THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  "No." He shook his head. "It wasn't your fault."

  Her eyes softened. Her voice trembled. "Thank you. I … know that now. But I didn't before. I lost my way, Brooks. I checked out of my own mind. But I came back, stronger than ever, able to face reality, because of you. You showed me the way home."

  "You showed me." Emotion splintered his voice. "You and Timmy."

  Tears sprung to her eyes, spilled down her face. She didn't bother to wipe them.

  Around them, the silence amplified. The creaking and settling of the big, old house. The soft moan of the wind. The rattle of the windowpanes. The tick, tick, ticking of the clock over the door.

  "I… We… We can't stay, Brooks. I'm sorry. I'm so…"

  He didn't hear the rest. The earth tilted, jerking the ground from under him. He was falling … down, down… His hands braced on the table. His stomach roiled. Desperation clawed free.

  The room spun madly. Colors bled. Sounds garbled. "It's not you… It's me… I have a job, a life in Colorado… Went to hell and back… To rebuild… Stand on my own two feet… No more Cinderella complex… Don't need saving… We can visit… You can visit… After a while…"

  Bits and pieces of information penetrated the fog of his brain. He felt numb. Detached. Empty. Until slowly, pain seeped into his bones like acid. The pain of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt she was going to walk out of his life and take Timmy with her, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop her.

  "I'm sorry," she said again, decimating him.

  No! The roar echoed in his head like a battle cry. He felt like a soldier with a bullet in his heart. His life, recent events, flashed in rapid sequence before his eyes.

  Luke showing up with Timmy. Luke telling him about the Blond Widow. Timmy pulling every book from his bookshelf in the nursery. Timmy falling asleep on his chest as he rocked him. Amelia—his Amelia—on the couch in the den and in his arms. His lollipop … sharing his bed, his work, his life.

  Don't go, he wanted to beg. Screw pride. He wanted to get down on his knees, do anything, say anything to keep the woman and child he loved. Stay here. Stay with me. I love you. I need you. I'm lost without you.

  But he said none of those things. Because she had heard them all before, and he would not—could not—repeat the sins of his brother and force her into something she didn't want.

  His eyes burned, and his throat was raw. But through the dark haze of misery and despair, Brooks saw clear to hang his hat on one true thing. "I want you to be happy," he said. "Whatever makes you happy, that's what I want." If it wasn't him, then it wasn't. He had to accept her decision, respect her wishes and pray in time it wouldn't feel like his heart had been hacked into pieces with his shepherd's crook.

  Because that was how he felt right now.

  "Brooks, I—"

  "I have to go." He shoved back from the table before she could say she was sorry again. He knew she was sorry. He was sorry, too. And if he didn't get the hell out of there—fast—she was going to see just how sorry he was.

  He turned his back and covered his eyes. "I'll … tell the others." Every breath splintered his throat, his lungs, his heart. "You … want me to bring Timmy back now?"

  "Please. I don't want him to pick up on your tension." Her voice was as raw, aching as his. "We won't leave for a few days. You'll have time…"

  Time to say goodbye.

  The unsaid words hung in the air, thick and oppressive.

  Brooks grabbed his keys from the nail on the wall and bolted from the house, not bothering with his coat or hat. He cleared the back porch but didn't make it as far as the pickup.

  In the muddy driveway, his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees.

  * * *

  "But why?" Dean kept repeating through his tears. "Why can't she stay? Did you tell her we love her, we want her here? She's a part of this family as much as Timmy. We don't care if she's not Amelia. Did you tell her any of that?" He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands. "And what about the dude ranch plans? What about riding lessons?"

  "Puppies," Mitch choked out. "We were going to pick out a new puppy."

  "Thank God it wasn't murder-suicide." Jo closed her eyes. "Luke could have taken Laura with him. That's what usually happens."

  "Wasn't mercy." Dean scowled. "He buried her alive instead. Kidnapped her child, fed us a bunch of lies to guarantee we'd hate her on sight, made her lose her mind. The gift that keeps on giving."

  Mitch shook his head. "Damn, I'm going to miss them."

  Clara held Pete's hand and dabbed the corners of her eyes with his handkerchief. "We'll all miss them, but your sister's right. It's a tragedy—no way around that—but we got plenty of reasons to give thanks. For the chance to get to know them. For them to know us. If we knew up-front she was Laura, instead of believing she was Amelia, it would've been impossible for any of us to connect like we did." She turned a sympathetic eye to Brooks.

  He sat in the corner, thankful for his family during what had to be the most trying time of his life. "It's not like we're never going to see them again," he said, trying his damnedest to pull himself together. "They'll … visit. Amel— Laura—" he was still trying to wrap his mouth around her name "—said we can visit them, too." It wouldn't be easy. Ranch life didn't lend itself to vacations. Couldn't leave the herd with a neighbor. Still. "Colorado's not that far—a day trip."

  "No way." Dean bounded to his feet and swiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  Brooks lifted his head. "Where are you going?"

  "To the house. If you won't make her stay, I will."

  "Don't even think about it," he warned, low and intent.

  "Yeah? Watch me."

  Mitch unfolded his tall frame from against the wall and grabbed his younger brother by the arm. "Sit down, Dean."

  But Dean shook him off. "Up yours."

  "Hey." Brooks stood. "I know it doesn't look like it, but I know what I'm doing—"

  Dean reeled around and jabbed an accusing finger, tears of frustration streaming down his face. "You know squat, if this is your idea of everything humanly possible—"

  "James Dean Hart." Pete's normally mellow voice boomed in the room. Grasping his cane with both hands, he levered off the couch. "Act your age, son. I know you're hurtin'. Take a look around this room. You ain't the only one."

  "But—" Dean gestured lamely to Brooks.

  Pete narrowed his gaze. "But nothin'."

  As Brooks sat down, the older man crossed to his side and clasped one firm, weathered hand on his shoulder. And just like that, the years slipped away, and he was fifteen again, Jo thirteen, Mitch and Dean nine and seven. Before them stood the man half-responsible for instilling in the foursome a code of honor and respect by which they'd lived and loved going on two decades now.

  "If you think for one second," Pete said, resuming his usual laid-back, no-nonsense tone, "this ain't eatin' your brother alive, then you don't know him very well, and I take back all the times I said Clara and I didn't raise no fools, 'cause one musta slipped out the gate."

  Deflated, Dean closed his eyes and slumped into a chair. "Brooks, I didn't mean—"

  But Brooks shook his head and waved away his brother's apology. "I know you didn't. I know." He leaned forward, bracing his weight on his elbows as he met Dean's gaze. "I wanted to tell her," he admitted. "Everything you said. More. But she's been down that road, Dean. It was ugly."

  "This ain't the same—"

  "Damn straight." Brooks set his jaw. "I know that, and you know that. But unless she knows…" He rubbed a hand over his face. God help him, he didn't know how he'd get through this, only knew somehow, he had to find a way. "We can't keep her in our lives if she doesn't want to be here. No ring, no promises, no threats can chain her soul. She's got to want it—want us—on her own, all by herself." He closed his eyes. "We have to let her go."

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^

  Laura had never felt so alone in
all her life as she did when Brooks loaded the last bag into her newly repaired car, gave Timmy a hug and a kiss, and closed the door. The baby had skipped his morning nap in all the hustle-bustle, so he was fast nodding off with his bottle.

  She was glad to have exchanged goodbyes with the others inside—that was difficult enough. Now only one remained—the most difficult of all.

  "See you, chief," Brooks mumbled under his breath, one finger against the window. In the reflection of the glass, she saw him mouth, "I love you."

  The knife plunged and twisted, guilt stabbing at her heart. She laid a hand on her chest and drew her resolve around her like a cloak for Timmy's sake.

  She was doing the right thing returning to Colorado, returning to the life she'd painstakingly forged for herself and her child. There was a time when she wouldn't have had the strength to face an uncertain future on her own. When she would have chosen the status quo over rocking the boat.

  But that time was not now.

  Squaring her shoulders, she rounded to the driver's side door. Brooks followed, coming to stand beside her, hands in his pockets. Though a good two feet separated them, she could feel his body heat. His eyes, shaded under the brim of his black Stetson, stayed carefully neutral.

  "I … don't know how to thank you," she said. "For taking such good care of my baby. For everything…"

  Tension bracketed his mouth when he smiled. "Wasn't a chore."

  She looked back at the house, then at him. She hadn't forgotten anything. There was no reason to dawdle. "I … I guess this is goodbye, then."

  He gave a curt nod and shifted his weight from one boot to the other as if he didn't know what to do next.

  She didn't, either. She wanted to hug him, to at least give him a proper goodbye. But everything was still so raw, her feelings for him too close to the surface. If she felt the beat of his heart against hers again… Awkwardly she stuck out her hand.

  He looked at it for a long moment before he took it, engulfing it in his, and she knew he was thinking all the same things she was—remembering everything they'd shared. Blissful in their ignorance.

  "Goodbye, Brooks," she whispered, hating the catch in her voice.

  "Later, lollipop," he said, his own voice strung taut.

  Tears stung her eyes, and her resolve weakened. But he didn't ask her not to leave. Not once had he tried to convince her to stay. He just clasped her hand and let his gaze rove over her face, as if memorizing her features.

  Maybe it hadn't fully hit him yet. Maybe it would later. When the shock wore off. Maybe he'd change his mind. Come after her. Not with malice. She knew that.

  But she was taking Timmy. A piece of his heart. Sooner or later, he would want it back. Wouldn't he?

  And then what?

  She looked again at the big, stone house. Remembered the one she had shared with Luke. Her prison. She didn't want to be kept. Not again. Not by anyone. And yet, her gaze lingered on the house where she'd discovered a part of herself that had been missing, on the man who had shown her the way, helped her believe in herself.

  Oh God. The weight of her decision pressed down on her chest. And then, just when she thought the hell with it, she wasn't this strong, Brooks let go of her hand and opened the car door.

  "Drive carefully," he said.

  She blinked, snapping out of her momentary lapse, and climbed into the car. "Thank you," she said one last time, then forced herself to drive away.

  But the image in the rearview mirror stayed with her the whole way. A tall, proud cowboy with his black Stetson tipped low, one hand raised in parting, moisture glistening on his cheeks.

  * * *

  He didn't come after her. In the weeks that followed, Laura kept expecting a knock at the door, a phone call, or a letter. But there was nothing.

  Day by day, she and Timmy settled back into their routines. In the mornings, she took him to the day care center at the resort where she worked. Around noon, she picked him up for lunch—picnics outdoors if the weather allowed—then took him back for the afternoon.

  Single parenthood had more than its fill of challenges, but her job came with a lot of perks—on-site day care being the biggest—that made it easier for a working mother. Her work was demanding, but she enjoyed it—applying herself, making a difference, taking pride in her accomplishments.

  In the evenings, she and Timmy returned to their rented two-bedroom town house. It was comfortable and homey, and in the fenced-in backyard, the landlords let Laura start a small garden.

  For the first time, she didn't have to worry about a dangerous ex-husband hunting her down. She had nothing to run from, nothing to fear but fear itself. And bit by bit, she learned she could do it, could put one foot after the other and find peace within herself.

  She didn't need anyone to take care of her. She could take care of herself. But that didn't mean she didn't miss them. Because she did. Every day.

  Especially Brooks.

  Every day, she took a photo of Timmy and wrote a letter with his update, a daily "log" of her own. Once a week, she put an envelope in the mail to Wyoming.

  At first, the lack of response was almost a relief—comforting because she needed time and space to resume her life. But as weeks turned to months, she couldn't help worrying. Was everything okay at the Triple H? Had Pete taken another spill? Had anything happened to Clara?

  Brooks. What was he doing? Did he think of her, not just Timmy? Did he have regrets?

  And then one day, a week before Timmy's first birthday, a box arrived packed with festive confetti. She sat cross-legged with Timmy on the floor of the living room, "helping" him open his presents.

  First came a scroll of cream paper tied with red yarn. Laura's eyes stung when she tugged the bow and unrolled the paper to see Dean's neat print. Titled The Littlest Cowboy, it was a poem telling a story of a little boy who helped his three bumbling uncles with ranch chores. She found herself laughing even as she blinked back tears.

  She pulled Timmy onto her lap and read it to him, along with the message scrawled on a sticky note, "Got more in the works. Will send when done."

  So that was why Dean was reading cowboy poetry. She smiled as she rolled the poem back up and retied the yarn bow. She thought he wanted to write a love poem for the girlfriend - who - wasn't - a - girlfriend. Of course, that was probably in the works, too.

  The next present was a plush, stuffed animal—a border collie puppy. She turned her head to read the tag to Timmy. "Dakota the Cowdog. From Uncle Mitch."

  Timmy cooed and lunged for the puppy's black, plastic nose.

  As she took out the third present—a tiny, black Stetson—her heart constricted, and she could barely breathe. The note read: "This is the smallest I could find, but he still needs to grow into it." From Brooks.

  "Look, Timmy. Your first cowboy hat." Emotion clogged her voice as she settled it on his head, fingering the brim.

  But it was the fourth and final item that brought her off the floor and sent her running toward the phone in the kitchen.

  Nestled in a small box marked For Laura, was a house key. The note—Brooks's handwriting—read: "To come and go as you please."

  Her fingers trembled as she dialed. She didn't know what to say, only knew she had to call. To connect. Tingling with anticipation and apprehension, she wiped her clammy palms on her jeans. But when Dean answered on the third ring, she couldn't contain the bubbles of excitement that spilled from her voice. "Dean! How are you? It's—"

  "Laura!" he said. "Man, is it ever great to hear your voice!"

  She thanked him for the gifts, and they proceeded to chatter nonstop for the next fifteen minutes. He thanked her for the updates on Timmy, asked about her job, what she did, how she liked it. He told her about spring roundup when they'd moved cow and calf pairs to summer pasture.

  He started to say something more when instead he cleared his throat. "We, uh, miss you. Both of you."

  "Dean." The low, warning tone of an achingly familiar voi
ce came in the background, and she pictured Brooks at the kitchen table, making a slashing motion across his throat.

  Her hand tightened on the receiver. "Is that Brooks?"

  "Uh, yeah. He, um, can't come to the phone," Dean said before she could ask.

  "That's okay. I'm sure he's busy." She tried to keep her voice light and casual, but had to ask, "How is he?"

  "Fine. Same. I, ah, should probably let you go now."

  She nodded, though he couldn't see her. "It was so good to catch up. Please, give the others my best."

  "I will. And, Laura?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't be a stranger. We're your family, too."

  An ache tightened in her chest. He couldn't have known how much those words meant to her, a woman who used to dream of belonging in a family like theirs.

  Once upon a time, she'd sacrificed her self-esteem for a chance at those dreams, learned the hard way that kind of sacrifice meant it was time to get new dreams. So she had.

  She'd dreamed of independence and self-reliance. Made those dreams come true.

  She looked down at the key on her palm.

  To come and go as you please…

  "Thanks, Dean." She dropped the receiver back in its cradle and closed her eyes, missing Wyoming more than ever. Missing all of them.

  Missing Brooks.

  Her hand closed over the key, clasping it to her heart. Then she went to her supply drawer, found some scissors and yarn, and hung the key like a charm around her neck.

  For the past few months, she had repeated to herself she didn't need him—didn't need any man—in order to be happy. But time had given her a chance to reflect. And distance had given her perspective.

  She was right. She didn't need him. But that didn't mean she didn't want him.

  Touching the key, a slow glimmer of realization seeped into her heart… How truly different Brooks was from Luke on every level…

  She had walked out on him, and he hadn't tried to lure her back with threats or empty promises. Never once had he ever criticized her or put her down in any way. He made no noises that made her feel as though she couldn't survive on her own, or that he couldn't survive without her.