby said to Felicia, pointing to a picture of Captain Underpants battling some kind of booger monster.
“Pretty nasty there,” Felicia said, more out of life-disgust than snot abhorrence, because after hearing Rip’s news, she wasn’t really all that chipper anymore.
At the same time, she couldn’t help noticing that the boy kept shooting Jack inter
ested looks, much like he’d been doing with her last night—testing, seeking. Deciding whom he could trust.
Was Bobby as wary of Jack as the wrangler was of the child?
Great. More tension on the Hanging R.
Something protective within her stirred. She laid her hand on Bobby’s shoulder, lightly, merely for a moment. Enough to tell him she’d always be there.
The little boy went back to his comics, although he did stay by her side. It was enough for her.
Since dwelling on Rip’s economic plight was out of the question with Bobby here, she thought some small talk might be in order, a breezy conversation letting the boy know that everything was neat and tidy at his new home, that he wasn’t a burden to anyone.
That he was a part of the family now.
“Speaking of slimy stuff, how was Mrs. Krauss’s latest meal?” she asked Jack.
The wrangler visibly relaxed. “It wasn’t lasagna, but I can live with sauerkraut and sausage, I suppose. It fills the stomach nicely.”
“I want Mrs. Krauss to make spinach,” Bobby noted, glancing up from his book. “Just like Popeye eats.”
Jackson tried not to think about how his sons used to watch the sailor-man reruns on TV every Sunday morning. How he himself used to hunker down in front of the screen with them, Leroy cuddled in his lap as Lucas leaned against his arm. They’d laugh at the foiled antics of Popeye’s archenemy, Bluto, together, then try to convince Jenna to serve spinach for dinner.
It’d been the best way to make them eat vegetables, he thought, his heart cracking.
He kept his gaze on the folded knife, the formless piece of wood he’d been attacking earlier. Anywhere but on Bobby.
“I prefer broccoli, myself,” Felicia said to the child. “Covered in hollandaise sauce…mmm.”
“What’s holiday sauce?” Bobby asked, nose shriveled.
Jackson couldn’t help himself. “It’s something that hides the awful taste of broccoli.”
Bobby’s eyes widened, probably because the last thing he’d expected was to see Jackson addressing him. Ever.
Even Felicia seemed flabbergasted. Pleased, but flabbergasted.
Hell, he had it in him to relate to kids, too.
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