Cowboy Be Mine

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The look on her face said she’d be shocked if he could paint with more than one primary color. Her mouth was wide open with distaste. Bailey didn’t know how much longer she was going to be able to hold onto the love-your-brother homily she’d just enjoyed in church. Pouring her water glass over Deenie’s hair-sprayed head wouldn’t be loving, but watching the hard-packed shellac turn into rivulets of glue would be very satisfying. She bit her lip to keep from snatching up the glass, though it was difficult when Deenie’s hand roamed over to Michael’s.

“Everybody’s doing their part to help the Dixons with their tax problem,” she said smoothly. “It’s nice of you to buy them Sunday brunch.”

“Mind your manners, Deenie,” her father commanded swiftly. “The whole town’s offered to do craft shows and bake sales to help them out, and Bailey’s turned ’em all down flat. I’m not doing this show for charity. I’m doing it because it’s gonna make me a huge pile of frijoles. And I’m picking up the tab for ya’ll’s meal today.” He threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table and waved Michael’s protest off. “It’s minor compared to the money you’re going to bring me at the showing, Brad. Consider it a slight advance.”

“Oh, Daddy.” Deenie’s tone was disbelieving and demeaning. Clearly anything the Dixons had couldn’t be worth much.

“I’ve never seen an artist of Brad’s talent. He’s worth showcasing. One day, you’re going to see his work in the most fashionable homes in Hollywood.”

“Hollywood!” Deenie breathed. “I don’t believe it.” But her gaze fastened on Brad with sudden, calculating interest.

“I think your father’s being a bit of a salesman,” Brad said modestly.

She snapped her head around to stare at her father. “Are you, Daddy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “My wallet started jumping the minute I laid eyes on Brad’s work.”

“Oh, my,” she said in a silky whisper. “Daddy never does anything unless it’s going to win big.” Her eyes went doe huge on Brad as if she’d never seen him before. “Can you paint me?”

“Well—” Brad glanced at Dan hesitantly.

“I’ve always dreamed of Hollywood,” Deenie said, pleading. “You could paint me in my best evening gown, with my Judith Lieberman sparkly shoes and my heirloom jewelry. I’d look like a movie star. Would you, Brad?”

Bailey lowered her eyes at Brad’s predicament. Her stomach felt like it might heave any second. The children were all sitting quietly, staring at Deenie and big Mr. Day, who was smiling at his daughter as if she’d had an idea as bright as her silvery bleached hair.

Bailey felt a hand cover hers suddenly. She glanced up to see Michael mouth the words, “Are you all right?”

She nodded briskly, trying not to think how comforting and warm his skin felt on hers. He withdrew his fingers, and her shoulders sagged. Suddenly, the overwhelming combination of pancakes and eggs and sausage and Deenie’s disdain washed over her in a tidal wave, prickling her skin with chill bumps and the panicked realization that she was going to be sick again.

“Excuse me,” she blurted, leaping up from the table. She flew to the washroom, painfully aware of all the pairs of eyes watching her mad dash.

Ten minutes later, she collected herself enough to return to the table. Deenie and Mr. Day had departed. Michael stared at her in consternation. Brad looked away to save her from embarrassment. The children, well used to her frequent dives into a bathroom, barely looked up from the food they were eating.

Bailey knew she wouldn’t make it through another minute in the pancake house. “Do you mind if I go sit in your car?”

Michael stood at once. “Of course not.” He helped her into her coat and escorted her out into the bracing, fresh, crisp air. “Are you all right?”

She nodded weakly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” He opened the car door so she could slide in, then closed it and went around to the driver’s side and got in. “You left church this morning, too. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just something I ate, probably.” The story she hadn’t really been willing to tell Gunner didn’t fall any easier from her lips now. Somehow she had to tell Michael the truth.

“You didn’t eat anything.” He brushed her hair from her face. “You’re pale, Bailey. You need to see a doctor. I’m taking you over to Doc Watson’s house right now and tell him he needs to take a look at you.”

“No!” Bailey shook her head. “Don’t disturb him on Sunday, Michael.”

“He’s a doctor, that’s what he’s for.” Michael took a deep breath. “Let me run you to the emergency room, then.”

“I’m fine. I already saw Doc Watson this week, anyway.”

Michael looked at her suspiciously. “You did?” It was obvious he didn’t believe her. “What did he say?”

“It’s just a stomach flu.” Now was not the right time to tell him the truth, so she could only hope that this little fib right after church wasn’t going to do her chances for heaven serious damage. But she was more ashamed and upset than ever. Dread of his reaction dried her mouth. He certainly wouldn’t be delighted with their predicament, that much she knew.

“You’ve had a stomach flu that’s making you this ill for as many days as it’s been since you’ve seen the doc.” He shook his head. “Doc Watson’s getting old. You could have something more serious, Bailey, like appendicitis or something.”

“I don’t!” she snapped. Ashamed, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’d really just like to go home and lie down.” She rolled her head against the headrest to look at Michael. His worried gaze went deep into her heart. She had to tell him soon, and the truth of what was wrong with her made her feel that much worse.

The Dixon family left the pancake house and tumbled into the car. Five little pairs of hands reached up to stroke Bailey’s face. “Are you okay?” the children asked, petting her hair and her shoulders and every other part of her they could reach.

“You usually love pancakes,” Beth pointed out with nine-year-old common sense.

“I know.” Bailey closed her eyes. “I’m sorry I cut everyone’s breakfast short.” Especially the only time some of her siblings had ever been out for a meal.

“You didn’t.” Brad belted in the kids and himself. “We were almost finished, anyway.”

“Bailey’s been sick all week,” six-year-old Amy told Michael, her blue ribbons bouncing importantly. “Her tummy’s upset.”

“Like a volcano,” seven-year-old Sam informed him. “We watched a video of one in school, and that’s exactly what Bailey erupts like.” The freckles on his face were darker than Bailey’s and smudged with syrup.

Eight-year-old Paul shook his head. “She’s more like a geyser. They spew all the time.” His tone was righteous with the superiority of greater age.

“She erupts,” Sam insisted belligerently.

“Spews!” Paul stated authoritatively.

“Erupts!” Hating to be wrong, indignant because he was younger than Paul and stinging from Paul’s know-it-all tone, Sam launched a sneaky fist at his brother.

“Spews! Bailey, Sam hit me!” Paul cried.

Bailey didn’t see the hitting, but the back seat warfare made her want to slide under the floor mat.

Suddenly, all the well-behaved Dixon children were shouting, the din like loud surround-sound in a movie theater.

“Paul’s looking at me!” Sam shrieked. “He’s making those wolf fangs you told him not to!”

Baby began crying in the front seat. “I want my lamb baby!”

“Hey!” Brad tried to pin arms and separate bodies, but the commotion swelled out of control. Beth screeched at the top of her lungs, pressing against the car door to keep herself safe from flying limbs and starting to cry because her freshly ironed dress was getting mussed. Bailey was so weak she could only groan. She didn’t want to move and risk the nausea returning. The smell of syrup and bacon clung to the occupants of the car, and with the uproar behind her, she seriously feared her stomach would have another heave of volcano or geyser proportions and illustrate Sam’s and Paul’s argument more vividly than they were.

“Enough!” Michael roared.

The car quieted instantly. Even Bailey rolled her head to stare at him. No one had ever heard Michael raise his voice.

“Now, if you can’t behave—Paul, don’t look at Sam—I won’t take any of you with us the next time I take your sister out.”

Bailey’s lips parted. Take me out? Is this a date? It certainly sounded that way!

Apparently, Michael thought so, too. “Your sister and your brother,” he amended quickly. “If you can’t act like big people, you don’t get to go with us. Got it?”

There was a chorus of yes, sirs, and the back seat remained quiet.

“Now. About your virus, which got this whole debate started, Bailey.”

She felt Michael’s gaze on her, questioning. “It’s nothing,” she reiterated.

“It’s something. You’re not skimping on going to the doctor because of money, are you?”

“No. I told you, I went to Doc Watson.” She didn’t dare look at him.

“I’m taking you home,” Michael said, his voice strong and determined. “And I’m checking on you tonight, after I’ve done my chores. If you’re not better, if you’re not looking a lot more like the Bailey I know, I’m hauling you into Dallas to a first-rate physician.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he put a restraining hand on her leg. “I mean to have my way about this, Bailey. It doesn’t do your family any good if you don’t take care of yourself, and money shouldn’t be an issue. You’ve rarely been sick a day in your life, but if one of my cows was as sick as you are, I’d be calling out the vet. And if you’ve been ill like this for a week, you need a good, thorough going-over by a qualified city doctor. In fact, I’ve got a good mind to call Doc Watson and tell him you need a prescription to get you on the road to recovery. I’ve got my cell phone with me, and—”

“Michael! Please just take me home!” Bailey realized he was about to call Doc Watson. “I promise I’ll be better soon.”

He slowly turned off the cell phone. “Okay. But much more spewing or erupting, and off you go. If the kids get sick with this bug, you’re going to have a real mess on your hands.”

Bailey tore her gaze away from his. She had one. He just didn’t know how serious the mess was.

Chapter Five

Bailey dove into bed as soon as they arrived home. She was too mortified to do more than mumble a hurried thanks to Michael. He was staring at her with such worry that she quickly made good her escape to the soothing safety of her bed.

When she awakened hours later, shadows were growing long and dark on the bedroom walls. February days were so short! Almost as if reminding her time was running out. She couldn’t procrastinate much longer with what she had to tell Michael.

The thought made her weak with unhappiness. She did not want him to say he would marry her. Yet that was likely what the tough-to-tame cowboy would do. He had an honorable character.

But he would never be truly hers. If six months of sleeping with him hadn’t brought them closer together, her distended stomach was certain to push them further apart.

She belted a pair of jeans, which still fit her snugly, pushed her head through an oversize sweater, pulled a hand through the long strands of hair, brushed her teeth and headed downstairs.

Her brother was working on a jigsaw puzzle with the children. “I’m sorry, Brad,” she murmured. “You could have used the good light of day to paint.”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “We’ve about got this puzzle whipped, and I’m determined to finish.”

She picked up the box. It was a thousand-piece puzzle, and the scene wasn’t well defined.

“Challenging,” she commented.

“Yeah, but they’d graduated from five hundred pieces and wanted to go for tougher.”