The Husband School Page 4

  She was grateful for that, actually. Her mother, sweet and foolish, had enjoyed looking in the mirror and unbuttoning her uniform to show a little more cleavage. “You have to flaunt ’em if you’ve got ’em,” she’d say, giving Meg a wink. Loralee believed in the power of blue eye shadow, underwire bras and high heels. And, despite having married five times, remained convinced that Mr. Right was just around the corner. The perpetual stack of romance novels next to her bed and her tendency to weep during made-for-TV movies led Meg to believe her mother would never, ever change. Despite Loralee’s exhausting marital history and age—sixty-two was a rough estimate—she showed no signs of slowing down. Men still circled around her to admire and be admired. Loralee didn’t disappoint.

  “Meg!” Al broke into her self-pity. “Phone!”

  She took the portable phone from him without looking at the caller ID.

  “Willing Café,” she said, wondering if she should get her hair highlighted.

  “Sweetie,” sang a familiar voice. “How’s everything at The Shame?”

  There was no use reminding her mother that the “Dirty Shame” was now the much more respectable “Willing Café.” Loralee didn’t listen. “Hi, Mom. Believe it or not, I was just thinking about you.”

  “You’ll never believe what Joan and I did this morning! We played golf! Can you believe it? Golf,” her mother chirped over the phone. “I’ve hit the mother lode.”

  “The mother lode of what?”

  Loralee, too busy talking to answer questions, had continued, “I’ve taken up golf myself. There are men everywhere, Megs. Lovely men who enjoy talking to a woman once in a while.”

  Her mother wasn’t a gold digger or an opportunist. She’d married men she’d felt sorry for, or thought she was in love with and could help with their drinking problem or their gambling issues, or, in one drastic case in 1988, a shy trucker who’d decided it was time to go straight. Men took advantage of Loralee, not the other way around.

  “Be careful,” Meg warned, feeling much too old to deal with another stepfather. “Don’t even think about getting married.”

  “Honey, I’m done being young and silly,” Loralee said. “But I’m not about to sit around this condo and watch Joan knit charity afghans.”

  “No,” Meg said, “of course not. But maybe you could borrow some yarn and learn to—”

  “And I don’t like the casinos that much,” she mused. “Joan does, though, so I go along to keep her company. We like the buffets.”

  Unlike her youngest sister, plump Aunt Joan had married a man who needed no fixing. She’d waited forty-one years to find the love of her life, which Meg thought was admirable. They’d been married thirty years when he died, leaving Aunt Joan with no financial worries and a spacious two-bedroom condo overlooking a golf course. She’d begged her sister to move to Arizona. Loralee had flown down for a visit last year and showed no sign of returning.

  “We’re going to join a league, so we’ll play almost every morning before it gets too hot. What do you think?”

  “That sounds fun.” In no universe could Meg picture her mother playing golf or, for that matter, being content to live with her much older, conservative sister. However, both women seemed pleased with the arrangement so far. Meg suspected that soon enough Loralee would find life with Aunt Joan a little tame and move back to Willing.

  “We might drive up in the spring, make a road trip out of it. See a bit of the country. And you, of course, sweetie. Are you going to come down for Christmas? I’m on the internet right now, looking at flights. I can book it right now for you, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know about Christmas, Mom. Maybe I’ll come down in January, like last year.”

  “You can’t tell me that place is busy over the holidays. I know better.”

  “I can’t travel if there’s a storm—”

  “There’s always a storm.”

  “Yes.” And it was difficult to drive to the airport in three feet of snow. “And I’d rather not get stuck in an airport when I could be home.”

  “You should move down here. Get out of the cold weather,” her mother said, as she did near the end of every phone call to her daughter. “We sit by the pool every afternoon, you know. A little sun would do you good, brighten you up a bit.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Meg fibbed.

  “You’re at a nice age to find an older man, sweetie. You could get highlights, a bright red bathing suit—men love red. And a spray tan! I’ve been saving coupons—”

  Meg punched the on switch on the empty food processor and raised her voice, “Static, Mom! I can’t hear you!”

  And feeling relieved and guilty, she hung up.

  Loralee meant well, but she refused to accept her daughter’s single lifestyle. I want you to be happy. I want you to find a man and have babies. I don’t want you to be alone every night.

  Fair enough. That all sounded good, but Meg had had a shot at all those things once, a very long time ago. Even then she’d known that dreams didn’t always come true. In the years that followed, when she’d finished school and worked at her dream job, she’d assumed she’d meet someone special, someone who would charge into her world and fill her empty heart with massive amounts of love. Who would make everything good and right and perfect simply by taking her into his arms.

  Just the way Owen MacGregor had.

  But fifteen minutes ago she’d watched that particular man leave the restaurant and stride across the gravel parking lot. And she knew she’d given up on fairy-tale endings a long time ago.

  Her one and only Prince Charming had left the building.

  * * *

  “IT’S THE CRAZIEST idea I’ve ever heard.” Owen pointed the truck west, out of town and toward home. Boo, busy chomping on bacon, didn’t argue. He didn’t even bother to lick the rancher’s ear, which was the way he usually participated in conversations.

  “Good thing I got out of there when I did,” Owen muttered as he adjusted the heating vent. Amazing that by changing his Monday routine in the slightest way, he’d risked getting involved in the wackiest town project since the stealing of the grizzly from Dahl’s.

  That memory made him smile. The old man, with typical good grace, had thrown a welcome-home party for the bear once Owen and his teammates had confessed and hauled the mangy thing back to the bar. Sean MacGregor had then grounded his son for two weeks, and the Willing Destroyers had spent a long weekend cleaning out cattle sheds.

  Until the day he died, which had been just a few short years later, Sean had sponsored an annual “Grizzly Reunion” beer fest at the Dahl. And to his shame, Owen had no idea if that was still going on. The truth was, Willing was no longer his home and hadn’t been since his father died. Ed, a recluse all his life, had moved in and taken over the cattle operation. Owen’s mother refused to live in the big house alone and had moved to Helena, and then followed him to DC. Owen had switched his major from grassland management to environmental law and, until now, had never looked back.

  He’d been proud of his family’s contributions to the town—heck, his great-great-great-grandfather had named the stupid place—but he’d had no interest in Willing for many years. Cattle ranching, what he’d grown up expecting to do for the rest of his life, had lost its appeal after his father’s burial in the family plot.

  While his mother’s relatives littered half of the state, there were no other MacGregors left. Ed was gone. Owen, temporary cattleman, had a pile of decisions to make.

  And none of them involved television shows, dating, the mayor’s Hollywood girlfriend or Margaret Ripley’s boyfriends. But Owen thought about his father, the man he’d respected more than anyone else in his life, and looked for a place to turn around.

  * * *

  SHELLY COULDN’T WAIT to get off the bus. She had to pee. And sh
e’d been feeling queasy for about a hundred miles. Or maybe longer, like five months. Since she’d found out she was going to have a baby. If any news was guaranteed to make you want to stick your head into a toilet bowl, it was learning you were pregnant. Especially if you were eighteen and the baby’s father was nowhere to be found.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Shelly resisted the urge to pat her swollen belly and instead reached into her bag for M&M’s. If she sucked on them one at a time, until the coating evaporated in her mouth, she could make the rest of the bag last until the next stop. According to the driver, they were about fifteen minutes away from a quick breakfast stop at a café. He recommended the cinnamon rolls, if there were any left, and explained that the passengers were welcome to bring their hot drinks back on the bus with them, as long as the cups had lids. He didn’t want to be cleaning up coffee spills when his shift was over.

  Fair enough. Cleaning up other people’s messes wasn’t Shelly’s idea of a good time, either, though if she thought about it for more than a couple of minutes—and she had plenty of time to think, sitting here on a Greyhound heading south—she had to admit that she herself had been stuck with a doozy of a mess. She didn’t need to be cleaning up after anybody else.

  “Next stop, Willing,” the driver called. A couple of passengers lifted their heads and muttered to themselves. The bus was almost empty. A couple of senior citizens heading home from the casino—they kept talking about good luck and recounting their money—a young mother with the quietest little kid Shelly had ever seen, three sleepy college kids who looked like they’d had a pretty fun weekend and one older man whose weathered face gave him away as a rancher, Shelly guessed. He was dressed all in denim and he’d tipped his hat when he’d passed her as he’d walked down the aisle to take a seat in the back. He seemed fatherly, too, giving her a compassionate look as he’d noticed her bump. Or maybe he just thought she looked too thin or too pale or too tired. Maybe her pregnancy didn’t show when she was sitting down.

  Yeah, right. She’d picked up some big shirts at the Goodwill, shirts big enough to cover her unzipped jeans and the belt that held them up over her bump. Bump. That’s what they called it in the gossip magazines when Britney and Angelina were showing off their pregnant bodies. Well, here in the real world there wasn’t much to show off. This particular bump rested on her bladder, meaning every time the bus hit a real bump—which, thank God, wasn’t often—Shelly worried that she was going to wet her only pair of jeans.

  She’d watched the sun come up after napping off and on through the night. She’d dozed off after an early-morning stop in some windy, gray town. She planned to brush her teeth and clean up a little at the next stop. With any luck the restaurant wouldn’t be too expensive and she could get something filling. She reached for her bag, hoping that when she counted her money again there would be more than she remembered from the last time she’d looked.

  “Willing comin’ up,” the bus driver called several minutes later. “Remember, you’ve got about fifteen minutes, so eat fast. They’ll serve you quick if you tell ’em you’re from the bus.”

  He shifted down, turned off the highway and onto a local road. It wasn’t much longer before he eased the bus into a busy parking lot and stopped beside a one-story building Shelly assumed was their destination. She gathered her belongings and was the first one ready to get off the bus. The other passengers were trying to wake up and the old guy was polite enough to let her go first. He’d even tipped his hat again, which made her blink in surprise.

  The driver half stood, but he looked annoyed at the stragglers and then glanced pointedly at his watch. “You get right up to the counter and get yourself a hot meal,” he told Shelly. “But we’re back on the road in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks.” She turned toward the steps and rolled her eyes. God. She didn’t need any reminders.

  “Watch your step,” he called. “Come on, folks, get a move on!”

  She hadn’t known how hungry she was until she went through the glass door and inhaled the smells of coffee and bacon. Of course, she could do without the coffee smell, but she’d always loved bacon. It made her think of Christmas mornings. She made her way to the bathroom before hurrying to the long counter on the other side of the room, but there were no empty stools. The place was overly bright and had a battered, worn appearance. In a nice way, though. It was also noisy, conversation mixing with clattering dishes and country music coming from unseen speakers.

  She sank into a small blue booth, plopped her two big tote bags next to her and grabbed the menu stuck behind the napkin dispenser. Pancakes were filling and usually cheap. Today’s special was an omelet that came with four pieces of bacon, three pancakes and hash browns. A meal like that would blow her food budget for the whole day.

  A dark-haired waitress appeared at the booth, a pot of coffee in her hand. She set a white mug down on the table and smiled. “Hi. Coffee or tea?”

  “Uh, no, thanks. Just water.”

  “Milk?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Bus?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. You’re from the bus, right?” At Shelly’s nod, she continued, “Then don’t order anything complicated or Kermit—the driver—will have a stroke. He keeps to a schedule, no matter what, like the world will end if he’s three minutes late.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. What about pancakes? Do they take too long?”

  The waitress had kind eyes and a sweet smile. “That depends how many orders are ahead of you. Scrambled eggs are a better bet. Or oatmeal. We’ve got that in the slow cooker, all made up. I can put some raisins in it. With some brown sugar sprinkled on top?”

  Shelly shuddered. “I’ll risk the pancakes.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll put a rush on it. Would you like bacon or sausage with that?”

  Of course she did. But a side order of either one, enough to get the taste of chocolate candy out of her mouth, would add too many dollars onto the check. “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Shelly watched her stop at the next table and refill their coffee cups before she slipped behind the counter and stuck the order near the grill. Maybe she could get a job waiting tables until the baby was born. It didn’t look hard. Just like putting supper on the table at home, only with folks who said “please” and “thank you” and left tips. She pulled the worn map out of her bag and unfolded it to study the vast space that was Montana. Her money wasn’t going to last much longer.

  The waitress returned with a glass of milk and a glass of water. “It’s on the house,” she said, her gaze sliding to Shelly’s abdomen. “For the baby.”

  “Thanks.” She didn’t know what else to say, because she was cold and tired and smelled like the stale belly of a bus. The last thing she intended to do was cry all over a stranger.

  “So where are you headed this morning?”

  “South, I guess.”

  “You guess?” The waitress looked over her shoulder toward three of her fellow bus passengers at the register buying drinks and cinnamon rolls from a guy with a white apron and chef’s hat. The bus driver had disappeared into the rest room and the older rancher-type guy was drinking coffee at the counter. “I’ll be back in a minute,” the woman promised.

  Shelly wished she’d hurry with the pancakes, because she was starting to get queasy again. She moved the syrup container closer, tugged a couple of paper napkins out of the holder and lined up her silverware. According to the menu, she was in Willing. And Willing didn’t look like much, at least not what she could see from the parking lot when she’d walked in. But this restaurant seemed pretty busy for a cold morning. Folks were smiling, talking, acting like everyone knew one another. Weird.

  “Here you go.” The waitress set a plate stacked with three pancakes and topped with a scoop of butter in front of her. There was bacon, t
oo, crispy and fragrant.

  “I didn’t order—”

  “It was a mistake,” the woman said, as if Shelly was doing her a favor by eating it. “It would have been thrown out otherwise.”

  “Thanks.” She picked up one piece and chewed, willed her stomach to settle down. Just the thought of getting back on the bus made her belly churn. “What’s it like here?”

  “Here in the restaurant or here in town?”

  “Well, both, I guess.”

  “It’s home,” was the woman’s simple answer. She slid into the booth across from Shelly and folded her hands on the table. “I’m Meg.”

  “Shelly.”

  “Nice to meet you. Believe it or not, I usually mind my own business. Does your family know where you are?”

  “I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “I’m nineteen. I can go wherever I want.” Shelly poured a fountain of maple syrup over the pancakes and dug in. She felt bad about lying to someone who had given her free bacon and milk, but then again, since when had trusting total strangers improved her life?

  “You may or may not be nineteen, but you don’t have any money—”

  “Not true,” Shelly said over a mouthful of pancake.

  The woman continued, “You’re a little vague about where you’re headed.” She smiled, which made her look younger. About thirty, Shelly thought. No rings. She looked harmless enough, so Shelly decided a simple version of the truth would work just as well as a whopper of a fib about meeting her soldier boyfriend in Fort Hood.