Dorsey Kelley - Nevada Cowboy Dad

Instantly he knew his phrasing had been poor. Over the baby’s head Lucy’s glare became a glower.

“I can handle her just fine,” she retorted, obviously stung.

Rusty nodded soothingly. He hadn’t meant to insult her. “Sure.”

Just then his gelding decided to blast a whinny to its companion in a far pasture. The shrill noise surprised Baby, who jumped, then screwed up her eyes and began to waiL In seconds her face turned shrimp-red, and tears streamed down her plump cheeks.

“Rusty, how could you?” Lucy accused him in shocked tones.

She hugged the infant to her protectively—as if he’d let out the damned whinny himself!

“I didn’t do anything,” he said.

“You could have stopped him. Didn’t you see he was going to do that?”

“Don’t know how,” he mumbled, at a loss. The child was crying in earnest now. “Sorry.”

“And what is Baby’s real name, anyway?” she asked above the wailing din.

He shrugged, suddenly feeling on the defensive. “We just call her Baby. I don’t know if there’s something formal on her birth certificate—or if she’s even got one.”

“She doesn’t have a proper name?” Lucy demanded, shaming him. “I can’t believe this.” Stroking the child’s head, Lucy rocked her back and forth. “Never mind. I’m going back to the house.” Turning tail, she sent him one last disapproving glance that managed to make him feel lower than a slimy night-crawler. He rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks, knowing she was right. Baby should have been given a real name long ago. He’d just always thought there was time. How had six months passed so quickly?

Lucy stalked away, her trim rear end twitching angrily in new blue jeans. Baby’s cries calmed.

Rusty watched, perplexed at his reaction. Only moments before he’d been laughing at Lucy, feeling satisfyingly superior, but in two minutes she’d managed to cut him down to size. How had that happened?

Lucy fought down disappointment when Rusty carried his dinner plate into his office and shut the door with hushed finality. He stayed closeted in there all evening.

Then Fritzy announced she never ate before her favorite talk-show came on television at eleven-thirty. Since the efficient housekeeper had already bottle-fed the baby at six, then put her to bed for the night, Lucy was left alone.

Melancholy settled over her. This scattering at suppertime was not how she’d envisioned her “family” meals. Delicious though it was, she picked at her chicken and glanced around the empty room. In seconds she made up her mind to change things—at least a little—on the Lazy S.

A masculine face came at her. Fury flushed his skin ruddy, his features stiffened in an aggressive mask of anger. The familiar face, twisted in rage, snarled and shouted, called her “Bitch.”

“No!” Lucy cried, cringing, “don’t say that. I’m sorry. Please—”

The man ignored her pleas. Actually, he seemed to relish them, and his taunts became even more insulting. “You’re stupid, you hear? You’d be nothing without me to straighten you out. Nothing! If people knew how incompetent you are at even the simplest tasks—why, they’d laugh.”

Shoulders slumping, she felt the black void of anguish and despair threaten to engulf her. “I’ll try harder next time,” she defended weakly, already knowing it would do no good at all. “I won’t burn your toast next time. I’ll stand right by the toaster and watch the bread every second. It won’t happen again.”

He sneered at her. “You can’t even do that right. You’re useless!”

“Please stop,” she heard herself whimper, the cry turning into a loud moan. “Please.”

“Lucy,” another voice called urgently. “Lucy, wake up.”

Abruptly she awoke to total disorientation. Inside her chest her heart pounded furiously. The oily dampness of nervous perspiration filmed her body so that her nightgown stuck to her skin. Her eyes flew wide and she bolted up, gasped in lungfuls of air. For interminable seconds she didn’t know where she was. The darkened room was alien, the bed different.

“Lucy,” the new voice said calmly, “you were having a nightmare. It’s okay. Wake up, now.” Strong arms embraced her. Strangely, they didn’t feel threatening. They were gentle, paternal. Tender.

The angry face faded. Slowly she recognized the voice. Rusty was sitting on the edge of her bed, stroking her back, patting her reassuringly. He was barechested, his warm pelt of dark hair soft against her cheek. Flannel pajama bottoms covered the rest of him. It was dark in the room.

Lucy stiffened. Rusty?

Coming fully awake, she glanced around. Neon digital numbers on the bedside clock read 12:03. Midnight. It always happened at midnight. For some reason that was the hour when Kenneth really got going. She shuddered.

“It’s all right,” Rusty crooned, beginning to rock her against his chest. His arms were welcoming, protective. She clutched his warm skin, taut with muscle. “The bogeyman’s gone.”

Bogeyman. A child’s name for a frightening nighttime specter. Only she was an adult, and her personal bogeyman had been so very real.

A pain that came from within clamped around her throat. She realized she was shaking, every part of her body trembling as if with a sick fever.

She wept then, tucked her face into the juncture of Rusty’s neck where his stubble gave way to the softer skin of his collarbone. Choking back sobs, she clung to the man who offered comfort. When would she ever get over it? she wondered in despair. When would the bogeyman ever really go away?

Chapter Three

“It was Kenneth,” Rusty said in a low voice. “Kenneth did this to you.”

Still upset, Lucy shook her head, her hair falling into her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about—”

“He hit you, didn’t he?” Rusty demanded. Though his voice was quiet, she could hear outrage rumbling beneath his words like insurrectionists about to revolt.

“He—he didn’t hit me. The things he said...they hurt worse than that.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Your husband said mean things to you? That gave you a bad dream?”

In an effort to stop crying, she drew ragged breaths. “I know it’s hard to understand. It’s hard to explain.” How she disliked sounding like a too-sensitive baby, spoiled and self-centered. She hadn’t spoken about it with anyone except the therapist, and that had been difficult enough. She wasn’t about to throw open the door to her soul’s deepest secret. Not to Rusty; he wouldn’t understand. No one would. No one could comprehend her reasons for staying with Kenneth during those bleak years of their marriage.

“Lucy—”

“Rusty, no, please. I...I can’t.” Moonlight, streaming in her window, carved shadows over the masculine lines of Rusty’s face. In the darkness his brown eyes appeared black, penetrating.

His shoulders were big, his chest full, his abdomen ribbed. No man had held her for so long. She hadn’t allowed it—or even wanted it—and certainly no half-dressed man. Lucy shut her eyes, overwhelmed.

With his big hands he stroked her arms from her shoulders to her wrists. As his palms glided over her skin, bared by her sleeveless gown, she could feel his work-hardened calluses, formed by honest labor. He was caressing her, she realized with a new shock. Rusty...caressing her?

He studied her, and she could almost feel him mentally probing for answers, answers she knew she couldn’t give, didn’t know if she had them to give. With her back to the window she hoped he couldn’t see her well.

“You’re not gonna talk about this with me, are you? Well, what happened to him, anyway? How did he die?” Before she could reply, his grip on her arms tightened, his voice roughened. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had something to do with it.”