A Baby of Her Own. Brenda Novak
loving smile and those adoring eyes, afraid that Aunt Millie would see what a fraud she really was. Afraid that if Aunt Millie looked too hard, she’d realize Delaney was her mother’s daughter, after all.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MEMORIES OF THOSE FEW YEARS when Conner had lived at the Running Y were far more vivid than he’d ever dreamed they would be. After all, he’d been only six when his grandmother died and the whole household had moved to California, and the twenty-five intervening years had changed him into another person entirely. The hopeful little boy who’d ridden behind his grandfather to rescue a stranded calf, whose job it was to feed the chickens and gather the eggs, was long gone. Yet something as simple as the crackling fire beneath the large stone mantel in the living room, the lingering scent of pine and smoke or a glimpse of the snow-covered mountains crouched protectively on either side of the house flooded him with images and snatches of conversation he thought he’d completely forgotten.
“Why do you get up so early, Grandpa?” he’d once asked, entering the very room in which he sat now, his grandfather’s study, to find Clive hard at work, even though the sky beyond the windows was still black and dawn seemed hours away.
“Because I have a lot to do, son,” his grandfather had replied, glancing up from the papers on the desk.
“No one else gets up so early.”
“You do,” he’d responded with a wink. “And that’s why we Armstrongs are going to stay one step ahead of our competition. You’re my future, Con.”
You’re my future. Such hope, such confidence. At the time, Conner had swelled with pride to think the same blood flowed through his veins. But that was before he’d found out he wasn’t really an Armstrong at all, before his uncles had made it abundantly clear that he was nothing but a bastard, a ward, a parasite.
Other memories threatened, but Conner forced them from his mind and returned his attention to the ranch’s account books, which lay open before him. As he’d feared, the financial picture wasn’t good. His grandfather had bought the place over fifty years ago, when ranching was still profitable. It had given the old man his start, and he’d built an empire from there. But for the past five years, the cost of feed and hands had climbed steadily while the price of beef had fallen. Unless something significant happened, the ranch wasn’t going to make it, and even a frat boy who’d spent most of his time at college trying not to learn could see that.
The end was coming, Conner thought. There wasn’t a thing he could do to change the inevitable. Why was he even sitting here, going through the books, racking his brain for solutions?
Clive would tolerate the losses for only another year or so before he sold out. And Conner knew he was in much the same situation. Like the ranch, he’d started out full of promise but had eventually fallen into decline. He’d barely graduated from high school, had dropped out of college just as he was about to receive his diploma, and had spent more time traveling and playing than working. He’d drunk, gambled and squandered money. He’d spent his time driving fast cars and associating with even faster women. And his grandfather had finally drawn a line in the sand.
Tough love. What a concept. His grandfather loved the ranch more than he loved Conner.
Staring out the window, which looked over acres of pasture, Conner stopped fighting the past and let the memory of his last meeting with Clive play in his mind. His grandfather had summoned him to the office at the winery, where Conner’s uncles already waited. Forty-three-year-old Dwight had offered him a seat, as though he were some sort of stranger. Thirty-eight-year-old Jonathan had smiled, obviously relishing a moment he’d anticipated. And the balding, thirty-five-year-old Stephen had come right out and told Conner that his wild days were over. If he didn’t settle down and start contributing to the family, he’d be cut off from the Armstrongs forever.
Conner would have expected nothing less from his uncles. But his grandfather…What had happened in that meeting had twisted something inside him that Conner had thought long dead. Clive had sat behind his expansive desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching and listening to everything that occurred. He’d nodded when Stephen announced that they were sending Conner to the Running Y, adding nothing until Conner stood to leave. Then he’d said only this—that he was sending Conner back to Dundee where he belonged.
Which was absolutely laughable because Conner didn’t belong anywhere.
The telephone rang. Conner hesitated, expecting Dottie, the widow his grandfather paid to cook for the cowboys and manage the house to answer it, but she didn’t seem to be available.
He picked up at the same time as the answering machine came on. “You’ve reached the Running Y. We’re either out with the animals or running an errand in town—”
When Conner spoke, the machine automatically shut off. “Hello?”
“Conner? Is that you?”
His mother. She was as excited about his return to Dundee as her younger brothers were, but for entirely different reasons. An eternal optimist, she saw it as a great opportunity for him.
“Yeah, I made it,” he said. “How are things at home?”
“The same. I’m more worried about things at the ranch. Is the situation as dire as we thought?”
“It’s not good.”
“When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”
Her cliché, as much as the unfailingly cheerful note in which it was spoken, confirmed what Conner had suspected for years—his mother was delusional. Make lemonade? “This was a setup,” he said, feeling his irritation rise. “There’s no way for me to win. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I don’t think Dad would set you up,” she argued.
Of course he would. His grandfather was finally getting rid of him. Conner had known it would happen someday. But he wasn’t going to argue with his mother, who was singularly devoted to the old guy. “Then he let Stephen, Jonathan and Dwight do it. Either way, the result is the same.”
“The result is what you make it.”
“Mom, you don’t know anything about the beef market or ranching or—”
“I know your grandfather started with a lot less than what you have going for you now,” she interrupted, and Conner dropped his head in his hands to massage his temple. Why had he answered the phone?
“I don’t want to hear about the time Grandpa was too poor to buy a pair of shoes to wear to school, or the time he nearly froze his feet off trying to reach cattle that would’ve starved without the feed he carried,” he said. “I’ve talked to Roy. He obviously knows how to manage a herd, so there’s nothing I can improve on there. Rhonda, the accountant who works here three days a week, knows what she’s doing, too. I’ve got the books in front of me now. Grandfather’s money has been tracked to the penny, and receipts account for every expense. Coyotes are picking off a few steers, but our losses are in line with those suffered by other ranchers in the area. So I can’t increase profits by improving the general running of the ranch.”
“Then, think of something else.”
“You want me to end the drought that’s plagued the area for three years? Or why don’t I figure out what to do about the competition from other countries that’s driving down American beef prices?”
“I don’t like the tone of your voice. You’re being negative.”
“I’m being honest!”
“If you didn’t think you had a real chance of succeeding, then why did you go?” she asked impatiently.
It was a good question. Conner had asked himself the same thing a million times. He’d almost rebelled that day in the winery. Without the Armstrongs he’d simply be the son of a no-good auto mechanic who was spending his life in jail. He would have nothing to live up to, nothing to prove, nothing