Necessary Secrets Page 11

  She swung up onto Stampede, but it took nearly all her effort. She was out of shape, out of balance and out of willpower to fight.

  Just as she gathered up the reins, Jon threw his arm across her lap to grab the saddle horn. The next instant, he swung himself up and over Stampede’s rump.

  She jumped and shifted her weight to counteract his sudden move. The horse stepped sideways, also shocked by the unexpected extra weight. “What are you doing?”

  “Whoa, Stampede,” he called over her shoulder to the horse. Then, once he was settled on the bare rump of the big gelding, he wrapped his arms around her. She stiffened immediately.

  “Relax. Stampede can handle both of us. And our combined weight will keep him from acting up and racing home.”

  “You don’t trust me.” Did he have to treat her like a misbehaving child? “I wouldn’t have raced him home.”

  “I do trust you. It’s Stampede I don’t trust. And I could have taken the reins and walked beside you the entire way, but this is quicker. We don’t have all day to roam the range.”

  She turned her head slightly to face him, finding him so close, she bumped into the rim of his hat. Surely her burning cheeks stung him with heat? “We found time to kiss, didn’t we?”

  A distinct pause. “There’s always time for that.” He smiled at her, but now the sun shaded his eyes and she couldn’t tell whether or not he meant what he said or was just helping to ease her embarrassment.

  She faced the front, feeling foolish and childish with nothing to grip but the horn.

  As if reading her mind, he offered her the reins. “Take them. Just keep him at a walk.”

  When she took the reins, Jon’s hands settled lightly on her hips. Her ever-widening hips, she thought with dismay. She’d barely had the sense of balance to mount Stampede.

  They said nothing for a while, Sylvie forcing herself to relax and enjoy the gentle motion, the warmth of both the sun and Jon and the grateful fact he hadn’t pushed the radio issue.

  Why, she could drift off to sleep in Jon’s—

  Something gentle brushed against her nearly full bladder, a sweeping, inside movement—

  She gasped. There it was again.

  “What’s wrong?”

  With a sharp pull on the reins, she stopped Stampede. Her breath caught in her throat, she whispered. “I felt something. Like a brush along my bladder. Down deep. There!” She turned her head to stare at Jon. She must have looked utterly foolish with her mouth agape and her eyes wide. She grabbed Jon’s hand and pressed it against the lowest part of her belly. Not too firmly. She was in perpetual need of peeing. “Can you feel it? The baby’s moving!”

  She didn’t dare breathe, in case the tiny flutter had been her imagination. Deep inside of her, something danced. To her the movement felt like the gentle brush of one of the hungry Bosnian children, one who might dare reach into her truck to touch her arm with skinny fingers. Looking for a handout of the caramels she always carried for them.

  Behind her Jon stilled. Even against the constant wind, she could feel his quick inhalation.

  The baby gave another flutter under his flat palm. He leaned forward, and pressed his hand more firmly against her belly.

  Sylvie melted with a pleasure that swirled through her chest. Life. Beautiful life, growing within her. No wonder the minister at the church where Lawrence had taken her when she returned had spoken of the gift of children. Of sharing a gift with a loved one—

  Suddenly the intimacy of the situation struck her hard. She’d seen several moms at the prenatal classes offer their enormous bellies to anyone who wished to feel their unborn moving. It had all seemed natural for them, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to feel a tiny foot or knee or hand.

  But now, as the rolling foothills filled the background behind Jon, and his warm body matched the glaring sun, the whole idea of sharing her baby’s tiny movements had become shockingly private…and personal.

  He drew in another sharp breath and pressed his hand closer in. “I can’t feel it.”

  She twisted around farther. Jon had leaned forward, his Stetson pushed back so he didn’t bump her with the rim, and she could see the concentration riveting his handsome features and yet at the same time smoothing out those fine lines that splayed away from his eyes. Did he look that way when he was making love? Or was such concentration reserved for the baby, his only connection to his brother?

  Her heart squeezed. His tiny nephew or niece moved against Jon’s hand one more time, though his look told her he still felt nothing.

  He deserved this moment and…she wanted him to have it! More than anything. Whether he could feel the moment or not.

  He’d come here for closure, and she knew he wouldn’t leave until he got it, in whatever form. She’d hoped he would find it out on the range or helping a stranger’s kids feed Andrea’s ridiculous pig or maybe on the back of Stampede.

  Alone, on the back of Stampede.

  She shifted away, and when he glanced down at her face, a quiet, slightly sad smile tugged up the corners of her mouth.

  In an odd way, Sylvie realized, Jon was punishing her for Rick’s death and her own silence. Telling him the truth might take the heat off her, but she knew he’d never keep it a neat, packaged secret. Never. She’d then face a court martial, a disgraceful end to an otherwise excellent career.

  Jon’s hand pressed deeper in against her lower belly, while he shifted closer to her.

  She was sandwiched in more ways than one.

  “Amazing,” he said. “According to Lawrence’s books, the baby usually doesn’t move until it’s eighteen or nineteen weeks old. How is it possible so soon?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s just an early bloomer.” She lifted her brows and shrugged.

  A shadow passed across his features and he lifted his hand suddenly as if he’d just realized how intimate its location had been.

  Growing impatient, Stampede shifted to the left. Jon reached forward to draw up the reins, his brows knitting together and the fine lines deepening. “Well, the sooner we get back to the house, the sooner I can get out with the truck to retrieve that ATV.”

  The moment of intimacy popped like a soap bubble, leaving Sylvie unsettled. Swallowing, she shifted in the saddle, desperate to find another comfortable position, something away from Jon’s thighs and hips. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a line of cows and their heifers moving toward the barn. Behind the predictable cattle lay the sweep of mountains. So much more beautiful than Bosnia’s hills, with their battered houses and useless fields mined to the hilt.

  Realizing he was headed home, Stampede picked up his pace and they rode the rest of the way in brisk silence.

  When they reached the barn, Jon led the horse around to the well-beaten path to the house. He slid off Stampede’s rump with ease. “Here you go.” He held out his arms and guided her off. She didn’t need the help but, still dealing with the emotions inside of her, she accepted it.

  He shoved his Stetson down, hiding the frown she’d caught so briefly. “I’ll see you at supper,” he said.

  The baby fluttered again and she put her hand on her tummy to try to soothe it. Or her. Or someone. “Thanks.”

  He led the horse to the barn, and she turned away just as he began to remove the tack.

  What a strange afternoon, full of both discovery and fear. When the ATV had backfired, she’d hit the dirt like Nicholas Cage in one of his action films. She didn’t even remember dropping the way she had. But she certainly remembered Jon’s kisses afterward, swirling inside the pungent reminder of that horrible night.

  She paused at the kitchen door. Then there was the radio. What was wrong with her? She’d absolutely hated that thing at the time. Stupid useless thing. But really, she shouldn’t have totally destroyed it. She wasn’t prone to fits of temper. She earned her rank and respect in the military with her calm, collected manner, not with outbursts like that.

  She should never have
taken the radio. She’d taped the mike key on Lawrence’s radio so it would transmit continuously, and hidden it behind the back door. Then she’d taken Jon’s and left.

  Now, her action made no sense. She rigged the radios to act like a baby monitor, to ensure no one came into the house while she was out pushing the ATV to its rough-running limits. Pushing eastward as if to reach the rising sun, before it had yet to tint the sky.

  Had she been running away from something? Or toward something she couldn’t remember?

  And when she’d realized her radio was no longer receiving, she’d lost her cool.

  Alarm danced through her now, and she dared a peek at Jon, way over by the barn. He remained busy with Stampede, his strong, muscular back to her as he swept the saddle off the horse. Stampede swung his head over and plowed into him, but Jon, so comfortable with horses, shoved him away. Her breath caught in her throat as she admired his powerful muscles. Did he use his strength in bed? Or did he keep it in close, well-controlled check?

  What would it be like to be one of those women who’d known him intimately? They probably didn’t mind bowing to his obvious strength and sexual prowess. He’d no doubt promise them full satisfaction.

  Stop it, she ordered herself. These thoughts were just her body’s self-preservation techniques so she didn’t have to deal with the radio issue.

  Besides, Jon was Rick’s brother, and he was still grieving. The man who’d come for the truth would never make love to the kind of woman she really was.

  Chapter 8

  “Lawrence?”

  At the sound of his name, the older man peered over the top of the book at Jon. Thankfully, this evening, Lawrence had chosen to read to himself the book on breast-feeding, and just a moment before, Jon had caught a glimpse of a graphic diagram he’d rather not hear described.

  “Yep?” Lawrence asked.

  Jon had forced himself to keep as busy as possible after he’d dropped Sylvie off, only because if he hadn’t, he’d have immediately sought out Lawrence along the fence line, and the old man would have resented the work interruption.

  Jon stole a glance at Purley and Michael, as they watched TV across the bunkhouse common room. “Can I talk to you? In private?”

  Lawrence followed his gaze, his watery, pale eyes blinking over his reading glasses to the two men. When he focused on Jon again, he stood. Wordlessly he walked to the small bar refrigerator and pulled out two long-neck bottles of beer. Jon had seen them there through the glass door, and could have used them weeks ago, but they weren’t offered.

  “Let’s step outside and check that pig. If Sylvie discovers he’s escaped and scared the campers again, there’ll be a few pork roasts in the freezer before Andrea returns.”

  They walked outside, and Jon let the screen door slam behind him. The warm night air carried the campers’ voices and activities through the filter of the few trees. Jon cracked open his beer and followed Lawrence around the side of the house toward the zoo pens.

  Jon’s pace slowed. The kitchen light flooded the corner of the house. Sylvie had yet to go to bed.

  What was she doing? Another bout of cleaning?

  “You want to ask me something about her, or are you going to stare into the kitchen all night?” Lawrence’s voice held a teasing note.

  Jon resumed his walking, only realizing then that he’d come to a dead stop. “Sorry.”

  Lawrence took a long pull on his beer and when they reached the pen to find the darkened image of the pig rooting around, he set his beer bottle on the fence post.

  “Nothing wrong with asking questions, son. So shoot.”

  A light from the front of the house cast long shadows around them. Ready to take the last swallow of cold beer, Jon froze. Had the light just come on? Had she heard them out here and was coming to investigate?

  No. The light came from the ranch office, whose window glowed just beyond the end of the porch. The plain white sheers hung open and he spied Sylvie moving restlessly around.

  “Does that a lot, lately, she does,” Lawrence said. “I’ve seen her up well into the night. Ain’t good for the baby.”

  “Often?” Jon wouldn’t have noticed, as his tiny room faced the paddock. Lawrence’s room faced the house.

  “Too much restless energy, I guess,” Lawrence said.

  “Or too many bad dreams?”

  Lawrence shot him a frown. Jon stared openly into the office window. Sylvie sat at her desk, her back to them. The lower half of the left window was raised, allowing for a breeze.

  She stood up suddenly, threw back her short hair and stalked to the filing cabinet. Jon felt his eyes widen. Whoa. She wore nothing but a thin, flowing nightgown.

  After grabbing some papers and a tissue from the neat stack of boxless tissues above it, she fell back down into her seat. Even with the loose, slinky nightgown on, he could see the rounded curves of her growing condition. She was all woman and growing more so each day.

  For crying out loud, she should shut her curtains.

  “You think she’s having bad dreams?” Lawrence asked.

  He pulled his attention away from her. “Yes. Why else would she be up?”

  The older man shrugged. “Pregnancy changes a woman’s sleeping habits.”

  “I’ve noticed that she has other unusual habits. Haven’t you seen how she takes the tissues out of the box and discards the box?”

  Lawrence didn’t answer, so he persisted. “She’s done that in her bedroom and in the office. See? On the filing cabinet?”

  The old man squinted. “Yeah, I can see it.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask why?”

  “I already know. Sylvie told me she didn’t like the picture on the carton.”

  “Then why buy the tissues? Most women buy tissue boxes not just for what’s in them, but for how the carton will go with the decor.”

  “It was Andrea who bought them. She went to one of those warehouse stores and stocked up on tissues and toilet paper and gallons of pancake syrup.”

  “But Sylvie doesn’t like the tissue boxes, so she removed the tissues, stacked them neatly and threw out the boxes.”

  Lawrence lifted his eyebrows. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “I’m telling. And each of those boxes had a cute little teddy bear theme.”

  Lawrence nodded. “That would be Andrea. She must have thought they were cute.”

  “Each of those boxes had a picture of a teddy bear doing something. The one in her room was driving an army truck.”

  “Oh.”

  Jon checked his rising agitation. “She’s had a lot of free time to remove the tissues and stack them in neat piles.”

  “You think she’s doing that at night? So she’s having trouble sleeping. She’s running a ranch, a campground, and is pregnant and unmarried. She’s got a lot on her mind.”

  “There’s more. Do you remember when I asked you about the radio that went missing?”

  Lawrence nodded again. A passing moth danced around him, but he waved it away.

  “I found it later. It had been smashed and ground into the dirt road beside the campground office.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “Sylvie. She ran over it with the ATV.”

  Lawrence’s eyes widened. “Sylvie? How do you know that?”

  “I found small hunks of it imbedded in the tread of the ATV’s tire after you left the line shack.” No need to go into detail about how he happened to notice the tires in the first place. “When I asked her about it, she tried to run away.”

  “Sylvie? She’s never run away from anything.”

  “After the ATV died, it backfired. A second later she had me pinned on the ground, while she scanned the area. I’ve scared her before, too, Lawrence. She’s edgy. And you did say she’s changed.”

  Lawrence grabbed his beer again and took a gulp, before realizing it was nearly empty. He glared at it. “Well, that’s true. She’s not the same. I’d just chalked it up to her pr
egnancy and retirement.” He studied Jon in the dim light. “What do you think it is?”

  “It’s post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ve seen it in police officers, but it’s not reserved for cops and soldiers. We’ve had suspects who suffered from it, as well.”

  Lawrence hooked the beer bottle between his index and middle finger and swung it pensively at his thigh. Finally he nodded. “I’ve heard of it. In fact, I had a cousin who had it. Got it from the war. They called it shell shock back then.”

  He tapped the bottle on his thigh. “I can’t say I have much experience with it. Sylvie’s grandfather, Stanley Mitchell, tried to enlist with me in ’39. I was underage. We were ranchers and Stan had just acquired this place. When he found out he’d been turned down because he was a rancher, he told the recruiters how old I really was, and that he needed me to work the land, as well. Oh, I saw red that day. Damn fool Mitchell couldn’t go to war, so he made sure I couldn’t, either.” He shook his head. “Ironic, if what you say is true, sixty-some years later, the granddaughter ends up with the post-war stress.”

  “It adds up, Lawrence. Sensitive nerves, sleeplessness, fits of anger. I just can’t figure out…”

  “What to do?”

  Jon shook his head. “No. There are viable treatments for it. I’m sure some of them will have to wait until the baby’s born, but she should see her doctor for it right away. She might not even know—”

  “Nor will she say anything, son. She’s like her grandfather. Stubborn as this pot-bellied pig when he’s hungry.”

  She was that, all right. “I wondered why she took out her frustrations on the radio. Sure it acted up occasionally, but she was pretty brutal with it. There’s not a piece left that’s bigger than my thumbnail. And if she’s going to—”

  He didn’t want to finish his sentence, so Lawrence did it for him. “Get mad, she might take out her anger on her child? Your nephew or niece?”

  Jon threw him a sharp look. “What has Sylvie told you?”

  “Nothing. She tells me zilch. But I haven’t lived nearly eighty years for nothing. Listen to me, Jon, my boy. She wouldn’t hurt her baby. She’s determined to have this child, come hell or high water.”