“What you told me doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Brad put his head in his hands. “I should go over there and beat his head in. I should shoot him.”
“That would upset me greatly.” Bailey set milk out for the youngest of the seven Dixon siblings, who were eyeing her and Brad curiously as they spoke in abbreviated terms so the children wouldn’t understand the exact content of the conversation. Bailey was twenty-five, and Brad was twenty-six. As for late-in-life accidents, their parents had five of them, now aged five, six, seven, eight and nine. It was like a tap that had been turned on and refused to shut off. Country people who had never strayed from Fallen, they’d married at fifteen, respect for each other forging their family tight-knit and strong. At forty-one, a cruel cancer stole Polly, and not much later, Elijah died of a broken heart, too weak to be willing to go on without his wife.
Contrary to popular belief, it was more than possible to survive on love. It was a richness no coin could purchase.
Their parents had left the family that knowledge, if not money. How to pay the overwhelming inheritance taxes on the house and property fell to Bailey and Brad to figure out. As the eldest, Brad should be head of the household, but he was happier letting Bailey handle most of the practical considerations. Now she’d added a further complication—one more mouth to feed.
She returned to washing dishes. “I knew what I was getting into.”
“As the man of this house, it’s probably incumbent upon me to at least talk to him.”
“No!” Bailey whirled around and eyed her brother sharply. “I’ll talk to him. When the time is right.”
“The clock is ticking,” Brad pointed out. “You need to speed up your timetable.”
“Brad,” Bailey protested. “Please! It’s not going to be easy. I don’t know how to tell him….” She fell silent, glancing out the kitchen window to the redbrick, sturdy ranch house Michael’s father had commissioned. What little she had of Michael, she didn’t want to lose.
Sadness struck her heart. She had a choice to make. She could tell him about the baby, and he’d no doubt do the honorable thing. But she didn’t want him that way.
She wanted him to be hers, body and soul and heart and mind.
Not trapped. Not forced—though she knew in her heart it would never happen. He would never feel the way about her she felt about him.
Brad left the kitchen, but Bailey hardly noticed as she stared through the window at the neighboring ranch. “Cowboy, please be mine,” she murmured through sudden tears.
“ARE YOU GOING to do any work today?” Chili Haskins turned to look at his loafing companion.
Curly Monroe looked indignant. “Should I?” He settled a bit more comfortably on the wooden fence rail they shared. “We’re almost old enough to be members of AARP.”
Fred Peters scratched his chin. “You mean that association of retired people? We ain’t that old.”
“Nah.” Chili thought that over. “We’re fence-sitters, not doing much of anything but sitting on this rail. But we’re not retired.”
“A fence-sitters’ country club,” Curly agreed, satisfied. “Kind of exclusive, if you think on it.”
“We need to do something, though.” Chili wasn’t as satisfied as Curly.
“No, we don’t. That would defeat the purpose of sitting on the fence,” Fred pointed out. “We’d have to turn in our membership in our own club.”
“We could do a little more than we’re doing to help Michael,” Chili argued. “He didn’t have to keep us on after his pa passed. He could have sent us packing. I say we help him out some way more than appointing ourselves the unofficial lookouts of the Walking W ranch.”
From their vantage point, they gazed at the sprawling ranch house.
“Big place for one person,” Fred mentioned.
“Yep. Gotta be lonely.” Chili had his two companions in retirement. He wasn’t lonely. Michael Wade had no one.
All three men glanced toward the dilapidated Victorian house perched on the opposite hill. Chili cleared his throat. Curly coughed uncomfortably. Fred shifted.
“Been a long time since she’s been a-calling,” Chili finally said.
“Maybe he ran her off,” Curly suggested.
It was a strong possibility. Michael didn’t want a whole lot of company, and especially not female, although there wasn’t a single unattached woman in all of Fallen who hadn’t brought Michael some vittles and a smile. Michael came out every once in a while to jaw with the self-appointed fence-sitters, but as far as they knew, Bailey’s nocturnal visits were an amazing exception to his self-imposed seclusion.
“You could casually ask him,” Fred said hopefully. “Ask him if he’s seen Bailey lately, as if you didn’t know he hasn’t.”
“He could casually poke me in the honker for butting in!” Chili was indignant. “Any more stupid ideas, friend?”
“We could mind our own business,” Fred acceded. “That would probably be best.”
They were quiet for a while, returning their attention to the ranch house. Michael walked onto the porch, stared at the cloudless sky for a moment, then glanced nonchalantly toward the Victorian before realizing the fence-sitters were watching. He gave a curt wave and retreated into the house.
“If he did run her off, he may be regretting it,” Chili noted.
“Sometimes a man doesn’t have to say with words what’s on his mind,” Curly said softly. “I knew he liked that little gal.”
Fred sat straighter. “Maybe we could help out.”
“How?” Chili demanded. “We’re ranch hands, not matchmakers.”
“I don’t like being retired,” Fred stated. “I want to be useful. I want to help Michael, not be a burden.”
Curly leaned back on the fence. “If something happened between those two, Bailey is going to be the hard one to convince, I hate to tell ya.” It was true. They’d known Bailey since she was a baby. All her twenty-five years she’d been stubborn. If she’d parked her blue truck in her own yard for two weeks, maybe she’d parked it for good where Michael was concerned. It would be tough to convince her to do anything she didn’t have a mind to.
They saw the curtain on the west side of the ranch house move slightly before it fell back into place.
Curly’s jaw dropped. “He’s looking for her!”
“He sure enough is.” Fred’s tone was filled with astonishment. “Looks like he’s got it bad!”
A few moments later, a black truck pulled up the lane to the Victorian house. Bailey, dressed in high heels and a pretty blue dress, hurried from the house and got in before her caller
