A Husband of Her Own

Oh well, nothing in Dundee was going to matter when she moved to Nebraska, she told herself. But that line of reasoning didn’t pack the same power it used to because she was no longer sure she’d be moving to Nebraska. Buddy had left several messages on her answering machine today, but she didn’t feel like returning them. She felt like sitting on the steps, smoking one cigarette after another, watching the moths hover about her porch light. Autumn was here. The leaves were turning, the days growing shorter. Rebecca had always loved the crisp mountain air, and she wondered if Nebraska was very different. She’d only visited there once, the past spring….

If she did move, she’d miss autumn in Idaho. And she’d miss Delaney.

Picking up the cordless phone she’d carried outside with her, she dialed her best friend at the ranch where Delaney now lived with her husband, Conner Armstrong.

“You’re smoking again,” Delaney said, almost as soon as she answered.

Rebecca exhaled. “That’s the first thing you’ve got to say to me?”

“You promised me you were going to quit for real this time.”

Rebecca removed her cigarette and watched the smoke curl up into the sky. “Yeah, well, that was before I went over to my parents’ tonight. Be grateful I’m only smoking.”

“Something happen at your folks?”

After another long drag, Rebecca stubbed out her cigarette, then stretched her legs. “Nothing new. How’s the pregnancy?”

“The doctor says everything looks fine.”

“Good. Hard to believe you’re almost ready to pop. The past few months have gone fast.” In fact, considering that Rebecca and Buddy had been engaged before Delaney even met Conner, time had streaked by. Delaney was starting a family; Rebecca was trying to work up the nerve to tell everyone her wedding had just been postponed again.

“I’m big enough that it’s getting a little uncomfortable,” Delaney complained. “I’ve lost my toes.”

Rebecca thought she wouldn’t mind gaining twenty-five pounds and losing sight of her toes if it meant a baby. “Guess that goes with the territory, huh? Did you ever find the dressers you were looking for?”

“Conner told me to buy new ones. But I’m having fun hunting for bargains. It keeps me occupied while he oversees the building of the resort. Maybe I’ll drive to Boise next week and visit a few garage sales, see what I can find. You’re off Monday. Want to go with me?”

Rebecca’s call-waiting beeped before she could answer. “Hang on a sec,” she said and hit the flash button. “Hello?”

“Rebecca?”

It was her father. She sat up and shook another cigarette out of the package, knowing instinctively she’d need one. “Yeah?”

“I just talked to Josh Hill.”

She froze mid-motion. “Why do I get the feeling that comment is somehow related to me?”

“Because it is. I asked him to call a truce between the two of you.”

Rebecca stuck the unlit cigarette in her mouth and found her lighter. “You didn’t,” she said, speaking around it.

“I did.” A brief, unhappy hesitation. “Are you smoking again? I thought you’d quit.”

Dropping her lighter in her lap, she quickly pulled the cigarette from her mouth. “I have.”

“I hope so. That’s such a nasty habit.”

“Why did you call Josh, Dad? There’s no reason to ask for a truce.”

“After what happened at Delia’s wedding?”

“That was an accident. We haven’t done anything to each other on purpose for years.” Barring the night they’d gone to Josh’s place from the Honky Tonk, of course. They’d done a few things to each other then—and would probably have done a lot more if they hadn’t been interrupted. But that night didn’t count. Feverish groping didn’t fall in the same category as their earlier dealings.

“I’m tired of being afraid to have you two in the same room,” her father replied.

“Is that what you told him?”

“That’s what I told him.”

“And he said…” Rebecca toyed nervously with her lighter, flipping the lid open, closed, open, closed. Click, click…click, click.

“He agreed to let the past go.”

“He did?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Now, what do you say?”

Click, click…click, click.

Words were cheap, Rebecca decided. Why not let her father feel as though his intervention had solved everything? “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, we’re calling a truce.”

“Good.” Her father sounded inordinately pleased. “I told him I could convince you.”

“You’ve done a bang-up job, Dad. Is that all?”

“Not quite.”

Rebecca hesitated, fearing she hadn’t heard the worst of it yet. “What do you mean by that?”

“As a gesture of good faith, he’s stopping by the salon tomorrow for a haircut.”

Rebecca coughed as though she’d just swallowed a bug. When she could speak, she said, “But he always gets his hair cut at the barbershop.”

“Not tomorrow. Tomorrow he’s coming to you. He’ll be there at ten. Good night.”

“Wait,” she cried. “I can’t cut his hair.”

“Why not?” her father asked, his voice now gruff. “You agreed to the truce, remember?”

Collecting her cigarettes and lighter, Rebecca stood and began to pace across the small porch. “Of course I remember, but…but tomorrow’s Saturday. I’m booked solid.”

“Not at ten in the morning you’re not.”

“How do you know?”