Luck Of The Draw Page 2

  “What did the old busybody want this time?” he asked warily.

  “Same as the last dozen times she’s been out. Checkin’ up on the girls. Seein’ if they’re being takin’ care of proper and makin’ sure you wasn’t bringin’ any loose women into the house an’ corruptin’ their morals.”

  “The girls are being taken care of just fine.” Travis scowled. “And I haven’t been near a woman, loose or otherwise, in more months than I care to think about.”

  “That’s what I told Miz Gillespie,” Gus said. “But I don’t think she believed it this time anymore’n she did the last. She sniffed over the breakfast dishes still bein’ in the sink and went on some about beans and corn bread bein’ no fit breakfast for growin’ girls and how allowin’ a pig in the house was unsanitary. Hell,” Gus grumbled, insulted on behalf of his pig, “Slik ain’t no more unsanitary then nobody else around here. He gets a bath ever’ Saturday night, same as me.”

  “Nothing new, then,” Travis said, relieved.

  “That ain’t all,” Gus said with a sad shake of his head. “This time she said the girls seemed more quiet than usual. Said they was ‘subdued’ and ‘secretive’.”

  “Well, dammit, of course they’re subdued and secretive when she’s around. They don’t like her prying into their lives any more than I do. And she scared the stuffing out of them last time with that fool talk about shipping them off to those Nebraska relatives of Carolyn’s. They don’t know anyone on that side of Caro lyn’s family, and they wouldn’t want to go even if they did.”

  “That’s what I told Miz Gillespie,” Gus said again, “but she wouldn’t listen. No, sir. She just kept sayin’ it weren’t natural, the way the girls was behavin’. Weren’t natural at all.”

  Something in the old man’s steady gaze turned the vague uneasiness that had been nibbling at Travis into a hungry little animal with sharp, pointed teeth gnaw ing at his gut. This wasn’t the first time the case worker had hinted at the “unnaturalness” of their living arrangement, as if there weresomething inherently wrong with three little girls living with their bachelor uncle and his old rodeo traveling buddy.

  It wasn’t the best situation, Lord knew. These little girls should have a woman around, someone of their own sex to share their girlish confidences and tell their secrets to. Someone who could plait a braid without messing it up. Someone who could tell them bedtime stories about princesses and fairy godmothers instead of broncos and bull riders. Someone who could teach them all the things they needed to know about growing up female.

  And they’d have that. Eventually. Travis fully intended to get married as soon as he found the right woman. Like his daddy had found his mama all those years ago. Like his brother Josh had found Carolyn.

  Trouble was, it was kind of hard to find that one special woman when you spent most of your time at bucking horse auctions or tending to pampered, badtempered bulls or hauling rough stock to rodeos. He met women at rodeos, of course—always had—and most of them were nice women, he supposed, but none was right.

  A lot of them were barrel racers, cowgirls who were as caught up in the rodeo scene as he’d once been, with no thought of settling down and no time for hearth and home. Some of them were other cowboys’ wives or girlfriends, which automatically put them out of bounds as far as Travis was concerned. The ones he knew best were the free-and-easy buckle bunnies, rodeo groupies who went after any cowboy with a trophy on his belt—and Travis had been winning his share of those big flashy trophy buckles since he was sixteen years old. But, hell, a prudent man didn’t marry a woman who made a career out of bedding cowboys, no matter how much fun they might have together.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” Travis said. “And when I find the right woman, I’ll marry her. It’s going to take a while, is all.”

  “I’m just afraid it’s gonna take longer than you got,” Gus said.

  “Meaning?”

  “She asked Amanda where I sleep at night.”

  Travis’s eyes flared wide in disbelief for a moment, then narrowed dangerously. “And?” he asked, know ing there was more.

  “She asked where you sleep, too. An’ if you ever took any of the girls into your bed. Little Gracie piped right up an’ told her as how you carry her back to your bed some nights when she’s had a bad dream about her mama and daddy dyin’. Danged woman got all squinty-eyed an’ prune-lipped and wrote it down in that little black notebook she always carries with her.”

  “Holy Christ!” The words exploded out of Travis, somewhere between a curse and a prayer. “What the hell kind of world is it when a man can’t even comfort a frightened little girl without being suspected of being some kind of filthy pervert?”

  “It’s the world we’re livin’ in,” Gus told him. “It’s the world you gotta deal with. And you gotta deal with it right quick.”

  “By marrying some crazy woman who answered a goddamned ad in some magazine?”

  “She seems like a right nice little woman,” Gus said, ignoring, for the moment, Travis’s blasphemy. He figured it was understandable under the circumstances. “She writes a real nice letter. Sounds real down to earth and sensiblelike. Educated, too. And she’s a nurse, which ought to come in real handy around here.”

  Travis shook his head in amazement. “Sensible,” he scoffed, wondering how even Gus could use that word in describing a woman who’d gone looking for a husband in the want ads.

  “She sent a picture. I got it out in the bunkhouse ifn you want to see it. Got the letters she wrote, too. They’s three of them altogether.”

  “Hell, no, I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to have anything to do with this.”

  “She’s a pretty little thing,” Gus said stubbornly, determined to make Travis see reason. “Got a real nice smile. Red hair, too. You like red hair,” he reminded Travis. “And since she’s got a youngun of her own, motherin’ the girls should come real naturallike.”

  “You getting hard of hearing, old man? I said no.”

  Gus sighed heavily. “I know it’s hard, but you got to cowboy up and trust to the luck of the draw on this one, son,” he said. “She might be just exactly what we all need to win this go ‘round.”

  Thirty seconds of silence ticked by as the two men stared at each other.

  “All right,” Travis said finally, giving in to the inevitable. “If she actually shows up, I’ll have a look at her. A look, that’s all,” he repeated a bit desperately, compelled to protest the lead rope he could feel being slipped over his head. “I’m not promising anything more than that.”

  2

  EVE REARDON sat behind the steering wheel of her dusty second-hand Chevy van with the windows wide open, the seat pushed back as far as it would go and everything she owned packed into the cargo space behind her. She was parked on the gravel shoulder of a narrow two-lane blacktop about fifteen minutes outside of the small country town of Selina, Texas, and—if her calculations were correct—less than thirty minutes from the Rocking H Ranch and her first meeting with her prospective bridegroom and his family.

  She shifted against the vinyl upholstery, turning her back more fully toward the open window as if to hide from what was awaiting her, then adjusted the bunnystrewn flannel blanket that lay draped over her left shoulder. It flowed down across the open front of her unbuttoned blouse, creating a cozy little tent around the downy head of the baby she held cradled to her breast.

  Sighing, she lifted her gaze from his face and glanced down the long ribbon of blacktop that had brought her and her seven-month-old son here into the middle of nowhere at five o’clock in the morning. Empty, gently rolling, the land spread out all around her, covered with parched-looking grasses, dotted with tall cottonwoods and scrub pine. Set back from the sloping shoulders of the road, triple-strand, barbed-wire fences ran along both sides of the highway as far as the eye could see. The air was still and quiet. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue. The newly risen sun was already burning off the sweet morning coolness, pr
omising a day as hot as blazes. There wasn’t another living thing, man or beast, anywhere in sight.

  “What in God’s name are we doing here?” she murmured, looking back down at the baby nestled against her breast.

  He gazed up at her with wide, innocent eyes and continued nursing.

  She smiled and lifted a hand to stroke his soft cheek, delighting, as always, in the strong, forceful way his little rosebud mouth worked at her breast.

  He’d been whisked off to an isolette in the neonatal intensive care unit only minutes after his premature birth, too weak and worn out from the ordeal to even attempt to nurse during the first few critical days of his life. Later, after he’d recovered sufficiently to be trusted to her arms, he had flatly refused to accept her nipple, making her despair of ever being successful at this most basic task of mothering. They’d both been frustrated and in tears before they finally got it right. Now, each time she nursed him it was with a special joy, one to be savored and cherished as the small miracle it was.

  “So, what do you think of all this, sweetie?” she asked, still smiling down at her tiny, wide-eyed son as he suckled greedily. “Is your mama doing the right thing or has she gone completely crazy?”

  The baby kicked vigorously and let out a high-pitched squeal that made him lose his grip on her nip ple.

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I think about it, too,” Eve agreed as she gently guided her son’s questing mouth back to the source of his nourishment. “Crazy as a bedbug.”

  Which was exactly what she’d told her friend Barbara when she’d first shown Eve the article in Texas Men magazine….

  “ANSWER AN AD for a mail-order husband? Me?” Eve shook her head and reached into the laundry basket for another diaper. “You’ve got to be kidding.” She expertly folded the diaper into the proper size and shape to fit her son, then added it to the growing stack on the table in front of her. “Or crazy.”

  “It’s called ‘meeting through the personals,’“ Barbara informed her. “And lots of people do it these days.”

  “Not me.”

  “Why not you? It’s not like you’re having any luck with the more traditional methods.”

  “That’s probably because I’m not using the traditional methods. I’m not using any methods, period. I’m not looking for a husband, Barbara. You know that. I’m looking for a job.”

  “And not having any luck with that, either,” her friend said bluntly, “because nobody wants to hire a live-in nurse with a baby on her hip, no matter how well qualified she is for the job.”

  “I’ll find something soon,” Eve said, feigning a confidence she didn’t feel.

  “Eve, honey, I don’t want to sound cruel or unfeel ing, but you’ve been looking since Timothy was two months old. Do you really think anyone’s going to hire you when there are dozens of nurses out there, just as well-qualified, who don’t have a sick baby to take care of twenty-four hours a day?”

  “No,” Eve admitted. “That’s why I’ve started answering ads for live-in domestic help.”

  “The same argument applies,” Barbara said stubbornly. “Face facts, honey. You don’t need a job, you need a husband. And as husbands go, this guy sounds tailor-made for you. First off, he actually wants a stay at-home wife—it says so right here in black and white. And with three little girls of his own to take care of, he isn’t likely to quibble over a sweet baby like Timothy. Heck, nobody could quibble over Timothy. He’s such a good little baby you hardly notice he’s around most of the time.” She reached across the table to where the baby lay in his infant seat, staring owl-eyed at the two women as they talked. “You’re just the bestest, sweetest, cutest little guy in the whole wide world, aren’t you? Yes, you are,” she cooed, and bent forward to blow a noisy raspberry against his little round tummy. “You’re such a good baby that cowboy won’t even know you’re around, will he?”

  Timothy gurgled and made a grab for Barbara’s hair. She straightened out of his reach, tucking her soft brown curls behind her ear, out of harm’s way, and of fered him a red rubber teething ring to hold instead. He promptly maneuvered it into his mouth and began to drool.

  “You really should consider this ad,” Barbara said, looking back at her friend. “Seriously. This cowboy could be a way out.”

  “No.” Eve shook her head. “I don’t want another man in my life. Ever. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “You’re just saying that because Craig turned out to be such a no-good, worthless creep. But not all men are like Craig, honey. Some of them are even worth all the trouble they dish out.” She tapped a fingernail against the glossy picture of the man on the back of the furiously bucking bull. “This one looks like he’d be worth any amount of trouble, and then some. Here, take a look.” Her green eyes twinkling mischievously, she lifted the magazine and turned it around, plopping it down on the stack of neatly folded diapers in front of Eve. “His shoulders have got to be at least a yard wide. And I bet he’s got a cute little butt. Cowboys always have cute little butts.”

  “I’m not interested in his shoulders, or his butt,” Eve said, refusing to so much as glance at the magazine. “I’m not interested, period.”

  “Well, darn it, Eve, you should be. This guy could be the answer to all your problems.”

  “No man has ever been the answer to a woman’s problems,” she stated flatly. “But they’re the cause of most of them.”

  “All right,” Barbara said, exasperated, and snatched the magazine back. “Don’t think of him as a man, think of him as a…as a job opportunity. Position available,” she said, paraphrasing the article, “applicant must be good with kids, handy in the kitchen and willing to do chores. Red hair a plus. Room and board included. If it was an ad in the Help Wanted section you’d snap it up without a second thought.”

  “But it’s not an ad in the Help Wanted section, is it? It’s an ad written by some redneck cowboy who wants a woman to take over his responsibilities for him. Just because he’s willing to marry her doesn’t make him some kind of shining hero. Not to me.” Suddenly needing to feel his warm little body next to her heart, she reached out and lifted her son from his infant seat. “I’d have to be desperate to even consider it. And I’m not that desperate.” She bent her head into the sweetness of Timothy’s neck. “Not yet,” she whispered.

  A WEEK LATER she was that desperate.

  That morning, she’d been turned down for a minimum-wage job as a motel maid because the motel manager, while appearing to be sympathetic to her problem, had grave doubts that she could do the job with her infant son in tow. She’d offered to work a day for free to prove Timothy wouldn’t be a hindrance, but the manager had refused to even consider it, citing legal liabilities, workplace rules and the availability of other applicants for the job, none of whom would be bringing a baby to work with them.

  Dispirited by this latest rejection, but determined not to let it get her down, she’d returned home to find a second past-due notice from her landlord in her mailbox. The electric bill was in there, too, and the premium on her health insurance policy, which would come due the first of next month.

  She had enough in her bank account to cover the rent and pay the power company, but if she did that and didn’t find a job in the meantime, she’d be short when it came time to pay the insurance. And the insurance was of paramount importance. Without it, she couldn’t even begin to pay for the medical care Timothy needed now or the operation he would eventually need to repair the hole in his heart.

  Though he appeared perfectly healthy, her beautiful baby boy had been born with a heart defect. He didn’t have enough blood flowing through his lungs to supply his tiny body with all the oxygen it needed. As a result, his respiratory system was very delicate and he had to be carefully guarded against all the usual sniffles and infections that were simply a matter of course for most children.

  That’s why Eve needed a job where she could keep him with her. No day-care center would take him, and e
ven if one would have risked it, Eve never would. If she didn’t find a job, though, and soon, she’d be forced to do something drastic.

  She shuddered at the very thought of applying for welfare, covering her eyes with her hand for a moment as if that could make the ghostly specter of public assistance disappear.

  Welfare had been the enduring shame of her childhood. For nearly thirteen years, from the time her father deserted them until she graduated from high school, Eve and her mother had been on and off the welfare rolls. That had made them objects of pity in the small Louisiana town where she’d grown up. Pity and scorn. Eve had vowed then that it would never, ever, happen to her again.

  But what else could she do? What other avenue was open to her? Craig had made it blindingly clear she could expect no help from him. Not only had he moved out of the expensive apartment they’d shared, he’d moved out of state, as well, leaving no forwarding address. Left on her own, Eve had done everything she could think of to cut costs to a bare minimum. She’d moved out of their spacious apartment with its terrific view of the golf course and exorbitant rent and moved into a smaller, less expensive place in a less desirable part of town. She’d traded her flashy little blue Miata sports car for a secondhand Chevy van with a temperamental ignition and no monthly payments to worry about. She’d canceled her membership at the local gym, forsaken her standing monthly appointment at the beauty salon and canceled all her credit cards. Finally, when just cutting back wasn’t enough, she’d sold her CD player, her television set and most of her furniture, including the antique Queen Anne bedroom suite that had taken her nearly two years of scrimping to buy. But if she didn’t find a job, and soon, none of her costcutting measures were going to make any difference.