Having The Rancher's Baby. Cathy Mcdavid
knees buckled and she slumped to the ground.
* * *
THIS WASN’T HOW Violet had wanted to start her conversation with Cole, the two of them crammed elbow to elbow in the restroom behind the stables.
He ran the cold water in the tiny sink, wet a paper towel and handed it to her. “Here. You missed a spot.” He motioned to her face.
“I did?” She automatically touched her chin and cringed. Yep, there it was. She quickly wiped her entire face on the chance she’d missed another blob, then tossed the paper towel in the wastebasket. “Sorry.”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
She wondered about that. How many times, exactly, had he seen a woman lose her lunch before collapsing in his arms? Did he make a habit of hurrying them to the nearest bathroom and dispensing wet paper towels? Apparently so, because he was fairly adept at it.
“You don’t say.” She tried not to sound curious.
“On the circuit. There’s always one guy who upchucks after finishing his run.”
Riding a bucking bull or horse. Being tossed through the air and landing hard. That would definitely be a reason to throw up.
She reached for the doorknob, utterly humiliated and more than ready to leave.
He waylaid her with a hand on her arm. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine to me.”
“I’m probably dehydrated.” Violet knew that wasn’t the case, but no way was she telling Cole what ailed her. Not while she wore a vomit-stained shirt and her queasy stomach threatened to revolt again any minute.
Shouldering open the bathroom door, she stepped outside and gulped fresh air like a miner newly released after days in an underground tunnel.
“I’ll take you to the clinic if you want.”
Cole stood beside her. Right beside her. She told herself she was being overly sensitive and that he wasn’t looking her up and down with far too much curiosity.
“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind.”
Mustang Valley’s one small urgent-care center was open most days. Violet doubted the nurse on duty could do anything for her that she hadn’t done already.
Rubbing her forehead, she inhaled slowly. The air might be fresh, but the sun was hot and stifling. “You don’t have to take me, because I’m not going.”
“Vi, be reasonable. You’re sick.”
“I asked you not to call me that,” she snapped, then gritted her teeth. “Sorry.” She was apologizing a lot today and would again if they continued this conversation.
“You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t tease you when you’re not feeling well.”
Did he always have to be so nice to her? Violet suspected he showed her a side of himself he kept from most people. The night they’d spent together was an example of that. He’d been funny and sweet in the bar when they were dancing, attentive and passionate when they’d made love and tender when he’d cradled her in the aftermath.
Were he not Cole Dempsey, they’d probably be dating now. Perhaps optimistic about what the future held for them.
Yet he was Cole Dempsey and wrong for her for too many reasons to list. Not only was he her boss, which in itself was bad enough, but he’d been adamant from the day he arrived that he had no intention of remaining in Mustang Valley. Violet didn’t blame him; she might feel similarly in the same circumstances. But she needed someone who was willing to put down roots.
She certainly wasn’t traipsing after a man whose only interest was the next town and the next rodeo. Not in her condition. Not any time, ever.
Would Cole insist on staying when she told him? Violet had no expectations. The only reason she’d considered saying anything today was because she couldn’t hide her pregnancy much longer. This morning sickness—correction, all-day sickness—was kicking her in the butt and difficult to explain away.
That was new, but not the other symptoms. She’d been pregnant three times previously, back when she was married. She’d miscarried all three times, never making it past week seven. Until now.
She was over eight weeks along. There was no question as to the date of conception or the father’s identity. She’d broken her celibacy streak only once in the past three years, and that was with Cole.
Pregnant from a one-night stand? No one was going to believe her. She hardly believed it herself.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts and returning her to the present.
“That I shouldn’t have eaten chicken salad for lunch.”
She started for her truck, parked near the stables, deciding she’d been wrong to approach Cole today. Better to wait until her second trimester. With her history, the odds of carrying to term weren’t in her favor.
A painful lump promptly formed in Violet’s throat. She wanted this baby with the same intensity she’d wanted all the others. After the last miscarriage, and her marriage falling apart, she’d given up the dream of ever having a big, happy family.
Then, suddenly, she’d been thrown a crumb. A tiny positive sign on the early pregnancy testing wand and a second one a week later, just to be sure.
Could fate be playing another cruel trick on her, or was it answering her prayers at last?
Another wave of nausea struck. Violet reminded herself it was a good sign. The more numerous her symptoms, the stronger they were, the better chance the fetus was thriving. Not like before.
“Are you going home?” Cole asked.
Honestly, could he be any harder to shake loose? “Yes. See you tomorrow.” Her truck was only a few feet away.
He kept pace with her, and she groaned softly. Apparently, she needed to be blunt. Tell him straight out to beat it.
“I can follow you home,” he said. “In case you feel dizzy again.”
She stuffed her hand in her side pocket, searching for her keys. Finding them, she wiped her damp brow. Sweet heaven, it was warm today. “No, you need to put Hotshot away and return those steers to the pasture.”
“Is that an order?” A hint of amusement colored his voice.
If her stomach wasn’t busy trying to empty itself, she might have found his remark funny. As it was, she desperately needed to get away before she lost whatever small amount of her lunch remained.
“Now that you mention it.” She tried to smile. All she accomplished was a trembling of her lower lip.
“Vi, let me help you.”
He sounded sincere and well-intentioned. If only he weren’t waiting for the day when he could hit the road.
“I’m fine.”
She might have maintained her composure if he hadn’t reached for her hand and linked their fingers. She’d always been a sucker for a man who held hands. It was so intimate and personal. Her grandparents had been like that, holding hands until the day Papa Hathaway passed away.
A soft sob broke free, and Violet pressed a fist to her mouth. Besides being sick every waking hour, she was also fast becoming an emotional wreck, crying at the least little thing.
Hormones, she reminded herself. Manufacturing lots of them was another sign that her pregnancy was progressing. Still, hormones were nothing but trouble when facing her baby’s father and not wanting to tell him in case the worst happened.
“What’s