A Baby of Her Own

Roy spat out the window as they rumbled to a stop at what appeared to be the town’s biggest intersection. A brick municipal building with the date 1847 carved above its arched entry stood on one corner, across from two stately homes that looked as though they hailed from the same era and a redbrick building designated as the city library.

“Give or take a few,” he said. “Not that twenty thousand acres is very big, far as ranches go. You want big, go to Texas.”

“Where they raise Longhorns.” Even Conner knew that. “What kind of cattle do we stock?” he asked. He’d been too angry at his grandfather and his uncles to reveal the slightest interest in returning to the Running Y by asking even the most basic questions.

The light turned green, but his companion squinted at him for a second or two before giving the pickup enough gas to roll through the intersection. “We’ve got about two thousand Bally-faced Herefords.”

Bally-faced? Conner hadn’t heard that term before, but he did, thankfully, recognize Herefords. Unless he was mistaken, they were the common reddish cattle seen in so many places. “Is the entire ranch fenced?” he asked, trying to imagine how one might manage such a large chunk of land.

Roy accelerated to their usual traveling speed of about forty-five miles per hour. Because of the load of hay Roy had picked up in Boise before appearing at Conner’s hotel, Conner doubted the truck could go any faster.

“Parts are fenced,” Roy said. “But some of the land is open range leased from the BLM, and I doubt they’d like us fencing it off.”

“The BLM?”

Another squinty gaze. “The Bureau of Land Management. It operates state land. We hold the grazing rights for about ten thousand BLM acres down along the south pass.”

“I see,” Conner said, but he didn’t see much. He’d thought owning a twenty-thousand-acre ranch meant owning twenty thousand acres of deeded property. Evidently that wasn’t strictly the case.

What are the grazing rights worth? he wanted to ask. How do we keep our cattle from straying if our property isn’t completely fenced? How do we stop thieves and predators from stealing and slaughtering our Bally-faced Herefords? Did a few cowboys keep a constant vigil over them?

There were hundreds of things he’d need to know. But he didn’t ask anything more. His lack of knowledge wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence in his foreman, and he was still too disgruntled about what had happened with Delaney this morning to handle the situation diplomatically.

There’d be plenty of time to learn how to run the ranch once he arrived, he supposed. At this point, he preferred his unhappy thoughts to Roy’s resentment. But Roy wasn’t ready to let the conversation lapse.

“Ever been out on a horse?” he asked as they rumbled along.

“On occasion,” Conner told him.

“For work or for pleasure?”

It didn’t take a crystal ball to see where Roy’s questions were leading, and the implication of his words caused the irritation already rushing through Conner’s blood to get the better of him. He’d gone against his saner judgment when he’d taken Delaney to his room last night, and she’d left him feeling jilted and used. He didn’t need a crusty old cowboy to make him feel worthless, as well.

“What do you think?” he said.

“I don’t think you look like much of a cowboy.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to buy myself a belt buckle tomorrow.”

Roy’s furry eyebrows shot up, but he kept his eyes on the road as he shifted onto one hip to reach his chew. “It’s gonna take a lot more than a belt buckle, son.”

Conner recognized the challenge in the man’s voice. Fixing him with a level gaze, he said, “I’ll manage,” even though, in all honesty, he couldn’t blame Roy for resenting his lack of experience. The ranch was deeply in debt and would probably fail in far more capable hands. His grandfather had obviously sent the wrong man. Conner had known that from the beginning, and now he and Roy both knew it.

“You want to tell me a little about what’s been going on, why we’re so far from showing a profit?” Conner asked. As long as Roy had no illusions about his abilities, they might as well get down to the nitty-gritty.

The foreman took a pinch of tobacco, settled it between his cheek and gum and put his tin away before answering. “Price of beef’s been falling. What with foreign competition and the price of feed after the drought last summer, we’re not lookin’ to have a good year.”

“Is there any way to turn things around?” Conner asked as they approached a black wrought-iron archway with the words “Running Y Ranch” inscribed on it.

Roy spat out the window as he slowed to make the turn. “That’s what you’re here for, ain’t it?”

“YOU’LL HAVE TO MOVE BACK HERE with us. How else will you get by once Rebecca leaves?” Aunt Millie asked, watching Delaney closely.

Delaney paused in her dusting but kept her face purposefully averted from Aunt Millie, who sat propped up in bed, suffering from a touch of the flu or a cold or, more likely, simply the need for a little tender loving care.

“I’ll get by,” she said for probably the hundredth time and went back to dusting, hoping Aunt Millie would let the subject drop. But Delaney knew she wouldn’t. Ever since Millie had heard about Rebecca’s engagement, she’d been pressing Delaney to move home again. She’d never liked the fact that Delaney had moved out in the first place, especially to go and live with Rebecca. But Delaney wasn’t about to return to the days of having Aunt Millie cluck over her constantly, monitoring her diet, her spending habits, her social success. Much as she loved Millie and Ralph, she liked her privacy and was determined to preserve it.

“But coming home for a few months would help you save a little money,” Aunt Millie said. “What’s wrong with saving money? You don’t want to live all alone, do you?”

“I don’t mind living alone. Can I get you anything else to eat?”

“No, I’m finished,” Aunt Millie said, but she wasn’t so easily distracted. The white-haired woman who’d raised Delaney was getting on in years. Her body was beginning to succumb to arthritis and advanced age, but nothing could diminish her iron will. “You could have your old room,” she went on. “We haven’t changed a thing in there, but we could, if you want. We could sew some new drapes, buy a new spread….”

The cornered feeling Delaney knew so well crept over her, along with a touch of resentment. If she’d wanted to move home, she would have done it by now. Why couldn’t Millie understand that? Why did she have to keep pushing?

“The room’s fine,” she said.

“Think of the time we’d have. We never did finish putting that quilt together, you know.”

Delaney imagined living under Aunt Millie’s regime again, imagined Uncle Ralph sitting in front of the television most of the time, monopolizing the remote, while Millie insisted Delaney take her vitamins, eat her bran, get more sleep—and thought she might scream.

Then she felt guilty for wanting to scream because Aunt Millie and Uncle Ralph had been so good to her. They’d never formally adopted her; there’d been no one to contest their guardianship, so paying for the paperwork to be filed seemed unnecessary. But Millie and Ralph had given her their name and treated her as lovingly as a blood daughter.

God, she couldn’t win.

“That house of yours is too drafty in the winter,” Millie was saying. “I just freeze to death whenever I go there. You need to tell that landlord of yours that you’re moving out because it’s so cold. He should really do something about the insulation.”

“I’ll mention it,” Delaney said, but she wasn’t thinking about insulation. She’d role-played this exact situation online with her assertiveness training coach. She knew what she had to do. She had to tell Aunt Millie in a kind but firm manner that she wasn’t moving home under any circumstances, and now was as good a time as any. But when she turned, she saw the hope on her adoptive mother’s face and couldn’t bring herself to say what she knew would hurt Millie, no matter how kindly she framed it.

“I’ll think about it,” she said instead, then mentally kicked herself. She was never going to overcome her passivity. She’d probably be the first person to fail a class that gave no grades.

“Ralph could borrow the neighbor’s truck, so we wouldn’t have any trouble moving your things,” Millie said, struggling to lift the breakfast tray from across her lap.

Delaney put down her dusting cloth and went to help. “I’ll get that,” she said, setting it on the nightstand. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like another cup of coffee?”

“No. Ralph says drinking so much coffee will kill me. But arthritis won’t let me do much of anything else these days. I’m just sitting here getting fat.”

Uncle Ralph was at the barbershop, probably drinking his own share of coffee while he complained about the rising price of gasoline to the same friends he’d met there every Sunday for the past thirty years. Dundee was nothing if not comfortable with routine.

“Uncle Ralph likes the way you look, and so do I,” Delaney said, straightening the covers on Aunt Millie’s bed.

Aunt Millie raised a gnarled hand to pat her arm. “You’re a good girl, Laney. I’ve always been so proud of you. I knew the moment I saw you when you were just six years old that you were nothing like your mother. And you’ve never disappointed me.”

Delaney felt the bonds of obligation grow a little tighter, tying her hands, trapping her in the mold Millie had created for her. And fear overwhelmed her as the memories she’d been trying so hard to suppress for the past twenty-four hours quickly surfaced—Conner standing at his hotel room door wearing only his jeans…Conner smiling above her…Conner’s lips, his hands, his body…

She closed her eyes, feeling as though she might pass out. What if she was pregnant? What if she had to tell Aunt Millie and Uncle Ralph that their perfect little girl wasn’t so perfect after all?

“It’s getting kind of late,” she said awkwardly, her face growing hot. “If I don’t head home, there’ll be people breaking down my door for pies. You think you’ll be okay here until Uncle Ralph gets back?”