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“Uh, Fritzy,” Lucy gently reminded her, “the baby?”
“Oh, this is Tom’s. You remember, one of Rusty’s brothers?” The graying woman shook her head sadly. “Such a shame, him dallying with that gal. Even she said it was just one night—but when will people learn—that’s all it takes!”
The baby waved plump arms and flexed its feet, forcing Fritzy to shift the weight to one generous hip. Her soft-printed house dress bunched up a little, but Fritzy didn’t appear to notice. The infant’s blue eyes stared back at Lucy, and she noticed the rounded head was bald but for a soft bit of auburn down. The child’s body was stuffed like a sausage into a pink terry one-piece suit, the seams pulled so tight Lucy could see frayed threads threatening to burst. She shrugged; maybe that’s how baby clothes were supposed to fit. On the creature’s feet were a kind of bootie, white, with mock laces.
The tot squealed again.
“Fritzy, what do you mean it’s Tom’s?” Lucy asked warily. She straightened to place her purse and case onto the couch. She’d never had any experience with children. In the first months of her marriage, Kenneth had gone off without her knowledge and paid a surgeon to perform a vasectomy. Kids got in the way, he’d said. Kids were a nuisance. Kids were a pain in the a—
“Tom got that woman pregnant, like I said,” Fritzy supplied. “Then that freeway accident happened and...well, after she delivered, she showed up here, shoved Baby at Rusty and said, ‘You keep the brat, I don’t want her.”’ Fritzy harrumphed and nuzzled the infant’s neck. “Imagine, abandoning a child just like that. It’s terrible. But we don’t mind, do we, Baby?” She finished by making a silly face at the child.
Before Lucy could voice another question, Fritzy glanced up. “You’ll help, won’t you dear? Not that I wouldn’t love to spend every minute with such a perfect little lamb, but I’ve got housekeeping to do, you know.” Without waiting for a reply, she came forward and bundled the baby into Lucy’s arms. “Hold my angel a bit. I’ve got to get that chicken roasting or we’ll have no supper!”
“No, wait!” Lucy cried as a warm sloppy mouth came flush with her throat, depositing spittle down her neck, and a wriggling body smashed against her chest. “Fritzy,” she wailed at the woman’s fast-retreating back, “I don’t know how—I can’t do this.”
“Nothing to it,” the housekeeper said with a wave of her hand.
Lucy dashed after her, awkwardly balancing the child in her arms. In the spacious kitchen with its sunflower yellow curtains and cozy nook, Fritzy lifted a large blue-speckled roasting pan onto the tiled countertop and settled a raw chicken into its depths.
“Just a minute,” Lucy panted. Babies were heavier than she would have guessed they could be. “I’ve got to get this straight. Are you saying that Rusty’s brother Tom indulged in a one-night stand with some woman he didn’t know, and that this baby was born after his death?”
“Yes, dear.” Without looking up, Fritzy began spreading the chicken skin with herbs, then shook salt and pepper on top.
“And then,” Lucy continued doggedly, determined to get matters clear, “the woman came here and sort of...dropped it off?” On her shoulder, tiny fingers tried to pull one of Lucy’s small hoop earrings into its mouth. Lucy batted at the pudgy, grabbing hands. She was beginning to have a terrible sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
“Yes, dear.” Fritzy poured a cup of what looked like broth into the roaster and took up a basting brush to paint melted butter over the chicken.
“Ouch,” Lucy yelped. The child had clamped the earring and her earlobe into its fist and was pulling both toward the yawing maw of its mouth. Dismayed, Lucy wondered how such a minuscule hand could wield all the strength of a lumberjack. With great difficulty, considering she had to juggle the infant with one arm, she finally managed to free her ear.
Over her shoulder Fritzy smiled. “You shouldn’t wear jewelry any more,” she said. “At least not for a while. Babies are like crows—everything that glitters catches their eyes.” She chuckled at her own joke.
Lucy did not laugh. The sinking sensation had reached her toes. “You can’t mean,” she began, speaking slowly and distinctly so that Fritzy wouldn’t misunderstand, “that this baby lives here, in this house.”
The housekeeper paused in surprise. She smoothed her gingham apron over her stout midsection. “Course I do. Gracious, where would you expect the child to live? It’s why I moved up from my cottage. I was thinking of moving back sometime, but,” she frowned, then resumed her work, “I s’pose with you here now I’d best stay. Wouldn’t be right—an eligible bachelor like Rusty and a sweet young thing like you living alone under one roof.” Her graying topknot bobbled as she shook her head. “No, indeed.”
Of all the developments Lucy had expected to arise from her business deal with Rusty, she’d never considered anything like this. Numbed by shock, she wondered what other little surprises Rusty might have in store for her.
Lucy placed her protesting burden in the crib while she took three minutes to change into her jeans, an old black sweatshirt and tennis shoes, and twenty more to wrestle the baby’s flailing, stubby limbs into a new diaper and another too-tight suit. Fritzy insisted she had kitchen work, that Lucy could of course change Baby—there was nothing to it—and had sent her off with a box of diapers.
The child’s bedroom was on the second floor, between the one Rusty had assigned to her and his own. A wood-slatted crib with clown-print bedding, a lamp and a changing table were the only pieces of furniture. The walls were an unadorned white, and nothing much matched. Even to Lucy’s untrained eye, the nursery appeared bare. Weren’t there supposed to be teddy bears, toy chests, hanging colored mobiles?
At the changing table, the disposable hourglass-shaped diaper was fitted with confusing tapes, which maddeningly kept sticking to her skin, to the bedding and even together. Then Lucy somehow got the baby’s arms into the outfit’s leg holes and the legs into the arm holes before she managed to figure out the intricacies of such an ensemble, but in the end she was triumphant.
And she learned that the child was a girl.
Lucy blew a strand of hair from her eyes.
Presumably to show gratitude, the baby squealed with impressive volume.
“You’re welcome,” Lucy replied. Guessing the pink plastic pail beside the changing table was the dirty diaper receptacle, she bent low and removed the tightfitting top. Like demons from Pandora’s box, an eyewatering, brain-numbing odor of revoltingly appalling proportions burst forth.
Lucy staggered, slammed down the lid and abandoned the diaper on the table for Fritzy to deal with later. In the hallway she paused and took grateful moments to breathe in lungfuls of clean air.
Back in the kitchen with her cleaned-up human cargo, Lucy expected Fritzy to be suitably impressed and ready to take over, but the corpulent woman, now peeling potatoes, merely suggested she carry the child down to the corrals.
“Fritzy,” Lucy said carefully, still holding the infant, “I, uh, don’t know how to do stuff with a baby.”
“stuff?”
“You know...things.” Trying to explain, Lucy floundered while the baby attempted to flop out of her arms. She struggled to hold the slippery infant. “Like...feed her. Or, um, give her a bath. Or—” What else did one do with babies? “Uh, or other stuff.”
“Lucy, Lucy,” Fritzy replied kindly, “don’t worry. You’ll learn. Experience is the best teacher.”
“I’m afraid,” Lucy explained even more kindly, “that this will have to remain your job. I’m not very maternal.” Hadn’t Kenneth told her many times that she’d make a poor mother?
Because she knew she and her husband would never become parents, she’d long avoided children, ignored baby shower invitations, declined to hold acquaintances’ newborns. Why should she, when she’d never get one of her own—when cuddling someone else’s darling only made the ache for her own children sting so profoundly?
She tried to hand over the child, but Fritzy scoffed, peeling another potato.
“It’ll be all right, Lucy, you’ll see. Now, why don’t you go down to the corrals? Baby just loves to see the horses.” She turned her back and filled an enormous pot with water, salted it, and then began slicing potatoes inside.
Alarm replaced Lucy’s growing apprehension, spiked up her spine like a hand running over barbwire. Fritzy was determined that Lucy help in child care, of this she had no further illusions. Slice went Fritzy’s paring knife, plop went the potato into the water. Frustrated, Lucy stared at Fritzy’s broad back.
Fritzy ignored her.
Slice. Plop. Slice. Plop.
This was ridiculous. How dare Rusty neglect to mention this almost-brand-new child to her!
She’d come to the Lazy S searching for peace, for quiet and tranquility.
Not squalling voices and grabby fingers and... peepee!
“I will go down to the corrals,” she said aloud. If Fritzy was going to be stubborn, she’d get Rusty to take the child. It was his niece, wasn’t it? “Nothing personal,” she whispered into the baby’s shell-like ear. Suddenly she noticed that the baby’s scent was different from anything she’d ever smelled before. Different but good, and thank goodness nothing like that disgusting diaper pail. No, more like fresh-from-the-oven buns or soft, lovable puppies.
She shook off the thought. “I’m just not the motherly sort,” she whispered. “You understand, don’t you?”
Baby cooed.
With a fleecy blanket Fritzy handed her, Lucy managed to wrap the child up against the cooling air, clamp it to her chest and march out.
Autumn was beginning to cloak western Nevada in hues of russet and claret, turning the leaves of grouped alder and spruce trees into a fall-colored kaleidoscope. Winter sun had nearly sunk behind the fanged upthrust of the Humboldt mountains.
Outside the house, Lucy paused a moment to draw a breath. Pure, lung-expanding air filled her chest, scented of sage and the faintest hint of a branding fire. For once, the tyke made no sound, merely nestled her face into the crook of Lucy’s neck. The sensation wasn’t so bad, she thought, not really minding the child’s wet mouth anymore. And she so enjoyed the chirrup of the coming night crickets and the breeze soughing serenely through the trees’ brittle leaves.
There was no honking of angry commuters, no blare of city sirens, no suffocating exhaust fumes. One could relax here, find solace from the frenetic pace of city life.
These qualities were why she’d come to the country, she thought, pleased. Others should have the chance to enjoy this wonderful environment. How easily she could picture groups of twenty or so—nice, hardworking city folk who needed a place to relax, appreciate country sunshine, wildlife, the great outdoors.
As a child, her short time here had bolstered her for the hard years to come. Always when life mired her in difficulty, she could close her eyes and travel in her mind to the ranch and find relief.
Rusty could be persuaded to see her side, surely he could. He was set in his ways and proud, she could see that. She would just have to explain matters more thoroughly.
But he couldn’t be allowed to get away with his deception about the child. With determined strides, she crunched her way over the gravel-lined drive to the corrals, where at least eight men appeared to be just finishing their work.
At the far end of the large enclosure, a man worked, mounted on a deep-brass-colored horse. Why Lucy’s eyes should focus so swiftly on Rusty she didn’t know—but she didn’t even have to look for him. He was dressed the same as, and he worked the same as, the cowboys inside. Yet the unique tilt of his black Stetson and the confident set of his broad shoulders somehow set him apart from other men.
Across the corral Rusty concentrated on swinging his rope overhead. He took his aim, made his throw and captured the first of two hefty remaining calves. Then he dragged the animal to the men waiting at the branding fire. He was bone weary from the full day’s work and the unsettling meeting with his former stepsister. It wasn’t every day a man had to sell off half his heritage. He grimaced.
When the men were finished, they released the calf, which lurched to its feet and trotted over to its bawling mother. The mama cow sniffed her calf, determined it was fine and wandered off, trailing the reassured young animal.
Still on horseback, Rusty caught sight of Lucy and signaled for one of the others to rope the last calf. He coiled his rope and guided his horse to where she stood holding Baby, on the other side of the rail fence.
Drawing rein before her, he leaned one forearm on the horn and the other atop that. Nudging back his hat with a thumb, he observed, “I see you’ve made Baby’s acquaintance.”
“I certainly have,” she acknowledged, a tart hint of warning in her voice.
She was so pretty, he admitted for the second time that day. Her jet hair blew attractively across her face and the skin of her cheeks and lips had pinkened in the crisp fall air. Another man, one who might be interested in pursuing a woman like Lucy, would definitely think her lips kissable. If she thought her oversized sweatshirt was hiding the thrust of her breasts, she was mistaken. And her slim thighs and hips were damn near hugged by her snug jeans.
Stiffly he straightened in the saddle. It was a good thing he wasn’t interested in her. He was her reluctant business partner, and she was someone who would find herself tossed off the Lazy S in twelve short months.
“She’s quite a little surprise,” Lucy went on. “I wonder how it is that you didn’t mention her before.” She waited, eyeing him steadily and not, he thought, with an approving expression.
He grinned, enjoying her discomfort. “Aw, you’ll get used to her. We’re all crazy about Baby around here.” He guessed he’d have to start some sort of adoption proceedings soon, make things legal.
As she juggled the squirming child with inept hands, Rusty’s grin widened. She’d been married, but obviously didn’t have any kids. Hadn’t she ever coped with a six-month old?
She glared at him over the top of the auburn head, her annoyance palpable in the air between them. “You might have told me.”
“Why?” He shrugged. “You were so anxious to buy into the place—Well, Baby comes along with it.” He leaned forward, saddle creaking, and murmured to the child in cutesy tones he hoped would irritate Lucy.
Hearing his familiar voice, Baby gurgled happily, and when Rusty’s sorrel gelding snuffled her head, she launched into a bout of giggles that ended in hiccups.
Lucy had her arms full, and by her awkwardness, Rusty’s original thought was confirmed: it was plain as the whiskers on his gelding’s nose that the woman had no experience at all with children.
Baby jounced happily, banging the top of her head against Lucy’s chin. Lucy freed a hand to rub her jaw, her scowl at Rusty intensifying.
He tried not to laugh. It served her right, forcing him to sell her half the Lazy S as she’d done. Too bad it wouldn’t do her much good. In twelve months’ time, he’d have the money—no question about it. And fetching as Lucy was, she would not be allowed to dissuade him.
Myriad fund-raising ideas filled his head; tonight he’d make calls and see if he could sell gypsum, a produce used for insulation, plaster and wallboard, from a pit on the farthest reaches of the property. His brothers had always resisted mining on the Lazy S, but Rusty knew they’d made poor decisions. He realized, grimly and with some pain, that he could no longer afford to stand on principles.
The baby jounced again and Lucy nearly dropped her. At last Rusty took pity. “Take Baby back to the house. Fritzy can handle her.”
Instantly he knew his phrasing had been poor. Over the baby’s head Lucy’s glare became a glower.
“I can handle her just fine,” she retorted, obviously stung.
Rusty nodded soothingly. He hadn’t meant to insult her. “Sure.”
Just then his gelding decided to blast a whinny to its companion in a far pasture. The shrill noise surprised Baby, who jumped, then screwed up her eyes and began to waiL In seconds her face turned shrimp-red, and tears streamed down her plump cheeks.
“Rusty, how could you?” Lucy accused him in shocked tones.
She hugged the infant to her protectively—as if he’d let out the damned whinny himself!
“I didn’t do anything,” he said.
“You could have stopped him. Didn’t you see he was going to do that?”
“Don’t know how,” he mumbled, at a loss. The child was crying in earnest now. “Sorry.”
“And what is Baby’s real name, anyway?” she asked above the wailing din.
He shrugged, suddenly feeling on the defensive. “We just call her Baby. I don’t know if there’s something formal on her birth certificate—or if she’s even got one.”
“She doesn’t have a proper name?” Lucy demanded, shaming him. “I can’t believe this.” Stroking the child’s head, Lucy rocked her back and forth. “Never mind. I’m going back to the house.” Turning tail, she sent him one last disapproving glance that managed to make him feel lower than a slimy night-crawler. He rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks, knowing she was right. Baby should have been given a real name long ago. He’d just always thought there was time. How had six months passed so quickly?
Lucy stalked away, her trim rear end twitching angrily in new blue jeans. Baby’s cries calmed.
Rusty watched, perplexed at his reaction. Only moments before he’d been laughing at Lucy, feeling satisfyingly superior, but in two minutes she’d managed to cut him down to size. How had that happened?
Lucy fought down disappointment when Rusty carried his dinner plate into his office and shut the door with hushed finality. He stayed closeted in there all evening.
Then Fritzy announced she never ate before her favorite talk-show came on television at eleven-thirty. Since the efficient housekeeper had already bottle-fed the baby at six, then put her to bed for the night, Lucy was left alone.
Melancholy settled over her. This scattering at suppertime was not how she’d envisioned her “family” meals. Delicious though it was, she picked at her chicken and glanced around the empty room. In seconds she made up her mind to change things—at least a little—on the Lazy S.
A masculine face came at her. Fury flushed his skin ruddy, his features stiffened in an aggressive mask of anger. The familiar face, twisted in rage, snarled and shouted, called her “Bitch.”
“No!” Lucy cried, cringing, “don’t say that. I’m sorry. Please—”
The man ignored her pleas. Actually, he seemed to relish them, and his taunts became even more insulting. “You’re stupid, you hear? You’d be nothing without me to straighten you out. Nothing! If people knew how incompetent you are at even the simplest tasks—why, they’d laugh.”
Shoulders slumping, she felt the black void of anguish and despair threaten to engulf her. “I’ll try harder next time,” she defended weakly, already knowing it would do no good at all. “I won’t burn your toast next time. I’ll stand right by the toaster and watch the bread every second. It won’t happen again.”
He sneered at her. “You can’t even do that right. You’re useless!”
“Please stop,” she heard herself whimper, the cry turning into a loud moan. “Please.”
“Lucy,” another voice called urgently. “Lucy, wake up.”
Abruptly she awoke to total disorientation. Inside her chest her heart pounded furiously. The oily dampness of nervous perspiration filmed her body so that her nightgown stuck to her skin. Her eyes flew wide and she bolted up, gasped in lungfuls of air. For interminable seconds she didn’t know where she was. The darkened room was alien, the bed different.
“Lucy,” the new voice said calmly, “you were having a nightmare. It’s okay. Wake up, now.” Strong arms embraced her. Strangely, they didn’t feel threatening. They were gentle, paternal. Tender.
The angry face faded. Slowly she recognized the voice. Rusty was sitting on the edge of her bed, stroking her back, patting her reassuringly. He was barechested, his warm pelt of dark hair soft against her cheek. Flannel pajama bottoms covered the rest of him. It was dark in the room.
Lucy stiffened. Rusty?
