Montana Dreaming. Karen Rose Smith
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true. That Amos sold off the property, thinking it was worthless. Or that he lost it in a card game. Or that it was stolen out from under his nose.” The editor grinned like a cat in an aviary. “And that’s where your story is, son.”
Mark pondered what the older man had said. And he found his interest stimulated. Maybe Canfield was right. Maybe Caleb Douglas didn’t own the property. And if there was a new vein, someone else stood to profit. Someone who might not realize it.
“Well,” Roy said, getting to his feet. “I hate to rush you. But I’ve got to run home and eat lunch. My wife has been on my case. She hates every minute I spend down here, although I think she’s more resentful of the money I invested. But what the hell would I do with my time if I retired completely?”
Mark sure didn’t know what to tell him.
“The smell of ink is in my blood. I love my work. And I can’t see myself on one of those Caribbean cruises she’s been pestering me to take, even if I could find the time. I finally got her to take one with her sister, Mildred.”
Canfield didn’t need to explain. Mark understood how the newspaper got in a man’s blood. And how a woman could get upset about the time a man spent away from home.
Hell, Mark had a divorce decree to prove it.
His marriage to Susan, of course, had been years ago. And it hadn’t lasted very long. Just long enough for him to learn how unhappy his travels had made a woman whose only goal in life was to create a home and be a mother—until she got fed up and threw it all away.
But that was all right. Mark loved his job, and having a family would have only tied him down.
As he followed Roy to the door, his thoughts drifted to Juliet and the baby, although he wasn’t sure why. Because they’d spent so much time together, he supposed. Because he probably ought to check on them and make sure things were still okay.
“By the way,” Roy said, as he flipped over the Out To Lunch sign and locked the door. “Are you the reporter who’s been looking after the pregnant waitress at The Hitching Post?”
“Yeah. News travels fast.”
“Hey, Thunder Canyon news is my business, even if it isn’t Pulitzer material.” Roy grinned. “So, did that pretty young woman have her baby?”
“Yeah,” Mark said, a warm glow building in his chest. “Juliet had a tiny little girl. Four pounds, eleven ounces.”
The older man blew out a whistle. “That’s small. Mother and baby doing well?”
“Yeah. They’re doing great.”
“What’d Juliet name the child?” the editor asked. “I might write up a little blurb for the paper.”
“Marissa.”
“Pretty name.”
“Thanks,” Mark said, wondering why he’d felt as though he’d been given a compliment.
Juliet and Marissa stayed in the hospital for two nights and most of the next day. After promising to make an appointment for the baby to see a pediatrician for a weight check in three days, they were released around dinnertime, and Mark took them home.
Then, while mother and baby settled in, Mark went downstairs and purchased dinner at The Hitching Post, even though he was a bit sick of their meals.
He returned to the apartment and let himself in.
“It’s me,” he said, setting the bags of food on the table.
“I’m in here,” Juliet called from the bedroom.
He entered and found her placing the baby in a secondhand cradle and covering her with a green crocheted blanket. He wondered if she’d brought the cradle from San Diego, but didn’t ask. He was too caught up in the scene before him.
Juliet wore a white cotton nightgown, the thin material and the lamplight allowing him a glimpse of her silhouette. The way her breasts seemed fuller, the nipples pronounced. Her belly hadn’t gone back to its normal size, yet she looked beautiful standing over the baby’s bed, her hair glossy and hanging free.
He scoffed at himself for staring. And for finding her still attractive. “I…uh…got pot roast this evening. And strawberry shortcake for dessert.”
“Thanks. That sounds delicious.” She cast him a smile, one that lit her face and made him realize how pretty she was without makeup and any special effects.
He raked a hand through his hair and leaned against the doorjamb. “Mrs. Tasker sent up a bottle of sparkling apple cider in celebration.”
“That was nice of her.”
“She’d also like to come up and see the baby, but I told her tonight wasn’t a good time.” Actually, he didn’t like the idea of having people breathe over the baby. Not yet. She was too tiny, too vulnerable. What if Marissa caught a germ and got sick?
“I’m a bit tired,” Juliet admitted. “Tomorrow would be better.”
Mark hoped she didn’t think he was moving in, or something. He had every intention of taking his shaving kit back to the inn and staying where he belonged. “If you don’t mind, I’ll join you for dinner. Then I’ll head back to the inn.”
“All right.” Her smile faltered, waned. Was she disappointed that he’d be leaving? Afraid she couldn’t handle the baby alone yet?
“Unless you’d rather I stayed one more night,” he added.
“No, that’s all right. I think we’ll be fine.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then glanced at Marissa’s sleeping form. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be right there.”
He nodded, then returned to the dining area. Moments later, she joined him. But she’d slipped on her blue robe and a pair of scruffy white slippers.
Was she getting shy all of a sudden? Or just chilled?
“Should I turn up the heat?” he asked.
“No, I’m not cold.”
Okay. So she wasn’t wearing the robe to ward off a chill. But Mark let it drop.
They ate dinner in silence, an awkwardness settling over them. Mark didn’t have a clue what had caused it. Not exactly. The fact that they’d been playing house maybe. That they’d been a couple for nearly a week. And now playtime was over.
He opened the bottle of sparkling cider and poured them both a glass. Lifting his, he said, “To Marissa.”
Juliet clinked her glass against his, then took a sip. He watched the movement of her swallow, admired the shape of her neck, as he had before. Swanlike. Pretty.
She stood and moved toward the bookshelf that held her family photos, then picked one up, communing with her family the only way she could. She lifted another silver frame, then swiped a hand under her eyes. Her shoulders trembled.
Oh, hell. She was crying.
His mind told him to stay seated. To let her grieve alone. To mind his own business. To find a reason to leave. But for some inexplicable reason, he stood and made his way to her side.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She turned, eyes red and watery. A tear slid down her face. “I’m so sorry they couldn’t see Marissa. That they can’t be a part of her life.”
Mark wrapped her in his arms and drew her close, breathing in the citrusy scent of her shampoo. Offering her his strength. Hoping his embrace was enough.
Her tears continued to fall, so he continued to hold her.
“I’m really sorry,” she whispered into his cotton dress shirt, making it warm and moist. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“It’s the baby. And hormones,”