“Actually, not your computer, but mine. I got a call after you went to bed. I’m finishing up a data summary and analysis for a job I did last month. The company’s having a board meeting on Monday and the CEO would like it by Friday. I’ll get to your books, just not tonight. I’ll catch a couple of hours of sleep before I check the cattle with Dix.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to watch my every move the rest of the day?”
His dark eyes stayed pinned to her. “It means I’ll set out everything you need for breakfast and be back in to get you lunch. Don’t even try to argue. For the next few days, just consider yourself pampered.”
Kylie had never been pampered. The idea that Brock was going to do it made her feel all warm and tingly inside. Maybe she should just give in and enjoy a few days of rest.
All of a sudden the baby started a kicking storm. Her hand went to her tummy and she smiled.
“You felt something?” Brock asked, coming a few steps closer.
“Whether I’ve got a boy or a girl, he or she will probably be a kick boxer.” Something in Brock’s expression made her ask, “Do you want to feel?”
In that moment, any camaraderie she’d felt with him fled. Heavy silence intensified the sound of the beating of her heart. She was wearing a flannel nightgown. When she’d shifted higher on her pillows, the coverlet had slipped and was only halfway covering her tummy. Nevertheless, she felt as if Brock could see right through her, could see beneath the quilt and her nightgown to the baby underneath.
“I think I’ll pass,” he responded, his voice low and deep.
Because he didn’t want to touch her? Because he didn’t want to touch Alex’s child? Because this baby was Jack Warner’s heir and could inherit Brock’s share of Saddle Ridge if she held onto the ranch? He had to resent her and the baby. There was no way they could have a common goal. No way he could help bring her dreams to fruition without trampling on his.
Had she thought they’d bond over Alex’s child? How naive could she get?
She’d been foolish to suggest that he feel her baby kick. She’d made an awkward situation even more awkward, and anything she said now would just make matters worse.
Pulling the covers up to her chin, she looked away from his nearly black eyes, looked away from the beard stubble on his jaw, looked away from the man who had intrigued her almost all of her life.
“Good night, Brock,” she almost whispered, tired of always trying to figure out the best thing to do, tired of feeling as if she were always swimming upstream against currents she’d never defeat.
“Good night, Kylie,” he returned, then left her room and closed the door.
Her throat tightened and she fought back tears, hating the hormone shifts that accompanied pregnancy. She thought about her wedding day and the album tucked away in the closet. She considered the days and nights Alex had been away and she’d been here alone. Then to her dismay, she all too vividly remembered the kiss she’d given Brock when she was seventeen and the way he’d kissed her back, just for a few moments. She felt guilty thinking about it, as if she were betraying Alex in some way. She’d wanted to be his wife. She’d expected their marriage to work. She’d thought they could be together more than they were apart.
One question played loudly in her head. What would have happened if Brock hadn’t come to Jack Warner’s funeral with a wife on his arm?
She didn’t have the answer to that one and expected she never would.
Kylie descended the steps the following morning, surprised she had slept so late. It was 10:00 a.m., and she never slept past 6:00. But she supposed her body was trying to heal itself. It was healing itself and keeping her baby safe.
When she reached the kitchen, she spotted the cereal on the table, the toaster pushed to the edge of the counter and the place set for her. It was as if Brock didn’t even want her on tiptoes reaching into the cupboards.
His words when she’d asked if he wanted to feel the baby were still clear in her head. I think I’ll pass. He was taking care of her out of misguided duty. He didn’t really want to be involved.
Suddenly, the front door opened and Brock came inside, along with a rush of cold, Wyoming air. He was wearing a down parka that looked like one of Dix’s, and his Stetson was pulled low. “I thought you might be getting up around now. How do you feel?”
“Better,” she responded, then assured him, “Really.”
Unzipping his coat, he hung it on the hook in the kitchen, then plopped his hat on the hat caddy beside the door. “I’m going to make a pot of coffee. I want to ride the parameters of the property and see just what condition the land is in.”
“You remember how to ride?” she teased.
“That’s not something I’ll ever be likely to forget. Sometimes on a site I’ve ridden to hard-to-reach places.”
“Hard to reach and dangerous?” she asked, thinking about the continents and countries where he might have found oil.
“Sometimes. That’s when the pay was really good.”
“Did your wife go with you? I know she was a geologist, too.”
“Ex-wife,” he reminded her, his shoulders more rigid, his deep brown eyes on the alert. “At the beginning, we worked jobs together. Then she got tired of the traveling and decided to take a staff job in Houston.”
“You didn’t want to take that kind of position?”
“Not particularly. I like the field work.”
Suddenly she wanted to know a lot more. “Is that what caused a rift between you?”
The clock ticked, the furnace fan switched on and finally Brock answered, “It doesn’t matter what happened between us. It’s over.”
After a brief hesitation, she asked, “Did you want it to be over? Or did she?”
“It was a mutual decision.”
She thought of Alex on the road. A husband and wife couldn’t have a marriage if one of them wasn’t there.
Although she didn’t say the thought aloud, Brock must have read her mind because he added defensively, “There was more than one reason why we divorced.”
“Do you still see her?”
“Enough questions, Kylie.” He looked angry and she didn’t know if that was because she was digging into his past, because she’d touched a nerve or because he was simply a private man.
Going to the coffeepot, he took it from the machine, filled the carafe with water and dumped it into the back.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” she said softly.
“Yes, you did. But what’s happened in my life has nothing to do with what’s going on here now.”
She wasn’t so sure of that. However, she took his very strong hint and changed the subject. “Speaking of what’s happening here now, how’s Feather?”
“She’s a looker,” he agreed. “Wary of me.”
“She won’t be for long if you’re patient with her.”
“We’ll see. Dix said you have a special oatmeal treat you give her.”
She pointed to a stoneware canister on the counter. “I make them myself when I have time. There’s about half a jar there. She also loves licorice hard candy.”
“I’ll remember