Delaney toyed with the sugar while she waited for Ralph to park the car and come in, letting the spoon clink against the sides of the old-fashioned porcelain bowl.
“Stop that. It’s making me nervous,” Aunt Millie said, and Delaney put the spoon down.
Outside, Delaney could hear Uncle Ralph stamping the snow off his boots. The door opened and closed, the floor creaked, then he appeared in the kitchen.
“Well, if it isn’t our little Laney. How are you, girl?” he said, his face creasing into a ready smile the moment he saw her. “Millie didn’t tell me you were coming for dinner.”
“I’m not here for dinner,” she said, standing to give him the hug he expected.
“You’re not? Just came by to see the old folks, huh?”
Delaney perched on the edge of her chair as Uncle Ralph glanced at Aunt Millie and finally seemed to grasp that this wasn’t a social visit. “What is it?” he asked his wife.
Aunt Millie shrugged. “Ask Laney.”
Short and wiry and nearly seventy-five, Uncle Ralph rubbed the bald dome of his head and turned his soft brown eyes to Delaney. “Is something wrong?”
She was tempted to tell him about the library closing and try to distract him with that bit of bad news. But Delaney refused to be such a coward. She needed to take responsibility for her actions, get it over with.
“I’m going to have a baby,” she said, as loudly and clearly as she could.
Aunt Millie spilled her tea, and Uncle Ralph rushed to help mop up the hot liquid before it could burn her.
“Come again?” he said, when the immediate crisis was over.
Delaney curled her nails into her palms. “I’m pregnant.”
Both jaws sagged wide open and two sets of dentures nearly tumbled out onto the floor.
Aunt Millie seemed to recover first. “Did you say what I think you said, Laney?” she asked, her voice sounding oddly strangled.
Delaney nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Uncle Ralph finally closed his mouth. “Does this mean you’re getting married?” he asked tentatively.
Delaney sat up straighter and shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“But how could that be?” Aunt Millie asked. “Who…I mean how…I mean you—”
“Out of wedlock?” Uncle Ralph cut in.
“It…it was just a one-night thing, a mistake,” Delaney said.
“Damn right it was a mistake,” he nearly shouted. “Who did this to you?”
“A man I met in Boise.”
“Then, we’ll find him, make him own up to—”
Delaney stood. “No. What happened was my fault. I take full responsibility.”
Uncle Ralph didn’t seem to know what to say. He turned to Aunt Millie. “How could this have happened?”
“I don’t know,” Aunt Millie said. “She’s always been so good.”
“I’m still the same person,” Delaney said.
“You’re not the same person,” Aunt Millie replied. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re not the same person at all!”
The high pitch of her voice indicated impending tears. Delaney winced as Uncle Ralph put a protective arm around his wife. “How could you do this?” he asked. “Didn’t we teach you better? Hasn’t Millie been a good mother to you?”
“You’ve both been good to me,” Delaney said. “And I’m grateful.”
“Well, this is a heck of a way to show it,” he said.
Then Millie started to cry in earnest, and he took her in his arms and tried to comfort her, and Delaney didn’t know what else to do except leave.
EVIDENTLY DELANEY’S NAME was as unusual as Conner had thought. No one he’d met in Jerome had heard of a Delaney. But it was a much bigger town than he’d expected from her description. He couldn’t ask all 18,000 residents. And she might live in an outlying area. Or it was possible that her family wasn’t as well-known as she’d made it sound. He couldn’t be sure. He only knew that it was late, and he was tired and angry with himself for wasting so much time trying to find a woman who obviously didn’t want to be found. If she’d been interested in seeing him again, she would’ve left her phone number. He should just forget her and keep his mind on what he was doing.
The warmth of the heater threatened to put him to sleep. Rolling down the window of the ranch’s old pickup, he let the cold night air revive him, and fiddled with the radio, looking for a station that didn’t play country music. But before he could settle on anything, the voice in the back of his mind started in on him again.
It’s Friday night, man, and look at you. You’re driving a beat-up truck down a long stretch of road, heading back to an empty house. It’s pathetic what the old man’s reduced you to. Haven’t you steeped yourself in isolation, sweat and hard work long enough? Isn’t it time for a little fun?
A little fun? Conner eyed the Honky Tonk as he drove into town, heard the music spilling out its doors. A drink would reward him for all his hard work—and anesthetize him against the hopelessness that edged closer every day.
Why not, Con? Just one drink.
He turned into the gravel drive and parked alongside a row of pickup trucks that looked as dented and work-worn as his. He knew from the condition they were in that the trucks had been used to carry hay and fencing, tools and tack. The men who drove them, the men inside the bar, would resemble him, too, now that he was wearing cowboy boots and a pair of snug-fitting jeans. He hadn’t taken to chewing tobacco, knew he never would, but after the sunburns he’d suffered on his face and neck, he was already on the hunt for a good hat.
Maybe the town was rubbing off on him more than he thought. Maybe he was turning into a real cowboy. There were times when it seemed he was slowly becoming part of the ranch, or the ranch was slowly becoming part of him, but he was fighting the transformation almost as much as he wanted to embrace it. Belonging would only make matters worse.
A drunken cowboy came stumbling out of the bar. Staring at the street, he swayed unsteadily on his feet, as though he was about to stumble off the curb.
Someone in a passing Cadillac honked; startled, the man stepped back and crumpled to his knees.
Conner shook his head, his desire to numb his senses with alcohol suddenly waning.
Come on, the voice in his head complained. You said one drink. One drink isn’t going to hurt anything.