The Baby Album. Roz Fox Denny

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      Casey pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach. She needed time. Time to save money to buy a few baby supplies. And pay for the delivery. At the clinic, her exams were free, but there would be a fee at the hospital. All she could do now was hope for a lot of work and several months to squirrel away some savings.

      The only thing for her to do was work hard on each job, and stay out of Wyatt’s way as much as possible.

      IT WAS AFTER TEN Monday morning before Casey managed to stop throwing up long enough to shower, dress and haul herself out to her car. She felt worse than a cat dragged backward through a knothole. Probably looked like it, too.

      Her stomach still felt awful as she drove up the on-ramp to the highway. Her cell phone rang unexpectedly. She pulled over to the shoulder and fumbled the phone out of her purse. She couldn’t imagine who’d be calling. “Hello,” she snapped, louder than necessary.

      “Casey? It’s Wyatt Keene. Where are you? I thought you were going to be here at ten.”

      “I’m on my way. Traffic,” she added hastily. “In the future I’ll have to allow more time for it.” She glanced in the rearview mirror and made a face because she realized her tone had been too harsh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” she said, trying to sound pleasant. “I pulled off the road to take your call. I thought maybe it was an emergency.”

      “No, nothing like that. I don’t mean to rush you, but I just got a call from a horse breeder I worked for a couple of years ago. Bill Morrisette. He wants me to come out to his ranch and photograph a horse he plans to advertise at stud. It’s quite a drive to his spread—I figure it’ll take three hours. I told Bill I’d check with you, then let him know when I’ll be there. He needs to groom the stallion—you know, gussy him up for pictures. Take your time. Drive safely. There’s no huge rush or anything.”

      Casey thought about the directions he’d given her to the studio. “I should arrive in twenty minutes. Twenty-five at the most.”

      “Okay. I have a set of keys to the studio for you. I was wondering…I know we said you’d work on the notices at home…but since Bill phoned here, maybe other clients will, too, given that the number’s still in the phone book. If you don’t mind holding down the fort, we may pick up a few more jobs even before our notices go out. You’ll be paid for the hours, of course.”

      “Sure, no problem. Will you have a minute to show me how your calendar’s set up? I know how we booked appointments at my foster parents’ studio, but yours may be different.”

      “Is that who I spoke with in Dallas? The man who gave you glowing references was your foster parent?”

      “If you talked to Len Howell, then yes. He and his wife, Dolly, own the studio. She mostly keeps the books and answers phones. I know it seems sketchy having him vouch for me, but I majored in photography at college. Besides, Len and Dolly wouldn’t risk their reputation giving me references I hadn’t earned.”

      “I wasn’t criticizing. I—Wow, you’re touchy. He did give you high marks, but I judged your work myself. I didn’t mean to imply anything negative.”

      “I am touchy,” Casey said hoarsely. “And it’s important you don’t blame the Howells if I screw up on this job. They’re good, decent people.”

      “Okay, I believe you.”

      Casey caught a trace of humor in Wyatt’s tone. “Um…I’ll climb down off my soapbox. If that’s all,” she said with less force, “I’ll get back on the road.”

      “Right. By the way, I’ve printed the pictures we took Friday. You’ll get a chance to see them before I send them out.”

      “How are the ones I took?” she asked, holding her breath.

      “Good. Great, in fact. Overall, they’re better than those I shot of the soccer squads,” he said, sounding a little chagrined.

      Oops. Casey wasn’t sure it was smart to show up her boss right off the boat.

      “It’s okay,” Wyatt added hastily. “Friday was the first time I’ve touched a camera in ages. It’s understandable I’d be rusty.”

      “I imagine so. Listen, traffic is picking up. If you want to be home from that ranch before dark, I’d better get going.”

      With a murmured “So long,” Wyatt clicked off.

      Casey put away her phone, musing again that this man certainly ran hot and cold when it came to conversations. He’d been a whole lot friendlier over the phone than he’d seemed in person.

      THE STUDIO, A LOW-ROOFED, brick-and-brown-sided building, sat between two gravel parking areas on a pleasant street lined with green, leafy trees. Casey didn’t know what they were, just that they weren’t pecans, like those in her front yard. She found the parking strip assigned to Keene Studio and pulled in.

      She was prepared to have to knock to get in, but the door was unlocked, and she stepped into a small, but well-appointed waiting room. All four walls held sample photographs. A good variety, Casey thought after a quick appraisal. The smell of photo paper, the beautifully matted and framed prints, reminded her poignantly of Len and Dolly’s studio. For the first time since she’d left Dallas to follow Dane, Casey suffered a stab of homesickness so acute it gave her pause.

      When she glanced up, she found Wyatt standing in the doorway behind a counter. Over his shoulder she glimpsed familiar signs of a work area. It had been too long since she’d been in one.

      To hide her nostalgia, Casey turned back to the wall of photos, all bearing the Keene logo in gold foil. There were portraits of families in various settings. There were several weddings, some formal, others less so. The photographed animals ranged from domestic pets like cats and dogs, to a potbellied pig, a huge yellow snake, and of course, bulls, broodmares and stallions. Casey skipped over several action sports pictures in black and white to study an eleven-by-fourteen photo of a craggy-faced man seated on a tractor. His dog, a brown-and-white spaniel, sat proudly on his lap. “What great detail,” Casey murmured in appreciation.

      “My father,” Wyatt said crisply.

      On closer inspection, Casey could see the resemblance. She glanced around at Wyatt, expecting him to say more, but he motioned abruptly for her to follow him into the back room.

      She stepped beyond the curtain into a compact work space with all the necessary equipment for a full-service studio.

      “Before I take you on the grand tour, here are keys to both doors.” He handed them to her, then pointed out desks, computers, printers and racks of software. Wyatt reached through another curtained doorway and snapped on a light in the room beyond. “This space is set up for taking indoor pictures. That’s basically it, except for a bathroom down the hall. I told you it was cramped quarters,” he said, walking Casey out to the workroom. Stopping at one of the desks, he picked up two manila folders. “I made labels for the families of the kids we took pictures of Friday. The ones who preordered copies. Mike noted the team next to each name. Would you slip the pictures into these envelopes and slap on labels? If you can operate a postage meter, stamp them and take them to the post office. It’s on the northeast corner of this street.”

      “I can do that.”

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