The Rancher's Baby Proposal

by Barbara White Daille

  Can’t afford to have any of the herd run off or let any of the ranch go to seed. This will all be yours someday, Reagan.

  He crossed the room to the bookcases and looked down at the ceramic dogs and horses Ally had dusted the other day. “Inside the house, as you already saw, he was always making something for me or Mom. These bookcases here, the display racks in the kitchen for her china, the shelves and the bedroom set in my room. In his own way, Dad was as much into handiwork as Mom was.”

  “And your mama made your quilt.”

  He turned to face her again. “My quilt. All my baby outfits. And my pajamas and my shirts for school. Costumes for Halloween. My first cowboy shirt and pair of chaps. She even made me a couple of cowboy hats.” He smiled. “Vacations were few and far between, but when we did go away, I drew the line. Everywhere we went, I wanted an official souvenir T-shirt for my collection.”

  “And the mouse ears?”

  He laughed. “Yeah. That year, I wanted the mouse ears, too. And my parents got them for me, though Mom probably could have made me some just as good.”

  “What about here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you traveled, you wanted souvenirs. What did you want when you were home?”

  “I wanted...”

  This will all be yours someday...

  “I wanted to work the ranch,” he confessed. “Beside my dad. Beside my own sons someday.” He said it with conviction, because he meant it. Working and sometime in the far future owning the ranch had always been his dream.

  “Then how can you leave?” she asked. “Why won’t you stay?”

  He hesitated, but there was no point in holding back now. “It’s not the same without them here.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “It can never be. You’re closest to your parents, usually, from the time you’re born until you grow up and start a family of your own. The way you have with Sean. Of course you know that. Of course you’d be sad at the way things turned out with your father. But you have all those good memories of them both to hold you here.”

  Again, he had to think before he spoke. He’d already told her more than he’d wanted to. Not all, but more than felt comfortable. He would tell her only one more thing, only because she needed to know the truth. “After what happened with my dad, everything changed. And it never crossed my mind to want to stay in Cowboy Creek now that my parents are gone.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ll be devastated when the time comes and my own mama and papa are gone. But I’ll want to stay here, because I know I’ll have support from my friends. From everybody in Cowboy Creek. They’ll be there for me then. They’re here for you and Sean now.”

  She smiled. “You have such strong ties to this town, so many people who care about you and Sean. Your parents’ old friends, your friends, everyone at the Hitching Post. You won’t be lonely, that’s for sure. And you won’t be sorry you stayed.”

  When he said nothing, she walked over to the crib and looked down at the baby. “It’s not just you, Reagan. Think about Sean. This ranch is part of his heritage, one you’ll pass on to him. And long before that happens he’ll work beside you, just the way you wanted. Between the stories you’ll tell him and those he’ll hear from everyone else, he’ll be able to get to know his grandparents.”

  She turned to look at him again. “If you take Sean away from here, the only way he’ll know them is through you. You’d be cutting him off from so many memories others could share with him. From so many memories he can help you relive and he can make here—with you.”

  Her smile was soft and sympathetic. Happy and hopeful. Concerned and loving and kind.

  He couldn’t return that smile when he also couldn’t offer what she was asking for. He had to give her credit. She’d taken a good shot at trying to convince him. But he’d managed to resist.

  Shrugging, he said only, “Sometimes negative memories pack enough punch to eliminate the positive.”

  “Sometimes they do,” she agreed. “And sometimes we have to punch back.”

  * * *

  WHEN ALLY RETURNED to the house on Monday with Sean, everything was quiet. She called upstairs, but received no answer.

  “Oh, well,” she said, “your daddy must have decided to work outside in the barn again for a change.”

  After their talk on Saturday night, he had told her he would watch Sean himself on Sunday. He didn’t quite meet her eyes when he said it. Then again, he didn’t object when she simply said she would see him on Monday.

  Considering everything he had shared with her, she could understand he would want some time on his own. After all, she had told him herself what a proud man he was, just like his daddy. And she knew he was dealing with both hurt pride and painful memories. She wished he would let her help him. But at this point, the intuition she had come to rely on told her it was better not to reach out.

  “I think we’ll just stay here awhile, baby,” she told Sean. “We’ll go out to the barn later. You’re tired today, aren’t you? You’d better have a nap.” She wasn’t avoiding Reagan. The baby had been groggy on the ride all the way out to the ranch. Mrs. Browley informed her he had been cranky the entire time he was at her house, too.

  In the living room, she found the playpen close to the couch. She wondered what Sean and Reagan had been up to all day yesterday...without her.

  “It was awful, Sean, I know,” she told him as she settled him for his nap. “Every time I said something to your daddy, I could see the wall go up higher. It was a terrible story, a terrible thing to happen. You and he will probably talk about it someday. But until then, I don’t want you to worry about it, you hear me?”

  Sean didn’t respond. He was already fast asleep.

  Welcoming a distraction from her thoughts, she rested her hands on the edge of the playpen and smiled down at him. He was the cutest one-month-old she had ever seen.

  No, closer to a month and a half now, she realized in surprise. Sean and Reagan had been in town for almost two weeks. “I hope you stay longer,” she murmured to the baby. “I hope you and your daddy stay forever.”

  A loud thud came from almost directly above her head. She clapped her hand over her mouth to smother her startled cry. Then she realized there was no need. The noise from upstairs would have awakened Sean. She looked down. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t even blinked. What had Reagan done yesterday to make the baby so worn out today?

  And what was that noise?

  Reagan hadn’t answered her earlier, but he must have been in the house, after all. Maybe he had fallen. After a last quick glance at Sean, she rushed up the stairs.

  “Reagan?” she called.

  “In here,” he said from the direction of his room. She frowned. His voice sounded thick and sluggish, as if he were as tired as his son.

  She hurried the last few steps to his doorway.

  He sat on the edge of his bed. At his feet, a cardboard carton lay on its side on the varnished floorboards.

  “Are you okay? What was that noise?”

  “Box fell,” he said shortly.

  Kneeling, she turned the carton upright. Only then did she notice he was focused on several sheets of paper he held in one hand. The white stationery was filled with neat, sloping handwriting in purple ink and embossed with a border of violets.

  She knew what he was holding before he told her.

  “From my mom.”

  On the bed lay a white envelope that matched the stationery, with one word written in purple across the front of it.

  Reagan.

  For just a moment, she closed her eyes, praying she would find the right words to say. When she opened her eyes, he looked dazed.

  She rested her hand on his knee. “What is it?”

  “A letter she wrote just
before she died. For me to open...after she was gone.” He gestured to the carton. “She...she wanted me to have these things for my family. For my future kids.”

  She blinked away the tears burning her eyes. “Do you want to go through them now?”

  “Now or never.”

  His effort to act offhand while his voice still sounded thick from his own tears made her eyes fill again.

  He knelt beside her and, one by one, began unwrapping the tissue paper from each item he took from the carton, creating a neat stack that grew and grew and grew.

  All handmade items knitted or sewn with love and care.

  Tiny hats and sweaters. Pairs of baby booties.

  Nightgowns and pajama sets in soft cotton, some printed with hearts and flowers, others with cowboy hats and lassos.

  Two small afghans in pastel colors.

  A one-piece footed jumper in red cotton with white snaps and Baby’s First Christmas embroidered across the front in white thread.

  The lettering blurred as her eyes filled with tears again. She thought of Reagan’s mama making all these tiny items for grandchildren she had known she would never see.

  Swallowing hard, she stroked the soft material. “It’s big enough to still fit Sean at Christmas.”

  He nodded. He set the tissue paper and the jumper on the pile. Then he reached into the box for the last wrapped item. Much larger than all the rest, the package filled the bottom of the carton.

  It held a quilt made of large, wide-bordered squares. Folded as it was, she could see only a half dozen of the squares. They were all made from cotton swatches embossed with logos and pictures.

  The Alamo. San Diego Zoo. Yellowstone National Park.

  She gasped and, like the embroidery on the jumper, all the words blurred. “Reagan. They’re from your souvenir T-shirts, aren’t they?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She sat silently, waiting as he refolded the paper around the quilt and dropped the bundle back into the box. As he scooped up the orderly pile of tiny gifts and placed them on top of the quilt. As he rose to his feet and crossed the room to set the box on the desk in the corner.

  He stood looking down at it, his back to her. “My dad never told me.”

  She swallowed hard, recalling what he had said on Saturday.

  The day I left for school we had another fight. And he told me never to come back again.

  “After your fight...did you talk to him again before you left for Houston?”

  He shook his head. “My mom wrote to me. For a while. Till she got sick.” He put his hand flat on the box. “Her letters stopped coming and I didn’t know why, but I was wrapped up in studying and midterms and work. Before I had a chance to call, my dad contacted the school, telling them to inform me she had died.” He turned to look at her. “You know I wasn’t here for the funeral.”

  She nodded. Everyone in Cowboy Creek had known. To her knowledge, no one had ever learned why he had never come home.

  “The notification arrived after everything was over.”

  Her breath jammed in her chest.

  “I regret what happened between me and my dad,” he said evenly. “Every day. But I regret that most of all. Because of me—”

  “No. Not because of you.” She went to stand beside him. “You said yourself, you were trying to help your father the way you thought was best. The way you thought would be easiest for him.”

  “Yeah. Well.” His eyes looked empty. He stared at the box again. “I guess not telling me about this—or about my mom dying—was what he thought was best, too.”

  Her throat tightened. She could see how much he was hurting, and yet she didn’t know what else to say.

  She didn’t want to say anything. She didn’t want to comfort him with words. Just as she had on Saturday, she wanted to put her arms around him and hold him close.

  The instinct that had guided her that night, telling her not to approach him, had gone quiet. Very quiet.

  She wouldn’t have listened now if it had screamed in warning.

  She touched Reagan’s arm, then reached up—way up—with both hands to rest them on his shoulders, the way she had done the day he had first kissed her. Only this time, she was going to kiss him.

  She was. Not flirty Ally. Not quiet Ally. Just Ally. The one who loved him and always had and who wanted to give him comfort.

  She stood on tiptoe, cupped his face, urged him down to meet her.

  He slid his arms around her waist and tilted his head toward hers.

  And suddenly, she was no longer the one kissing him. He took charge, took her mouth, reached up to slide his hand down her back, his fingers caressing her braid. An uncontrollable shiver raced through her.

  He must have felt her tremble. His response came instantly, a heavy weight pressing against the top of her jeans.

  He scooped her up as easily as he had scooped up the carton from the floor.

  The bed stood only a few steps away. He set her down there as though she were something precious, something that might break if he didn’t take care enough.

  His mouth was gentle on hers.

  At first.

  By the time he undid her buttons and slipped his hand beneath her blouse, she was shivering again with desire and need and nervous anticipation.

  She might have lost the initiative, might have given over control, but at that moment, nothing mattered.

  Nothing.

  Except that this was Reagan Chase. And he was going to make love with her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lying in bed with her eyes closed, Ally smiled.

  Reagan had gone downstairs to check on the baby, and she now heard the padding of his bare feet as he approached her across the wooden floor.

  “Still sleeping,” he murmured, sliding beneath the sheet with her again. “How about you?”

  She opened her eyes. He was propped up on one elbow, looking down at her. “Am I still sleeping? You mean you think I slept through any part of...what we just did?” Her face heated.

  As if knowing the reason for her blush, he smiled and shook his head. “Ally. What am I going to do with you?”

  “The same thing you just did a while ago, please.”

  Now he laughed. With his free hand, he picked up some of her curls and let them drift down to spill across her shoulder. “What is this? I take off that one tiny ribbon and quiet little Ally becomes the flirt again?”

  “You took off more than just a ribbon,” she protested.

  “Well, don’t give me all the credit. Seems to me I had a little help from you.”

  “You did not.”

  He laughed again. He had laughed a lot this afternoon. She had wanted to give him comfort, and it had led to so much more.

  She rested her hand flat against his chest, loving the heat and the hardness and the strength of him. “You didn’t have any help from me with your clothes, either. But I seem to remember you were eager to take them off.”

  He brushed her hair aside and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “You made me that way.”

  She blushed again. She’d never felt more shy, more powerful, more happy than she did right now. “I love you, Reagan.”

  He stilled, looking down at her.

  She smiled. “And I hope I can make you that eager again real soon.”

  He reached up to squeeze her fingers, then lay her hand flat on the bed.

  “Don’t worry if you’re not up for it right now,” she teased. “We’ll have plenty of chances to try again. But for those future times, we’ll probably need to get another babysitter.”

  It took her a moment to realize he hadn’t responded. It took her another second to realize there was more space between them on the bed.

  Reagan
stood.

  A dull pounding started in her temples. He was getting dressed.

  This wasn’t good.

  “Reagan?” She pulled the sheet with her as she scooted back to lean against the headboard. “Where are you going?”

  He turned to face her and zipped his jeans.

  “Ally, I’m sorry.” He shook his head impatiently. “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m not sorry. I don’t at all regret what we did. But future times, trying again, that’s not going to happen. I didn’t mean for anything to happen this time.”

  She knew what was coming, knew she didn’t want to hear it, yet couldn’t catch enough breath to tell him to stop.

  “I didn’t intend to sleep with you. But I got carried away. Very quickly. And it was... You were...” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad I got to...to help you be able to move on.”

  Astonishment forced her choked response. “Move on?” Hurt and anger suddenly broke the tension locking her throat. “You can’t possibly believe that’s what this was about.”

  He glanced at the doorway.

  He did believe it.

  Tears threatened, but she willed them away. “Searching for an escape route now, Reagan? Looks like you’re getting ready to move on, too. You’re so willing to be helpful, explaining what this was to me. What was it to you? A roll in the hay? A slam-bam? A chance to let the girl finally get laid?”

  “No. Stop. It wasn’t that at all. It was... I was... I wanted to be your first.”

  “Oh-h-h. Well, thank you so much. Now that you’ve done me that great honor, if you wouldn’t mind leaving the room, I’d like to get dressed.”

  “Wait—”

  “As I just said, if you wouldn’t mind leaving...”

  Both to her relief and dismay, he turned and walked from the room.

  She buried her face in the sheet that still smelled of his cologne and fought not to burst into tears.

  * * *

  “DON’T LOOK TO me for advice when you start dating,” Reagan muttered to Sean, who looked up at him from his infant seat on the kitchen table. “When it comes to women, you and I both know I never get things right.”