Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning (18 page)

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“How long what?”

“Before we get divorced?”

She hadn’t thought that out yet. If the Flying W didn’t get the grant this year or if one year’s grant wasn’t enough to get it back on its feet, she’d be back where she’d started. Better give herself some leeway.

“Five years.”

He jerked up from the pole as if it had caught fire. “Five years!”

She crossed her arms and braced her legs. “Five years isn’t a life sentence, you know. It’s not like we’d have to be together all the time. We’d only have to make it look like we were married.”

He rested back against the pole. “So it would be okay if I fooled around on the side?”

“No!” She would have taken that back if she could, especially when he got smug. “We have to keep up proper appearances. That’s part of the deal.”

“Matty, honey, be reasonable. Unless you’re going to rethink your position on conjugal rights–”

“No!”

“–And you don’t want me running around on you, five years is definitely out of the question.”

She gave in with ill grace. “Four years, then.”

“Six months.”

“No way. Three years.”

“One year.”

“Two years.”

“Eighteen months.”

She figured furiously in her head. She’d just
have
to get the grant this year. Surely she could turn the Flying W around with two years’ worth of grants. And paperwork for a divorce would take time, so with some luck... “Twenty-two months before we start the divorce proceedings.”

“Done.”

He stuck out his hand. She put hers in it. He wrapped his big hand around hers, the calluses slightly abrading the tender skin across the back of her hand and the strength of his fingers pressing against hers. You’d think a lawyer would have soft skin and strength only in the muscles used for endorsing checks.

“So twenty-two months from now we get divorced. When do we get married?”

Still holding her hand, he leaned back against the pole, unbalancing her enough that she had to take a step toward him to keep from falling over. She yanked her hand free.

“As fast as we can.” The application deadline for this year’s grant was in three and a half weeks.

For a long moment, he stared at her from the shadow cast by his hat–able to see out so much better than she could see in. “Okay,” he said at last.

Matty let out a breath–and an instant later realized she’d relaxed too soon.

“Now, what do I get out of this deal?”

Amazon

It hadn’t been her best decision.

And that was saying something, considering the not-great decisions she’d made in her life.

Including getting pregnant by a guy she now recognized she’d known in her bones wasn’t the guy for her.

Including heading as far away as possible from her family in Gloucester, Massachusetts.

Every last one of them would have rallied around her. Which was precisely why she’d gone to Port Orchard, Washington.

She’d gotten into this on her own, she needed to handle it on her own.

Valerie Trimarco, woman in charge.

Right.

Although, she had done okay in Port Orchard these past months. She’d supported herself, made some good friends, had everything arranged for the birth.

Everything lined up and ready to go.

Right up until this overwhelming need to have the baby in Gloucester – to be
home
– swamped every island of sense she possessed. All thoughts of handling things on her own or even with the help of her friends disappeared. All she could think of was getting home.

So she’d packed her car and headed for Massachusetts.

That still wasn’t such an awful decision. After all, they said it wasn’t a great idea to fly this close to the due date. She liked driving alone. And her car was reliable and sturdy.

Though even reliable and sturdy cars eventually run out of gas if they’re kept running.

But keeping it running for brief periods for spurts of warmth had seemed like the reasonable thing to do once the car got stuck.

Of course it wouldn’t have gotten stuck if she hadn’t had to swerve to avoid that cow when she came around the curve in the road.

On the other hand, she wouldn’t have been on this road if she hadn’t had to keep changing her route because of the storm sweeping down from the northwest. From the last report she’d heard, I-94 should be closed right about now.

So she’d made the right decision to take 1-90 out of Billings, even though it had soon become clear the storm would hit her before she could get far enough east to get ahead of it.

She’d adjusted again, planning to reach Buffalo, then swing south by way of I-25 to connect with I-80 , which also ran east-west, but — she hoped — far enough south to miss the storm.

That was not to be, either.

She’d caught a radio report that said there was a backup before Buffalo from an accident that had spread gravel across the highway. By the time it could be cleaned up, the storm would be on top of them and no one would be going anywhere.

So she’d gotten off the interstate, creating her own detour. She’d taken a road south. When it ran out, she turned east. That road gave up, too, so she picked up another heading south. And did another east-south combo before she reached this one. She’d been heading east quite a while, so she really should have reached the Interstate … if it hadn’t been for that cow.

The cow and the ditch.

Pushing had been out of the question, considering her condition, but she’d tried rocking the car out of the ditch like the trained-to-drive in snow New Englander she was. Alas, no amount of rocking helped when the nose of your station wagon was sucking in mud from the far side of the ditch.

And then the wind picked up, blowing around curtains of snow. Not light and airy sheers, either. More like heavy velvet.

This was not good.

A sound and a shadow — later, she never could remember which caught her attention first — jerked her head to look out the window of the driver’s door.

It looked like a brown blanket was hanging nearly next to the window with — was that a boot?

Another sound came, this one like a voice, though she couldn’t make out words.

Then, at the very top of the field of vision allowed by the window, she saw a pair of eyes. She blinked, then squinted, finally making sense of what she was seeing.

It was a man on a horseback. He’d bent nearly double, apparently to look into the window. He had a scarf muffling the lower part of his face, and a cowboy hat held on with another scarf covering the top part, leaving only the eyes.

“Ma’am? You okay?” He shouted it this time, and she realized it was what he’d said before.

She pressed the window button to lower the window a few inches. At least there was enough juice left for that. She hoped there’d be enough to raise it again, because it was going to get very cold in the car very fast with the window even partially open.

“Where am I?”

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t look at me like I’ve lost my marbles.” Though that was mostly an assumption, since all she had to judge by were his eyes. “I know I’m somewhere in Wyoming, and I should be real close to I-25.”

He’d tugged his hat even lower after her first words. “You’re on the Slash-C Ranch, and you’re about six miles from the Interstate.”

“Hah! I knew I was getting close.”

“But you’ve been running parallel to it for however long you’ve been on this road.”

“Damn.” She must have gotten her souths and easts confused at some point. A mini-contraction playfully stabbed her. “Damn, damn,
DAMN
!”

She panted as the contraction ebbed, knowing it wasn’t anywhere near to the worst, since she’d already had a few of those.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked again.

“Depends on what you mean by okay.”

She had the impression of a frown from under the brim of the cowboy hat. “Pardon?”

“If you mean do I have any broken bones or other injuries, no. If you mean am I as well off as the cow I swerved to miss that ambled off looking for more grass to eat, no again. I admit this wasn’t my best decision, coming off the Interstate to try to beat the weather, but it really shouldn’t have turned out this bad.”

“You’re not hurt and your vehicle still runs—”

“I’m not hurt, but I am in pain. And my vehicle as you call it won’t run long because it’s about out of gas.”

“I’ll ride back and get you some gas—”

“You missed the part about me being in pain. I—”

She broke off, because this contraction was not a mini and it wasn’t playful. She concentrated on trying to remember her training, trying not to tense up, trying to keep the hiss through her teeth a hiss and not a scream.

“Ma’am?
Ma’am
?”

Now she’d done it. She’d rattled the cowboy.

The contraction eased, not quite passing, however.

“I’m in labor,” she said with uncharacteristic brevity.

His head ducked lower, apparently for a better look into the car window. “Shit.”

“That about covers it. And I’m no expert, but I think this kid’s eager to see the world. Just like her mother. So that’s probably a good sign that we’ll get along, and this motherhood thing should—”

She quit because the cowboy was leaving. Without even getting off his horse. He’d just turned the horse and started back along the side of her wagon toward the road. She stuck her head out the window and saw the swish of horse’s tail as it stepped up the embankment toward the road.

She couldn’t believe it.

But she could. Because it was exactly the kind of outcome that resulted from most of her decisions. Still, you’d think the guy would have at least said something—

A sound from the passenger side of the car yanked her head around to it.

Over the top of the shade to her favorite lamp that had survived the slide into the ditch because the passenger seat was packed as tightly as the rest of the car, she realized there was something outside that frosted window.

Two somethings. The cowboy and horse shape had separated into two separate shapes. The cowboy shape was looping the reins around the passenger door handle.

He hadn’t left her.

Her eyes felt hot, but tears didn’t form.

He hadn’t left
them
.

Then he shouted something through the closed window she couldn’t possibly make out. She closed her window before opening the passenger window, because she wasn’t a complete idiot, and if there was only enough juice for one move she wanted it to be to
close
a window. This way if it stopped working after she opened the passenger window there’d only be one window letting a blizzard in.

He shouted again.

“Wait a second,” she snapped. Then the window was down.

“I said release the tailgate. And—”

“Why?”

“—Put this window back up so it doesn’t let more cold in.”

“I know. Why do you think —?”

But the cowboy shape was moving, leaving the horse shape by the passenger door.

She raised the window, but that didn’t help much because in another moment, he had the tailgate open.

“What are you—?”

“Quiet,” he ordered. “Working.”

“Like you can’t talk and work at the same ti—”

Another contraction cut her off. This one was different. She couldn’t say it hurt more, because they all hurt. But it seemed more
serious
. She wanted to pull her knees up, but the steering wheel prevented it. She concentrated on breathing.
Focus. Focus. Focus
…

What was that sound?

As the contraction relented, she recognized she’d been hearing the sound for a while.

The cowboy was moving her things around on the deck of the old station wagon.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

He didn’t respond.

She started to turn to see what he was doing, thought better of it, and tilted the rear view mirror.

She could only see to the back in part of the mirror’s view. In the rest, he’d piled her belongings up to the roof, doing the same on the sides, apparently.

“I won’t be able to drive,” she protested. “You’re blocking all my sight lines.” She prided herself on her driving. Even family who gave her grief for being impulsive, restless, and having wanderlust acknowledged she was a great driver. A little fast, maybe, but safe.

In the mirror, she saw a portion of his cowboy hat come up, as if he might be looking toward her. “You’re not driving anywhere anytime soon.”

“Couldn’t you get a tow truck?”

“I’ve radioed the home ranch. They’re coming.”

“Good. That’s good. Then we can just wait.” She didn’t feel one bit guilty for roping him into that
we
waiting. Besides, it was better than riding around in a snowstorm. Except … “I don’t know where you’ll sit, though.”

“Making room back here.”

“You’re going to sit back there?” That didn’t seem very sociable.

“Both of us.”

At the moment, with the cold streaming in from the open tailgate, the prospect of being near some body heat had appeal. “Will there be room?”

“Yeah.” He sounded grim. “Got any more blankets?”

“There’s a box—”

“Got that. Need more for — this will do.”

She saw a flash of scarlet in the mirror, tried to twist around again, found that wasn’t a good idea again. “Hey, what was that I just saw? Was that my cape?”

“Dunno.”

“Long, hooded, cashmere, lined with satin, my favorite piece of clothing ever.”

He wasn’t listening. Because partway through her description, he’d backed out of the tailgate and dropped it closed behind him.

How hard was it to recognize a cape? Didn’t take a fashion expert for heaven’s sake, so—

Her door opened abruptly.

“What were you doing with my cape?” she demanded. No sense wasting time confirming it was her cape when she couldn’t think of anything else she had that was that color.

“Put your arms around my neck.”

“What?”