Elizabeth Sinclair - The Pregnancy Clause

“A baby?” Honey’s lower jaw dropped. “And if you don’t?”

“If I don’t, the farm goes to the Horseman’s Benevolent Association.”

“What? Well, that sucks dead canaries.” Honey leaned forward and rested her forearms on the pine table. “What in blazes possessed Dad to do such a thing?”

“Beats me. But when did he ever not make a sharp left when everyone else was ready to go right?” Throwing herself back in the chair facing her sister, Emily rubbed at the ache in her temple. “He promised me sole ownership of the farm. Why did he lie to me, Honey?”

Honey laughed derisively, took a sip of her soda, then shook her head. “Heaven only knows. Why did he do half the things he did? Why did he insist I marry a man I didn’t love? Why did he alienate his own son?” She rose and walked to the window. Pulling the curtain aside, she looked out, presumably checking on Danny’s whereabouts. “Everyone in this valley knows that Frank Kingston was a law unto himself. That he left the farm to you came as a surprise to no one, considering that I detest horses and Jesse detested Dad.” She shook her head. “He wasn’t well-liked, but he sure was obeyed. I figure that Henry Tippens died of that heart attack so quickly after Dad died only because Dad was up there already and poor Henry didn’t dare keep him waiting.”

Despite Honey’s attempt at levity, Emily knew her sister still felt the pain of their father’s interference in her life. When he’d insisted Honey marry to make her unborn child legitimate and preserve the Kingston’s good name, he’d sentenced his daughter to a life with a man who suffered from a Peter Pan complex. The best thing Stan Logan ever did for Honey and Danny was get himself killed last year in a motorcycle accident. Since then, Honey had made it her life’s mission to make sure Danny didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps.

Emily’s father hadn’t cared that he’d forced Honey to marry the wrong man. He just didn’t want the whole valley to laugh at him. Emily had never mentioned any of this to Honey. Aside from the fact that Honey didn’t seem to want to talk about it, Emily had promised her father she would never tell Honey just how much she knew about Danny and his father. To Emily, a promise was golden. Once made, it could not be broken.

She laughed to herself. Frank Kingston had been dead for five years and ironically, he was still running their lives from his grave.

“This may not be as bad as we think.” Honey had left the window and returned to her seat across from Emily. “Since you are going to marry sometime, it follows that you’ll have children, too. Right?”

“In theory that works, but I didn’t tell you the whole thing.” She glanced at her sister’s raised eyebrow. “I have to have the baby before I turn thirty. Since I just turned twenty-nine, that gives me exactly one and a half months to get pregnant.”

Honey let out a long breath. “Hells bells.”

“Of course, there’s the small problem of finding a man before then.” Emily smoothed the corner of the lacy doily in the center of the table. “That is, if I even want a man in my life to begin with.”

Honey’s laughter filled the kitchen. “I hate to tell you this, little sister, but it’s gonna be damned difficult to have that baby without a man.”

Emily placed both palms on the table and stared at her sister. “Honey, I can’t be a mother. I have no idea what to do with a baby. I don’t even know which end to diaper. I didn’t even help you take care of Danny when he was small.”

“Well, that would have been a little hard, considering I was traveling all over the United States from car race to car race with Stan. And as far as taking care of a baby goes, it’s an inborn instinct. Oh, and by the way, you diaper the end with no hair.”

“Cute, Honey. Really cute. I’m at a crossroads in my life and you’re making jokes.”

“Sorry.” Honey didn’t look contrite.

Emily stared at her sister. Maybe for some women mothering was inborn, but for Emily, the only babies she had any acquaintance with had four legs and a mane, and not a one of them grew up and attended college or got the measles or…or called her Mommy.

THE NEXT DAY, Emily settled more comfortably on her horse’s back. She did her best thinking in the saddle, and she planned on riding out to the west pasture, just to clear her head.

As she rode farther from home, hammering coming from the old Madison place disturbed the silence. She couldn’t imagine who would be hammering over there. It had been deserted since fire had partially destroyed it years ago.

She reigned in Butternut and walked him through the barrier of trees dividing her property from the Madisons’. The hammering stopped, replaced by the loud squeak of a rusty nail being torn from old, dry wood. Pushing the branch of a maple out of her way, she peered through at the ruins of the house.

On a ladder, shirtless and bronzed from exposure to the sun, was a man. With one hand he held on to the ladder, while with the other he tore off a half-burned board.

She eased the horse closer. When she was within shouting distance, she stopped.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Surprised, the man spun toward her, almost losing his balance. As he clutched the rung of the ladder, the muscles in his shoulders and arms danced under his tan skin. Butternut sidestepped and a shaft of bright sunlight blinded her from seeing the intruder clearly.

“I would have thought that after all these years, you’d have given up trying to send me to an early grave.”

Taken aback by his words and the familiar tone of his voice, Emily eased the horse closer. “Who told you you could tear this house apart?”

“I did. I own it, Squirt. Or have you forgotten?”

Squirt?

Emily sucked in her breath. Only one person in her entire life had called her Squirt, and he’d walked out on her without a word sixteen years ago. Gently nudging Butternut in the ribs, Emily moved into the shadow of an overhanging maple tree to see him more clearly.

Shock ebbed over her. Above his left eyebrow, just below a wayward lock of wavy, jet-black hair, a pencil-thin, two-inch scar marred his tanned skin. She knew that scar very well—after all, she’d been the cause of the injury that had produced it. When she was seven and he was eleven, she’d dared him to jump from the maple in her front yard with a homemade bedsheet parachute. Because he always did anything she asked of him, Kat Madison had jumped and landed facedown on a piece of glass in the driveway.

Kat, the only man she knew who could enter a room and not be heard. She might have known that, true to his nickname, he’d sneak back into town on silent feet. She recalled hearing the story of how he’d insisted on spelling his name with a K to make himself unique. He was unique all right, a unique jerk who cared nothing about a friend’s feelings.

Silently, the rhythm of her erratic heart pounding in her ears, she continued to study him. He’d changed. Matured. She quickly did the math in her head. Thirty-three. But more than his age had altered. The lanky Kat she’d known hadn’t had muscles out to here and skin the color of soft suede. Nor had that Kat ever looked at her with a mixture of longing and pain in his eyes.

She called her emotions under control, then hardened herself to say all the things she’d been waiting to tell him. Instead, the pain generated by his abrupt appearance spoke for her.

“Were you ever going to tell me you were here or were you going to just walked away again without a word?”

He said nothing. She fought back the sudden rush of tears unaccountably choking her. Turning the horse, she started to ride away, then pulled up short and glanced back.