Fifty Ways To Say I'm Pregnant. Christine Rimmer
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it past the ninth grade and he’d never expected to get a chance to go back. But a high school diploma looked pretty puny alongside a college degree. “I think Zach mentioned you were heading to New York City in the fall….”
“That’s right. Grandmother Elaine pulled some strings.” Zach’s parents lived in New York. “CityWide Magazine,” she said. “It’s a weekly. I’ll start as an editorial assistant right after Labor Day.”
“Well,” he said, striving for words that were brilliant and meaningful and finding nothing but, “that sounds just great.”
“And for the summer, as usual, I’ll be at Jerry Esponda’s beck and call.” For as long as Beau could remember, Jerry had been publisher, editor-in-chief, reporter and printer of the local weekly The Medicine Creek Clarion. No doubt he appreciated Starr’s help every summer.
“Jerry’ll be real sorry to see you go.”
“Well,” she said pertly. “I’m not gone yet.”
“Soon enough, though.”
“Yeah,” she softly agreed. “Soon enough.” She tucked her head back into his shoulder and they danced the rest of the song without speaking.
As they swayed to the music, he thought about how much things had changed since the last time he’d held her in his arms. She greeted the world with an open, easy smile now. She had her college degree and he had no doubt she would make it in the big city. And he…
Well, he was as free as a man can ever get from the wrongs he’d done in the past. He’d paid his debt to society and lived straight with the law and his neighbors—and himself—for five years now.
The music ended. Their dance was over.
She lifted her head from his shoulder and he released her, his arms dropping to his sides. Better to let go quick. She would never be his to keep. “Beau,” she said in a musing tone, “you have the strangest look on your face….”
Nearby, couples broke apart, some of them leaving the floor, others waiting, milling around a little, till the next song began. Still others climbed the steps in pairs from down on the grass.
He said, “I was thinking that we’ve done okay, you and me….”
She looked at him, real serious, for a second or two, and then she gave him a slow, dazzling smile. “Yeah, and who woulda thought it, huh?”
He chuckled at that and tipped his hat to her. The band started up again, and damn, was he tempted to pull her close for one more dance. But another cowboy stepped in and Beau didn’t challenge him.
Starr whirled off in the other man’s arms. Beau left the dance floor. He stood watching for a little while and then he turned and headed for his pickup parked in the dirt lot on the other side of the trees.
About a half an hour later, he drove into the yard at the Hart Ranch. The lights were on in the kitchen and living room of the main house.
Beau checked the green-glowing dash clock. Not quite eleven. Not real late, but later than Daniel had said he planned to be up. Beau decided he’d better go on in and check on him before heading for the trailer he called home.
Daniel’s dog, Whirlyboy, came off the front porch with a low whine of greeting, his tail wagging hopefully back and forth. “Hey, boy. How’s it goin’?” Beau patted the hound’s smooth head and Whirlyboy bumped companionably against his leg as Beau climbed the wooden steps to Daniel’s front porch.
He paused at the door before he gave it a tap, thinking of Starr again, of her scent that reminded him of jasmine, of her musical laughter on the night air.
Whirlyboy bumped his leg again, eager for a chance to get beyond the door where his master waited.
“We’re goin’, we’re goin’.” Beau gave the dog another pat and set his mind to a more constructive subject: the work he had planned for tomorrow. If Daniel was still up, they could take a moment to confer a little. They wanted to move several head of cattle from one pasture, where they’d eaten the grass down, to another where the grass was still long and thick. And, as always, there were fences to check.
True, they didn’t need to do a whole lot of conferring on stuff that was already decided. But Beau liked sitting in Daniel’s kitchen over a cold drink or a hot cup of coffee, discussing the work ahead, or their plans for the herd. Daniel seemed to enjoy it, too.
Beau tapped on the door. When no answer came, he tapped again, Whirlyboy’s tail beating against his leg in anticipation.
Again, there was no answer, just the sound of the dog’s impatient panting, an owl hooting out by one of the sheds, the chirping of crickets in the grass—and he thought, from inside, the sound of low voices. Maybe the television in the front room?
Beau turned the knob and pushed open the door. “Daniel?” He stepped into the small entry hall. Whirlyboy slid in around him and headed straight for the front room to the left, disappearing through the open double doors. The lights were on in there and Beau could hear those televised voices droning away. “Daniel?”
No answer, just a sharp spurt of canned laughter. And Whirlyboy, whining in bursts of frustrated sound.
“Daniel?” Beau said a little louder than before.
“In here…” The voice was Daniel’s, but tight and low, the words kind of squeezed out around a groan. Beau moved into the doorway—and stopped dead at what he saw.
The worried hound sat whining in canine distress at Daniel’s feet, as the big man squirmed in his easy chair.
Daniel’s gray face ran sweat, his left hand pressed, clawlike, against his barrel chest. “Think…heart attack…”
No, screamed a frantic voice inside Beau’s head. Not Daniel—no! He’d seen his mother die, and his mean old daddy. One of his brothers was dead, too—Lyle got his in a prison-yard fight. It was enough, Beau thought.
Not Daniel. No way. I won’t let him go….
“Just hold on,” he told Daniel, his own voice surprising him, it was so level and calm. “I’ll get help.” Beau spun on his heel for the phone in the hall.
Chapter Two
From the Medicine Creek Clarion,
week of July 10 through July 16
Local Rancher Suffers Heart Attack
Daniel Hart, owner of the Hart Ranch, suffered a heart attack the evening of Friday, July 4. Mr. Hart had been feeling unwell during the day and was discovered by his ranch foreman, Beau Tisdale, in the midst of the attack.
After a swift trip via EMT helicopter to Sheridan, a skilled team of surgeons determined that open-heart surgery was required. “It was touch and go there for a while,” reported the foreman when asked for comment. “But he made it through and he’ll be okay.”
Mr. Hart will be recuperating at Memorial Hospital in Sheridan “for as long as they make him stay,” the foreman said. “He wants to get home the minute they’ll let him out of here.”
Prayers and good wishes are greatly appreciated.
“Beau’s moving into the front bedroom at the house,” said Tess. “So he’ll be there at night. And they’ve hired a day nurse to look after Daniel for the first week at home.” Tess stood at the counter rolling out pie dough.
Edna, at the stove, slid a heavy crock of beans onto the rack in the oven, pushed the rack in and shut the oven door. “I’m just not sure they should be sending him home.” She clucked her tongue, a thoroughly disapproving sound. “Hardly more than a week since that heart attack. And what was that operation he had? A triple bypass?”
“Quintuple,” Tess corrected.
“Well, see what I mean? When I had that coronary vasospasm