The Husband School Page 5

  “I’m on the road, uh, looking for a guy.”

  “Well, then,” Meg drawled. “You’ve come to the right town. According to the mayor’s latest calculations, we have forty-eight single men from the age of twenty-one to forty-five. You can take your pick.”

  Shelly drank half the glass of milk. “They count them here?”

  The waitress looked amused. “Yes, they do, actually.”

  “Weird.”

  “Definitely. So who are you looking for? I’m guessing...the baby’s father?”

  “Yeah.” She chewed another large piece of pancake and washed it down with milk before picking up another slice of bacon. The year before she’d gotten pregnant she’d called herself a vegetarian, but the baby had changed all that. Now any kind of pork product made her mouth water as if she was a little kid at the state fair.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Is he from around here?”

  “Maybe.” He’d mentioned Willing once, but as hard as she tried, Shelly couldn’t remember what he’d said about it. He’d talked of other Montana towns, too. She wished she’d paid more attention to their conversations when they’d been together.

  “What’s his name? Maybe I can help you contact him. You shouldn’t be traveling alone like this.”

  Shelly shook her head. The less said the better, and she didn’t want this snoopy woman calling the cops or social services. Been there, done that. Instead she pulled her cell phone out of her bag and skimmed through the menu until she found what she wanted. She passed the phone, with its fuzzy photo of a smiling young man, to Meg. “Here.”

  “It’s hard to see his face under that hat.”

  “Trust me, he’s cute.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “He’s tall, too. And funny.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Miss!” The bus driver waved at her. He was heading toward the door, the other passengers following him. “Three minutes!”

  Shelly looked down at her empty plate and her stomach heaved. She’d eaten too fast and she was going to throw up now, she really was. “I should have hitchhiked.”

  “That’s never a good idea, sweetie,” Meg the waitress said, her voice gentle. She handed her back the phone. “You look a little pale. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She thought about the bus fumes, the jouncing, the endless miles to a place with no guarantees.

  Shelly was suddenly very, very tired. The busy room seemed smaller, the noise quieted and everything swirled into black.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  KERMIT WASN’T KNOWN for his compassion, and because his punctuality was the stuff of legends, no one was surprised when the bus headed south without its pregnant passenger.

  Meg and her customers managed to move Shelly to the floor, put a makeshift ice bag on her forehead and call the clinic before the girl came to and started to protest.

  “Stay quiet,” Meg told her. “You fainted.”

  “I’m okay, I’m gonna miss—”

  “There will be another bus.” Just not for three days, Meg added silently. “You have to stay right where you are.”

  “Am I on the floor?”

  “You sure are. Are you having any pain?”

  “No.” The girl closed her eyes again, probably because the sight of four elderly men staring at her was more than a little frightening. She moved her hands over her belly. “I’m fine.”

  “Not exactly,” Meg said. “Something happened and you passed out.”

  Shelly kept her eyes shut.

  “Remember the time Hank Richards had a heart attack, right in that same booth?”

  “No, actually, I don’t.” She shot George a look that said be quiet.

  “Uh, he was fine,” the old man mumbled. “After the triple bypass.”

  “My Debbie used to get wobbly and sick like that when she was expecting the twins.” Martin peered down at the girl. “Are you expecting twins, young lady?”

  “I—I hope not.”

  Jerry, who’d been the first to grab his cell phone and call for help, leaned toward Meg and whispered, “This could be our lucky day. A new resident and a population explosion.”

  “That’s so not funny.”

  He shrugged. “Hey, we need all the help we can get. In the meantime, what are we going to do with her?”

  “We?”

  “It takes a village...”

  “It takes an obstetrician,” Meg pointed out, having helped Lucia through her last pregnancy. “And he’s sixty miles away.”

  “Oh, good,” Jerry said, looking up as the door opened. “Hip’s here. I sure hope he’s sober.”

  * * *

  HORATIO IGNATIUS PORTERMAN, the local EMT, was otherwise known by his initials. Everyone loved him, everyone owed him a favor and no one questioned why his best friend was Jack Daniel’s. That was his own business: a man was entitled to his demons, and, to Hip’s credit, he didn’t drive. He and his cousin shared a house in town and Theo, a car collector, was always ready to drive his cousin wherever he was needed.

  Luckily, Hip’s services weren’t in great demand. He carved animals from tree trunks in the large shed behind the house when he wasn’t administering first aid. In the summer the lawn sprouted bears, moose, elk, prairie dogs and sale signs. Once in a while one of them went home with a passing tourist.

  Jerry hoped he’d upgrade to an art studio once the cameras started rolling. Hip wasn’t bachelor material, but as an artist he’d give the town another dimension and attract other creative types. Jerry was already thinking how to give artists tax breaks, but first things first. Save the town, bring in the artists, attract the tourists.

  “Hey,” Jerry said, making way for his city rescue volunteer. Owen MacGregor, a grim expression on his face, followed Hip across the room. The rancher’s frown eased when he saw Meg, but he didn’t look exactly cheerful as he stared at the girl on the floor.

  Jerry wasn’t sure what Hip could do, aside from taking the girl’s blood pressure and pulse. Theo would most likely end up driving her to Lewistown, since he owned the ambulance.

  “She’s looking better,” Jerry said. “Not so green.”

  Meg nodded. “I don’t think she’s been eating well. You should have seen her shovel in the pancakes.”

  Owen stepped closer. “Where’s she from?”

  Hip, crouched over the girl like a paternal crane, asked the same question. He didn’t get an answer, but she did open her eyes. She was a pretty thing, but Owen thought she seemed way too young to be pregnant.

  Owen tried again. “Anyone know who she is?”

  “Her name is Shelly,” Meg said. “She was on the bus heading south.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know her?” Owen hoped there was help on the way. Like the girl’s mother, who would be wearing a nurse’s uniform and pushing a gurney.

  “No. We were talking when she slid sideways.”

  “Huh.” This was from Hip, a rescuer of few words. He removed the blood-pressure cuff from the girl’s arm. “Seems fine now. Should rest for a while, though.”

  The patient frowned. “Can I sit up? You’re all kind of freakin’ me out.”

  “That goes both ways,” Meg pointed out, and the girl had the decency to look embarrassed as Jerry and Hip helped her sit up.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. You’ve had a pretty tough morning, I think.”

  Owen thought that might be an understatement, but he kept quiet while Hip asked Shelly—if that was her real name—if she felt dizzy.

  “I’m fine. I just have to get out of here. The bus—”

  “Is long gone,” Hip said. “Sit
still. I’m gonna check your pulse again.”

  Owen watched as three of the older men drifted back to their self-assigned stools, though he noticed they swiveled to face the action in the room as if they were watching television. He thought two of them looked familiar. The burly cook came out of the kitchen to pour fresh coffee and keep an eye on the register. Jerry planted himself in a chair and gave Owen a curious look. As did Meg.

  “You weren’t gone long. Did you forget something?” she asked in a very polite voice.

  “I was talking to Hip when the call came in.” Someone’s unconscious at The Shame. Hurry. Might need an ambulance. He wasn’t about to admit to his brief attack of social conscience about the damaged pedestal of the grizzly, which was what had brought him to the Dahl, where he’d found Hip, in the first place. “I thought he might need help, so I followed him over here.”

  Meg didn’t look at him. “That was nice of you.”

  He shrugged, uncomfortable. It was one thing to order breakfast, but standing next to her like this was odd. Come to think about it, everything about being back in Banner County was odd, including finding his old friend drinking at the Dahl at eleven in the morning.

  “I’m okay now,” Shelly insisted.

  Owen thought that was a stretch. From the looks of the skinny teenager, okay might not happen until the next decade.

  “Tomorrow’s the doc’s day in town,” Hip informed them, still crouching by the girl’s side.

  “She shouldn’t go to a hospital?” This was from Meg, who still appeared flustered.

  “I can’t go to a hospital.” The kid stroked her little belly bump and looked defiant. Exactly how old was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? Someone needed to call child services. He exchanged a worried look with Meg, who gestured toward a booth where a battered leather purse and a faded blue duffel bag sat on the vinyl seat. Owen walked over to check it out. Shelly was traveling light, but he assumed she’d have some kind of identification.

  “It might be a good idea to stay in town overnight and see the doctor tomorrow,” Meg fussed. “Just to make sure everything’s okay with the baby and you’re approved to travel.”

  Hip grunted something in agreement, but Owen didn’t listen too carefully. He dug around in the purse until he found a cheap cloth wallet. Sure enough, there was a driver’s license inside, along with seventy-three dollars in cash. Shelly Smith. Smith? How convenient for a pregnant runaway, he mused, studying the Idaho license with a Boise address. According to the state of Idaho, Shelly Ann Smith turned eighteen on August 3 and lived at 3702 Broad Street.

  Well, that was a start.

  He didn’t examine the rest of her things, though he noticed a half-empty bag of candy, a thick packet of chewing gum and a pair of gray wool socks stuffed inside the purse. A small vial of pepper spray hung from a keychain clipped to a set of keys, so at least the girl had the sense to keep her feet warm and protect herself.

  On the other hand, she was pregnant, practically broke and half starved. So much for sense.

  “Where are you headed?” Owen asked, returning to stand where the girl could see him. “Maybe we can give you a ride.”

  She shook her head and struggled to sit up. Hip helped her and she brushed her hair away from her face.

  “She’s looking for her boyfriend,” Meg informed them.

  Owen crouched next to Hip. “Tell us where he is and we’ll get him.”

  “I, uh, don’t know.”

  Owen looked at Meg, who shrugged. “That’s what she told me, too.”

  “Son of a—” Hip clamped his mouth shut.

  Ben Fargus decided to comment. “How the heck can you find someone if you don’t know where to look? I don’t get it.”

  Shelly’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. “I know it sounds dumb.”

  “You don’t know where he is right this minute?” Owen asked. “Or you don’t know where he is period?”

  The girl’s silence answered the question.

  “His name, then.”

  “Sonny.”

  “Sonny what?” Owen was suddenly very glad he’d never had daughters. His patience with teenage girls wouldn’t have lasted more than a month. Shelly began to cry and Owen watched Meg lean over and pat her back. He tried again. Surely the kid needed help with this, because Sonny wasn’t exactly an unusual nickname. “Sonny what?”

  “Don’t yell at her.” This was from Meg, who glared at him with cool brown eyes. Yes, he recognized that expression.

  “I’m not yelling.”

  She didn’t look the least bit convinced. “Keep your voice down. You’re scaring her.”

  He looked down at the kid blowing her nose into a paper napkin. “She’s got a lot to be scared about,” he pointed out. “You’d better call the sheriff or social services or someone who can get her some help.”

  The girl squealed. “The sheriff?”

  “No, sweetheart. We’re not calling the sheriff. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Meg turned to Owen and lifted her chin. When he was young and foolish, that stubborn chin had melted him right to his bones. Good thing he was older and immune.

  “I’m out of here,” Shelly declared. She struggled to her feet. “Where’s my stuff?”

  Hip stood, towering over her. “Whoa.”

  “Got something to hide?” Owen asked.

  “Got something to do,” was the snippy reply. “Lots to do.”

  “Well,” Owen drawled, conscious of Meg’s protective attitude toward the kid. God forbid he interject some common sense into this situation. “So do I.”

  He looked at Meg until she met his gaze. “Her last name is Smith and she’s from Boise. She’s eighteen years old and she has seventy bucks in her wallet. No credit cards, no checkbook.”

  “You looked in my bag?”

  Owen ignored the girl’s question and looked at Hip. “Call me about the bear.”

  Hip nodded. “I can fix it there if Aurora says it’s okay.”

  “Who’s Aurora?”

  “She bought the place a few years ago,” Hip said.

  “What happened to Mick?”

  “A woman in Santa Fe.”

  Well, that made sense. Mick and his father had been good friends, but the bar owner wasn’t the devoted family man Owen’s father had been. “Keep me posted, then.”

  “Will do,” Hip promised, packing up his equipment.

  And that, Owen decided, striding across the room to the door, just about maxed out his civic responsibilities for one day. He wouldn’t be coming back to town again anytime soon.

  * * *

  NOTHING HAD CHANGED, Meg realized, no matter how the man pretended to be pleasant. It had always been easy for Owen MacGregor to walk away. She certainly wasn’t surprised. He was as predictable as the bus driver who figured his schedule came first.

  Why he had returned with Hip was a mystery, but Meg supposed he’d been curious about the emergency phone call. Not that he’d been interested in anything to do with Willing for fourteen years. So why now?

  Meg knew she’d hear about it eventually. Secrets were hard to keep in this little part of Montana. And secrets there were this morning. She watched Hip guide the girl into a chair and say something to make her smile and shake her head. Jerry moved to stand beside her. “Looks like the crisis is over?”

  “For now,” she told Jerry, whose gaze was also on the girl.

  “I’ll give her a ride to Lewistown,” he said. “And I’ll personally take her to the clinic.”

  “That’s nice of you, but then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think she has any family or any place to go. And obviously not very much money, either.”

  “I’ll talk to social services then, see what they
can do for her.”

  “She could end up on the streets,” she worried. Meg didn’t think the girl would go along with that plan. She was a runaway, Meg guessed. In trouble because she was pregnant, possibly, and searching for the man she thought would be the answer to her prayers. That was the part that Meg hated to think about: a pregnant teenager putting all her faith in someone who didn’t tell her his last name or where he lived. “I think she has other ideas, Jer.”

  “She certainly didn’t want us to call the sheriff. She doesn’t look like a criminal,” he mused, “but you might want to keep an eye on the cash register.”

  “Al has that covered.” The old grump stood with his arms folded across his massive body, as if daring anyone to order anything from the kitchen. “He doesn’t like anything that upsets the routine. And he particularly hates Kermit. The bus passengers are always rushed, which means Al can’t get the food out fast enough.”

  “And Al doesn’t like to be rushed?”

  “About as much as he likes surprises. Can you keep an eye on the little mother for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. And unless I’m going down to Lewistown, I’m going to get posters printed up for the town meeting.”

  “You’re not wasting any time.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, imitating a Western drawl. “Y’all have to strike while the iron is hot.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She laughed. With one last glance at Shelly, who looked less pale and sipped water under Hip’s watchful eyes, Meg retreated to the relative privacy of the kitchen and its ancient wall phone.

  If anyone knew about being pregnant, it was Lucia. The woman had given birth to three boys in six years and still had a sense of humor. Right now Meg needed an expert opinion.

  “Hi, Meg,” Lucia said, answering the call.

  “Hi. Can you come over here?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Is it Al? Did he quit again?”

  “No. I need some advice. About being pregnant and—”

  “What? Pregnant? You don’t even date!”

  “Lu,” she tried to explain, “I’m not talking about—”