Pull!”
Three more firm tugs and the calf slipped out. Cy cleared his nose and mouth and the little black-baldy bawled. The cow turned, gently licking away the slick birth membranes covering her calf.
“That was a near miss,” Harley observed, grinning.
“Very near.” Cy glowered at Lisa. “In more ways than one.”
“Excuse me?” Harley asked.
“It was my cow,” Lisa pointed out. “I thought I could do it by myself.”
“Pregnant, and you think you’re Samson,” he said with biting sarcasm.
She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. “Go away!”
“Gladly. When I’ve washed my hands.”
“There’s a pump over here,” Harley reminded him, indicating it.
“You go ahead, son,” Cy muttered, glancing at his stitched arm. “I’ve got a raw wound. I’ll have to have antibacterial soap.”
Harley didn’t say anything, but his face was expressive. He thought his poor old crippled boss was a real basket case, barely fit to do most ranch work.
“Antibacterial soap, indeed. The germs would probably die of natural causes if they got in you!” Lisa muttered.
“At least my germs are intelligent! I wouldn’t try pulling calves if I was pregnant!”
Lisa almost doubled over at the thought of a pregnant Cy Parks, which only served to make him angrier.
“I’ll get back to your place and start the men culling cattle for the next sale, boss man. I can wash up there!” Harley called, and didn’t wait for an answer. The amused expression on his face was eloquent—he wanted to get out of the line of fire!
“Craven coward,” she muttered, staring after the cloud of dust he and the truck vanished in. “Are all your men like that?”
He followed her into the kitchen. “He’s not afraid of me,” he said irritably. “He thinks I’m pitiable. In fact, he has delusions that he’s soldier of fortune material since he spent two weeks having intense combat training with a weekend merk training school,” he added with pure sarcasm. “Have you got a hand towel?”
She pulled one from a drawer while he lathered his arms, wincing a little as the water and soap stung the stitches.
“You don’t want to get that infected,” she said, studying the wound as she stood beside him with the towel.
“Thanks for the first-aid tip,” he said with failing patience. “That’s why I asked for antibacterial soap!” He took the towel she offered, but his eyes were on her flat belly even as he dried away the wetness. “You take chances,” he said shortly. “Dangerous chances. A lot of women miscarry in the first trimester, even without doing stupid things like heavy lifting and trying to pull calves. You need to think before you act.”
She studied his quiet, haunted face. Discussing pregnancy didn’t seem to make him feel inhibited at all. “You must have been good to your wife while she was pregnant,” she said gently.
“I wanted the baby,” he replied. His face hardened. “She didn’t. She didn’t want a child until she was in her thirties, if then. But I wouldn’t hear of her terminating the pregnancy,” he added, and there was an odd, pained look in his eyes for an instant. “So she had the child, only to lose him in a much more horrible way. But de spite everything, I wanted him from the time I knew he was on the way.”
She felt his pain as if it were tangible. “I won’t have anyone to share this with,” she said, her voice husky with remembered loss and pain. “I was over the moon when they did the blood test and said I was pregnant. Walt wouldn’t even talk about having children. He died the night after I conceived, but even if he’d lived long enough to know about the baby, he would have said it was too soon.” She shrugged. “I guess it was.”
She’d never told that to another soul. It embarrassed her that it had slipped out, but Cy seemed unshockable.
“Some men don’t adjust well to children,” he said simply. It went without saying that he wasn’t one of them. He didn’t know what else to say. He felt sorry for her. She obviously took pleasure in her pregnancy, and it was equally obvious that she loved children. He sat down at the table with her. Maybe she needed to get it out of her system. Evidently she could tell him things that she couldn’t tell anyone else.
“Go on,” he coaxed. “Get everything off your chest. I’m a clam. I don’t tell anything I know, and I’m not judgmental.”
“I think I sensed that.” She sighed. “Want some coffee? I have to drink decaf, but I could make some.”
“I hate decaf, but I’ll drink it.”
She smiled. She got up and filled the pot and the filter and started the coffeemaker while she got down white mugs. She glanced at him with pursed lips. “Black,” she guessed.
He gave her an annoyed look. “Don’t get conceited because you know how I take my coffee.”
“I won’t.”
She poured the coffee into the cups and sat back down, watching as he cupped his left hand around it. “Does it still hurt?” she asked, referring to the burns on his hand.
“Not as much as it used to,” he said flatly.
“You don’t have anyone to talk to, either, do you?”
He shook his head. “I’m not much for bars, and the only friend I have is Eb. Now that he’s married, we don’t spend a lot of time together.”
“It’s worse when you hold things inside,” she murmured absently, staring into her coffee. “Everybody thinks I had a fairy-tale marriage with a sexy man who loved danger and could have had any woman he wanted.” She smiled wryly. “At first I thought so, too. He seemed like a dream come true. Boy, did my illusions leave skid marks taking off!”
“So did mine,” he said flatly.
She leaned forward, feeling daring. “Yes, but I’ll bet you weren’t a virgin who thought people did it in the dark fully clothed!”
He burst out laughing. He hadn’t felt like laughing since…he couldn’t remember. Her eyes bubbled with joy; her laugh was infectious. She made him hungry, thirsty, desperate for the delight she engendered.
She grinned. “There. You look much less intimidating when you smile. And before you regret telling me secrets, I’d better mention that I’ve never told anybody what my best friend did on our senior trip to Florida. And I won’t tell you now.”
“Was it scandalous?”
“It was for Jacobsville.” She chuckled.
“Didn’t you do anything scandalous?”
“Not me,” she popped back. “I’m the soul of propriety. My dad used to say that I was the suffering conscience of the world.”
