Page 12 of Cowboy

He’d dipped his scalpel in someone else’s heart and torn out mine.

As I stand inside the tractor supply store, holding up a mini Carhartt pair of overalls and press the tiny clothing over my belly, I realize the universe works in strange ways.

I was pregnant.

Alone, at forty-two, I was having a baby.

Even though a pink plus sign on a stick told me what I suddenly suspected at Audrey’s suggestion, the doctor in Montpelier confirmed it an hour ago, and I’d been feeling out of sorts ever since.

Elated one minute. Shocked the next.

After that awkward moment with Audrey, I calculated the timing, discovered I’d missed my period back in March, and expressed my concern to Rita later that afternoon.

“Maybe you’re just stressed out, or maybe you’re going through the change,” she had said like a horror film announcer. I felt too young for that kind of physical shift, but I’d heard women in their early forties could start the downward spiral to menopause. I’d originally chalked up being sick each morning to a stomach bug, like I told Audrey, or stress, as Rita mentioned. I’d worked through illnesses before and figured as long as I didn’t have a fever, I could fight the fatigue, the aches, and the occasional upset stomach. That lobster roll for breakfast should have been a big tipoff.

“Scarlett?” My eyes close at the rough, questioning male voice, and my hand stills on the overalls over my midsection.

“Bull.” His name is a breathless wave of regret—deep-seated, sorrowful regret. It isn’t his fault I’m in the position I’m in. I’m not upset I’m pregnant. This is all me. Screwup Scarlett, as my parents would say. The only thing I did right in their eyes was marrying the dapper doctor, and even that was eventually a mess.

Opening my eyes, I find Bull’s deep blue gaze on the outfit against my belly, which I quickly return to the rack.

“Baby clothes shopping?” His voice teases me because, of course, why would I possibly need baby clothes unless I was having a fricking baby.

Oh sweet, Bull. I need to tell him. This is the most awkward position I’ve ever been in, but he needs to know. His hand casually comes to the rack, and his forehead furrows while he forces a smile at me. I should explain what happened the other day in the bathroom, how the motion of what we’d done brought on a wave of nausea. Energetic, enthusiastic Bull lived up to his name, and that nausea was because I was pregnant.

“It’s a gift for . . . someone.” Someone arriving in, say, nine months. Actually, the timing is more like seven or so, as a rough estimation puts me at six weeks along with a pregnancy calendar calculation of a December due date.

Bull continues to stare at me, forcing that smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Bull, about the other day—”

“Yeah,” he says, looking away from me and reaching behind his neck. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.” His head turns back to me, and his eyes scan my body. This isn’t the heated stares he gave me that night or even the desperate gaze of our bathroom tryst. This is a look full of concern, and guilt socks me in the stomach. Or maybe that’s the hunger rumbling. The doctor says eating at regular intervals will help settle the morning sickness.

“I’m better,” I tell him, grateful for his concern and comforted by his asking.

“Stomach bug or something?” he asks, still looking at me with all kinds of questions on his rugged face. Questions I can’t answer yet. I just need a minute, or a day, to wrap my head around what I’ve learned about myself and my future. The future I didn’t have a plan for has just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

I was going to be a mother at forty-two.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Hey, Bull, I found that part,” a man with a store uniform vest on addresses Bull from behind him. Bull glances over his shoulder and nods to acknowledge the man.

“Tractor part,” Bull says back to me and double pats the clothing rack where he placed his hand.

“Gotta fix the tractor,” I awkwardly say, “in order to milk the cows.”

“Tractors are for fields,” Bull says, still watching me, and I swipe loose curls over an ear.

“Right, well, go do farmer stuff,” I add, sounding even more like an idiot.

“Right,” Bull says. Taking a step back, he spins away from me and then circles back to face me after a few paces. “You know, if you need anything, like say food, we could get food together. To eat, that is. We could go to dinner. Or hang out.” He holds out a hand to emphasize his point, and his clumsy approach is endearing. My heart skips a beat. He’s awkward in the sweetest manner, but once he hits the bedroom, that awkwardness disappears, and a self-assured man takes over. My privates do a little dance of remembrance mixed with a sigh of regret that they’ll never experience him again. Under different circumstances, I’d totally take a chance on this man, but it doesn’t seem like a good idea in my current condition. However, I’m full of bad decisions lately.

“Maybe,” I say. Biting my own lip, I fight the grin on my face. “Come see me at the Bean sometime.”

It isn’t what he wants as an answer, and I instantly read it in his expression. I’m hurting him, and I hate myself.

“Yeah, well, see you at the Bean sometime.”