Baby by Midnight?

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  But the baby hadn’t kicked, Annie had pulled away, and the moment had passed. At least it would if she’d stop talking about it.

  “I just didn’t want you to feel bad,” she said, making him feel worse by not dropping the subject altogether.

  “I feel fine, Annie. Next time the baby kicks, I’ll be there to feel it for sure. Now, look at this wall and tell me if it needs a second coat.”

  She turned away from the window—Daffodil Yellow dripping from her trim brush onto the plastic drop cloth—and eyed the Rodeo Tan wall. She squinted, turned her head, squinted some more. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I like this color combination. It looked different in the store.”

  “It’ll look lighter when it’s dry,” he commented, hoping she wasn’t about to change her mind.

  “Josie’s going to come over and stencil a border around the window frame and along the top of the wall. Animal shapes, I think.” Annie frowned at the fresh paint. “I just don’t know about this color.”

  “The colors are nice, gives the room a kind of Southwestern flavor. I like this a whole lot better than an unimaginative pastel.”

  “You’re just saying that because you don’t want to have to repaint it.”

  Abso-damn-lutely true. “The room’s not that big, Annie. I could repaint it in a couple of hours. Maybe less.” He didn’t want to, but he could. “If you don’t like Rodeo Tan and Daffodil, it can be Ocean Blue and Tangerine by this time tomorrow.”

  “Ocean Blue and Tangerine,” she repeated as if considering the combination. “That would make me sick.”

  “Like seasick?”

  “No, like orange walls and blue trim. Yuck.”

  He hadn’t thought it sounded that bad. “I was thinking more of orange trim and blue walls.”

  She frowned at him and proceeded to stretch, sticking out her basketball of a belly as she kneaded the muscles in her back. He would have liked to rub her back for her, to lay aside the paint roller, walk over and thoroughly massage the sleek, fair skin beneath her oversize shirt. But she was already skittish of his touch, regretful she’d allowed their earlier embrace, and he knew if he offered she’d only make some joking excuse. But a rejection, however nicely phrased, was still a rejection. So he just watched her stretch and pretended his thoughts were focused on painting. “I ’spose we could go with a nice Grass Green and Plum Purple combo,” he said.

  She straightened even as she wrinkled her cute little nose in distaste. “On second thought, I like this color combination just fine.”

  “Good choice.” He returned to work, happily imagining how much pleasure he’d get from throwing this cheap excuse for a paint roller in the trash. “The boy will thank you once he learns to talk.”

  “The boy?”

  “The baby. You said it’s a boy.”

  “Oh, right. The baby.” She nodded, as if the thought was distracting. “I’ve been calling him Sam. What do you think?”

  Sam. My son, Sam. “I like that a lot. It was my great-grandfather’s name, you know. Samuel.”

  “Oh.” Annie turned away abruptly. “Well, I haven’t decided for sure. It was just a thought.” She was talking too fast, as if she’d just realized that naming the baby after one of Alex’s ancestors might not be so smart. Especially if she wanted Alex to go on believing he wasn’t the dad. “I also like the name Hoyt.”

  Not in this lifetime, Alex thought. Don’t worry, kid, I’ll save you from that one. “Hoyt. Now there’s a solid name for you. Of course, you’d have to make sure the first name fits with the last. A kid can’t grow up being called Hoyt Foyt, for instance. Or Hoyt Faloy. Same thing with Rudy. Sounds okay with a last name like Jones or Miller. Not so great if he’s going by Rudy Tooten.”

  She fought a smile. He could see the twitch at the corners of her lips. “I can see I’ll have to give this some more thought.” She settled herself on a small stool and went to work on the bottom sill, finishing the yellow trim.

  Alex considered the matter and decided her smile was worth pursuing, especially since he hadn’t seen much of it all evening. She was jumpier than usual, too, and he knew it was because he’d kissed her in the barn. That kiss had been the single, nicest part of his entire day and, unless he was reading her wrong, she was flat-out determined to pretend it had never even happened. She didn’t want him to kiss her—or at least she didn’t want him to think it meant anything to her if he did—and she didn’t want him to be the father of her baby, even if he was. She avoided him for three days, then asked him over to share her supper and an evening of painting the nursery—because she didn’t want him to feel bad.

  Women. They could turn a man crazier than a bug in a bedroll. Well, truth was, he didn’t know about most women. He only knew about Annie. He rolled paint to within an inch of the ceiling and brought the roller back at a slant. “I’ve always been partial to Sundance myself.”

  “The film festival?”

  “No, the Kid. You know, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. When I was about ten, I wanted to change my name to Sundance.”

  She laughed aloud—an unexpected bonus. “I remember that,” she said. “You came to school after Christmas break that year, wearing your brand-new, Cowboy Carl Six-Shooter and Holster play set, and told the teacher—what was her name?—Carter. That’s it. You told Mrs. Carter that Captain Kidd was your great-great-grandpappy and you weren’t answering to anything but Sundance Kid or, for short, ‘The Kid.’”

  He laughed, too. “I forgot about that. I never could persuade Mrs. Carter, or the principal, to call me anything but trouble.”

  “You were always such a rebel, Alex. I hope this baby doesn’t—”

  The sentence broke apart suddenly and he filled in the blank. “Inherit my renegade spirit?”

  “Ha!” It was supposed to be an incredulous sound, supporting the impossibility of his erroneous assumption. In Alex’s opinion, it fell far short . of the target.

  “I was going to say something entirely different.” She grabbed a wet rag and scrubbed furiously at a fresh Daffodil Yellow mark on the Rodeo Tan wall. “This seems to be a difficult concept for you, Alex, but this is my baby and he couldn’t have inherited so much as an eyelash from your gene pool. He’s going to be a Thatcher, through and through.”

  Alex came close with the roller and rolled a swatch of paint over the spot she’d just streaked into a wide blemish. “What? No humanitarian tendencies? No talent for carpentry? No characteristics handed down from dear old dad?”

  She looked up, eyes wary, frown well-situated on her lips. Lips he badly wanted to kiss again. “You’re making fun of a very important person in my life, Alex, and I want you to stop it right now.”

  “Imaginary” person was more accurate, but he couldn’t very well argue the point with her. He couldn’t very well kiss her again, either. He wanted to do both, but had enough sense—momentarily—not to. He actually meant to back off then, give her a little space, show her he was mature enough to let her have the last word this time, but fate intervened in the form of a drip. Rodeo Tan. Right between her pretty green eyes.

  Uh-oh, he thought. “Woops,” he said.

  She brought the rag to her forehead in automatic response and smeared the drop into a blaze of war paint. Then she reached out with her brush and swiped a stripe across the scuffed toes of his boots. A Daffodil Yellow stripe. Bringing her gaze to his, she shrugged. “Woops.”

  Looking from the paint on his boots to the paint on her face, he gave the roller a stiff shake and splattered her with fine droplets of Rodeo Tan. “Never,” he drawled, “paint a cowboy’s boots.”

  “Oh, yeah?” With cool deliberation, she slid her finger across the end of her brush, spattering polka dots around the stripe that crossed the toe of each leather boot. “Who says? Miss Manners?”

  He gave the roller another shake, flecking her in a more uniform coverage. “It’s not in some sissy book, Calamity Ann. It’s the law.”

  “The law of averages?”


  She was a sitting duck as far as he was concerned, but he kept his eye on her all the same. “The law of the West,” he told her. “And that supercedes any rules of etiquette made up in this century.”

  “Big words for a man wearing yellow boots.”

  She was not playing fair, being so sassy and flirty just when he’d been ready to back off and be mature. “Maybe,” he conceded. “But not for a man holding a paint roller over your head.”

  “I’m not afraid of you. I’m 100 percent washable.”

  Now, there was a pleasantly distracting idea. “I suppose you expect me to paint you up, then strip you down and give you a good scrubbin’ afterward. Maybe a nice back rub.”

  “In your dreams, McIntyre. In...your... dreams.” She pushed up from the stool. At least, she tried. Her balance was a little off center, though, and she sat down again with a plop. Sighing, she frowned at him. “You’re going to have to give me a hand up, so I can stalk out of here indignantly.”

  He grinned. “There was a time in my life when I’d’ve been right happy to lend a hand toward seeing a sight like that. Unfortunately for you, I’ve seen women stalk away indignantly more times than I care to recall. It’s not such an amusing diversion anymore.”

  “Considering how many times I’ve watched you stalk off, I think you owe me a hand up.”

  He held the paint roller like a shepherd’s staff, leaning lazily toward her. “Come on, Annie, you know I never stalked anywhere in my life, especially not away from you.”

  “However you did it, Alex, it was always me who was left behind, wasn’t it?”

  True enough, but not nearly complicated enough to be the whole truth, either. “Fact remains, you’re sittin’ and I’m standin’ and if you want my help, you’re gonna have to offer a little trade.”

  She struggled to push up again, but he stayed carefully in her way, so she couldn’t quite get her center of gravity shifted. It was either take his hand or set hers on the freshly painted windowsill. “You can have anything except my firstborn,” she said. “And a few other things.”

  “All I want is to know why you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

  “Good sense?” she suggested.

  “That’s never stopped you before.”

  “I finally worked my way though college. Came out smarter, especially when it comes to you.”

  “That would explain why I’m painting this room for you, I guess.”

  She smiled, making his knees go nearly as wobbly as a newborn foal’s. “You’re doing the painting because I felt sorry for you this afternoon. Thought you needed something to take your mind off your horse.”

  She always understood, even when he’d just as soon she didn’t. “You ought to know better than to come between a cowboy and his melancholy.” He laid the paint roller on the floor and squatted down in front of her, bringing them toe-to-toe and face-to-face. “Koby’s going to be right as rain in a couple of weeks. You said so yourself.”

  “A month,” she cautioned. “Nothing but stall rest and light exercise for a month. You don’t want to make things worse.”

  He looked into her eyes and tried to convey the sincerity he felt. “Making things worse is the last thing I want to do, Annie. For Koby...or for you.”

  He watched her expression soften with wistful longing, a longing quickly tempered by the memories of past disappointments. “No need to worry about that,” she said in an overly bright, overly flippant tone. “The only way you could make things worse for me is to show up tomorrow with cans of orange and blue paint. Or any other dreadful combination.”

  Okay, so she wasn’t ready to forgive him for all the times he’d let her down. He could understand that. He could deal with that. Changing her mind had always been a challenge, one he often savored. Straightening, he offered her a strictly friendly hand up. “I promise you this room will remain Rodeo Tan and Daffodil Yellow, as long as I have anything to say about it. Believe it or not, I’m actually not all that fond of painting—even when my horse is lame and I don’t have anything better to do.”

  She smiled, not easily, but she didn’t expend a whole lot of effort on it, either. “I’m sure Matt will have plenty of work for you to do at the ranch. The time Koby’s out of training will fly by.”

  Whether it was the mention of Matt or just pure inspiration on his part, Alex suddenly realized he had a month to get Annie situated. It wasn’t that he minded ranch work, but he wasn’t crazy about working for his oldest brother. Once Koby won the cutting futurity and the breeding and training programs were established, Alex would be able to work at the ranch on his own terms. He’d have his own niche, his own schedule. Free and clear of Matt’s supervision. Well, mostly free and clear. But for now, while he was still unproven, still the irresponsible, pie-in-the-sky-eyed little brother, he’d much prefer to keep his distance from the ranch.

  His time would be better spent helping Annie. In a month he could have this house fixed up and ready for the baby. He could have Annie eating nutritious meals, instead of frozen pizza. He could repair the sink, put in a dishwasher, close in that back room, improve the place, generally make life easier for her. God knew she needed someone to do it. In a month’s time, he could show her he was responsible, capable, dependable—all those “able” qualities she’d always admired in his brothers. Surely in a month of days...and nights...he could prove to her that he had sense enough to know and appreciate the important things in life. “I expect you’ll be seeing me around,” he said, picking up the paint bucket and brushes. “A cowboy doesn’t like to be separated from his horse, you know.”

  “Starting tonight, you’ll have Loosey to keep you company.”

  Lucy?

  “She’s such a sweetheart, Alex...and loves to plant slurpy kisses on anyone who shows her the least bit of attention.”

  “Well, then, I’m sure looking forward to meeting her.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Loosey is your dog,” she explained. “Footloose. Remember? We’ll go up to the clinic and spring her as soon as we’ve finished cleaning up.”

  The dog. He’d forgotten all about the dog. “Great,” he said with completely false enthusiasm. What was he going to do with a dog? Willie had never been crazy about having pets in the house and he had a suspicion Annie wouldn’t be crazy about the idea of turning a dog with a broken leg loose on the ranch. Maybe he could convince Josie to take it, although he was pretty sure Annie wouldn’t think much of that solution, either.

  “I’ll go over the medications with you,” Annie continued, either oblivious of or unconcerned about his dilemma. “It’s very important she takes all of the meds. Plus, she’s going to need some exercise, too.”

  “I’ll tie her to Koby’s lead and let them walk each other.” He saw her lips tighten and added a hasty, “Just kidding.”

  While she undoubtedly knew he was joking, she also had to know that no matter how cheery his tone or how quick his grin, he did not want the shepherd-collie or any other pet.

  “You hit the dog, Alex, it’s only fair you take care of her—at least until she’s well.”

  “I didn’t hit her,” he said, wondering why it was so hard to believe he hadn’t been speeding, hadn’t been careless, hadn’t hit the stupid dog. “I stopped to help her after she got hit by someone else.”

  Annie turned toward the door. “Then you’re her Good Samaritan, which means you still, get to take care of her until she recovers.”

  “I never said I wouldn’t.”

  “Good. Genevieve has your bill ready, too. She handed it to me as she was going out the door this evening, with the advice that I get a check before you up and left.”

  “Are you worried I’ll skip town without paying the bill?”

  She frowned at him, surprised perhaps by the irritation in the words. “No, I’m not. Genevieve is. But then, she suspects anyone who doesn’t pay in advance of being a deadbeat pet owner.”

  “What about you, Annie? What do you think?”r />
  “I’m not worried about the money.”

  “But you’re convinced I’d be a deadbeat dad?”

  She met his gaze, truthfully. “I believe you’d have the best intentions in the world, Alex.” Then, with a sigh, she shrugged away the sudden seriousness. “Who knows? By the time you meet and marry the right woman, maybe you’ll be ready to make some lucky little boy a terrific dad. In the meantime, you can practice on your niece or nephew.”

  He couldn’t remember being really angry with her. Ever. Until now. “I intend to be a part of my son’s life, Annie, whether you have any faith in me or not.”

  “It’s not a matter of fai—”

  “The hell it isn’t!” He stopped, forced his lungs to expand, exhale... slow down, calm down, take a moment. “It is, Annie. It is about having faith.”

  She pressed her lips together, stood so still, looked so vulnerable that for a second he thought she might toss caution to the wind and believe him. Or that she at least wanted to. “This isn’t about you, Alex. It’s not even your—”

  “If you’re about to tell me again that this isn’t my baby, don’t bother, because no matter how many times you tell me, I’m not going to believe you.”

  “Well, that would make this a draw, I guess. I don’t believe you. You don’t believe me. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m putting my six-shooter away and you’re going to do the same. No gunfight today. Because sure as we’re standing here, if we keep arguing, one of us is bound to get hurt and I’m too tired to feel guilty or regretful tonight.” She wiped her palms on the sides of her shirt. “Now I’m going to go get your bill and you can write out a check to the clinic, which will make Genevieve happy. Then we’ll go retrieve your dog, which will make Loosey happy. After that you’are going home and I’m going to wash this paint off and go to bed, which will make me happy. Any questions?”