Page 9 of Silver Lining
Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut, and she studied him intently. "Are you saying you intend to give me a baby?"
"That's my duty." Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he curled his fingers around the green marble and gripped it so hard that he felt the curve bruise the bones of his palm. "A McCord does not shirk his duty."
"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch!" Rubbing her cheek, she considered him with a thoughtful expression.
Once the idea took hold, she flicked a hopeful glance toward her tent, and Max hastily raised a hand.
"Not right this minute," he said quickly in case that's what she was thinking. At the moment, he couldn't imagine ever desiring this scruffy woman. But even if she'd been beautiful and perfumed, a sloe-eyed temptress, he couldn't conceive of bedding her at noon-day with sixty-plus men watching and listening.
Frowning at the men lining the creek banks, he imagined a slump of disappointment rippled through the ranks, and wondered uneasily how much of this discussion they could overhear.
"Well, then when?"
"When the time is right," he hedged, having no idea when that might be. But it wasn't now.
She nodded slowly, thinking it over. "All right. I guess we're stuck anyway, so I might as well get a baby out of the deal. What I said earlier—" she waved a hand "—I was just jawing. I really do want that baby.
But I don't want a husband. Could we agree to this? Once I get pregnant, we're both off the hook. You go your way then, and I go mine. We're quits."
The baby was the crux of the matter for both of them, not the marriage which neither wanted. Already Max's mind had leapt ahead, feverish with hope that Philadelphia would understand the circumstances and wait for him to arrange a divorce.
No, she wouldn't.
Low Down lifted the shovel handle and poked the bucket at the ground. A pink flush traveled up her throat. "How long do you think it will take to get me pregnant?"
Philadelphia would have chosen a euphemism instead of saying pregnant straight out. But Philadelphia was a refined lady. Low Down was about as refined as her muddy, shapeless gum-rubber boots.
Uncomfortable with the question, Max rubbed his chin, fingering the pox marks along his jaw in a gesture that was becoming habitual. "I don't know."
"I mean, how many times does it take?" From the corner of his eye, he noticed her cheeks had caught fire and were now as scarlet as her hands. "How many times do we have to, you know, do it?" Throwing down the shovel, she planted her fists on her hips and swung away from him. "I'm trying to ask if we can get this done before you leave so I don't have to leave with you."
Oh Lord. Feeling inadequate for this conversation, he covered his eyes, then dragged his fingers down his face. It hadn't occurred to him that she'd be an innocent. As if she'd guessed his thoughts, she whirled around and narrowed her eyes into slits.
"I've been with a man, and I'm not as stupid as you're probably thinking. But it was a long time ago, and I didn't ask about babies or how many times it took to get one. And I've never known a woman well enough to ask such a thing."
He hadn't believed her face could get redder, but she suddenly looked as if she had a severe sunburn.
Feeling the heat in his own throat, he suspected he looked the same. Standing away from the boulder, he hooked his thumbs in his back pockets and focused hard on the water rushing past his feet.
He cleared his throat loudly. "Do you know how to tell if you're pregnant?"
"Well, of course," she snapped. "I do know that much."
"Getting pregnant has nothing to do with how many times two people, ah, do it." He cleared his throat again. "Sometimes it only takes once. Sometimes months and months can pass." He didn't want to consider that possibility.
Hopefully, she'd be more appealing after a bath and a hair wash, and when she was dressed in a clean, frilly nightshift. Sliding a sidelong glance toward the spot where she was pacing along the creek, he tried to peer past the baggy loose clothing she wore. Then he swore between his teeth. He couldn't believe he was even thinking about taking her to bed. "In fact," he muttered, hating it, "most of the time getting pregnant takes a while."
"Damn," she said unhappily. "So there's no choice, I have to leave with you. Well, hell." She kicked the side of her sluice. "I had plans."
The sour burn of bitterness squelched any reply he might have made.
"So. Where are we going? South, I hope?"
"West."
"That doesn't tell me anything."
" Fort Houser is about a four-hour trip by wagon out of Denver ." The town had never been a fort, actually. Joseph Houser, Philadelphia 's grandfather, had bestowed the name in hopes the army would take notice, build a stockade on the site, and protect his interests and holdings. The army had bypassed Fort Houser but so had marauding Indians. In the ensuing years, Joseph Houser's dream had blossomed into a growing, prosperous town.
