Three Kids And A Cowboy

What had happened here in her absence? Miranda batted her eyes, trying to comprehend what she was hearing. Had her parents started a day-care center, or could they be looking after neighbors’ children?

She hadn’t spoken to her folks in almost three months. She hadn’t dared, because she’d known they would either try to talk her out of her plan or let Brodie in on it. The last thing she wanted was a set of disapproving parents and a forewarned husband lying in wait for her when she rolled into town.

Not that this hubbub was much better. She gripped the smooth, polished wood of the oak banister, deciding the best thing to do was to go upstairs’and see for herself what was going on. Her foot had barely touched the second step when the frantic cries started again over her head.

“She’s too slippery to hold on to, Mr. Crispy,” a child complained at top volume.

Mr. Crispy? Miranda cocked her head. That sounded more like a fried-chicken franchise than someone who belonged in her parents’ home.

“She’s getting away,” the child said again. “Look out, she’s heading for—”

The stairs. Miranda raised her gaze in time to see a chubby cherub—a chubby naked cherub—with a frothy halo of white bubbles encircling wet blond hair flying straight at her. The child’s feet hardly seemed to skim the steps as she streaked down the stairs and away from the two children and one old man running after her.

For an instant, Miranda considered nabbing the fleeing child, but in the flurry of confusion, she couldn’t act fast enough. The little girl whisked past in a blur of arms, legs and suds, leaving a soapy imprint on Miranda’s jeans as she did.

The old man came pounding down the stairs with his knobby knees and elbows poking out at odd angles from his thin body. He pointed to the quivering plops of bubbles that left a trail into the formal living room to the right of the stairway. “She went that-a-way.”

The two children, a young boy and an even younger girl, both dressed in what in Texas would be called their “Sunday best,” stomped down the stairs behind the man. The girl clutched a faded red robe that Miranda recognized as her own, left in her bedroom closet years ago. None of them seemed aware of her presence on the stairs until they were almost on top of her.

Miranda held up one hand, keeping her voice steady as she tried to get the situation under control. “Excuse me, but who are you, and what are you doing in my parents’ house?”

“Whoa!” the old man bellowed, practically in her face. He stopped short one step up from her.

When the two children stumbled into the man’s bony back, Miranda grimaced, but she held on to her composure. “Just what is going on here?”

“It’s her.” A blush of pure awe colored the words whispered by the young girl, who was peering up at her from behind one of the old man’s legs.

“Her who?” the boy asked. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his tortoise-shell glasses bobbled as he crinkled his nose at her.

The old man reared back his head and clamped his hands on his hips. “Well, tuck a feather in my shirt and call me tickled, it is her.”

“Her who?” the boy demanded again. Then, suddenly, his blue eyes seemed to grow huge behind the brown circular frames. “Oh, m’gosh,” he murmured. “It’s the lady whose picture is on the wall in the den.”

“Howdy-do, Miz Sykes,” the man said in a soft voice.

Miranda pursed her lips and cocked her head. How did this odd fellow know her name? Had they met before?

“Who are you?” she asked again. “And what are you doing in my parents’ home?”

“Whur’s my manners?” He let out a quiet clucking laugh. “My name is Curtis Holloman, ma’am, but just every-danged-body calls me Crispy.”

The man dipped his head, his hand raising automatically to his head, as though to tip a hat that wasn’t there.

Miranda noticed something else that wasn’t there—two of the man’s fingers. She made a quick study of him, from his thin gray hair to his bowed legs, and felt certain that if she had ever met this man before, she would not have forgotten it.

She nodded stiffly and said, “Nice to meet you, Mr.—”

“Call me Crispy, ma’am.” He pressed a hand to his chest.

Miranda realized he probably did that because there were people who felt uncomfortable about shaking hands with him. Sighing, she wished she could smack some sense into whoever had made him feel he had to shelter them from his injury. She thrust her own hand out. “Nice to meet you, Crispy.”

He glanced down at her hand, then into her eyes, and then he seized her hand with outright enthusiasm. “Pleasure to meet you, too, Miz Sykes. Been mighty curious to make your acquaintance, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Curious. Now there was a word for the moment. Miranda returned the hearty shake Crispy gave and held his hand a bit longer as she asked, “I don’t mind your saying so if you don’t mind explaining why you’re in my parents’ house and what—”

“Sorry, ma’am, but I make it a strict personal policy not to mix into other folks’s bidness. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got to ketch little Katie.”

“B-but—” Miranda grasped air as she tried to keep Crispy in the handshake.

He slipped past her, only pausing in the doorway of the living room to say over his.shoulder, “Got someone from the dee-partment of social services coming ’round today. And it jest wouldn’t do for her to find one of the children runnin’ through the house all wild and nekkid, now would it?”

“I…suppose…not.” Miranda wound her arms over her churning stomach as she watched the old fellow lumber out of sight. Twisting around, she suddenly became aware of two blond heads close together, with two sets of big blue eyes focused on her.

“I don’t suppose either of you can tell me what’s going on here?” she asked, leaning against the banister.

The pair looked at one another, but said nothing.

“Can’t you at least tell me where the owners of this house are?”

The little boy narrowed his eyes and moved one step closer to her, puffing out his chest as he said firmly, “We’re not allowed to talk to strangers, and even if we did we can’t tell ’em important stuff like where the owner of the house is.”

“She’s not a stranger, Bubba.” The girl wadded Miranda’s robe into a ball and used it to nudge the boy out of the way as she moved to share the second stair with Miranda. “She’s the princess on the wall.”

Miranda had to smile at the idea that this girl thought her a princess. The child must have seen the photos of her in full beauty-queen regalia in her father’s den and drawn that conclusion. She smiled down at the innocent admiration and placed one hand under the girl’s pudgy chin. “I’m not really—”

“You’re pretty, just like in your pictures, Your Highness,” the girl whispered before Miranda could finish. “Everybody thinks so, especially Brodie, ‘cause he spends a lots of time looking at—”

“Brodie?” Miranda dropped her hand, a wave of apprehension rolled from her thudding heart to her weakened knees at the mention of the name. “Brodie Sykes? Why would Brodie Sykes be in this house, looking at my trophy wall?”

“’Cause he lives here, silly.” The girl giggled, hugging the bunched up robe tightly to her body.

The child’s happy laughter sounded tinny and distant to Miranda. Everything seemed to disappear in a dark swirl of incomprehension as she tried to sort out what the child had told her. “Brodie lives here? In this house? I…I don’t believe it”

“Well, you don’t have to believe it, lady,” the boy said, his chin set in confident defiance. “You can see it for yourself, on account of here he comes.”

Miranda scarcely had time to pivot on her heel before the door swept open to crash again against the coatrack.

“Brodie.” The name tingled on her lips, even as her body went numb.

He stepped up to fill the doorway with his broad shoulders and black hat. The bright sunlight behind him put his face in shadow, so that Miranda could not see what emotion showed in his eyes.

For a heartbeat, she wondered if he saw her standing there. Then the paper of the grocery sacks he carried crackled, like a jolt of tension suddenly filling the dry air around them. He had seen her.

She tried to swallow. Tried to blink. Tried to think of what to say after all this time. Her mind went blank, her ability to speak as shrouded as the figure looming in the doorway. It was Brodie’s move.

Randi. Brodie felt his lips move, heard the once affectionate nickname rip through his entire body, yet knew he hadn’t said a thing. He couldn’t say a thing. He just stood in the doorway, the Texas sun warming his back, the sight of his wife standing before him searing his soul. Still, he had to fight off the urge to shudder as if chilled to the core of his being.

Miranda had come home. To him? Could he hope for such a miracle? Could time have healed the wounds he’d inflicted on the woman he loved—the woman whose love he had so battered that she felt she had to run away from him, instead of trusting him enough to work it out?

If Brodie thought for one moment that Miranda had actually come home to him, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d have fallen down on his knees and beg her forgiveness. Then, after he thanked God, all the angels and whatever mode of transportation brought her back to him, he’d have stood, scooped her up in his arms, and headed for the nearest bedroom. There, they’d have made love until they could hardly breathe anymore, until they’d loved away all the cold lonely nights of this past year, until they both knew they could never sleep alone ever again.

If she had come home to him. But the look in Miranda’s eyes made it clear that she had come here thinking to find her parents, not her husband. After a year away, the first contact she wanted to make had been with her family—and that no longer included him.

That realization, wrenched loose the past year’s full measure of pain, anger and loneliness from the depths of his soul. It welled up in his chest, almost stifling him. He inhaled the hint of Miranda’s perfume that lingered in the still air, and with it the memory of her betrayal, which sliced through his body like bits of jagged glass.

How could he love someone so much he thought her leaving would near about kill him and yet, seeing her again, want nothing more than to push right past her as though she didn’t even exist for him anymore? By instinct, his hand went to his hat brim, tipping it downward, not in greeting, but to keep her from seeing the potent mix of love and heartache in his face.

If she did see his pain, she did not react. Instead, she just stood there, her face paled by the surprise of his entrance, her breathing shallow, her whole body tensed, as though she might bolt at the slightest provocation.

He narrowed his eyes and studied her for a moment. Though only a year had passed since he last laid eyes on her, he could see a definite change, but he was hardpressed to pinpoint it. She seemed softer somehow, more womanly, but with a confidence tested by fire.

Hellfire, he mused. That was certainly where he felt he’d spent most of this past year—in hell. And it had changed him, too. But would Miranda give him a chance to prove that? Would she even believe it? And why should he give a damn whether she believed it or not, after what she’d put him through…after what they’d put each other through?

A year ago, he’d run her off by proclaiming he couldn’t care for someone else’s children. Now Miranda had come back to find that his house was teeming with them. Brodie felt his lips tug into a sad smile. His gaze flicked over Bubba and Grace, whose faces were filled with excitement and wonder at the situation.

He didn’t know how the children would affect Miranda’s opinion of him, didn’t know if there was any chance that they could work things out or if they should try. He only knew that the first time he and Miranda spoke again, they did not need an audience.

Slowly, he slid the filled grocery sacks to the floor beside his feet. With his eyes always on the three people in front of him, he only heard the paper crunch as the sacks settled on the wooden floor. Too late, he realized he’d set one on the toe of his boot, and it toppled, spilling apples and sending several cans rolling across the entryway. Ignoring them, he stepped forward.

“Bubba, Grace, where’s Crispy?” he asked

“He’s chasing Katie,” Grace said matter-of-factly as she smoothed one small hand over the faded fabric lumped over her arm. “She got out of her bath and ran off when he accidentally got soap in her eyes.”

“Then maybe you two should help him get her and get her hair rinsed off.” Brodie was surprised at the even, natural tone of his voice, given the white-hot emotional brew roiling in his belly. Hoping he could maintain that facade of control, he raised his gaze from the two children to meet Miranda’s shock-filled eyes.

He swallowed hard and clamped his hands on his hips. The fabric of his freshly laundered jeans rasped against his damp palms as he lowered his voice and spoke to his wife for the first time in a year. “Randi…I mean, Mrs. Sykes and I…need a few moments alone.”

Chapter Two

“What is going on here? Where are my parents? And why are you living in their house?” Miranda hadn’t thought herself capable of speaking. However, once she had dutifully followed Brodie into what had been her father’s den, the questions began to tumble out of her mouth.

She supposed they were a defense against the waves of emotion crashing down on her at the sight of Brodie, big as life, before her. She hadn’t thought seeing him again would be so…confusing.

Stabbing heartache fought with buoyant joy inside her. To complicate things further, as she watched him walking away from her now—a sight that could buckle the knees of any healthy woman—that old thrill rippled through her again.

She brushed her fingertips over the crisp cotton of her shirt, feeling her heart pounding through the summer-weight fabric. She wondered what was going through Brodie’s mind. Was he glad to see her, or angry that she’d dare to reappear as suddenly as she’d left a year ago?

Despite a flutter in her stomach, she gritted her teeth and told herself that Brodie’s reaction didn’t really matter. How he felt about seeing her wouldn’t change reality. For both their sakes, she had to put aside her questions and never let Brodie see any weakness he inspired in her. If he sensed her turmoil, he’d try to fix it.

In her present confused state, she just might be tempted to let him try. And what would that get her but a new crack in an already crumbling heart?

She tossed back her hair and angled her chin up. She’d come here to confront Brodie, and that was what she was going to do, as soon as he explained the strange set of circumstances in which she found him and her family home. Standing by the open door, her back pressed against the cool wall, she crossed her arms over her chest and waited for that explanation.

Brodie moved slowly, like a man recovering from a body blow, around the big desk dominating a room whose focal point had once been a wall of her photos. The photos remained, but they seemed overshadowed by the unfamiliar trappings of a ranch office now in place.

Behind the desk, he seemed to notice neither her nor the gaudy memorial her parents had made to her. His leather chair squeaked as he dropped into it. It squeaked again when he swiveled it frontward, then moved to take his Stetson from his head and place the bad-boy-black hat on the desktop.

The moments dragged by, forcing Miranda to make a study of Brodie, rather than get her answers and get gone, as she would have liked.

The last time she saw Brodie, he’d been fast asleep in their bed, naked except for a tangled sheet and that stealyour-heart grin on his face. She could still see his bare chest, well-muscled arms and long legs. He’d always been built like something out of a western fantasy, lean and clean-cut, with broad shoulders and a behind made to be caressed by faded denim. If anything, this past year had amplified those qualities.

Miranda shifted against the wall, well aware of the changes she’d gone though—inwardly and outwardly—since she last kissed her husband goodbye. She tugged at the front of her shirt, hoping to make it blouse over the top of her jeans enough to disguise the ten pounds she’d gained trying to assuage her misery with chocolate candy and pasta Alfredo.

He ran one of his big hands through the sun-streaked waves of his blond hair, which had grown considerably. He always did that when he took his hat off. Now he had a heck of a lot more hair to rake through.

He’d let his hair get shaggy before, but it had never been this long. To her surprise, it worked for him. Worked too damn well, she thought, trying to quell the stirrings in the pit of her stomach.

Miranda swallowed hard and touched her own soft hair. She wondered if he hadn’t bothered with a haircut because she wasn’t around to remind him to do it. Or could he possibly know how truly sexy and powerful the golden mane made him look? Could it be a calculated thing to attract women? Had he moved on that much?

Not that it mattered, she told herself. In fact, that was exactly what she hoped would happened. She’d left Brodie so that he could find another woman, and if he’d actually started to make himself more attractive for just that reason, well…

It stank. After all, he was still married to her. A tightening in her chest made her pull her shoulders square and tilt her head back. Only a jerk would go out looking for another relationship with so much unresolved.

That wasn’t Brodie’s style. Like a dog with a bone, he would have held on. He had held on. That was why she had come back—because one of them had to let go. And a year’s worth of silence told her it wasn’t going to be Brodie.

“This can’t go on, Brodie, and you know it,” she said aloud, to her own surprise.

He jerked his head up, and for the first time, his gaze penetrated her facade.

Miranda gasped quietly at the sheer power in his piercing blue eyes.

His thin lips went pale as he spoke through a tight smile. “It’s nice to see you again, too, Randi.”

“Don’t…” She glanced down at the tips of her favorite red cowboy boots and jiggled her foot. Telling herself she couldn’t afford to sound so distraught, she drew in a deep breath and went on softly, “Please don’t call me that, Brodie.”

He tipped his head to one side and flattened his hands on the desk in front of him. Sunlight from the nearby window made the wedding band on his left hand glint as he whispered, “You used to like it when I called you that.”

“Things change.”

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, his gaze still fixed on hers.

Miranda pressed her tight shoulders to the wall and swallowed hard. “No, you tell me about it. Tell me what’s going on…and I mean right now.”

He laughed. It didn’t sound one bit as if he found her insistence amusing, though. It was a hard laugh. Cold.

Miranda shivered.

“That’s a hoot, Ran—uh, Miranda. You take off in the night, stay gone a year, then just show up on my doorstep and demand I tell you what’s going on.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” she said with false bravado. “And you can start by telling me why you call my mom and dad’s house your doorstep.”

“I call it mine because I bought this place from them lock, stock and your barrel-racing trophies over three months ago.” He looked away from her. “You’d know that if you had bothered to phone home more than once every blue moon, or if you’d given your folks some way to get in touch with you.”

“B-bought it?” Her shoulders slumped as all the pretense she had mustered drained out of her. “You own Robbins Nest Ranch?”

He shifted in the chair. “It’s the Circle S now.”

“You kept the name of the old ranch?” She blinked against the pain of the memory.

The Circle S. They’d decided to name their ranch after the symbol of unending love—the circle—on their honeymoon. Miranda didn’t know what to read into Brodie’s keeping the name.

“I didn’t keep the name,” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “I kept the ranch—expanded it to include this one.”

“But you’re living here?”

“I let the foreman and his wife stay in the old house.” His relentless gaze drove into hers. “I think it pleased your folks to know this house wouldn’t set empty.”

Guilt at the mention of her parents made her bow her head. “I never had much to say to my folks while I was gone. I called now and then to let them know I was okay. When I wasn’t able to reach them these last few times, I sent a note. Then I didn’t call at all this last month because I was planning on coming home and I wanted it to be a…” She glanced up at him, almost cringing as she finished in a hoarse whisper, “…surprise.”

“Well, you got your wish.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m surprised.”

“Me too.” She choked out the words.

“The question is, what do we do about it? It was pretty clear from the look on your face when I came through the door that you didn’t come home to me.”

A weak smile was all Miranda could manage to thank him for being the one to say it. She doubted she’d have had the strength. Right now, she wondered how she would get the courage to walk out the door again.

Still, she sighed and said, “I did come back to see you, Brodie, but I won’t pretend. It wasn’t to reconcile.”

He nodded, his jaw tight. For an instant, his eyes betrayed something—a flicker of pain, or was it resignation?—and then they went hard and distant, emptied of any emotion.

If only he’d let that emotion surface, Miranda thought, if only he’d yell and give her hell for leaving. If only he’d once crack open that facade enough to let her see what was inside, then maybe they could work things out. But as long as he kept it all locked up tight, she’d never be able to trust that he didn’t secretly resent, even hate, her for the fact that she couldn’t give him a child.

She forced her gaze away to sweep the room, hoping to draw comfort from the familiarity of her father’s den. The old green-and-gold wall paper remained, and so did the footstool of hand-tooled leather and the big bookshelves. She scanned the books’ spines, thinking the titles of old books of cowboy poetry would trigger a warm memory of the past, something she could cling to as she faced her future.

Making Babies: Modern Techniques in Aiding Conception. The Pregnant Pause: Why You Can’t Wait To Treat Infertility.

Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t have to wonder in twenty years if Brodie would feel cheated. She knew now, just as she had known the night she left.

She blinked back the tears. She had to get out of there. She wiped one damp palm down the rough denim of her jeans and managed to speak. “Maybe it would be best if you just told me where I could find my folks and I’ll get out of your hair.”

A thin smile crooked his lips up on one side, and he scored his splayed fingers back through his hair again. “I wondered when you’d notice my hair.”

“Don’t, Brodie,” she croaked softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t what?” How dare he play it so calm, when they both knew this was shredding them up inside. She lifted her head in a flash of challenge. “Don’t bury your real feelings under that cowboy charm of yours. I’m not buying it anymore.”

He stood, sending his chair swiveling backward until it thudded into the photo-covered wall. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, get mad at me, darn it.” She pushed off from the wall and strode toward him. Slamming both hands on his desk, she tossed down the verbal gauntlet. “Throw me out of your house. Call me all the names I’m sure you’ve thought about me this last year. Vow to make me pay for the way I treated you. Tell me you’ve met another woman.”