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 despite 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.” Her eyes darkened. “He died of a stroke while he was using the tiller out in the garden. When he didn’t come in for lunch, I knew something was wrong. I went out to find him.” She moved her coffee cup on the table.
“He was sitting against a tree with his thermos jug of coffee still in his hands, his eyes wide-open, stone dead.” She shivered. “Mom had died when I was in sixth grade, of cancer. Dad loved her so much. He loved me, too.” She lifted her sad eyes. “I suppose I’d rather have had him for a short time than not to have had him at all. Walter felt sorry for me and asked me to marry him, because I was so alone. He’d just lost the woman he loved and I think he wanted to marry me just to spite her. The ranch was a bonus. I was really infatuated with him at first, and he liked me and loved this ranch. I figured we had as good a chance of making a marriage work as people who were passionately in love.” She sighed again. “Isn’t hindsight wonderful?”
He leaned back in his chair and looked at her for a long time. “You’re a tonic,” he said abruptly. “You’re astringent and sometimes you sting, but I like being around you.”
“Thanks. I think,” she added.
“Oh, it’s a compliment,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t offer you anything except the truth.”
“That really is a compliment.”
“Glad you noticed.”
“What happened to the drunk cowboy?” she asked.
“Luke’s wife is getting him into a halfway house,” he mused. “A real crusader, that lady. She is a bleeding heart.”
“She likes lost causes,” she countered. “I’ve heard a lot about her, and I like what I’ve heard. If I can get this ranch back on its feet, I’d like to help her.”
“Another latent crusader,” he teased.
“A lot of people need saving, and there aren’t a lot of reformers around,” she pointed out.
“True enough.”
“Thanks for sending that other man over to keep a lookout. He’s very nice. Did you know that he likes to do needlepoint?” she asked matter-of-factly.
He nodded. “Nels does some exhibition-quality handwork. Nobody teases him about it, either. At least, not since he knocked Sid Turpen into the water trough.”
She chuckled. “He looked like that sort of man. I knit,” she said. “Not very well, but it gives me something to do when I’m by myself.”
“You’re
