THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  "Back when we had money," Dean said under his breath. When Amelia glanced up in question, he told her, "We got a loan to help pay off the Blond Widow's debts."

  "The Blond Widow?"

  "Timmy's mom. Laura hung Luke out to dry before she headed for the hills, and we ended up footing the bills."

  Brooks gave his brother a pointed look. "And we'd do it again in a heartbeat."

  "Right." He scoffed. "Like the interest alone ain't killing us."

  "Man." Mitch shook his head. "If she ever shows her face around here…" Tough words, but the slight waver in his voice betrayed him.

  Dean, too, cast an anxious glance at Brooks. This was their worst fear—that Timmy's mother would show up and want him back. "Nah," Brooks said with more confidence than he felt. He didn't want his brothers to worry. He was worried enough for all of them. "Chances are, she's probably moved on to her next victim."

  "Yeah." Mitch hopped onto the bandwagon. "It's her nature. Like a black widow spider's. Eat your mate and move on to the next sucker."

  "Good riddance to bad rubbish," Dean chimed in.

  All of a sudden, Timmy's face scrunched up and turned beet-red, but before he could let his wail rip free, Amelia hoisted him out of the high chair and onto her lap. Rubbing his back, she crooned softly to him until he settled down.

  "Better?" she whispered, stroking his hair. And then she turned her gaze to them. "He picks up on your tension," she said, her own voice unsteady, as if the baby wasn't the only one. "I don't think you should talk about … the Blond Widow—" she dropped her voice to a whisper "—around him."

  At her quiet voice of reason, Brooks felt two inches tall. He could still remember the icy dread in the pit of his stomach, sleepless nights he'd spent as a boy, lying in bed, overhearing his father's angry voice. Sometimes loud, sometimes not, it never mattered if he could hear the words. The tone had spoken volumes. And made Brooks's skin crawl.

  "Sorry," he said. "It won't happen again." He looked to Mitch and Dean for agreement and saw a reflection of his own shame on his brothers' faces. They'd been too young to share his memories, his nightmares, but each would have gone to hell and back for Timmy, and they were trying, as Brooks was, to raise their nephew to the best of their abilities.

  "It's okay," she said. "We … all stumble sometimes."

  He doubted it. Not her. She didn't seem the stumbling type when it came to babies. Memory or not, she was blessed with a built-in instruction manual.

  He only hoped he could learn from her.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  "Doing okay?" Brooks asked as he moved Timmy's high chair aside to pull his playpen to the head of the table.

  They'd finished eating a while ago, but no one was in any rush to get up and go just yet.

  Amelia handed Timmy a ball. "Doing fine." She smiled a little too quickly and a little too brightly. When Brooks narrowed his gaze, she glanced around, searching for an accomplice to help her change the subject, but Mitch and Dean were discussing weather as a genuine topic of interest rather than filler, absorbed in conversation.

  "You're not a very good liar," he said, and she could tell he was genuinely concerned.

  She bit her lip. "I'm scared about this memory loss."

  "I'd be surprised if you weren't. Me, I'd be climbing the walls, but you're cool as a cucumber. On the outside," he noted. "Gotta wonder what's going on inside."

  Inside, her brain felt like scrambled eggs. But she wasn't going to tell him that. "I feel things," she said. "But I have no explanations for what I feel."

  "Hmm. Nothing's rattling around?"

  "Oh, there's lots of rattling, but nothing giving way." She saw dried pie on Timmy's face and reached for a napkin, dipped the edge in her water glass and wiped his mouth. Her gaze lingered, her heart warming as he happily clapped two plastic cups together, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  It was odd, but she drew strength from him. She was motivated to get well not only for herself but for him, so she could provide him with the best possible care. She did take this job personally. That realization helped her work up the nerve to acknowledge the inevitable.

  "I should get those tests tomorrow," she said, hiding her shaking hands in her lap. It didn't matter if she was scared. This was the right thing to do, and she wanted—needed—to do the right thing.

  "I'll go with you."

  She glanced up. "You would?"

  "If you want."

  Of course, as her employer, he was concerned for her health. And as a woman with no memory of her past, she couldn't risk jeopardizing her present much longer—she had to get better. "I … I'd like that. If you could spare the time…"

  "Hey, guys?" He caught his brothers' attention. "You mind handling the maternity ward on your own tomorrow, so I can run Amelia into town?"

  Mitch leaned back and patted his stomach. "No problem. We got it covered."

  "Great." Brooks turned to her. "Looks like a date."

  A date. Why did the word on his lips make her mouth go dry? She swallowed and shifted in her seat. "I, um, really appreciate everything you've done. You hardly know me—"

  He held up a hand. "We know what we need to know." He tipped his head toward his nephew. "The chief here's a real good judge of character, and he's given you the thumbs-up."

  Timmy piped up with an encouraging string of babble, tossed his cups and started banging on his play piano.

  "See?" Brooks smiled. "He's never been this happy for this long. It's like he can tell—the long, hard winter's over, and spring is in the air. Isn't that right, chief?" He reached over the edge of the playpen and picked up a beanbag turtle. "Who's this? Is it Myrtle the Turtle?"

  Amelia smiled. There was something endearing—and attractive—about a big, strong man gentling his voice to talk to a baby. She didn't know why, but she wanted to thank him for it. Instead she issued a blanket thanks, for everything. "I mean it. I don't know how to repay you—"

  "Look, we all pitch in around here. You take care of our little buckaroo, and we'll call it even. Deal?"

  "Deal."

  They played with Timmy a while before Amelia broached the subject Brooks suspected had been on her mind.

  "So, how bad are the finances?" she asked on a note of caution, as if stepping in known land-mine-ridden territory. "I-if it's none of my business—"

  "Your paycheck's your business. But don't worry, we can afford to pay you. It is tight," he said, "but we'll figure something out. We went through this when our old man kicked the bucket. Estate taxes nearly crippled us—we're still paying off those loans. But we weathered the worst of that. We'll weather this, too."

  What he didn't say, but what he and his brothers knew was with each generation, ranches changed ownership. Some sold out willingly; most had no choice, their outfits gone belly-up.

  In the back of his mind, Brooks always wondered if and when their house would be added to the collection of vacant homesteads of former ranch families.

  The old Hart place…

  "We could run a feedlot for extra income," Mitch said, stretching back in his chair. "Ranchers who want to plump their calves a bit before shipping can send them here. Or, we could diversify into sheep…"

  Dean coughed. "Dude ranch."

  "Then again," Mitch said, wiggling his eyebrows. "We could sell out for tourism, seeing how certain city slickers have a thing for cowboys, don't they, Dean?"

  "Wouldn't know, boss." Dean's foot found its way to his brother's chair and gave it a shove.

  Mitch's arm shot out to grab the table's edge before he toppled backward. Grinning, he lowered the legs of his chair to the floor with a resounding thud. "What you say, Brooks?"

  Brooks shrugged and rubbed his face. They'd had this conversation more than once. Though various possibilities intrigued him, the prospect of throwing good money after bad scared him worse. While he liked the idea of dude ranching, he didn't know the first thing about hospitality.
He was a cattleman, not an innkeeper. Nature, not choice. He wasn't like Jo, whose book smarts opened a world of possibilities, enabling her to live on the land, not off of it. Nor was he like Luke, who'd traded life in the saddle for the big city and a badge. Brooks couldn't see changing his calling to stay on the ranch any more than he could envision leaving.

  He was born a cowboy, and he'd die the same way.

  "Whatever we do, we need to look before we leap, so we don't wind up in a bigger pile of…" He glanced at Amelia. "I don't want to make any hasty decisions we'll live to regret." Leaning over the playpen, he lifted Timmy into his arms and stood up, cutting short the discussion. "If you'll handle cleanup, I'll go run the chief's bath and put him down."

  Mitch and Dean nodded, and Amelia got to her feet, too.

  "Why don't you let me do that?" She held out her hands. Timmy took one look at the offering and swiveled toward her, making his preference of caregivers known.

  "Easy, chief." Though regret poked Brooks's ribs as he lowered Timmy into Amelia's waiting arms, he told himself it was her job. He should be happy she was so good at it. He was happy. It just unnerved him to have Timmy choose her over him so soon, like he could tell, even at nine months, Brooks didn't have a clue, and Amelia was the real deal.

  "Hey, sweetie," she said, an undercurrent of excitement in her voice. "Guess what? It's bath time. That's right—your favorite."

  Brooks frowned. "How'd you know that?"

  At his question, she frowned, too. "I don't know. I guess I just noticed he liked playing in the water earlier."

  "He does." Brooks nodded. "If it were up to him, he'd stay in the tub until he shriveled up like a prune."

  "Well, we're not going to let that happen. Are we, little one?" She caught one of Timmy's hands and planted a noisy kiss on his knuckles. Timmy laughed and tried to stick his hand in her mouth. She tipped back her head and escaped, her own laughter spilling from her throat.

  At the sound, a faint ripple skimmed through Brooks's gut, like a stone tossed along the surface of a lake. Her laughter was like music. It made him want to pull her close, to dance with this woman who had brought sunshine and smiles into his nephew's life in the span of a few hours. It made him want to frame her face between his hands and thank her. It made him want her in a way that had nothing to do with gratitude and even less with good sense.

  Mitch and Dean looked on curiously.

  Brooks's instincts to protect kicked up, stomping out any desires he had to possess. Suddenly he wanted Amelia out of the kitchen, away from his brothers. Away from him. He coughed and cleared his throat. "Let us know if you need anything." His voice was rougher than intended, dismissive.

  She took the hint. "Good night, everyone."

  "'Night," they said in unison.

  * * *

  After cleaning up, Brooks and his brothers went out and checked the drop. Typically they fed pregnant cows more in the evening to encourage day calving. It might have been an old rancher's tale, but it seemed to work. The cows ate and went to sleep.

  They had seventy-two cows left to calve, and with the weather cold and damp again and the corrals sloppy, they were back to checking on them every few hours. Newborn calves lost body heat quickly. Add to that coming into the world wet and slimy, and they could turn into Popsicles and freeze to death if they didn't get warm and dry fast enough.

  When at last Brooks poked his head into the nursery late that night, he found Timmy sprawled in his crib, tiny fists by his ears. He laid a hand on his tummy, taking comfort in his deep, even breathing, in the steady rise and fall of his small body. Amelia had left a note on the counter saying he'd gone out like a light after his bath, and she'd taken his baby monitor with her to bed.

  Relieved on all counts, Brooks smoothed Timmy's hair from his face, then ducked out and headed for the great room. He fired up the computer and caught up inputting calving data, then turned to other neglected paperwork.

  He tried in vain to work at the desk, but despite the years, he still couldn't concentrate anyplace but the kitchen table, where they'd learned to gather every night after supper, doing homework under Clara's supervision.

  Finally he gave up. He printed what he needed, shut down the computer and gathered his things to take into the kitchen. He didn't know how much time had passed when he blindly reached for his mug and took a large gulp of stone-cold coffee. With a colorful oath, he grimaced and glanced up, then did a double-take.

  Amelia stood in the entrance, wearing a blue-and-green plaid flannel nightgown that had belonged to Jo. Gone was the light he'd seen in her eyes as she played with his baby nephew. Gone was the healthy glow of filling her belly with Clara's home-cooking. Face pale, dark smudges beneath her eyes and worry lines around her mouth, she looked like hell.

  Brooks set down his mug, the remaining coffee sloshing around the bottom, and got to his feet. "Can't sleep?"

  She shook her head, the straight ends of her graham-cracker-colored hair brushing her shoulders. One small hand gripped the door frame, her knuckles white. "I didn't realize you were working. I saw the light, and… Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." She ducked her head and turned to leave.

  "Wait." He couldn't very well tell her how strange it felt to have a woman barefoot in his kitchen. A woman who might have worn his sister's nightgown and slept in his sister's bedroom but very definitely wasn't his sister.

  With a nod, he gestured to the chair across the table.

  She hovered at the door. "I—I don't want to intrude."

  "You're not." He stacked the clippings and brochures strewn across the table. "I'm not getting anywhere anyway. Want some coffee? It's unleaded. Jo made us quit drinking caffeine after six. Caught on we'd turned into junkies."

  "No, thanks." She glided across the hardwood floor, slid onto the chair and drew up her legs, making a tent of the nightgown. Eyeing the spread on the table, she asked, "Dude ranches?"

  "Yeah. I'm studying the market."

  "May I?"

  "Help yourself. They're all working cattle ranches. About the size of ours. Different parts of the country."

  "Does this mean you're considering…?"

  "I don't know." Brooks rubbed a hand over his face.

  "But you're open to the possibility."

  "Desperation makes a man open to anything, I suppose."

  She put down the brochure and opened her mouth to say something, then appeared to reconsider.

  "Go ahead."

  "I want to help. Any way I can."

  "You are."

  "I mean, in addition to Timmy. If there's anything I can do, to help with the ranch's finances…"

  He studied her a full minute. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind." His response was obviously important to her. He angled his head, again taking in her obvious fatigue. He considered his next question carefully, decided what the hell, he was up anyway. "You, ah, want to talk about it?"

  "What?"

  "Whatever's keeping you up when you look like you're ready to drop. Is it the hospital?"

  She hugged her legs and rested her cheek on her knees. "Actually, I've been thinking about my job. Timmy's grown on me, and I was just wondering…" She looked at the brochure. "I was wondering about his parents."

  Brooks steeled himself, realizing he'd gone and stepped in it knee-deep. He didn't want to talk about Luke. Not to Amelia. Not to anyone.

  "I'm curious about his mother in particular."

  "His mother?" Brooks frowned. "Why?"

  "Job security."

  "Your job's secure."

  She nodded and worried her lip. "I guess I'm trying to understand what brought me here. Also, what circumstances might … change things for me. The big picture so to speak."

  Brooks couldn't begrudge her need to know. As Timmy's nanny, she had every right. But truth to tell, he was still struggling himself to wrap his brain around the past month's bizarre chain of events.

  "If you'd rather not—"

  "No, it's okay." He dr
ew a breath and exhaled sharply. "It's okay," he repeated, knowing sooner or later, he'd have to cough up the answers. "We … didn't even know Luke had married until he showed up on the doorstep a month ago. He left home at eighteen. We knew he would, just a question of time. He was a hell-raiser, always getting in trouble. After the old man died and Pete and Clara stepped in as guardians, I guess he figured there was no real reason to stick around any longer. He was finally free to go. He surprised us all, ending up on the right side of the law."

  "You missed him," she said.

  Brooks shrugged. "In the beginning. He'd send cards and letters—birthdays, holidays. I don't remember when they stopped. Out of sight, out of mind, you know. He moved on, built his own life, didn't have time for visits. And after a while…" He swallowed and rubbed his neck, the pain of the past still alive inside him. As boys, he and Luke had been inseparable, like two pups in a basket. But as they grew up, they grew apart. And now, his death had sealed the distance between them forever. "We were all so wrapped up in our own lives. I was so wrapped up…"

  "Brooks, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

  He shook his head. Saying the words aloud took away some of their power, like clipping off the sharp edges, so the pain dulled to an ache.

  He stared out the window into the darkness. "We didn't see him for eighteen years. Then one day, there he was—on the back porch with Timmy. Said he fell hard and fast for a cocktail waitress at a casino—Barbie-doll blonde, he called her, though I could tell that was the pain talking." He always could read his brother's eyes—not even eighteen years' separation had changed that. "They weren't married long before things went sour. The pregnancy was unexpected." He remembered the flash of anger in Luke's eyes before he'd turned away. "I don't think she wanted the baby."

  "He said that?"

  "Not in so many words. Not like he had to. She went out one day and never came back. Turned out she'd emptied their bank accounts and skipped town. He asked us to keep Timmy for a while, so he could try to piece his life back together. She'd left him in ruins." Brooks's throat felt raw, and it hurt to swallow, but he did it anyway, knowing the worst pain lay ahead. There was more to the story, but he wasn't ready to say it, didn't know if he ever would be.