The Rancher's Expectant Christmas. Karen Templeton
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as we did without getting a pretty good feel for what the other person is thinking. Besides, I’m only returning the favor.” He nodded toward his wife again. “Considering how you didn’t exactly stay out of my face about Val, either.”
“And remind me to never say anything to anybody in this family about anything, ever again.”
Hiking the toddler higher on his chest, Levi chuckled. “Like that’s gonna happen,” he said, his gaze swinging toward their father, in conversation with Gus on the other side of the room. “You know what’s hell?” he said softly. “Being the child of fixers. Inheriting that gene. Because the truth is, we can’t fix everything. Hell, we can’t fix most things.” From his tone, Josh figured Levi was referring to his tours in Afghanistan, a time he still didn’t talk about much. At least, not to Josh. “The trick is,” Levi said, facing Josh again, “knowing which battles are yours to fight, and which aren’t. And sometimes...” He picked up another appetizer, gesturing with it in Deanna’s direction before taking a bite. “And sometimes it’s simply about showing up. Being there. Even if you know you’re not going to win.”
Josh felt another frown bite into his forehead. “Win? Win what?”
“The battle,” his brother said, then walked away to rejoin his wife and older stepdaughter across the room.
Yeah, not making him feel better. Especially since, as far as Josh could tell, the battle was in Dee’s head. Where it would undoubtedly stay, he thought irritably. And whether or not that made sense—his irritation even more than her reticence—it simply was.
Because this wasn’t his first rodeo. As it were, he thought grimly.
What was it with women, anyway? At least, every woman he’d ever known. Either they shared every single thought that floated through their brains, or they kept what they were really thinking locked up like it was a state secret. Only it wasn’t really a secret, oh, no. Because damned if they didn’t expect you to somehow magically know what they wanted or what was bugging them. And then what you were supposed to do to make it better. Like you didn’t really care unless you could read their minds.
A real stretch considering most men didn’t completely understand what a woman was saying when she did tell him. Because there were always these...subtexts. God, he hated subtexts.
Josh took another sip of his beer, not even sure why he was trying to figure this—her—out. Except... Deanna Blake had been the only female he’d ever known—with the possible exception of his mother—who’d always been open with him. Not rudely, or oversharing all the girl stuff he really did not want to know about. But he’d always known where they stood with each other. So her clamming up now was pissing him off. Big time.
A rough breath left his lungs around the same time Dee’s gaze wandered to his. His mother was nowhere to be seen, meaning Dee was alone, looking very brave. And, weirdly, very small. Since at only a few inches shorter than Josh, she wasn’t.
She smiled, after a fashion, and his gut cramped, remembering how bright that smile had once been. The way it’d light up her whole face...and Josh’s insides. How, for every time she’d rant and rave about something, she’d laugh five times more. These huge, completely unladylike belly laughs that sometimes got so out of hand she’d have to cross her legs so she wouldn’t pee herself.
But only when she was with him, she’d said.
So he was guessing her obvious unwillingness to talk about what had led to her current predicament—and he had no doubt it was a predicament—was basically a defense mechanism for when your life has gone to hell in a handbasket and you’re too damn embarrassed to talk to anybody about it. Especially when—he heard his son giggling, playing with his other cousins near the fireplace—it was kind of hard to ignore the consequences of that handbasket ride.
Not to mention the hell part of it.
Tossing his empty bottle in the plastic-lined bin by the table, Josh marched his sorry ass into the other room and over to Dee, where he dropped onto the sofa beside her like he actually knew what he was doing. Even though, aside from the fact he doubted he could fix things for her any better now than when they were kids, he also imagined they were the worst possible combination of two people in the entire world right now.
And quite possibly the only two people who’d really understand what the other was going through.
He thought this was called working with what you had. Or were given.
Something.
* * *
By this point Deanna was so drained, both emotionally and physically, she was basically numb. She’d told herself she wouldn’t cry, but that had been a lost cause. Shoot, there were tears when she scored her favorite ice cream in the freezer case; what on earth had she expected at her father’s memorial service? Stoicism? And right on cue, her chest fisted. Again.
And Josh was not helping. But asking him to go away would be mean. Not to mention self-defeating. Since as much as she wished he hadn’t come over, she didn’t want him to leave, either. Actually, what she really wanted was to curl into as much of a ball as her massive middle would allow and sleep the merciful sleep of the oblivious. Lord, pregnancy brain was a bitch. However, even if Josh hadn’t planted his large self beside her on the couch there was the will reading to get through. Honestly, it was like being in some old black-and-white movie, what with the drama and all—
He’d leaned forward, his elbows planted on his knees. Not looking at her. Just being there, like the old days.
“You doin’ okay?”
“Mostly. Sure.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “If you say so,” he said, and she sort of laughed, rubbing her belly. Babypie was apparently snoozing, thank God, although that hard little head still relentlessly gouged her lower back.
But anyway, Josh. Whose scent immediately brought back a slew of memories—maybe not so numb, at that—that made her think of things she’d refused to let herself think about then, and for darn sure shouldn’t be thinking about now. Or ever. God knew not all cowboys smelled that good—and there’d been plenty of times when Josh hadn’t, either, to be real—but right now it was all about leather and fresh cotton and something piney and yummy and her extraspecial pregnancy smeller was having a freaking field day.
“You need anything? Food or whatever?”
“No. Thanks. Your mom made sure I ate.”
“She’s good at that.”
Josh sat up a little straighter, scrubbing one palm over his knee. Jeans, of course, although his “good” ones. Paired with a black corduroy shirt with silver buttons, a tan sports jacket, the guy didn’t look half-bad. This late in the day a beard haze shadowed his jaw, giving him a sexy male model look, God help her.
Then he laced his hands together between his knees, frowning at the tops of his boots—also his “good” ones, dirt-and dung-free. “When’d Steve say the reading was again?”
“He should be here any minute,” Deanna said, and Josh nodded. The last of the guests—a couple from a nearby ranch, she didn’t even remember their names, so sad—stopped to give her the obligatory, “If you need anything, anything at all, please let us know,” before walking away, and Deanna huffed a tired little breath. From the time she’d heard until this very moment, everything had felt oddly surreal, familiar and yet not, like being in a play she ought to know her part in but she didn’t, really. Now, for some bizarre reason, it felt as though the stage lights were being shut off, one by one, leaving her and Josh on a bare stage, lit only by the eerie glare of a single, stark light. The good news was, she could stop pretending now, if she chose.
The bad news was, she still had no idea what her reality was. Or was supposed to be. But when she looked at Josh’s profile, saw that set jaw, the grim set to his mouth, it occurred to her she wasn’t the only one whose world was about to turn upside down. Or inside out. Heck, Josh had given his entire life to this