The Cowboy Finds a Family Read online

  Mace, normally far more taciturn than she, had been the one to blurt out, “I don’t believe it,” when Dr. Miller had given them the results.

  Her husband’s darkly tanned face had drained of color and he shook his head angrily. “That’s bull,” he’d said.

  The doctor had smiled sympathetically, but his sympathy didn’t change his words.

  “I’m afraid it is,” he’d said gently. “On this test at least the results are pretty conclusive. You aren’t producing any live sperm.”

  Jenny had seen her husband floored in a fight. She’d seen him kicked by a horse. She’d seen him gored by a bull.

  But she’d never seen Mace as white as death.

  He sat in the chair next to her, absolutely rigid. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His lips pressed together in a tight line. So tight a muscle in his jaw ticked.

  So tight she thought he’d shatter. His whole body seemed to clench.

  She wanted to reach out to him, to touch him. But she knew as sure as she knew Mace that if she did, he would crack right there.

  The air in the room seemed to sizzle with electricity, to grow hot and close, as if a storm were brewing right there in the office. For what seemed an eternity no one moved.

  Not Mace. Not Jenny. Not even the doctor.

  He sat quietly and let his words sink in. He looked at them with quiet commiseration, but he didn’t qualify anything. He didn’t offer any hope. He wasn’t going to deny what he’d just so baldly said.

  Finally when the silence went on and on, he said, “I wish I could give you better news.”

  “Maybe they just died! Right then!”

  At Mace’s outburst, Dr. Miller looked startled. He raised his gaze as Mace seemed almost to erupt from the chair.

  He paced the few steps’ length of the small office, then spun and stalked back. “I mean, maybe those sperm were dead!” he said. “That once. That one time we—you—!” He couldn’t say the words. She knew how much he’d hated the experience. “Who could blame ’em,” he said bitterly. “Prob’ly scared ’em to death.”

  He didn’t look at Jenny as he spoke. He didn’t have to. She knew what he meant.

  They’d argued about his going to the doctor at all.

  Jenny had been there more times than she wanted to count. She’d been trying to get pregnant for over three years. At first it had been no big deal. Sometimes when you stopped trying to prevent pregnancies, you didn’t get pregnant right away. Jenny knew that. She had been philosophical. It would happen, she’d assured herself.

  Then she thought maybe she was trying too hard. Wanting it too much. Maybe that was the problem.

  But after two years had gone by with no results at all, she’d begun to think maybe it was more than that.

  That was when she had started reading everything she could about conception. She had talked to her doctor. She had taken her temperature. She took thyroid pills. She did everything medical science told her to do. Eventually she took tests. And more tests.

  Everything seemed fine. She asked Dr. Miller about fertility drugs. He said he didn’t think she needed them.

  “But I’m not conceiving,” she argued.

  “Maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s your husband. We should check.”

  It wasn’t something Jenny had wanted to bring up to Mace. There had been very little in their marriage that she’d been reluctant to talk about. But somehow, asking Mace to do this wasn’t easy.

  Maybe because she had known how he’d react.

  “Fertility tests?” He’d been aghast. “Like I’m some damned bull?”

  “It’s just to check, Mace,” she’d said. “To rule out the possibility.”

  Mace grunted. It didn’t make sense, he told her. He had a healthy sex drive, for heaven’s sake! There was certainly no question about him being able to get it up, to put it crudely.

  He put it that crudely.

  But when Jenny had sighed and turned away, he relented.

  “Fine,” he said gruffly. “You want me to jerk off in some damned cup, I’ll jerk off in some damned cup. But I don’t know what it will prove.”

  Now he knew.

  Now they both knew why there had been no babies.

  Jenny felt cold. She felt sick.

  “Of course it’s just one test,” Dr. Miller said. “I never like to base everything on one test. But if it does prove out, it’s probably the result of some viral infection you had as a young man. Mumps or—”

  “I never had mumps!”

  “—or some other infection that really didn’t even bother you significantly,” the doctor went on firmly. “One that you might barely have noticed. You’d have run a fever and—”

  “I’ve always been perfectly healthy!”

  “Of course.” The doctor smiled at Mace, but he still didn’t back off. He didn’t give them any hope at all.

  “So give me another test.” Mace had flung himself into the chair again, then leaned forward, his fists clenched against his knees, eyes flashing indignantly.

  “We can do that.” The doctor pulled out a form and picked up his pen. “We can set up a time then and—”

  “Now.”

  The doctor blinked. He looked at Mace. He looked at Jenny.

  “Now,” Mace said again. He stood up and held out his hand. “Give me the damned cup again and let me do it now!”

  Jenny knew how much Mace had hated that “damned little cup.” He’d told her after he came home from the doctor’s office last week that using it had been the most humiliating experience of his life.

  He had stood in their bedroom with his back to her, scowling out into the darkness, saying, “They know what you’re doing! They hand you this little cup and send you into this room with a pile of skin mags, and they know!”

  When he turned around, she’d seen the color high against his cheekbones.

  Jenny had felt a tremendous wave of love for him at that moment. To a man who valued his privacy as much as Mace did, she knew that hadn’t been easy to take.

  She went to him, then, putting her arms around him. She tugged his shirt out of his waistband and had run her fingers up his back, then down his chest. She’d eased open the button on his jeans.

  “No one knows now,” she had whispered against his lips.

  He’d groaned, “Ah, Jenny,” as he’d borne her back on the bed.

  But in the doctor’s office yesterday afternoon, he hadn’t even looked at her. He had stood again, waiting, hand outstretched toward the doctor. Finally the doctor had nodded. He got up and went to the door. “Come with me.”

  Mace followed him out.

  Jenny half-rose to go after him, but the door shut firmly. She sank back into the chair. What was she going to do? Offer to help?

  “Oh. Mace,” she had murmured.

  Her fingers knotted. Her eyes shut. It didn’t help. In her mind she could still see the stricken look on his face.

  The door opened again, and the doctor came back in, clearing his throat. “If you’d, um, like to have a seat in the waiting room, Mrs. Nichols . . .”

  Numbly Jenny nodded. Clutching her purse against her middle, she went out into the corridor and walked toward the waiting room. Past three closed doors, behind one of which Mace was . . .

  All the nurses glanced in her direction as she went past. But not one of them held her gaze.

  Jenny’s own gaze had dropped to focus on the floor. She went into the waiting room and sat down. She picked up a magazine and tried to act calm, indifferent, as if her world wasn’t falling apart, as if her husband wasn’t doing what he was doing, as if this was just another doctor’s appointment.

  She waited a long, long time.

  When the doctor called her back in, Mace was already there, staring out the window. His jaw was locked.

  The doctor motioned her into the chair next to Mace’s. She moved to sit down. Mace shifted his knee away, so they didn’t touch. Jenny looked at him, then back at the doctor.


  Dr. Miller folded his hands on top of his desk. “I’m afraid the results are the same.” He gave her the same sad, sympathetic smile.

  Jenny mustered a smile, too. A small one. A wooden one. It was the best she could do.

  Dr. Miller knew how much she wanted a family. He knew how willing she’d been to try whatever she could. She didn’t have to ask to know there was nothing left to try. “Thank you.”

  Mace shoved himself up out of the chair. His jaw was still clenched. He did get the one word, “Thanks,” beyond his lips.

  Jenny could only guess what it cost him.

  “There are other ways to have a family,” Dr. Miller said, rising too, as Mace opened the door. “Adoption. Artificial insemination.”

  Not now, Jenny wanted to tell him. We can’t talk about that. We can’t even think about that now.

  She gave him a tight, wan smile and said, “Thank you. We’ll give it some thought.”

  She could see Mace’s back disappearing into the waiting room. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Dr. Miller said.

  Not half as sorry as I am, Jenny thought.

  And not a hundredth as sorry as Mace was. She knew her husband well enough to see how badly the doctor’s words had rocked him. And she knew he’d looked instantly—even while pretending not to—to see how badly those words had rocked her.

  There was no use pretending they hadn’t. Even though she’d thought she was prepared for anything, she knew she hadn’t been able to hide her devastation at the doctor’s blunt diagnosis.

  They would never have children.

  The family she had hoped and prayed for as long as she could remember—the children she and Mace had scrimped and saved and planned for since they were barely more than children themselves—would never be.

  Not the way they’d always assumed they would be, at least.

  Yes, they could have a family. Jenny understood that. A part of her had been considering other options ever since she’d been disappointed for the third month in a row. But now wasn’t the time to think about options.

  Now she had to think about Mace.

  He wasn’t in the waiting room. By the time she got outside he was already sitting in the truck, the engine running.

  She clambered in wordlessly, and she barely got the door closed before he gunned it, burning rubber on the asphalt parking lot.

  They’d planned to go out to eat after the appointment. Neither of them got to Bozeman regularly, and they always had to make a special effort to get there together.

  “We’ll make it a date,” Jenny had said, grinning at him as she went out the door to work that morning. “We can go to Girardi’s for supper. Pick me up after school?”

  Now the thought of eating made her ill. There seemed to be a bowling ball where her stomach used to be. The thought of putting away her favorite fettucine with pesto on top of it was actually painful. She didn’t say so, though. She would leave it up to Mace to decide what they did.

  Wordlessly he drove to the small Italian restaurant that was their favorite place. He pulled into a parking place and cut the engine, then dropped his hands into his lap. Jenny saw his fingers clench.

  One of her hands stole out to touch his, to curl around it. He pulled away.

  “Mace. It’s all right, Mace,” she said softly.

  His head jerked around and his eyes flashed fire at her. “The hell it is!”

  The paleness was gone from his face now. She could see the dark flush across his cheekbones even beneath the darkness of his tan. “Didn’t you hear what he said, for God’s sake?”

  “Yes, Mace, I heard.” She tried to keep her voice even.

  Mace didn’t. He was practically shouting at her.

  “Then don’t try to tell me it’s all right!” The look he gave her was so anguished, she turned her head. He gripped the steering wheel again, his knuckles white. He sat unmoving, staring straight ahead.

  Jenny looked at him out of the corner of her eye, wishing she could say something that would help, not having the faintest idea what to say.

  There was no help.

  Oh, Mace.

  He sucked in a sharp breath, then shoved open the door of the pickup. “Come on.” He was out of the truck and headed into the restaurant before Jenny could get her door open.

  She didn’t order the fettucine. She knew she’d never be able to get it down, so she ordered a salad instead. She didn’t even know if Mace noticed.

  He ordered what he always did—lasagna—then sat staring out the window. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He cracked his knuckles. He didn’t say a word.

  He still hadn’t by the time the waitress brought their meals. Then he bent over his and ate with a vengeance.

  Jenny could barely touch hers. She buried a tomato beneath the lettuce. She stabbed a mushroom cap. She nibbled a crouton. She had barely made a dent in her meal when Mace shoved back his plate.

  “Are you going to eat that or just play with it?”

  Her head jerked up at his harsh words—the first he’d spoken to her since he got out of the truck.

  She dropped her fork. “Play with it, I guess.” There was no use lying about it. She gave him a faint smile, which he didn’t return.

  “Let’s go, then.” He was already shoving back his chair.

  Relieved, Jenny tossed her napkin on the table and followed him. She caught up with him outside, grabbing his arm and slowing him down. He tensed beneath her touch and glanced her way for just a moment, but he didn’t lace his fingers through hers. He just kept on walking.

  When they got to the truck, though, he opened the door for her and waited until she got in before he went around to the driver’s side.

  He didn’t burn rubber leaving the parking lot this time, either. In fact he drove carefully, steadily, through Bozeman and up through Bridger Canyon heading home. He still didn’t speak.

  At least he didn’t speak to her.

  Jenny was fairly certain there was plenty of conversation going on inside his head. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, wishing she dared to reach out and touch him again. But there was a shield between her and Mace right now, and she knew that, for the moment at least, she wasn’t going to be able to reach him.

  He needed time.

  Maybe they both did.

  A lot of years’ worth of hopes had been dashed in the space of a few words that afternoon. It would take more than a few minutes—or even a few hours—for them to come to terms with this new reality.

  It would be hard for her. It would be harder by far for Mace.

  He was a proud man. A private man.

  And for her he’d given up his privacy and had his pride ground into the dust. She loved him for it. Loved him more deeply and more fully than she’d ever loved before.

  Her hand crept out and touched his knee. He flinched. She didn’t move it. She edged closer to him. “I love you, Mace,” she whispered.

  His jaw bunched. His fingers strangled the steering wheel. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff; his eyes never left the road. His fingers never left the steering wheel. He didn’t touch her in return.

  She hoped that once they got inside, they would talk.

  There in their own snug house, the one Mace and she and their friends had built with their own hands, she thought they would begin to come to terms with the hand they had been dealt.

  But when she got to the porch, Mace wasn’t with her. He was heading toward the barn.

  “Mace?”

  He turned his head, but he didn’t stop walking. “Got chores to do.” And he disappeared around the corner of the barn.

  Jenny had plenty of chores of her own. Working full-time at Elmer’s small elementary school kept her busy all day. There were always things to be done at home at night. Washing to be put in the machine. Clean clothes to be folded and put away. Vacuuming. Dusting. Holes to be mended in Mace’s jeans. He wore them until they were white in the seat from riding
and across the thighs from where he balanced the hay bales he lugged.

  “We could buy you a pair of new ones,” she suggested often enough.

  But he always shook his head. “Too stiff,” he said. “Too much trouble to break ’em in. You can patch ’em once more, can’t you?”

  So after she put the laundry in, she turned on the lamp by the rocking chair and pulled a pair of Mace’s threadbare jeans into her lap and began once more to patch them.

  And to wait.

  It was mundane, mindless work. Not enough to distract her. Not enough to keep her sitting there. She kept putting them aside and getting up to pace around, to go into the kitchen and look out toward the barn, to try to catch a glimpse of Mace.

  *

  It had been late when he finally came in. He was dusty and dirty and barely looked her way as he headed for the bathroom. “Need a shower.”

  Jenny put the last of the mending aside and followed him. He was standing by the closet in their bedroom, stripping off his shirt. “Want me to scrub your back?” she asked softly.

  Another night she knew he would have given her that sexy, lopsided grin of his and drawled, “Well, now, why didn’t I think of that?”

  He didn’t even glance at her. Just said, “I can do it myself,” and, grabbing clean underwear out of the drawer, he padded barefoot into the bathroom and shut the door.

  She supposed she shouldn’t have said anything so lighthearted. She hadn’t meant to tease. Only to show him that some things hadn’t changed. Never would change. She would always love Mace Nichols no matter what.

  She got into her nightgown while Mace was in the shower, then brushed out her long dark hair and shut off the light.

  Perhaps it would be easier to talk in the dark, she thought as she slipped into bed to wait for him there.

  He took a long shower. She knew he was avoiding her. But avoiding her wasn’t going to help. They had to talk about it sometime. They had to hold each other and comfort each other and love each other. And then decide where to go from here.

  At last the door opened, and he came into the darkened room.

  She heard the clink of his belt as he set it on the dresser, heard the sound of his jeans settling in the dirty clothes basket behind the door. She heard his footsteps creaking around the room. Then they stopped. He wasn’t by the bed.