C.J. Carmichael - Remember Me, Cowboy

Another sigh from Winnie. “What you say makes sense. I will try to make nice with Olive. I promise. Just...not quite yet.”

“Don’t put it off too long, okay?”

“I won’t. As long as you promise to get your butt back to New York and that fabulous new job of yours.”

“About that.” Laurel hesitated. Putting this in words was going to make it seem so real. But she had to face up to facts. And who better to trust than Winnie? “I’m not so sure that I can go back to New York just yet. I’ve come up against a bit of a speed bump.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know how I said I’ve been tired? Well, I’ve also been nauseous. And today I realized that I haven’t had my period since I left New York.”

Winnie’s soft gasp was audible. “Really, Laurel?”

“Afraid so. I believe I’m about two months pregnant.”

“So it must have happened right before you left New York. But I didn’t think you were dating anyone seriously back there.”

“I wasn’t.” Here was the tricky part. “Actually, it happened on the night of your rehearsal dinner.”

“Shut up. It did not.”

Laurel let her friend process for a few moments.

Sure enough, it didn’t take Winnie long to come up with the right answer.

“That must mean Corb is the father? The two of you seemed awfully cozy that night, but I never guessed—”

“You were too busy being crazy in love with Brock to notice.”

“Yes. I suppose I was.” Pain registered briefly in Winnie’s voice before she returned to the subject under discussion. “Have you told him?”

“I can’t, Winnie. He doesn’t remember anything.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s called retrograde amnesia. Apparently he doesn’t recall anything much from the week before the accident. When he came into the café today, he didn’t know my name. He acted like we had never met!”

“How awful for you.”

“It was bizarre. He started asking me questions—the same questions he asked when he was driving me home from the airport. At times I thought he had to be faking it, but he really doesn’t remember me, Winnie. How can I tell him that he got me pregnant?”

“Back up a minute. Are you sure you’re pregnant? Have you taken a test?”

“No. But—”

“You’ve got to take the test.”

“I already checked the general store. They don’t carry those pregnancy test kits. The next time I’m in Lewistown I’ll—”

“No need to wait that long. I bought a couple boxes when I took my own test. In case I screwed it up or something. Look under the bathroom sink.”

Laurel suddenly felt shaky and weak. She realized she was scared silly. It was one thing to suspect you were pregnant.

Quite another to know for sure.

“Want me to call you back?” she asked Winnie.

“Are you kidding? I’ll hold,” answered her friend. “Now get in the bathroom and pee on that stick.”

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Corb took a little longer with his chores than usual. Partly because of the nagging headache that he just couldn’t shake. And partly because of a certain redhead that he wished he could remember.

On his way toward the ranch house, where breakfast would be waiting, he came across Jackson, carrying a sack of feed over his shoulder.

“Why don’t you leave that for a bit and join Mom and me for breakfast?” Corb asked.

Before the accident, a typical day had seen him, Brock, Jackson and Olive eating together every morning after chores. But since Corb had been released from hospital, Jackson hadn’t joined them once.

“Nah. I’d rather finish with the horses. I’ll eat later.”

Jackson was a quiet guy. Though lately he’d been more quiet than usual. Corb paused, wondering if he should insist that Jackson take a break and get some food.

But Jackson had already ducked into the far barn with the special feed they’d purchased for Lucy. They had another equestrian barn on the property for the American Quarter Horses which they bred for sale. The purebreds and the working horses were never allowed to mingle.

Then there was the cattle barn, clear on the other side of the yard, where Corb spent most of his time.

Coffee Creek Ranch was a big operation requiring lots of work—and while they hired several wranglers and part-time help in spring and fall, all the key positions stayed with the family.

With Brock gone, though, there was going to have to be some reshuffling of responsibilities.

Corb entered the main house from the back entrance, kicking off his boots in the mudroom, then washing his hands in the stainless-steel sink next to the coatrack.

Bonny Platter, their housekeeper for the past three years—a record tenure for the position—came to the doorway with her hands on her ample hips.

“I have pancakes and sausages waiting, but first you better get your mother out of bed. It’s time she joined the land of the living.”

Corb was damned hungry, having started the day three hours earlier on just a package of oatmeal and a cup of instant coffee. But he shared Bonny’s concern about his mother.

“I’ll round her up,” he promised.

“What about Jackson?”

“Just spoke to him. He’s giving breakfast a pass.”

“Again?” Bonny sounded annoyed.

“Again. I’ll go get Mother.” Corb crossed through the kitchen to the hall that led to the master bedroom. After his father’s death ten years ago his mother had redecorated the room with a bunch of flowery fabrics and pinkish colors. Now he always felt awkward when he was called to enter the feminine space.

For that reason, or perhaps out of habit, he hesitated at the door after knocking. When a full minute passed without any answer, though, he finally cracked the door open.

“Mom? Are you awake?” Ten o’clock on a weekday morning and she was still in bed. Prior to Brock’s death, this behavior would have been unthinkable.

“Yes, Corb. Please shut the door. I’m not ready—”

He ignored her and strode inside, stopping abruptly in the near darkness. “Jeez, you can’t even tell it’s daylight in here. Why didn’t Bonny open the curtains?”

He made his way toward the outline of the windows at the far wall, then pulled back on the fabric, allowing in the brilliant morning sunshine.

“Bonny didn’t open the curtains because I asked her not to,” his mother answered tartly. Normally she styled her hair in a sleek bob, but it was looking lank and gray today. An appointment at her hair salon was long overdue.

She squinted at him and frowned. “The sunshine gives me a headache.”

Feeling the scar on his scalp throb, Corb could relate. But he didn’t admit it. Instead he checked the tray on the table beside his mom’s bed. The toast and coffee were untouched. “What’s this? Mom, you have to eat. Come on, Bonny will serve you something fresh in the dining room.”

Her expression turned contrite. “You’re a sweet boy to worry about your mother, Corb. I’m just not hungry.”

“At least sit at the table with me.” He stood by her bed, until finally she sighed and sat upright. He waited until she swung her feet to the ground, then held out his hands to her.

“You’re kind and patient, Corb. Just like your father.”

Being compared to his father was about the highest compliment his mother could give. It was curious, Corb thought, that while his father had treated all of them pretty much equally, his mother seemed to have a unique relationship with each of her children.

B.J., as the eldest, had always been the son that Olive expected the most from—until he’d decided to become a full-time rodeo cowboy. Now Olive rarely mentioned his name.

Brock had been the doted-upon youngest son, while Cassidy, the baby of the family and the only daughter, seemed to take the brunt of their mother’s criticism.