One From The Heart (3 page)

“She’s not missing—she’s abandoned her kid. There’s a big difference. I make my living on the rodeo circuit, Hannah. I don’t do it for fun. I need the money. I couldn’t take the time to bring Petey to you until now. And the note didn’t mention whether you’d know anything about it.”

She stood staring at him for a moment, then picked up his pants. But she didn’t give them to him. She walked out of the bathroom with them instead.

“Hannah!” he called after her. “If you’ll give me my pants, I’ll get out of here.”

“What?” she said absently, her mind in a turmoil as the complexities of the situation began to sink in. Her sister had been gone for a week, and Petey was going to be staying here with her—although she lived in an apartment complex that didn’t allow children, had no extra money for sitters or day care, couldn’t possibly take any days off without jeopardizing her job, and had an enjoyable no-strings relationship with Rick Archer, who was clearly pleased that she was as free to come and go as he was. “Don’t you have any idea where Elizabeth is?” she asked as Ernie hobbled out of the bathroom carrying his boots. “She must have said something.”

“I don’t know where she went. I was hoping you would.”

Hannah stared at him. He was serious.

“I haven’t seen her for months,” she said. She hadn’t seen Petey for nearly a year.

He looked down at the floor and took a long breath. “Well, that’s Libby. Hey,” he said, looking up at her, “Don’t worry. You know how she is.”

“Don’t worry?” she said incredulously.

“Look, I figure it’s like this. You can let Libby drive you nuts or you can accept her the way she is.”

“Oh, sure. That’s easy for you to say. You’re leaving, and this has got nothing to do with you. Or has it?” she asked suspiciously. There had to be some reason why a man would put himself out like this.

He took his jeans out of her hands and struggled until he got them on. “If you mean is Petey my kid, the answer is no. If she was, you wouldn’t get her.” He zipped up his jeans.

“And just what is that supposed to mean!”

“You figure it out. And I’m not getting tangled up with any more Browne women if I can help it, whether they’re four years old or what.”

Hannah’s temper flared even though she did understand his attitude. And who asked him to get “tangled up” anyway? She and Petey weren’t to blame for this. It was Elizabeth who had put him through an emotional wringer. If one associated with Elizabeth Browne, one had to expect that kind of thing.

“Where are you going?” she demanded. He had tugged his boots on and was hobbling into the kitchen.

“I just had this horrible thought,” he said, flinging open the refrigerator door. “I knew it!” he said peering inside at a few containers of yogurt and diet soda. “You’re one of those career women, right? You never eat and never buy any damn groceries, and you don’t know the first thing about looking after a kid, do you?”

“I’ll manage! Now, if you’ll kindly get out of my refrigerator and tell me how much I owe you, I’ll pay you for your trouble.” She picked her purse up off the kitchen counter and got out her checkbook, praying that the amount would be small.

“Lady, there’s not enough money in the
world
to pay me for the trouble I’ve had.” He slammed the refrigerator door shut. “Do you know how to take care of a kid, or don’t you?”

“I told you I’d manage!”

“Yeah, well, that’s not good enough. That kid—young as she is—has been through hell. You want to know how scared she is? She’s so scared she hasn’t asked once—not
once
—where her mother is. It’s like she’s afraid to know. Now, I brought her to you because Libby wanted me to, but damned if I’m leaving her with somebody who don’t even eat right.”

“Mr. Watson—” Hannah began, giving reason and civility a halfhearted try.

“Ernie!” he corrected her loudly, his name echoing in a plaintive wail from the bedroom. They both started in that direction, colliding in the doorway. “Is your name Ernie?” he asked pointedly, pushing his way on through. Hannah followed behind him, the frightened call from the bedroom closing around her heart like an icy hand.

Petey was sitting up in the middle of the bed, clutching Cowpoke in her arms. She reached out for Ernie Watson as soon as he cleared the doorway, flinging herself on him when he was close enough.

“Whoa, Pete!” Ernie said, overbalanced onto his bad knee. He held her tightly and walked around the room with her while the little girl sobbed into his shoulder. “You’re okay, Pete,” he soothed her. “Take it easy, now …” He continued to walk around with her while Hannah helplessly looked on, knowing she didn’t have the first idea what to do with a frightened child. For that matter, she didn’t know what to do with one who
wasn’t
frightened. Ernie glanced at her, hesitating for a moment as if he was going to say something. Then, apparently changing his mind, he walked on. Hannah had never felt so useless in her life.

“Okay, Pete,” Ernie said. “A little more crying and then we’re through with it, you hear?”

Amazingly, the limit Ernie set seemed to work. Petey sobbed a bit longer, then raised her head. Hannah, finally thinking of
something
, handed him some tissues so he could dry her eyes.

“Are you through crying now?” he asked, gently wiping Petey’s eyes.

She nodded solemnly, her mouth puckered and trembling.

“Okay, good—mat’s my Pete.” He tried to sit on the edge of the bed without bending his knee, but he didn’t make it, and Hannah winced with him. He reached up and caught her by the wrist so she would sit with them, his fingers strong and warm against the sensitive skin of her inner arm. He didn’t let go right away, and he stared into her eyes long enough to unsettle her again. “Now, Pete, right here’s your Aunt Hannah. Did you know nobody’s given her a special hug and a kiss for a hundred and fifty years? Have they, Miss Hannah?”

“Ah—no,” Hannah said in response to the raised eyebrows and his warm squeeze of her wrist. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she was game. “At least that long,” she added, trying to be helpful.

“See? Now you’re her special niece—the only one she’s got. So I reckon if she’s going to get a special hug and kiss, you got to do it, right?”

Hannah frowned. Ernie Watson was making this hug-and-kiss business sound about as desirable as a dose of castor oil.

“Come here, cutie,” Hannah said, taking matters into her own hands. She held out her arms, and to her surprise, Petey came into them. They hugged each other tightly and kissed cheeks, Hannah all the while feeling a sudden, ridiculous urge to cry. Her eyes met Ernie Watson’s over the top of Petey’s head in a look that lingered until she had to glance away. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She really didn’t care what he was thinking, she told herself, but she understood he was trying to make his leaving easier for Petey. “Does she have any clothes with her?” she asked him, trying to sound more capable than she felt.

“Not many. Jeans, mostly, and T-shirts.”

“Something to sleep in?”

“No.”

Hannah sighed. “Well, Petey, you’ve got to have a nightie. Let’s find you one.”

She led Petey to the dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. “You pick,” Hannah told her. “Whichever one you want.”

Petey looked up at her doubtfully.

“Go on,” Hannah coaxed. “What do you think of this one?” She held up a Mickey Mouse sleep shirt, a Christmas present she’d never worn. But Perrin Marie O’Day was a child after her own heart. She knelt down on the floor and went straight for the frilly stuff, quietly taking each garment out and holding it up.

Hannah sat down on the bed again, forgetting in her pleasure at Petey’s delight with lace and satin that her intimate apparel was being systematically exposed to Ernie Watson’s full view. “She doesn’t say much, does she?” she observed. She turned her head to look at him. He was engrossed in studying the black lace nightgown with the slit up the front, which Petey was trying to unfurl.

“No,” Ernie said, his voice sounding a bit strange. He was soft-spoken anyway. He had the kind of voice that would soothe upset children, and horses, and women, but with that one word, he sounded as if he wasn’t getting enough air. He swallowed hard before he went on. “What you heard her say when I put her down in here was the most she’d come up with all day—damn,” Ernie commented under his breath as Petey held up a particularly flimsy white silk and lacy teddy. “I got to get out of here,” he decided, abruptly standing up, bad knee or no bad knee.

“Ernie!” Petey cried, the lingerie drawer forgotten.

“Pete, we talked about this,” he said firmly, bending down to pick her up. “You know I got to get my knee fixed, and I got to get to the rodeo in Rapid City.”

Her bottom lip was trembling again.

“Now, what did I tell you I’d do when I got there?” he asked.

“Call me on the—phone,” Petey managed.

“That’s right. Give me a big hug.” He paused while Petey hugged him. “I’ll call you on the phone. And I want you and Cowpoke to behave yourselves and look after Miss Hannah here. You take her to the grocery store and show her what to buy and make her eat right.”

“Green vegetables,” Petey said.

“Right! Green vegetables. Milk and fruit—no junk. And none of that carton cereal with all the sugar in it. Okay?”

She didn’t answer.

“Okay?” he repeated.

This time she nodded, pushing against him to get down and go back to the lingerie drawer. He patted her on the head and picked up the cowboy hat Hannah had left on the foot of the bed. He looked at Petey for a moment, then limped out of the room with Hannah following behind him.

“Are you going to telephone her?” she asked when they reached the front door.

“I said I would,” he answered shortly.

“You might like the phone number, then. As you know, it’s not in the book.”

He was about to say something but didn’t, pressing his lips together and hooking his thumbs in his jeans pockets while she wrote the number down on a notepad and tore off the sheet. He stuck it in his shirt pocket without looking at it.

“Do you need money?” he asked bluntly. “I can let you have—”

“No, I don’t need money,” Hannah interrupted. At least she didn’t need his.

“I was just asking, Hannah. You’re not working at a major network television station anymore. The place you’re at now ain’t exactly big time.”

“I don’t need money,” she repeated, wondering how the devil he knew anything about that.

He smiled, clearly enjoying her annoyance. “Right. Well, I can’t say this hasn’t been interesting.” He opened the door, his eyes searching hers for a moment, until she purposefully looked away. Whatever he was up to, she was
not
responding to it.

“Don’t forget to call Petey,” she said, because she couldn’t keep from saying it. He didn’t make any sense to her at all. First, he’d wanted to dump Petey as quickly as possible, then he didn’t think she was fit to look after her, and now he was once again hell-bent on leaving. The sudden mental picture of Petey hovering around a telephone that didn’t ring was something she didn’t want to think about.

“I’ll call the kid, Hannah. Her clothes are in that bag over there.” He nodded toward a grocery bag, which sat on the couch. “I brought them in when I brought the bear. You better keep up with the bear. She gets upset without it—especially at night.”

Hannah, still waiting for him to go, didn’t say anything.

He sighed and put on his hat. Clearly, he really wasn’t sure about doing this.

“I’ll … take good care of her,” Hannah offered. “Thank you for bringing her.”

“Yeah,” he said, then grinned. “Thank
you
for helping me get out of my pants. So. Good-bye, Miss Hannah.” He sighed again and finally went out the door, but he caught hold of it at the last moment to keep her from closing it. She waited for him to say whatever he was going to say, but he didn’t say anything. She could tell he wanted to, and that was making her all … addled again. She could feel the rise in her pulse, the warm flush of her cheeks. It was as if they had come to the moment that would decide whether either of them acknowledged—albeit tentatively—the mutual interest they were feeling or whether they would just be sensible and let it go.

Hannah lowered her eyes to the open neck of his plaid shirt. Beneath it he was wearing one of those old-fashioned undershirts with the buttons at the neck, buttons that weren’t fastened, letting her see the beginnings of the dark, curling hair on his chest. If anyone—if
she
happened to press her face there, she’d smell that heady masculine scent of his, the soap and the leather and the—

“Hannah?”

“What?” she said guiltily, her eyes flying to his as if she thought he could somehow tell what she’d been thinking. What was the matter with her?

“You’re a good sport, Miss Hannah,” he said, his soft voice gently teasing.

“I don’t think it counts if you don’t have a choice,” she answered.

“Yeah, it counts. You’re a good sport—but you don’t take any crap.”

Hannah frowned, wondering why in the world that sounded like a compliment, and why it pleased her so that it did.