Make-Believe Mum. Elaine Grant
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Make-Believe Mom
Elaine Grant
MILLS & BOON
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This book is lovingly dedicated to my husband,
Tony, and son, Justin, for their constant love and
support in spite of my obsession with made-up
worlds; my mother, Julia, who patiently read and
reread the different versions; and my Aunt Grace,
whose faith in me never wavers.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
I would like to thank the following people for their knowledge, support, willingness to help, encouragement and input. Any misinterpretations or errors belong to me, not them.
My critique partners: Eleanor, Sylvia and Kris, who know this story backward and forward.
Barb McCritty, an extremely knowledgeable rancher from Wyoming, who gave me invaluable insights; Sandra Cahill of 63 Ranch near Livingston, Montana, who answered my questions about Kaycee and made her look good. Also, Noelle in Big Sky for pointing me to the ambience of Rainbow Ranch for that special date.
Bora Sunseri, who answered question after question about Child Protection Services and how a good social worker would interact with a family. Flavia Wright, science teacher, for input on school disciplinary issues.
Wally Lind and all the folks on his Crimescenewriter group, who answered many technical questions on child abuse, law enforcement and search and rescue.
Dr. C. J. Lyons, pediatric emergency physician, for emergency medical procedures.
CHAPTER ONE
TOMORROW HAD TO be better—if only he could make it through today. In weary frustration, Jon Rider wiped the sweat off his forehead with his upper arm. The anxious mother-to-be in front of him, held immobile by the headgate of the calving pen, lowed in distress and kicked at her swollen belly.
“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” Jon muttered. “I wouldn’t want to be in your position.”
His own position wasn’t ideal, up past the elbow in the slippery birth canal of a first-year heifer. His hand measured the breadth of the two hooves stuck in the pelvic opening with little room for them to push through, and none for the calf’s head. Jon’s bare chest gleamed with sweat, blood and sticky amniotic fluid. For most of an hour, he’d been trying to turn the big calf so he and Clint could pull it, but he had resolved himself to the hard truth. This baby wasn’t coming out the back door any way you looked at it, and a C-section was out of his league. If he didn’t get help soon, he stood to lose both mother and calf—something he couldn’t afford just now.
“No luck, huh,” Clint said, striding loose-jointed down the aisle of the calving barn.
Jon extricated his arm and got up. “Not a bit. Is the vet coming?”
“Got the answering service.” He raked his tousled sandy hair back and reset his hat. “Said she’d send out somebody named Dr. K. C. Calloway soon as she could.”
“Great,” Jon said. “Must be the young vet that took over old Doc Adams’s practice. Know anything about him?”
“Naw, no reason to.” Clint Ford had been foreman at the R-Bar-R ranch for thirty years. The veteran cowhand held to the old way of doing things, hands on and without outside help.
K. C. Calloway. Sounded like an outlaw’s name. Hopefully the new vet could handle the job. Having learned from the best—his dad and Clint—Jon prided himself in rarely needing a vet. Birth was a natural progression on a ranch, as was death. Repositioning and pulling a calf was routine. But this narrow heifer needed help he couldn’t give her. He had an excellent calving setup, so a C-section on the premises wouldn’t be a problem—if the vet ever arrived.
“I’ll finish feeding in the other barn unless you need me for something here,” Clint said.
“I don’t know anything we can do right now. Go ahead.”
In the washroom, Jon lathered his chest and arms, toweled off, then slipped his flannel shirt on, letting it hang loose over his jeans. Pacing to the end of the barn, he scowled down the empty road leading to the ranch, then glanced toward the house.
Hopefully, things were going better there than with the heifer lowing behind him. Jon still expected Alison to walk out, waving for him to come in for breakfast. He shook his head. Impossible. She was gone.
And so was the last housekeeper. So, maybe the twins had locked her in the cellar and maybe they had threatened to burn her at the stake if she didn’t bake cookies. Was that really a good reason to walk out on him? They were five years old—they couldn’t even reach the matches. A smile twitched at his lips. They were just boys.
Clint joined him at the door, restless, shuffling his six-foot-four frame from foot to foot.
“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere with Claire this afternoon?” Jon asked.
“Some kinda music recital she’s in. Don’t matter. You need me here….”
“And what are you going to do if you stay? You can’t get that calf out any better than I can.” He knew how much it meant to Clint to make up for lost time with his daughter. She’d only come to live with him this year, to attend Montana State University in Bozeman. They’d been separated by distance since Clint’s divorce when Claire was nine. “Once the vet comes, the section won’t take but the two of us. Go on with Claire.”
Gratitude and relief swept over Clint’s leathery face. “You sure, Jon? You know I’ll hang around.”
“Claire’s more important. Clean up and get out of here. If I need help, I’ll pull somebody off another job.”
Clint