Their Child?: Lori's Little Secret / Which Child Is Mine? / Having The Best Man's Baby

“Tucker I…um…” Oh, God. How to even begin?

“Yeah, Lori?”

“Well, you know,” she said, her voice wobbly and weak. “We really have to talk.”

“Talk,” he replied, as if mulling over the meaning of the word. “Yeah. I guess we do.”

“I’m home—I mean, at my parents’ house. I was thinking maybe you could come over and—”

He finished for her, “Have it out? Now?”

Have it out? Dread curled through her, burning a guilty path. “Well, yes. We could—”

“No,” he cut her off again. “Not now. We’d better wait.”

She put her hand against her bandaged head. Suddenly, it was aching like a sonofagun again. She dared to ask, “Wait for what?”

“How’s your head? I’ll bet it’s still hurting pretty bad.”

It seemed like a dangerous question, somehow. She started to lie and say no, it was fine. But then she reminded herself of how she would never lie again—not even a little one. “Yes. It still hurts.”

“I thought so. We’d better wait a while.”

“Until?”

“Until you’re feeling better—in fact, I’m thinking you’re going to want to cancel that appointment we had for tomorrow. You remember that appointment, Lori?”

“Of course I do.”

“Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” she said, out loud and clear. “I remember that we had an appointment tomorrow.”

“An appointment to discuss the little matter you’ve known for, oh, eleven years or so that you really should talk to me about. Right?” She pressed her lips together and swallowed convulsively. He prodded, pumping up the volume, “Right?”

“Right,” she said tightly. “Yes. To talk about—”

“Wait. Not now. Later.”

She echoed, miserably, “Later?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Oh, come on, Lori. You’ve waited such a long time to tell me. It’s not going to be any skin off your nose to wait a few more days.”

His words hit home. Squarely. She wanted to crawl in a deep, dark hole and stay there—but she forced herself to argue, “I know Lena already told you, about that night. And I think you have to see that we—”

“I want you feeling good. Strong. When I talk to you.”

“Tucker. Please. I just—”

“Thursday. I’ll call you Thursday. We’ll see how you’re doing then.”

“But I—”

“And in the meantime, I’d like to see Brody. Would that be all right with you?”

“See Brody?” She didn’t know why that surprised her. Of course, he’d want to see Brody.

“Is that a problem for you?” Beneath the fake-cordial tone, his deep voice vibrated with subtle threat.

“No. Not at all.” God. They sounded like a couple getting a divorce and discussing visitation rights. A couple getting a divorce—though they’d never gotten near being married in the first place.

“All right, then,” he said. “I’d like to pick him up at five in the afternoon tomorrow. I’ll have him back to you by nine. Is that acceptable?”

“I…yes. That’s fine.” She had a thousand questions. She hardly knew how to start asking them—and he didn’t seem especially eager to give her any answers. “What will you tell him?”

He made a sound, kind of like a laugh, but with absolutely no humor in it. “As of now, nothing. I want to take it slow, let him get to know me better before I go springing any big surprises on him.”

“Oh. Well. That sounds, um, wise.”

“Thank you,” he said, as if he didn’t mean it in the least. “So I’ll call him—a little later, this evening. I’ll ask him if he wants to come out to the ranch tomorrow, to ride Little Amos, swim, cook hot dogs, play with Fargo…” His voice trailed off.

She thought, sadness squeezing her throat, of that night a little over a week ago, that lovely night when she and Brody had gone to visit him, together.

That night seemed like eons ago now.

“Lori. You with me?”

With him? Not in the least. “I’m here. It’s all fine. Just fine.”

“All right, then. If he says yes to coming on out here tomorrow—” he would, and they both knew it “—I’ll have him ask you. You will agree.”

Irritation made her head throb harder. “I already said it was okay with me.”

“Good. And if he wants you to come, too, you’ll say you don’t feel up to it.”

She didn’t feel up to it. So that wouldn’t be a lie. She leaned back on the bed and shut her eyes. “Yes. All right.”

“If it goes well, tomorrow, I’ll ask him to come Wednesday evening, too. You’ll tell him that you don’t feel up to going Wednesday, either.”

She asked, though she knew she shouldn’t, “What if I do feel up to it Wednesday? What should I say then?”

“You’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

“I’m not going to lie to him.”