The Convenient Cowboy. Heidi Hormel

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СКАЧАТЬ tracked down her cheeks. She wiped at them and buried her face farther into the pillow. She hated crying but couldn’t stop the sob that bubbled up and out. She tightened her jaw to keep the next one in. Her chest hurt from holding back her gasping breaths. Her eyes burned from the tears, then the sob parted her lips and she couldn’t stop. What the hell was she crying about? The bed dipped. She popped up, wrestling with the blankets and sheets.

      “Everything’s okay,” Spence whispered, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Lie down.” He pulled her toward him, bringing her cheek to rest on that solid chest, where she could hear the thud of his heart. His hand rubbed her back. She wanted to tell him to get away from her. Instead, she lay there, clutching his shirt and blubbering. Damn it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who cried. She’d always prided herself on that.

      Hours passed. It had to be hours. Her tears left tight, salty trails on her cheeks. Her eyelids rasped across her eyes. She tried to push herself away from Spence, but he just tightened his hold.

      “Relax. Go to sleep. Morning will be here before we know it.”

      Even those inane words made her feel better as she drifted into sleep, thinking that this would be something to tell their children. She jerked awake. She wasn’t keeping the baby, and she wasn’t keeping Spence. None of that was in the life she had planned. James women made horrible wives and even worse mothers.

      * * *

      THE COMBINATION OF a vibrating pocket and deliciously round female butt against his crotch brought Spence slowly and pleasantly from sleep as an imaginary Olympia asked him, “Is that your phone? Or are you just happy to feel me?”

      The vibration paused for five breaths as he gathered himself to figure out where he was and why his mouth tasted as if he’d eaten dead coyote for dinner. He rolled slowly away from Olympia. His wife. Had he really married her? Had they really gotten pregnant? Was that the sun coming in through the curtains?

      He sat up slowly, making sure he didn’t jar his head. He knew that once he really woke up, the hangover he deserved would pierce his brain. “Hello,” he whispered hoarsely into the phone.

      “Daddy,” Calvin said. “You forgot to call.”

      Spence stood quickly and hustled from the bed to the window. Crap. The sun was bright and way up in the sky. Then the spike-through-the-head hangover hit. Why had he sucked down four whiskeys? Whiskey always gave him a bad hangover. “Calvin...” Spence started, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, buddy. I got busy.”

      “You’re always busy. When are you going to come and get me? I don’t want to live here anymore.”

      Spence choked on his response. Calvin actually sounded cranky, like a normal little boy. Not the quiet and older-than-his-years boy who’d learned tough lessons from his years of illness. His son’s idea of defiance was not putting his LEGOs away. “We’ve got to talk to the judge—”

      “He’s a poopy head.”

      Spence stifled a laugh to stop the tears. He wanted Calvin with him now. Not months from now when the legal system figured out that Spence was the boy’s father and the person who had the “greatest concern for his physical and emotional well-being.” He dug deep for his calm, firm dad voice. “That’s not nice. He’s the judge, and we’ve got to listen to what he says. It won’t be long.”

      “Uh-oh.” Calvin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Grandma...Mimi is in the hall. Bye, Daddy.”

      Spence’s knuckles turned white as he fought the urge to hurl the phone across the room. Just the sound of Calvin’s grandma in the hall was enough to send the boy running. He didn’t know how Calvin had found a phone to use, but his son clearly needed to talk with him. When he calmed down, he’d call and ask to speak with the little boy. Hopefully, Eugenia and Stuart Smythe-Ferris—the pretentious last name Missy was back to using—would be open to a brief conversation, despite being sticklers for following every comma of the custody agreement.

      He glanced over at Olympia, who’d scooted into the divot made by his body. She didn’t look close to waking up. Wasn’t she a cowgirl? Weren’t they up at the crack of dawn? The only other cowgirl he knew was his sister-in-law, Jessie, and she was out in the barn before the sun rose most days.

      He moved to the in-room coffeepot to brew something to combat the headache. They needed to get on the road because he had to be at the office by noon. He’d given some crap-ass excuse to get the time off. No one at the office knew about his marriage, except HR.

      “Olympia,” he said more sharply than he’d meant to. She jerked.

      “Wha—?” she mumbled, her head coming up, then falling back down with a thump.

      “It’s nearly checkout time, and I’ve got to get to the office.”

      Olympia squeezed her eyes shut and moaned.

      Crap. She was going to be sick. Sympathy jabbed at his conscience. After all, it was his baby making her so ill. He said calmly, “There’s soda there for your stomach.”

      She climbed out of the bed and slammed into the bathroom. He heard retching. He refocused on the coffeepot, watching with extreme concentration the drip of the magical brew. His head pounded, but the first slug of coffee would help.

      “Olympia,” he called through the closed door. “Are you okay? I need to use the bathroom, and we’ve got to get going.”

      “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to die.” She groaned.

      “Try the soda.” He cared about how she felt, really he did, but work was waiting and so was convincing his ex in-laws that he had to talk with Calvin today. The anxious tone of his son’s voice played again in his mind.

      “Maybe ginger ale?”

      “I’m going downstairs to get one.”

      How had his simple plan spiraled so out of control? he asked himself as he searched through the overpriced convenience store in the lobby for ginger ale. He could feel the time ticking away. Finally, he paid the three dollars for a bottle and made his way back upstairs in the world’s slowest elevator.

      “Got the ginger ale,” he said as he opened the door. The room was quiet. He walked through and saw the bathroom door was open. “Olympia?”

      She was back in bed, with the covers over her head.

      “Olympia, we’ve got to go. You can sleep in the truck.” She shook her head like a toddler. He didn’t have time for this. He yanked all the covers off. “Let’s go.”

      “If I get in your truck, I’ll be sick.”

      “Drink this,” he said, holding out the soda. She cracked open one eye, then held out her hand for the bottle. She sat up slowly. He wanted to tell her to hurry, but he also didn’t want her back in the bathroom. “While you drink that, I’ll get ready. Five minutes.”

      She was sitting propped against the pillows when he came out of the bathroom, about half the soda gone. Her just-below-the-chin, deep brunette hair was messy, and dark circles still ringed her eyes, but she no longer looked whiter than the sheets.

      “Good. You’re ready.”

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