C.J. Carmichael - Remember Me, Cowboy

He’d gotten off easy as the middle child, Corb expected. Often ignored, but that was okay with him. And if he suspected that his mother would have traded his life if she could have spared Brock’s, that didn’t bother him, either.

Frankly, he would have given his life for Brock’s, as well.

He led his mother to the dining room, pulling out her chair and waiting for her to sit, before settling at his own spot at the gleaming oak table. Bonny emerged from the kitchen with two hot platters of food, pancakes and sausages for him, a boiled egg and toast for his mother.

Corb was reaching for a second helping of pancakes, when the house phone rang. A moment later, Bonny brought him the receiver. “It’s Laurel Sheridan.”

His heart flip-flopped at the mention of Winnie’s pretty friend. He reached for the phone, at the same time rising from his chair and heading for the patio door leading outside.

“Hi, Corb. I— This is going to sound strange but I was wondering if you could come by the café tonight after closing time?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. You close at five?”

“Yes. I— The thing is, I have something to tell you. Something that happened during the week before the wedding. I know you don’t remember. But...”

Lord, but she sounded nervous. Was she worried he’d say no? But he was certainly keen to spend more time with her. And he was also anxious to fill in some of the missing blanks in his memory, as well.

He paced to the edge of the deck then stared beyond the outbuildings and pastures to the profile of Square Butte, the mountain that flanked the south side of their property.

In between were hundreds of acres of rolling hills covered with wild grass and dotted with patches of brush, aspen and ponderosa pine.

Usually the sight of the land—his family’s legacy—filled Corb with a profound sense of calm and peace.

Today, he felt anything but peaceful.

There’s something about this woman, he realized. Something he should be remembering.

“We’ll talk at five,” he promised, wondering what she had to tell him.

* * *

WHEN THE FACT of her pregnancy had been confirmed yesterday, Laurel had spent most of the night wondering how she would break the news to Corb.

She’d spent the better part of the day thinking about the very same problem. During a lull in business, around 9:00 a.m., she’d called the ranch to ask Corb to come into town.

He’d sounded surprised to hear from her.

Of course he was. In his mind they had only just met yesterday.

“My pie, Laurel?” Burt, the postmaster had finished his sandwich and was looking expectantly at the pie on display just twelve inches from his nose.

“I’m sorry, Burt. My mind is somewhere else today, I’m afraid.” She lifted the glass cover off the stand and slipped a wedge of the juicy bumbleberry pie onto a plate, then grabbed a clean fork and set it down, too.

The door chimed and she snatched a quick look.

A couple of young mothers with strollers headed for the corner booth. Laurel smiled at them, then turned to the cash register so she could get the bill for the elderly couple who’d been waiting to pay for five minutes now.

Corb wasn’t due for another four hours. She had to relax and focus on the present instead of fretting about what she was going to tell him. So what if she didn’t have a plan? She’d just have to trust that she’d know the right words to say when the time came.

* * *

BY FIVE MINUTES to five Laurel was rethinking the wisdom of meeting Corb right after work. She should have given herself an hour to rest and get cleaned up. Every time she caught a glance of her reflection in the mirror by the sink, she thought she looked drawn and pale. Her feet and lower back ached. And she was tired. You’d think her body would have adjusted to being on her feet all day by now, but the job seemed to wear her out more and more each day.

If this was pregnancy, then it sucked.

And she still had seven more months to go....

And then she’d have a baby.

It was too much to think about. Better to focus on one day at a time.

The door opened, setting off a cheerful tinkle from the bells.

Expecting Corb, she was surprised to see a balding, middle-aged man looking hungry and cranky.

Right behind him was Corb.

Yesterday the cowboy had been wearing work clothes. Faded jeans and a shirt that had seen so many washes that the fabric was threadbare at the cuffs and collar.

Not today.

Today he was in dark, pressed jeans and the shirt he’d worn at the rehearsal party the night before the wedding day.

He came up to the counter, right next to the balding, cranky man and she waited to see what he would say. If it was anything about the town getting sweeter, she would know that she was stuck in an endless loop of Groundhog Day.

“Hey, Laurel. How’s it going?”

“You remembered my name this time.”

“No bumps to the head in the past twenty-four hours. Generally—and you’ll have to take my word on this—I’m pretty good with names.” He gave her a warm, approving look. “And faces.”

Not five minutes had passed since he’d walked in the door and already she was feeling it. Sizzle. For whatever reason this cowboy totally did it for her.

God help her.

“Excuse me,” said the balding cranky man. “I don’t remember your name, little lady, but I’m pretty sure I was here first. Doesn’t that entitle me to some service?”

“Of course, sir. What would you like?”

“Two coffees and a half dozen of those sticky buns to go.”

“Cream or sugar?” she asked, all too aware of Corb watching her.

“Nope. Black like the creek.”

This seemed to be a standing joke in the town, since it had been named for the creek that ran through the town with water the same color as a weakly brewed pot of joe.

As she boxed up six of the cinnamon buns, Corb settled himself on a bar stool.

Laurel willed her hands to be steady as she poured the coffee. A few minutes later, she sent balding cranky man on his way, locking the door behind him and putting the Closed sign in the window.

Turning, she removed her apron and gave Corb a nervous smile. “I’ll just clear off the dishes from the back booth, then we can sit down and talk.”

Corb was off his seat in a flash. “Let me help.”

They each carried some of the mugs, plates and cutlery to the dishwasher. When it was loaded, Laurel started a wash cycle, then stood awkwardly.

The kitchen seemed a lot smaller when Corb was sharing it with her. They stood so close that she could smell the scent of his soap.

“You must think it’s pretty strange that I asked you to come here.”

“Not strange,” he insisted. “I was glad.” He looked at her intently. “Since we met yesterday, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

His words gave her a warm, sweet thrill, and she was reminded of why she had fallen so hard for this cowboy, so fast. He was totally sexy and a terrible flirt. But he had a soft side, too. And could be disarmingly honest.

She poured them each a glass of water, then led the way to the back booth. She slid onto one bench and he settled in on the opposite side.

He looked at her expectantly.

Nervously, she sipped the water. “I see you’re wearing your lucky shirt.”

“I am.” His eyes widened. “But how do you know that?”

Their eyes met and held. His, dark green and fringed with thick short lashes, were oh so familiar to her. But what did he see when he looked into her eyes? Did any of the memories of their time together come back to him?

Like their first dance, when he’d held her in his arms and told her he was glad he’d worn his lucky shirt because that night was turning out to be one of the best of his life?