Cowboy (The Busy Bean)

by L. B. Dunbar

  “I’ve always felt the moon gets a bad rap. Like when something happens, people always say, is it a full moon or something? As if something that beautiful caused all the trouble in the world.”

  “But a moon does cause things to happen like tides,” she reminds me.

  “And births,” I add.

  “What?” She looks up at me, and I explain.

  “A few years ago, there was a study about cows and how full moons seemed to trigger birthing. Humans were also a part of that study.”

  “Goodness. The comparison to cows never ceases,” she teases, tipping her head back again, looking up at the sky and the moon behind her. Her neck elongates, and I lean forward, sipping at her throat, running my tongue along her neck, and nipping at her chin before pulling back.

  “Hmm,” she purrs again, slowly bringing her face back to me. “Full moons also bring out the wolf, right? Or is it that they encourage vampires to bite?” Her eyes sparkle despite their dark color.

  “Can’t say I know much about vampires, but wolves don’t really howl at a full moon specifically. They just howl. It’s a mating call or a warning sign.”

  “Mating?” she teases, giving me a goofy grin. “Ow-ow-owul.”

  “Scarlett.” I laugh. “You’re crazy.”

  “For you,” she says, and I smile to match hers before leaning forward to kiss her, long and deep. She makes me want to howl at the moon, beat my chest, and scream to the heavens: let her love me.

  As I pull away from her, she steps out of my embrace and lays the blanket on the grass. “Let’s sit, and you can tell me more about the moon.” Her smile reads mischievous, but I follow her down as we lay on our backs. Scarlett shifts to her side a little, taking the pressure off her spine, and places my hand over her belly. Sprout rolls around inside her.

  “Hope he’s not getting any ideas to come early.”

  My head turns, catching her eyes. “You’re still feeling okay, right?” I don’t want anything to happen to the baby, but I also don’t want anything to happen to her. I hate to feel as if I’m prioritizing, but if she lost the baby now, I’d give her another one. We’d try again. I won’t quit on her like I felt I quit on Jen. We’d just start over.

  A sense of losing Scarlett when we were miles apart while she was suffering near Burlington and I was on my way to her really put things in perspective for me. I will do nothing that might risk losing her. I will not jinx what we have by proposing or asking for more. I don’t want us to lose where we’re at or where we’re going. I will keep my emotions in check in order to keep her by my side.

  “So tell me more, moon-master,” she teases, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Well, the word month comes from the term moon because of its phases lasting almost thirty days. Each month has a specific full moon name, did you know that?”

  “I didn’t,” she admits, turning her head from mine to gaze up at the sky again. “So what moon is this one?”

  “It’s late July, so this is the Buck Moon. It was termed by Native Americans for male deer who begin to regrow their antlers at this time. Sometimes, it’s also called the Hay Moon because it occurs around hay harvesting or a Thunder Moon because of all the thunderstorms that can occur in the summer heat.”

  “That’s so interesting,” she says, still staring up at the sky as it turns darker as a backdrop to the yellow circle.

  “There’s also a Strawberry Moon. It was back in June to celebrate strawberry season. Some cultures call it the Rose Moon, though, while others call it a Hot Moon because it marks the beginning of summer.”

  Still watching the sky, Scarlett speaks. “My father called me Strawberry when I was little.” Her tone softens around the memory.

  “Have you spoken to them?”

  She squints at the sky. “I haven’t. And I don’t expect to, but I’m okay with it.” Her head rolls to face me again. “As long as I have your family, Bull, that’s all I’ll need. Your brothers are like the siblings I never had, and your father has been kinder to me in a matter of days than my parents have in my entire life.”

  “They aren’t saints,” I remind her but smiling at her comfort with my kin.

  “No, but they’re real. They’re not putting on a façade like my parents. Not asking me to play a charade.”

  I nod to agree and decide I don’t want to discuss her parents. “Speaking of wolves, February was the Wolf Moon month.”

  “Really? What moon was in March?”

  “A Worm Moon.”

  “Worms?”

  I chuckle. “We prefer Sap Moon in these parts as it’s the time to tap trees for sap.”

  “I think it should be renamed sperm moon.” She giggles at herself.

  “Why?” I laugh.

  “Because that’s when you got me pregnant.”

  I laugh harder. She’s really on a roll tonight. “Well, the Egg Moon is actually in April, but that month is also called the Pink Moon for wildflowers or sprouting grass.”

  “Sprout has a moon.” Scarlett smiles. “I like that as that’s my birth month, though.” Guilt hits me that the month of April I hadn’t known Scarlett was still in Vermont, and I missed her birthday.

  “As an October baby, my moon is the Hunter Moon. It’s the preferred month for hunting. It’s a particularly bright moon that month.”

  Scarlett still watches me as I describe these moon names, absorbing all I tell her. “So, you’re a hunter?”

  “I’ve been known to go out on occasion, but it’s been a while.”

  Scarlett perches up on an elbow, glancing down on me. “No, you’re a hunter. You go after what you want.” Her eyes meet mine, trying to tell me something, but she doesn’t explain what she sees.

  “I have something for you,” she says as she bites her lower lip. Her face nearly glows with excitement.

  “What?” I tease, finding the gleam in her eyes contagious. She pulls two envelopes from her dress pocket, and I wonder how I missed those inside her clothing. She holds them both upright. One is pink and one is blue.

  “Pick one.”

  “Is this a test?” I question, playing along with her. We’ve been referring to Sprout as him, but he could just as easily be a she. For a moment, I picture waves of red curls running through this field, giggling as I chase a little one in cowboy boots and ruffles to the fort off in the trees. I’ll need to reinforce that thing before any child of mine climbs up to the platform. Snatching the pink one from her fingers, I ask, “Are you trying to tell me something with these?”

  “Yes.” Her voice drops a little, and I stare up at her.

  “Did you find out about the baby’s sex?” We had agreed to wait unless it was obvious with her next ultrasound. However, the doctor warned the amniocentesis test would tell us the DNA of our baby, thus revealing the gender.

  “Like a gender reveal? No, this isn’t something like that.” She smiles to reassure me.

  “But you know I’d be just as happy with a little girl as I would a boy,” I say. She smiles larger.

  “I know, Bull.”

  “As long as he or she is healthy, that’s all I really want.” And if the baby isn’t perfect by some societal imposed standard, Scarlett and I will love Sprout no less.

  “I know, honey.” She nods at the envelope in my hand. Opening it, I pull out a thick set of folded papers. The top line reads divorce decree. My eyes blur as I attempt to read the remainder of the page.

  “What is this?” I ask with a shaky voice, although I should recognize it. I have one of these myself with Jennifer.

  “It’s my divorce. It’s over with Shelton.” I drop the papers and sit up, forcing her back and kissing her hard. Our mouths fuse, and my tongue surges forward. I don’t think I realized how relieved I’d be once her divorce was final. It’s over. She’s really free of him. She’s free to be mine.

  The thought pulls me back from her, although I still grin a goofy smile of relief.

  “And what’s in the other envelope?” My
voice shakes as I think I know what’s inside.

  Scarlett holds it to her chest while I perch over her, balancing on an elbow to keep my weight off her.

  “No matter what it says in here, you’re Sprout’s father. In my heart. In his heart. You will be his dad.” She tips the envelope at me. “I haven’t opened it.”

  Nodding, I take the slim form from her and peel back the flap. My heart races as I pull a paper from the envelope and open it next. Again, my vision blurs as I scan the numbers and the explanation until I find what I need.

  A match.

  We match.

  Scarlett’s brows pinch in concern as I don’t speak a moment, staring down at the words once more. More relief floods my body, and I’m ready to howl at the moon myself.

  “Just ki—” The word cuts off as my mouth falls on hers once again, drawing in her breath to feed my lungs. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding mine with every motion of removing the page until I read what I wanted to read. Not that it mattered. No lab result would change how I feel inside for a child not even officially born yet, but it’s still a relief to know Sprout belongs to me.

  Scarlett and Sprout are both mine.

  23

  Working Mothers Work

  Scarlett

  As July bleeds into August, I reach six months and the start of my third trimester. When I take my monthly urine sample and the gestational diabetes test, I almost fail both. Bull couldn’t attend this visit with me as he had an auction to attend that only happened on this day. I would have rescheduled myself, but my visits are on a regimented calendar. I told him not to worry about missing this one. The tests were routine and he wouldn’t miss anything, like our second ultrasound, which we attended together last week. Measurements of the baby in utero during the ultrasounds determined I’m on schedule for the second week in December due date.

  “I’m so fat. Like everywhere,” I groan.

  “I am detecting an increase of protein in your urine sample,” the doctor informs me.

  Cringing, I ask, “What does that mean?”

  “It means you might have preeclampsia.” I’ve been reading up on all things pregnancy over thirty-five, and preeclampsia is a possible risk, but the odds seemed so low.

  “How do I get rid of it?” I ask as if it’s a common cold.

  “Preeclampsia is basically high blood pressure during pregnancy. If you continue to take care of yourself, it will go away once the baby is born. In the meantime, keep eating healthy, lots of fluids, and exercise but also rest more. Are you still working at the Busy Bean Café?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you stand all day?” Her brows hitch, hinting that she knows I do.

  “Typically. We’re busy, but I can take breaks.”

  “You need more than a break, Scarlett. You need to sit and elevate your feet.”

  “Are you suggesting bed rest?” I’ve read about that too, and I’d go stir-crazy confined to a bed for months.

  “Not yet, but if it comes to that, I will prescribe it. I’m not trying to hammer home your age, but you need to take extra precautions.”

  “Are you recommending I quit my job?”

  “I’d never recommend such a thing, but I do think you need reduced hours. Less standing time.”

  Audrey and Zara would accommodate anything I need, but a stool in the middle of our active counter area would be in the way. Even in the kitchen, a stool wouldn’t be ideal to sit on in the flow of baking.

  “I’ll need to think about a few things.”

  “Scarlett, this is important for the well-being of the baby and yourself.” A comforting hand comes to my arm, and deep down, I know what I need to do.

  Tears pour down my face as Bull enters the house that evening. I’d been watching a movie I shouldn’t be watching, and a woman just lost her baby.

  “Scarlett? Oh my God, are you hurt?” Bull falls to his knees before me as I lean back on the couch. I’m so big I don’t sit. I tip. His eyes roam my body as his hands rub down my arms and scan my belly, looking for damage. “What happened?”

  “I need to quit my job,” I blubber, though, leaving the Bean isn’t the worst of my worries.

  “What? Why?”

  I explain the concerns of preeclampsia and my age. “It always comes down to my fricking age.”

  “You aren’t old,” Bull admonishes, holding both my hands between his.

  “I know, right? Forty is supposed to be the new twenty. Raised libido. Zero fucks given. How can I be this fragile? I take care of myself. I used to work out every day.” Since coming to Vermont, I hadn’t been as regimented, mainly because I didn’t have Shelton reminding me to exercise, citing it was good for my heart as well as those nasty fat cells developing as I age. It was a polite way of saying I’d be overweight one day if I didn’t keep up the routine.

  Bull stares at me as if I have two heads. I’m uncomfortable as I move into the final stages of pregnancy. My body is bigger than it has ever been. I’m swollen. I’m tired, and I’m crabby.

  “I can’t even bend my fingers.” I try to squeeze them into fists to prove my point, but it feels as if my skin is stretching. Bull takes my hands, lifting them for his lips and kissing over my puffy knuckles.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says. I chuckle through the tears. “I’m sure Audrey and Zara could make accommodations for you, but I’ve also been thinking about this. You don’t need to work, Scarlett.”

  “But I’ve always worked.” Bull nods, understanding what I mean. I haven’t done manual labor like him every day, but I’ve always had a job. I’d been working since I was sixteen.

  “Would it be wrong to just be a mother?” His voice softens as he asks, and the question reminds me of a conversation with Rita.

  Perhaps motherhood is your next great adventure. Your new purpose.

  I stare at Bull as if he has two heads. “You sound like Rita.”

  “I’ve always liked that woman.” He grins. “And you don’t have to work outside the home, Scarlett. You could stay here and be a mom. It’s a different kind of work, I know, but it’s still work.”

  I’ve often heard motherhood referred to as a thankless job, and I’m well aware that it’s completely unpaid monetarily. The rewards are in the little things. Hugs and handholding. Homemade presents and contagious laughter.

  “But . . .” I hadn’t considered it, which is what I remember thinking when Rita mentioned it. I had friends who worked outside their home because they knew they’d be a better mother if they worked rather than stayed home with their children. I also knew women who had to work because the second income or only family income rested on them. Plenty of families made a choice to allow for one parent, typically the mother, to remain home. Was that the future for me? “I don’t want to be an imposition.”

  “Scarlett, not this again. You’re not a fucking imposition. You’re my—” Bull cuts himself short. His hands release mine and brace on the edge of the couch, curling into the cushions on either side of my legs. He turns his face away from me.

  “I’m your what?” I ask. The first word that comes to mind is wife, but Bull would never call me that. We aren’t married and, according to him, never will be.

  “What am I to you?” We haven’t put labels on ourselves like boyfriend or girlfriend, and I’ve felt a little silly suggesting such a thing. We aren’t teens. But what do two people living together, raising a child, who aren’t defined as a couple, call themselves?

  “You’re everything to me,” Bull says, twisting to face me again.

  “But what does that mean?” My voice strains. If we never marry, will we just continue to play house? I’ve also known people who live together, never marrying for whatever reason, but I don’t understand it. I know it’s only a legal document. It doesn’t mean a couple is any less committed to one another, but maybe I am old—old-fashioned. I want to be married to him. Not just—

  “We’re partners.”

  Ugh. I want to scream, but in
stead, I struggle to sit forward, forcing him to move back. He nimbly stands, and I curse him even more at the ease of his large body while I have to scoot forward and press at the cushions to lift myself upright. Bull holds out a hand to help me, but I swat it away, irritated with everything.

  “Where are you going?” Bull asks once I eventually stand and walk away from him.

  “I need to call Audrey or Zara.” Or just anyone who will listen.

  “I think you made the right decision,” Rita says once I call her after I’ve given my two weeks’ notice to Zara over the phone. “This is the next great thing in your life, Scarlett. Embrace it as a gift.”

  As Rita doesn’t have children, and it does not look as if that will be a possibility on her horizon, I should be more grateful for my position. Bull is telling me I don’t need to work for financial means, and I still have savings if I feel a need to contribute. He’d never accept it, but I feel better knowing I have it.

  Zara was sympathetic to my pregnancy issues. She reminded me how she needed to work out scheduling and eventually daycare as a new and single mother plus being a business partner to the birth of the Bean.

  “We never have it easy as women. We want to work but feel guilty about leaving our children. When we’re with our children, we worry about things at work.”

  “Does it go away? All that mom pressure?” I asked of her, finding sympathy from another mother with young children.

  “Never,” Zara teased. “It’s just a part of the territory, and I never appreciated my mother more than when I became a single mother myself.”

  It’s strange to think I’m technically a single mother as Bull and I are committed as parents but not a couple. We’re unofficially official, I guess, but I don’t like the sound of that label.

  “I don’t think I can stop working forever,” I tell Rita.

  “No one says you have to, but also no one is saying you need to return to a job outside your home.”