Kristine Rolofson - The Husband School

“Shelly.”

“Nice to meet you. Believe it or not, I usually mind my own business. Does your family know where you are?”

“I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“I’m nineteen. I can go wherever I want.” Shelly poured a fountain of maple syrup over the pancakes and dug in. She felt bad about lying to someone who had given her free bacon and milk, but then again, since when had trusting total strangers improved her life?

“You may or may not be nineteen, but you don’t have any money—”

“Not true,” Shelly said over a mouthful of pancake.

The woman continued, “You’re a little vague about where you’re headed.” She smiled, which made her look younger. About thirty, Shelly thought. No rings. She looked harmless enough, so Shelly decided a simple version of the truth would work just as well as a whopper of a fib about meeting her soldier boyfriend in Fort Hood.

“I’m on the road, uh, looking for a guy.”

“Well, then,” Meg drawled. “You’ve come to the right town. According to the mayor’s latest calculations, we have forty-eight single men from the age of twenty-one to forty-five. You can take your pick.”

Shelly drank half the glass of milk. “They count them here?”

The waitress looked amused. “Yes, they do, actually.”

“Weird.”

“Definitely. So who are you looking for? I’m guessing...the baby’s father?”

“Yeah.” She chewed another large piece of pancake and washed it down with milk before picking up another slice of bacon. The year before she’d gotten pregnant she’d called herself a vegetarian, but the baby had changed all that. Now any kind of pork product made her mouth water as if she was a little kid at the state fair.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Not exactly.”

“Is he from around here?”

“Maybe.” He’d mentioned Willing once, but as hard as she tried, Shelly couldn’t remember what he’d said about it. He’d talked of other Montana towns, too. She wished she’d paid more attention to their conversations when they’d been together.

“What’s his name? Maybe I can help you contact him. You shouldn’t be traveling alone like this.”

Shelly shook her head. The less said the better, and she didn’t want this snoopy woman calling the cops or social services. Been there, done that. Instead she pulled her cell phone out of her bag and skimmed through the menu until she found what she wanted. She passed the phone, with its fuzzy photo of a smiling young man, to Meg. “Here.”

“It’s hard to see his face under that hat.”

“Trust me, he’s cute.”

“Yes, but—”

“He’s tall, too. And funny.”

“I don’t—”

“Miss!” The bus driver waved at her. He was heading toward the door, the other passengers following him. “Three minutes!”

Shelly looked down at her empty plate and her stomach heaved. She’d eaten too fast and she was going to throw up now, she really was. “I should have hitchhiked.”

“That’s never a good idea, sweetie,” Meg the waitress said, her voice gentle. She handed her back the phone. “You look a little pale. Are you sure you’re okay?”

She thought about the bus fumes, the jouncing, the endless miles to a place with no guarantees.

Shelly was suddenly very, very tired. The busy room seemed smaller, the noise quieted and everything swirled into black.

CHAPTER FOUR

KERMIT WASN’T KNOWN for his compassion, and because his punctuality was the stuff of legends, no one was surprised when the bus headed south without its pregnant passenger.

Meg and her customers managed to move Shelly to the floor, put a makeshift ice bag on her forehead and call the clinic before the girl came to and started to protest.

“Stay quiet,” Meg told her. “You fainted.”

“I’m okay, I’m gonna miss—”

“There will be another bus.” Just not for three days, Meg added silently. “You have to stay right where you are.”

“Am I on the floor?”

“You sure are. Are you having any pain?”

“No.” The girl closed her eyes again, probably because the sight of four elderly men staring at her was more than a little frightening. She moved her hands over her belly. “I’m fine.”

“Not exactly,” Meg said. “Something happened and you passed out.”

Shelly kept her eyes shut.

“Remember the time Hank Richards had a heart attack, right in that same booth?”

“No, actually, I don’t.” She shot George a look that said be quiet.

“Uh, he was fine,” the old man mumbled. “After the triple bypass.”

“My Debbie used to get wobbly and sick like that when she was expecting the twins.” Martin peered down at the girl. “Are you expecting twins, young lady?”

“I—I hope not.”

Jerry, who’d been the first to grab his cell phone and call for help, leaned toward Meg and whispered, “This could be our lucky day. A new resident and a population explosion.”

“That’s so not funny.”

He shrugged. “Hey, we need all the help we can get. In the meantime, what are we going to do with her?”

“We?”

“It takes a village...”

“It takes an obstetrician,” Meg pointed out, having helped Lucia through her last pregnancy. “And he’s sixty miles away.”

“Oh, good,” Jerry said, looking up as the door opened. “Hip’s here. I sure hope he’s sober.”

* * *

HORATIO IGNATIUS PORTERMAN, the local EMT, was otherwise known by his initials. Everyone loved him, everyone owed him a favor and no one questioned why his best friend was Jack Daniel’s. That was his own business: a man was entitled to his demons, and, to Hip’s credit, he didn’t drive. He and his cousin shared a house in town and Theo, a car collector, was always ready to drive his cousin wherever he was needed.

Luckily, Hip’s services weren’t in great demand. He carved animals from tree trunks in the large shed behind the house when he wasn’t administering first aid. In the summer the lawn sprouted bears, moose, elk, prairie dogs and sale signs. Once in a while one of them went home with a passing tourist.

Jerry hoped he’d upgrade to an art studio once the cameras started rolling. Hip wasn’t bachelor material, but as an artist he’d give the town another dimension and attract other creative types. Jerry was already thinking how to give artists tax breaks, but first things first. Save the town, bring in the artists, attract the tourists.

“Hey,” Jerry said, making way for his city rescue volunteer. Owen MacGregor, a grim expression on his face, followed Hip across the room. The rancher’s frown eased when he saw Meg, but he didn’t look exactly cheerful as he stared at the girl on the floor.

Jerry wasn’t sure what Hip could do, aside from taking the girl’s blood pressure and pulse. Theo would most likely end up driving her to Lewistown, since he owned the ambulance.

“She’s looking better,” Jerry said. “Not so green.”

Meg nodded. “I don’t think she’s been eating well. You should have seen her shovel in the pancakes.”

Owen stepped closer. “Where’s she from?”

Hip, crouched over the girl like a paternal crane, asked the same question. He didn’t get an answer, but she did open her eyes. She was a pretty thing, but Owen thought she seemed way too young to be pregnant.

Owen tried again. “Anyone know who she is?”

“Her name is Shelly,” Meg said. “She was on the bus heading south.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“You know her?” Owen hoped there was help on the way. Like the girl’s mother, who would be wearing a nurse’s uniform and pushing a gurney.