THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  He stuck his hands into his pockets to keep from touching her face. "We, ah, need to fix that. Whenever you're ready for a tour, just let me—"

  "I'm ready." She straightened, her eyes lighting up.

  "All right. Tomorrow, then. I'll take you around the range, give you an idea of what running cattle's all about."

  "Bright and early?"

  "Early as you want. I'll be up before you."

  She crossed her arms. "Oh, you think so, do you?"

  "I know so, city girl." He grinned down at her. "Come on. Let's hit the road."

  She stood with her bag. As they milled through the shoppers, he slipped his hand to the small of her back to guide their path. She smiled over her shoulder, and he tried to ignore the tightness in his chest.

  Even before they came to the stand, Brooks smelled the fresh pretzels. "Hang on." He caught her hand. "Pit stop." Following his nose, he veered to the side, taking Amelia with him. "This has always been the highlight of malls for me."

  "Pretzels?"

  "Yeah." He realized he was still holding her hand and reluctantly let her go. "Hart tradition. Our mom used to take us to town when we were kids. They'd just built this new mall, and pretzels were a huge treat. Later, when we were teenagers, Jo hounded Pete, then Luke and me after we got our licenses, to drive her places. Luke wouldn't step foot in a mall of his own free will, but me, I caved in for one reason and one reason only."

  "The pretzels." Her eyes danced with amusement.

  Brooks grinned. "With mustard."

  "I love mustard on pretzels," she said automatically, then gasped and covered her mouth. "Did you hear that?"

  "I heard it."

  "Oh, my." She bounced on the balls of her feet. "I had a memory. A real memory. It popped out of nowhere!"

  He chuckled. "This day's getting better all the time."

  "Yes. Yes, it is. We have to celebrate. My treat." She didn't even ask but sidled past him. "Two please."

  "Hey, no fair. I was going to treat you."

  "Please." She grimaced. "As if you haven't already. Numerous times."

  "But—"

  "No buts, dear." She patted his stomach, then made a shooing motion with her hand. "Why don't you get us some napkins?"

  With any other woman, Brooks would have thought nothing of the casual endearment, the easy gestures, the simple request. But Amelia wasn't any other woman, and for her, this was major progress.

  His gaze roved over her hand, her face, the crown of her head. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and swing her around, but he didn't budge, afraid to break the spell. Then she opened her mouth, and the apology he suspected on the tip of her tongue spurred him into motion.

  He went for napkins, grumbling, "Three tyrant females," loud enough for her to hear. "Damned tragedy…" With a healthy dose of caution, he glanced up, unsure what he'd find. Catching Amelia's smiling and shaking her head, a leisurely grin stretched across his face.

  They decided to stay a while longer, finding another vacant bench on which to sit and eat their pretzels. Soon, Brooks found himself sucked into a game of seeing who could make up the most outlandish stories about people walking by. They traded off, piggybacking on each other's ideas, arguing completely different scenarios, trying to one-up each other.

  Before he knew it, a trip that started out as his effort to make her smile wound up with her cracking him up, at least as many times if not more.

  "See, this chick stuff's not so bad." Amelia licked the salt off her fingers, then dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

  He watched, fascinated. "Never said it was."

  She laughed. "Give it up, Brooks. I'm on to you."

  "You're … what?" He tore his gaze from her mouth.

  The skin beside her eyes crinkled with her smile. "Next time you offer to take me to the mall, I'll know you're only in it for the pretzels."

  "Yeah." He grinned. "The company sure sucked."

  Her mouth dropped open, and she smacked his leg.

  Brooks laughed and crumpled his napkin. But when she shifted to get her bag, her sweet, little rear end pressed against his thigh, and he shot off the wooden bench so fast, she must have thought he'd been hit with a cattle prod.

  "I, uh…" He squinted at his watch.

  "We should go," she said and stood, too.

  He nodded and gestured for her to walk in front of him. Nope, not good manners at all. Just a slave to a good view.

  Five more hours.

  * * *

  She wasn't jealous. Not the least little bit. Okay, maybe a tad. But she'd get over it. In time. Maybe. If she kept busy.

  That evening after Brooks left for his date, Amelia and Timmy played in the nursery. Every time he gifted her with an ear-to-ear grin that showed off his new baby teeth, there was no doubt about it—the littlest Hart cowboy had lassoed her heart. The Blond Widow's loss was definitely her gain.

  Please, don't let her come back, she selfishly hoped as she put Timmy down for the night. She left the nursery door ajar and took the baby monitor with her to the great room. She found Dean sprawled on the couch with a book. Tilting her head to read the spine, she murmured, "Cowboy Poetry."

  Dean glanced up, his cheeks tinged with red. "I, uh, found it on the shelf."

  Amelia didn't comment, though she suspected he had the soul of a poet. She wasn't sure he'd appreciate the compliment, or if he'd even take it as such. "I thought you were out checking cows."

  "Nope. Mitch has it covered. He's a night owl anyway. I usually stick to days if I can."

  "Well, let me know if there's anything I can do around the house to help out."

  "Hmm…" Dean tapped his temple. "Maybe you could… I know." He snapped his fingers. "Take care of Timmy."

  "Thanks, smarty-pants."

  "You got that from Clara."

  "Yes, I did. And I'm finding more and more occasion to use it. Imagine that."

  Dean grinned, the devilish sparkle back in his eyes. A lady-killer in the making. Alongside the whole lot of them.

  She muffled her sigh and glanced toward the desk. "I was going to leaf through some of the dude ranch brochures. Did you want to be alone in here?"

  He shook his head. "I'm fine, unless… Did you want to be alone? I can take this up to my room."

  "No, no. A little company's nice." She took a seat at the desk and started going through the various brochures, intent on keeping her mind occupied. That lasted a good minute. "So, has Brooks been dating Rachel a long time?"

  "I wouldn't call it—uh, on and off for a few years."

  "How is she with Timmy?"

  "With Timmy?" At her nod, he frowned. "She's never… Brooks doesn't… They, ah, haven't met." He raised the book higher, dubiously peering over the top as if to say, Please don't ask me any more questions on this topic.

  She took pity on him and turned back to the brochures. She shouldn't have asked him anyway. Brooks's personal life really wasn't any of her business. Still, how important could this woman be to him if she'd never met his nephew?

  Brochures. Dude ranches. Concentrate.

  She drew a deep breath and forced herself to plunge in, reminding herself this was Timmy's future, too. Somewhere along the way, he'd become her motivation for everything.

  Whatever worked.

  She started skimming brochures, gradually separating them into different stacks and reaching for a legal pad to jot some notes. Soon, the notes filled several pages with cross-references to other notes.

  "Hey, Dean?"

  "Hmm?" He glanced over the top of his book.

  "Sorry to interrupt, but may I use the computer?"

  "Sure. Just don't ask me anything too advanced 'cause I'm hardly past the basics. Brooks has been teaching me to use the ranch management software he designed."

  "He designed his own software?"

  "Yeah. He checked out the ones on the market, but he wanted certain things his own way, so he made his own. He knows cattle ranching like nobody's business—the T
riple H is one of the most successful family-run outfits its size. At least, it was. Before this loan. Now, I don't know…"

  "You'll have to do something if you want to hold onto that claim," she said, and he nodded. Eager to help, she switched on the computer and monitor and found the programs she needed with ease. She must have picked up some computer skills along the way because she knew exactly which ones to use. Out of curiosity, she clicked on the icon for Ranch Management, not sure what to expect, but oddly pleased at the obvious bells and whistles she found.

  Evidently Brooks had more than one hidden talent.

  Though tempted to explore further, she closed out of the program before she could do any permanent damage and started the task of organizing her notes.

  "Wow," Dean said, looking over her shoulder sometime later. "Do you moonlight as a business consultant?"

  Amelia's head snapped up. An hour had passed without her noticing. "I was just fiddling around." She stacked her notes, feeling conspicuous as a bug under a microscope.

  "Those tables look pretty fancy. What are they for?"

  "A business plan," she said automatically, unsure where the answer came from but pretty confident about it. "I was comparing and contrasting—dude ranches for people who want working vacations and guest ranches for pampered getaways. Then there's price, region, activities, amenities, different things like that. I wanted to keep track of stuff popping out at me. And the next thing I knew… This came out."

  "They teach this in Nanny School?"

  She frowned as she looked at the screen. "It doesn't seem likely, does it?" It didn't feel likely, either. "I think I had another life—a different one with a different career—before I became a nanny." She shrugged. "I'm not sure. It's just a feeling I get sometimes." Like there's more to me. Untapped… Dormant… Hibernating.

  "Well, I'm damned impressed."

  "Well, thank you." She smiled. "Mind if I save and print this? I think I'm done for tonight."

  "Sure thing. I even know how to turn on the printer."

  "Um, Dean?" she asked when the pages started coming out. "Can you hold off on mentioning my plan to Brooks?"

  Dean nodded. "He's not real keen on tourism, though he is the one who ordered these brochures. That means he's got to be at least considering the idea."

  "He's considering it, and I understand his cold feet. That's why I want to put together something presentable."

  With a nod, Dean handed her the sheaf of papers from the printer. "Mum's the word." He turned to leave, then looked back. "Hey, if I can do anything to help you, let me know. I can't make fancy tables, but I know dude ranches."

  "You know, now that you mention it, there is one thing I was wondering… I haven't really seen all of the house."

  "No one took you upstairs?"

  "Well, I was kind of out of it when I got here. Brooks is taking me on a tour of the ranch tomorrow, but I wouldn't mind seeing the rest of the house tonight, if that's okay."

  "Come on." He gestured for her to follow him. "I'll give you the nickel tour."

  "Great." She swiveled out of the chair. "I'd like to make floor plans, figure out exactly what you have in terms of lodging space. A lot of the places in the brochures have one big, main house and some little cabins."

  "Hmm. That might work for us. Plus, we've got those vacant houses."

  "My thoughts exactly," she said, but before they could take another step, Timmy's whimper sounded from the monitor.

  Their gazes locked on the device as if it allowed them to see as well as hear.

  "Hang on." Amelia lifted her hand. "Sometimes, he goes back to sleep." At another whimper, she smiled and shook her head. "Not this time. Excuse me. Duty calls."

  She stepped into the nursery just as Timmy's whimpers turned to full-fledged sobs. "Oh, sweetie. Come to ma— Me," she caught herself. She lifted him out of his crib, rocking him as she applied the topical, painkilling gel. "I know new teeth are no fun, but they're awfully cute when they come in." She prattled away as she rubbed his gums.

  "Hey, look. What do we have here?" She flipped the switch on the radio and turned the dial until she found a slow song. "We'll pretend it's Sadie Hawkins, so the girls get to ask the boys. May I have this dance?" She took one of Timmy's hands in hers. Humming softly, she swayed back and forth until finally, he fell back asleep. She pressed her lips to the downy softness of his hair, then eased him back into the crib, and covered him with his blanket.

  "Good night, my sweet boy," she mouthed. Curling her fingers around the guardrail, she stared at his sleeping form, her heart full and content and proud. At a rustling noise, she glanced over her shoulder to see Dean in the doorway. With a shy smile, he ducked into the hallway. No sooner had she rejoined him than Mitch came bounding in.

  "I need you, man. Damn cow's circling the corral."

  "Another one?" Dean muttered an oath.

  To Amelia, Mitch explained, "The mother usually follows into the shed when we take her newborn calf to get warm and dry, but sometimes…" He growled. "So now she's going crazy looking for her baby, convinced it's still out there somewhere in the corral. Won't go anywhere near the shed. And I've got my hands full with other patients."

  "Be right there," Dean said, and Mitch tipped his hat to Amelia and headed back out. "Sorry, Amelia. Feel free to take the nickel tour without me."

  "I might do that."

  "Just don't tell Clara about the dirty clothes on my floor. I was going to pick them up."

  She waved away his explanation. "Go, go."

  "Going, going." He disappeared after his brother.

  Just then the phone rang, and she rushed to answer it before Timmy woke up. Even before the receiver reached her ear, she heard music and voices and knew it was Brooks.

  "Everything okay?"

  At the sound of his deep, husky voice, she closed her eyes and wrapped her fingers around the phone. Come home. She reassured him everything was fine. I miss you. "Just fine," she said for good measure. "You … enjoy yourself tonight." But as she hung up, her smile felt brittle.

  Resolutely she crossed the kitchen and made herself some hot chocolate with an extra helping of whipped cream. Standing at the counter, she polished off every last drop, thought who was she kidding? and went for a double.

  Damn lion tamers anyway.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  The booths at The Mint bar were made from the gnarled wood of trees, stripped of bark and shellacked to a high gloss of redwood, with twisting branches across the back.

  Brooks sat across from Rachel Tanner, unable to keep from checking his watch every five minutes. He wanted to call home to check on Timmy again, but he didn't want to bother Amelia. He could tell she'd been distracted. He wondered what she was doing…

  Rachel laid a hand on his wrist, catching him in the act of checking his watch again. She had reddish-blond hair, light green eyes, and a mouth that usually held his undivided attention. "Fatherhood's changed you, Brooks."

  "That obvious?"

  "Well, let's see." She began ticking off offenses on her fingers. "There's the constant monitoring of time. Your pool game's off. We've been here an hour, and you haven't made any noises about slipping out. Yeah, I'd venture there are some changes since the last time we met."

  "What's it been? Six months?" Brooks rubbed the back of his neck.

  "Give or take."

  He nodded and took a long pull from his icy cold bottle of beer. "I've been told I have good manners." His gut tightened at the memory of liquid brown eyes staring up at him, satin-soft lips under his, and taste of cherry…

  "Not that good." Rachel laughed, as if she'd read his mind. "So, do you have any pictures of the rug rat?"

  "Do I have pictures?" he scoffed, as if she'd asked if Wyoming had wind. In one deft motion, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and flipped open to the first of five photos.

  "Aw, he's adorable."

  "Yeah, Hart men aren't bad on
the eyes."

  "Modest, too."

  He grinned. "We can't all have beauty and brains like you, counselor."

  Rachel smiled raised her beer mug. "Now that's more like the Brooks I remember."

  Under ordinary circumstances, Brooks would have taken her cue and suggested they continue their conversation in a nearby motel. But circumstances had changed—they were no longer ordinary. His body had a specific craving and would accept no substitutions. He didn't want Rachel. He wanted Amelia. And despite the fact the latter wasn't an option, no matter how hard he tried to psyche himself into carrying through on his initial mission, he couldn't seem to do it.

  Stalling for time, he indicated the photograph in Rachel's hand. "So, do you ever think—"

  "No," she said before he could finish. "Not everyone's suited to be a parent."

  He nodded. "I didn't think I was."

  "You didn't have a choice."

  No, he didn't. And he didn't have to wonder what would have happened if Timmy hadn't come into his life. He would have been just like Rachel, exercising his choice not to reproduce, justifying his decision as ridding the world of the potential of one more bad parent.

  He never would have experienced the wonder of the first time Timmy rested his head on his shoulder, or reached for him, or stopped crying at the sound of his voice. He never would have known such protectiveness over another human life, or the deep and abiding commitment to be the best he could be, or the profound sense of being part of something bigger than himself.

  He never would have known what he was missing.

  He looked at Rachel then—really looked at her—and saw in her eyes a reflection of the man he used to be, a man for whom meaningless sex seemed perfectly okay in a monogamous relationship between two consenting adults.

  She was right. He wasn't the same. Timmy had changed him, made him want to live up to long-forgotten ideals and pass on a legacy of how it should have been.

  Would have, could have, should have… It all suddenly mattered. And he realized in that moment whatever he and Rachel had shared, it was over.

  She realized it, too. Probably before he did. Handing back his wallet, she said, "I know you'll do right by him."