Page 51 of Cowboy

“What time will you be home?” The need in my voice annoys me, and I hate its presence.

“Home?” she mutters, turning to face me with those oversized glasses blocking her eyes from my sight. She pauses on the word, hesitating over it as though it’s unfamiliar to her. Does she not view my house as her home? Is she going to leave? My eyes drift lower even though I can’t see her belly. What about the baby?

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Scarlett states, turning her head away from me again. “But I’m not leaving. I know you feel I’ve failed you, and I admit I have. But I’m asking for a little faith in me. I won’t be going anywhere unless you make me leave. Do you want me to go?”

Her determination to stay surprises me, and I don’t know what to make of it. I also don’t respond to her question, and without looking up at me, she puts her car back in drive, and I push off the roof. Sticking around says more about her than running away, and admittedly, Scarlett’s facing us Eatons head-on.

I watch as her car disappears, still worried she doesn’t mean what she’s said but telling myself to believe she’ll be back. We just need some separation for a day . . . or two. Kicking at the dirt, I make my way back to the barn and throw myself into a long day’s work.

Do I want her to go?

It’s a recurring thought as I work the post hole digger into the packed dirt where I need to replace a strip of fencing.

Can I trust her? Like Canyon asked, do I really think she’s here for a second scoop? I don’t. I’m not certain why Scarlett’s in my path, other than the baby, and Sprout weighs heavily on my mind.

The baby is our glue. Parenting partners. Is that all I want from Scarlett? I’ve said I’d never ask her to marry me because that only leads to disaster, but at the moment, I can’t imagine things getting worse than they already are.

When I was with Jennifer, it was young love and twentysomething lust that drew us together. Or maybe it was Jen’s complacency and willingness to give in to whatever I wanted. Her need to be a mother was her strongest ambition, and we were kids who couldn’t seem to survive troubling marital issues like infertility. Scarlett and I are past those younger years of indecisive decision-making. I’d like to think we could act more adult in problem-solving. In good times and bad.

Sabrina had been a relationship of sex and companionship. She filled a void for me, which wasn’t fair to her, and probably explains her search for something deeper with someone else. She was also greedy, which Scarlett is not. Sabrina wanted material things from me more than she wanted me. For richer and poorer.

Finally, Gisela’s wild desires lead to something out of control. Her reckless behavior and artistic ideals just didn’t match who I was. Again, she filled another hole, but then she stole from me, and it was easy to let her leave. Scarlett hasn’t stolen anything but my heart, and once more, the fissure inside aches. To love and honor.

Why have I always fallen so quickly? My mother would mockingly say I was a lover. I wanted a wife. I wanted what I witnessed between my parents. I wanted someone to warm my bed, hold my hand, and laugh with me. However, I’ve come to learn wife is more than just a label, and marriage is more than a decree. It’s something that needs a commitment to survive. Something that isn’t greedy but needs communication and understanding with compromise in the mix. It’s something that includes recklessness and creativity but boundaries of trust. A true marriage involves a soul mate as a wife, and I thought Scarlett might be it for me.

We differ in so many ways, but most of those differences endear her to me. She’s lively and vibrant, filling the quiet that’s consumed me for years. She’s generous with her time, spending it with my family and me, and I’ve missed cuddling with her on the couch. Finally, she’s sexy in all kinds of ways she doesn’t recognize in herself, like the way she smells, how she’s willing to let me do what I want with her body, or how she purrs when I enter her. Scarlett and I are compatible in one area that surpasses all the others, and I can’t deny sex is a huge part of communication for me.

Touching her allows me to tell her how I feel when words escape me. When she touches me, I feel the same is true of her. She’s communicating how much she appreciates me, how much she likes living with me, and how much she wants to be near me.

Am I misreading all the signs once again? My history proves I’m not good at interpretation.

“Heard you had a fight.” Dad’s words break into my rambling thoughts. I hadn’t heard his truck pull up.

“Yeah,” I say, no sense denying things as I slam the post hole digger into the dry dirt again. Fence repair is typically a two-person job, but no one wants to work with me this afternoon.

“Want to talk about it?” The question startles me as my dad isn’t one for communication. That was Mom’s jurisdiction, and on a day like today, I miss my mother. She’d know what to say or what to do, or just remind me that things happen for a reason. Maybe discovering the truth about Scarlett and her involvement in that news story is a sign that things aren’t meant to be between us.

When I don’t answer Dad, jabbing the hole digger at the ground once more, he speaks. “Your mother was a feisty woman, too. Ran me in circles at first. Like to think it was that red hair.” He chuckles softly, and I recall my mother’s faded rust coloring. “But I think it was her heart. She was well-intended.”

My arms thud on the hole digger as it hits a solid patch, and I still, turning to face my father. “How was reporting that shit about us relevant to anything?”

Dad shrugs. “It wasn’t. Not the personal bits or the parts about our farm. It was hurtful but not spiteful. Damning but not intentional. Scarlett didn’t set out to harm us. She set out to do her job. The overzealous activists are the ones who really hurt us. That’s the thing when what we do in life involves passion. There’s a risk. Doing what feels like the right thing to one might be the wrong thing for another. I’m not saying I agree with Scarlett’s employment or even her motives, but it’s not my place to judge her, nor can I condemn her for what she thought was right at the moment.”

As my moral compass isn’t perfect, I understand what Dad is saying, although I don’t like it. “That’s where consequences come in. Think before you act. I recall a certain someone saying that often.” I tip a brow at my father, who easily dispensed that advice when I was younger.

“If you want to discuss consequences, perhaps you should have thought before you acted with Scarlett.” It’s the first and last comment my dad will make on my decision to have a one-night stand.

“And at the time I offered that advice, I was hoping it might rub off in other decisions you’ve made with women, but did it?” He pauses for effect, knowing full well it didn’t stop me from leaping before I looked. “You’ve always been so eager to have someone at your side, but it can’t be just someone. It’s a certain someone. And now, she’s here.”

I glance back at the handles of the hole digger.

“You’re in a bit of a pickle with Scarlett. There’s a reason there’s a saying about learning to love. It’s a lesson. It takes time and energy. I’m not saying Scarlett needs to be your wife. She doesn’t even need to stay on this farm if you don’t want her to, but she’s going to be part of the rest of your life. And I’d be sad to see that baby of yours gone. I’d actually miss Scarlett, too.”

We haven’t explained the possibility Sprout might not be mine. It still doesn’t matter. If Scarlett wants to know for her own peace of mind, I understand, but it’s not going to change mine. I want that baby. In my soul, I feel that Sprout belongs to me, and so does Scarlett.

“I respect that you’re rightfully upset, but just remember, making her leave can have long-term effects. She might never come back.”

And that’s my biggest fear. If I don’t trust Scarlett, how will she trust me to take care of her and the baby? If I don’t have faith in her intentions now, what’s keeping her with me? Why would she stay by my side if I can’t stand by hers?