Barbara Daille - Cowboy In Charge

“Jason.” Anger at him and irritation at herself made her hiss his name. “Just who do you think you are to tell me what I can and can’t do in my own kitchen?”

“Just the guy who carried you back into the house after you passed out.”

“It was only for a second. You told me that yourself.”

“I lied.”

Her breath caught. “Why?”

“The baby was wailing and the boy looked scared to death and you sure didn’t seem in any shape for more bad news at that moment. The moment right before you ran off to toss your cookies. Remember that?”

“Yes,” she snapped. She appreciated that he had been there at the time, but she didn’t like having to feel grateful to him for anything. She didn’t want to feel anything for him at all. “Then, thank you for carrying me in and taking care of supper. But I’m fine now. You can go.”

He opened his arms wide, unknowingly allowing her a look at well-defined pecs and six-pack abs. He gestured around the room. “You’re on the verge of collapse, and you expect me to leave you by yourself with two kids? What kind of man would that make me?”

“As far as I recall, the same kind who walked out when I was pregnant with one of those kids.”

A muscle in his jaw worked hard, telling her he was having trouble holding back another response. The sight made her uneasy, not out of fear of him but from her memories of past fights. No matter how often they argued, he had almost always been better at hanging on to his anger than she had.

“You refused to talk to me,” he said finally, his tone harsh but even. “And you kicked me out. Have you got a recollection of that day, too?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “I remember it very well.”

“Great. Then remember this, too. I didn’t drop in only to say hello. I...I want to talk with you. But that can wait until you’re feeling better again. I’ll go. As soon as you call someone and they show up to stay with you.” He crossed his arms again. “Dammit, Layne, you always were the most stubborn...”

It was his turn to take a deep breath. She bit her lip to keep from responding.

“Look,” he continued, “you could barely handle the baby when she started squirming. And you were hanging on to the kitchen table with one hand while you stood up to strap her into her seat. You want to risk a serious accident while you’re alone with the kids?”

She flushed. “Of course not.”

“Then—”

“I don’t have anyone to call.”

“The baby’s daddy—”

“He’s not in the picture,” she said shortly.

She could see him hesitate, as if her admission had thrown him. But he simply said, “What about your brother?”

“No. Cole’s the best man in a wedding, and tonight’s the rehearsal dinner. Everybody I know is involved one way or another in prepping for the wedding. Or they’re working. That’s where I would have been, too, if I hadn’t called in sick.”

“You have a job, along with taking care of two kids?”

She nodded. “I waitress at SugarPie’s.” She had started working at the small sandwich shop in the center of town after Jason had left. “Which means they’re shorthanded without me there now, too.”

“Well, that settles it.” He returned to his seat across from her at the table and leaned forward until they were almost nose to nose. “You’ve got yourself an overnight guest.”

“No. I’ll find someone else to help me out.” Anyone else. She shot to her feet to stare him down. The defiant movement did her in. Light-headed, she staggered, then struggled to regain her balance. The small amount of soup she had eaten churned in her stomach. With one hand over her mouth, she fled from the room.

Even as she hurried toward the bathroom, she frantically ran down a mental list of all her friends. Surely she could find one person who wasn’t working and would come to her rescue.

Because Jason couldn’t stay here all night.

* * *

LAYNE AWOKE WITH a start to find she still held the cordless phone. Frantically, she looked around the living room. The baby lay asleep in the playpen. Scott sprawled on the floor with his toy cars spread out around him.

Across from her, Jason sat in one of the overstuffed armchairs. He was flipping through a newspaper but looked up as soon as she shifted upright. “You went out like a TV with its plug yanked from the socket,” he told her.

“Sorry.” Her voice cracked. She prayed the dry spot in her throat wasn’t the beginning of strep. The flu symptoms were enough to deal with. “How long was I asleep?”

“About an hour.”

While he sat there and did her job, watching over her kids.

Sighing, she turned her attention to her son. “Bedtime, Scott.”

He frowned. “No, Mommy. I play with cars. Look, my race cars.” He pointed to a sheet of cardboard propped up by some of his plastic blocks that seemed to be serving as a motorway for his entire auto collection. At that moment, she didn’t have the energy to argue, and an extra half hour or so of playtime wouldn’t hurt him.

What hurt her was having to see Scott and his daddy together.

“Very nice,” she managed. “Did you do that all by yourself?”

“No. Jason maked it.”

“Oh.” She looked at her ex. “Between getting supper and overseeing road construction, you seem to have maked yourself right at home.”

“You’ll thank me for that once I’ve gone and maked you a cup of tea for that throat.”

He laughed, and the sound did things to her insides that had nothing to do with the flu. She crossed her arms over her chest, fighting a sudden shiver she couldn’t blame on her illness, either. He frowned, and once again the resemblance to Scott made her breath catch. Over the years, she had tried not to notice the likenesses between her son and Jason. But seeing the two of them together only made the similarities between them undeniable.

Having the man right here in front of her only reinforced too many memories that had never completely faded.

“Have you got symptoms of anything else I should know about, besides flu?” he asked. “Judging by the way you crashed, I already suspect you’ve got sleeping sickness, too.”

“Not that. At least, not yet. The only other thing I’ve got is called middle-of-the-night nursing fatigue. And of course, just generally being a mom.” She swallowed, wincing at the dryness of her throat.

He rose. “I’ll take care of that tea. How do you drink it?”

“Milk, no sugar,” she said. As unhappy as accepting his offer made her feel, at this moment, she needed the warmth and comfort of the drink more than she needed control of the situation.

She ought to push him, to find out why he was here, to ask why he suddenly had something to say to her after all these years. At the reminder of his flat statement, uneasiness ran through her. But she just couldn’t face interrogating him right now. Her head was swimming and her eyes felt watery, and the chills—a brand-new symptom—couldn’t be a good sign at all, no matter whether they stemmed from her illness or her ex.

Jill continued to sleep peacefully and Scott sat engrossed in his car race. She took the opportunity to rest her eyes again until she heard the sound of the kettle whistling.

When Jason returned to the living room, he set two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table.

“Jason, help,” her son called. She looked in his direction and saw the cardboard raceway had slid from its supporting blocks and lay flat on the rug.

Jason went down on one knee beside Scott. Their matching expressions of concentration as they surveyed the fallen raceway shouted the fact they were father and son.

The observation made her throat tighten to the point of dry painfulness again. She grabbed the mug of tea. The warmth stung her mouth but soothed her throat and eased her chills. By the time Jason came back to take his seat, she had pulled herself together. Mostly.