If Wishes Were Horses...

“Just a minute. I hafta close the door.”

There was the sound of a door closing, then a rattle as the boy picked up the receiver. “I’m in the kitchen and I don’t want Mom to hear,” he whispered into the phone.

Conner made himself relax his jaw. “Where’s your sister—is she there with you?”

“No. She’s asleep in bed, Uncle Conner. It’s only me.”

The anxiety in Conner’s gut intensified, and he walked over to the tack room door, then rested his hand on the overhead frame. Bracing himself, he asked the question he dreaded asking. “Is something wrong with your mom, Cody?”

“Yeah,” came a soft whisper. Then louder. “I think so. I think something’s wrong. I sometimes hear her crying at night, and she’s acting funny and she doesn’t go to work anymore. And she forgets things and she yells over dumb stuff.” He hesitated, then spoke again, a definite wobble in his voice. “I’m kinda scared.”

A cold sensation spread through Conner’s middle and his insides bunched into a hard knot. When he had told the kid to call if he was ever scared or worried, he had done it to offer the boy some reassurance. And he had meant what he’d said. Only this call couldn’t have come at a worse time. Cattle rounded up for branding, everything ready to roll—it wasn’t as if he could snap his fingers and shut down the entire operation. And with the two new hands he had just hired, he wasn’t sure his crew could manage on their own—not with Jake half crippled with that bad hip. His mind racing, Conner considered alternatives. Tanner McCall’s spread was just a couple of miles down the road. And it wouldn’t be the first time they had stepped in and helped each other out. Maybe if he asked Tanner to help pick up the slack…

Making a snap decision, Conner positioned the phone closer to his mouth and spoke, keeping his tone easy. “Tell you what, Chucker. How about if I come down there and check things out. Do you think that would be okay?”

There was an odd sound, as if the boy was having trouble breathing, but the hope in his voice was unmistakable. “You mean like right now? Like tonight?”

One corner of Conner’s mouth lifted, and he hooked his thumb in the front pocket of his jeans. “I don’t think I can make it tonight, Tiger. But I could probably get there sometime tomorrow. And I’ll find out if your mom’s okay.”

“For sure tomorrow?”

A touch of real amusement widened Conner’s grin. “Unless the planes stop flying—yes, tomorrow.”

Another hesitation. “Uncle Conner?”

“What?”

There was an anxious quiver in the boy’s voice. “Will you have to tell Mom I called?”

Conner turned and stared down the shed row to the open barn door. “I can’t promise not to, Cody. But I won’t unless I have to, okay?”

“Okay.” Conner could hear him fidgeting with the phone, then his nephew spoke again, another wobble in his voice. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

Trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his throat, Conner forced a smile into his voice. “I’m glad I’m coming, too. Now you go back to bed and go to sleep. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Good night, Uncle Conner.”

“Good night, Tiger.”

His expression set, Conner pressed the End button, then stared into space, a hole the size of Texas in his gut. Abby. There couldn’t be anything wrong with Abby. Not Abby.

Turning back to the workbench, he stared at the picture of his father and stepmother; then he roughly massaged his eyes. Hell. This was a bad, bad space for him. A very bad space. And one he couldn’t get into. Shutting down his emotions, he mentally listed what all he had to do to clear the decks.

Straightening, he lifted the phone and punched in another set of numbers, then walked over to stare out the window. The steady drizzle created misty halos around the yard lights, distorting the illumination.

A voice answered, and Conner moved the phone closer to his mouth. “Hi, Kate. It’s Conner. Is Tanner around?”

“He just came in. Just a minute. I’ll get him for you.”

A man’s voice came on and, as briefly as possible, Conner explained the situation to the other rancher.

Tanner McCall’s immediate response was, “Let me know what time your flight leaves, and I’ll drive you to the airport.”

For the first time since he had gotten his nephew’s call, the knot in Conner’s gut relaxed. “Thanks, but no. I have no idea when I can get a flight, so I’ll just leave the truck at Park and Fly.” He rubbed his eyes again. “But I’ll give you Abby’s number and my cell phone number.”

It took five minutes to give Tanner the necessary instructions. As soon as he got off the phone with his neighbor, he placed a call to his stepmother. He wished he didn’t have to tell her, but above all else, he respected her right to know. Still, it didn’t make the call any easier. Not after everything she had been through in the past few years.

But he didn’t want to unduly worry her either, and he did his best to minimize it. He told her he was going down to reassure Cody. He could never admit to anyone that he was also going to reassure himself.

After his call to Mary, he called Jake. There were never any embellishments required with Jake. Just the facts and specific instructions. Jake was worth his weight in gold.

Deliberately keeping his thoughts focused on what he had to do, rather than thinking about the phone call, Conner finished up in the barn. He shut off the light and dragged the door shut, then put his head down against the steady drizzle as he headed for the house. He didn’t want to acknowledge the sick feeling churning in his belly, or the fear that was fighting to surface. A long time ago, he had learned not to cross bridges, especially those that weren’t his to cross.

It wasn’t until he’d had a long hot shower, after he’d draped a towel around his neck and pulled on a clean pair of jeans that his mental stockade failed. Knowing from experience that when that happened, there was no easy way out for him, he went over to the casement window and opened it. Then he stood staring out, his own history piling in on him.

He had loved his brother, and right from the time Mary had placed the tiny baby in his arms, he’d had a feeling in his chest that never went away. And he knew it was the same for John Calhoun. Right from the beginning, that baby could do no wrong in his father’s eyes. Even when Scotty got into more scrapes than any kid had a right to, John Calhoun would bail out his youngest son. Conner had always been well aware of how the townspeople reacted, shaking their heads, wondering where the boy was going to end up.

When Scott got older and his dad’s health started to fail and his mother got fretting, it was Conner who would quietly untangle whatever mess the kid had gotten himself into, then take him home.

But the funny part was that no one ever seemed to hold any grudges against the youngest Calhoun. Everybody liked Scotty. He had been one of those kids born with a special brand of charisma, a personable, good-looking kid full of down-home charm, and probably the best natural athlete within a thousand miles. There hadn’t been anything that Scotty didn’t excel at, and at the age of eighteen, he had been scouted by one of the big baseball clubs in the States. By the time he had turned twenty-four, he was a star.

The whole district had been proud of Scotty Calhoun, but Conner suspected there were a whole bunch of people who figured that Scotty moving to the U.S., and being accountable to a major league owner and coach, would save his parents a whole passel of headaches. Scotty might have been a talented young man, but even Conner knew he was trouble just waiting to happen.

Some folks openly wondered how Conner could put up with Scotty’s shenanigans, but he never made any comment. He had always been the solid, sensible, levelheaded older brother—and it was clear to everyone that Conner was the one person who Scotty wanted to impress, the only one he looked up to. About the only thing the Calhoun brothers had in common was their size, their dark curly hair and the looks they had inherited from their father. Other than that, they had been as different as night and day.

But that was really only part of the history.

Conner knew there was still a certain amount of speculation about him in the small town of Bolton. Pretty well anybody who had roots in the community knew that he’d just turned forty and never married. There had been a time when folks figured he might make it to the altar. Then all of a sudden the pretty little teller at the local bank was seen in the company of other men. And about a year later, she left for the east. And no one ever knew what happened.

Conner wasn’t deaf or blind. He knew that in places like the hairdresser’s in Bolton, the women still occasionally speculated about the breakup, and what a pity it was that another young thing hadn’t come to town to rescue Conner, just like Mary McFie had rescued his father. He knew all of them were convinced the bank teller was the love of his life, and that she had broken his heart.

Yeah, he had been well aware of what had been said over the years, but he had turned a blind eye to the sympathetic looks and the not-so-subtle attempts at matchmaking. The truth was that he preferred to let them think what they did, rather than anyone having an inkling about the truth. And the truth was something he kept to himself.

Rain spattered through the open window, the cool gush of air intruding on Conner’s thoughts. He gouged at his eyes, his head congested with old memories. There was a whole lot of stuff that had gone under the bridge, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever put it all behind him. Slipping his right hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he leaned against the wall, his expression turning bleak as more old memories surfaced.

The secret he harbored had its roots a long time ago—eleven years to be exact. Scotty had been twenty-four and had made it to the “show,” earning more money than was good for him. It had been close to Christmas when he announced out of the blue that he was bringing home the girl he was going to marry.

No one had known what to expect—not Conner, not his mother, not his father. And when Scotty announced he was bringing Abigail Allistair Arlington home to meet the folks, Conner braced himself. With a name like Abigail Allistair Arlington, she could have come from one of the snooty, upper crust areas of Chicago, or she could have been an exotic dancer in a strip bar. With Scotty, either was a possibility.

It had been left to Conner to drive into the city, to pick them up at the Calgary Airport and, as if it were yesterday, he still remembered that night with stunning clarity. His brother coming through the frosted doors of Canada Customs, followed by a tall, natural blonde, with cover-girl good looks, sharply styled hair, wide hazel eyes and an air of sophistication about her. She had looked cool, composed and aloof—until she smiled.

Without even realizing what she had done with that one smile, Abigail Allistair Arlington had altered the course of Conner Calhoun’s life. All it had taken was her greeting of a big, warm hug, and within a space of a few seconds, he knew that his life would never be the same.

He had known that Doreen, the bank teller, had marriage on her mind, but there had been no way he could ever consider marrying her. Not then. Not ever. She was a sweet girl who deserved a whole lot more than second best.

It had nearly killed Conner when Scotty and Abby got married, and it was made twice as hard because he had no choice but to stand up for his brother.

It had been one hell of a ride, all right. Heartache? He could write volumes on it. That constant ache had become part of his life. And that was why sometimes, like tonight, he just could not face an empty house. And it was why he’d spent more nights than he could count out in the barn, fixing tack, mending saddles, braiding new reins. A flicker of grim humor lifted one corner of his mouth. Hell, he had the best tended tack in the entire country.

Turning from the window, Conner crossed to the highboy, his gaze snagging on a grouping of three framed photographs arranged on top. His expression softening, he picked up one, his chest tightening as he studied the picture. It was a snapshot of Abby, one he had taken years ago on a South Carolina beach. She was wading in the surf, the wet hem of her full, ankle-length dress plastered against her legs, and she was holding her hair back from her face with both hands. She was laughing at him, the wind molding the soft folds of her dress against her protruding belly. When that photograph had been taken, she was pregnant with Cody, and everything that Abby was was captured in that picture.

Yeah, he could write a book on heartache, all right. And secrets? He had ’em by the truckload. Most of them were stored up in a whole lot of pain. But there was one that gave him comfort. And it was a secret he would take to his grave without ever giving up.

He touched the face in the snapshot, the hole in his chest getting bigger. No one would ever know that the baby she carried in this picture wasn’t his brother’s.

It was his.

Chapter 2

A gust of wind rattled the shades, sending more drops of rain spattering through the screen of the open window. The framed photo still in his hand, Conner tipped his head back against the wall and clenched his jaw. It was not a good night for memories. Or for remembering. But that didn’t stop the emotions piling up in his chest.

Forcing himself to let go of the air jammed up in his lungs, Conner turned, his gaze going to the remaining two pictures sitting on top of his bureau. He set the third one beside them, then turned back to the window, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

It had been one helluvah ride, all right. One that took him places he’d never expected to go. There had been times when his aloneness got so big, he felt buried by it. And he had figured he would go to the grave with that awful hole in his chest. Then something happened to change all that. Something that gave him a place to put everything he felt for his brother’s wife.

Abby and Scott had been married two years—and Conner had gone out of his way to keep his distance. It had been safer and easier that way. Then they had come home again for Christmas. Which meant that Conner had been pretty well trapped. Because as far as Mary was concerned, there was just no good reason for either of her sons to be away from home at that time of year. So for Mary’s sake, he had stayed.

There had been something different about Scotty—he was more quiet, always watching Conner, trying his best to be accommodating. Then on Christmas Eve, long after everyone else had gone to bed, Scotty tracked Conner down in the tack room of the barn, where he was restoring an antique saddle. And he had told Conner what was on his mind.

They had found out that Scotty was sterile, and they wanted to have kids—Abby was desperate for kids. And Scotty made it clear that there was no way he wanted to adopt—to raise some stranger’s kids. After coming at it from the long way around, Scotty got to the point, and dropped a bomb that rocked Conner’s world. He wanted to know if Conner would consider fathering a baby for them. He figured that they looked enough alike that no one would ever know any different, and Conner was the only man alive he would trust with this—the only man he would ever consider as a sperm donor.

It had knocked Conner for one hell of a loop. And he was never sure how long he’d sat there, staring at his brother, feeling as if solid ground had been blown out from underneath him. It was as if his mind had locked on Scotty’s words, and it had seemed like forever before he’d been able to get his mind in gear, to ask his brother how Abby felt about this. Scotty had assured Conner that Abby was fine with it.

Feeling as if his whole existence had been turned upside down, Conner had told Scotty he needed some time to think about it. And he had stayed up all that night, thinking what it would be like, knowing she was carrying his child, knowing that a part of him was lodged deep inside of her. It nearly killed him at first.

Then slowly, so slowly, the possibility of his being able to give her his child began to ease that awful hole in his chest—that hole that had become a part of him. And he had realized that part of the burden of loving her was that he could never do anything to validate it. And now he had been handed his chance. He could give her the baby she wanted so much. And slowly everything changed, and the thought of his child growing inside of her gave him the first peace he’d had in a very long time.

It had been as if Abby knew he’d spent the night wrestling with the request. Because long before anyone was up, she had come down to the kitchen, where he was hunched over the table, working his way through yet another cup of coffee. Her hair had been wild around her face, and she’d worn a fuzzy blue housecoat with the belt pulled tight around her. She had sat down across from him, and they had talked. And she had told him, with tears in her eyes, how badly she wanted a baby, and why. If he hadn’t already made up his mind, he would have taken one look at the desperate longing in her eyes, and he would have made it up then. With emotion cramping his throat, he told her he’d be honored to do it.

It had been one hell of an experience—when he flew to Chicago to visit their fertility clinic. And no one would ever know what it had been like, shut in that tiny room, doing what he needed to do, everything he felt for her spilling out in that single donation. He had been such a damned mess afterward, he had gone straight to the airport, phoning Scotty from there. John Calhoun had already been diagnosed with bone cancer, and Conner had used that as a cover, making an excuse that some problems had cropped up at the ranch, and he had to get right home. He hadn’t been able to face his brother. And he sure in hell hadn’t been able to face her.

Ten months later, Cody John Calhoun was born, and sixteen months after that, Sarah Jane Calhoun had arrived. And it had been as if those two kids had given Conner somewhere to place all the emotions he had been carrying around inside of him. He would have gladly laid down his life for either one of them, and somehow their existence made everything right. He had never permitted himself to think of them as his. They were Abby’s kids. Always Abby’s. They had been his gift to her, and because of that, he’d never allowed himself to think of them as anything but his niece and nephew.

And along with that acceptance came something he had never expected. The hole in his chest had healed over. It didn’t mean that he didn’t get damned lonely at times, to the point where he would make trips out of town to find a little temporary companionship. And it sure in hell didn’t mean he had gotten over her. He would love her until the day he died. But it made a huge difference, knowing that he had given her the two babies she had wanted so much. It meant he could get through one day after another, almost content with his life. Almost.

The midnight chime of the old grandfather clock in the hallway brought Conner out of his somber reverie, and he pulled the towel from around his neck and tossed it on a chair, then raked both his hands through his hair. It was going to be a damned long night.

Leaving his bedroom, he went out into the hallway, to the wood panelled closet under the stairs, and located a very expensive monogrammed leather garment bag. It always gave him a hollow feeling in his chest when he used it. And the only time he used it was when he went to Toronto—because Abby had been so adamant he have it. It had belonged to his brother, and it was the one Scotty had always carried on road trips.

Picking up the bag, Conner turned off the light and closed the door, his expression grim. Sometimes he wondered about the legendary luck of the Calhouns—it had definitely gone astray in this generation, that was for sure.

He took the garment bag back to his bedroom and tossed it on the king-size bed, then unzipped it, that same old feeling of grief unfolding in his chest. Ah, Scotty, he thought, you didn’t even know you had it all. And once again the history piled in, taking him down the path to old, painful memories.

The only good thing that had happened that year was wee Sarah’s arrival. The rest had all been bad. Abby’s parents had been killed in a car crash, then John Calhoun had died two months after his granddaughter was born. And shortly after that, Mary’s health took a turn for the worse, and the arthritis she had been fighting for years had finally taken hold. It was as if John’s dying had depleted her resources, and she got considerably worse. They hadn’t seen much of Scotty and the kids—Scotty was always on the road, and Abby, with a degree in business management, started working part-time, certainly not for the money. Mostly, Conner had suspected, to compensate for Scotty’s absences.

It wasn’t until Scotty got traded to the team in Toronto that the cracks in their golden life began to show. Inferences on sportscasts that Scott Calhoun was not performing up to snuff, rumors of trouble with the club. And when Conner had taken his mother to Toronto for a brief visit, there was something frenetic in Scott’s behavior. As if he were wired all the time.

Scotty had been a season into a five-year contract when he was abruptly dropped from the roster, and Conner had started to wonder what was going on. But it wasn’t until he saw Abby on a trip through Toronto that Conner knew something was seriously wrong. She had started working full-time, and she had been so strung out and tense, it was as if she were fine crystal ready to shatter. Concerned about her, he had taken her aside, telling her that if she ever needed anything, she was to call. Unable to look at him, she had locked her jaw together and nodded. And that had been that.

Until two years ago, when Abby had called him. And he had found out what was really going on. The reason Scotty had been let go was that management found out he was heavily into drugs, and she didn’t know what to do. Conner had been in the process of throwing his kit together for an immediate trip to Toronto when he got the second call from Scotty’s agent, telling him that Scotty was on his way to the hospital, suffering from a major overdose. It was almost as if Scotty couldn’t face Conner knowing the truth about him.

That was one of the hardest things Conner had ever had to do, to tell his mother what was going on and why he was taking the red-eye to Toronto. But she hadn’t been in any shape to travel then. So it had been up to him. When he got to Toronto, he’d gone straight to the hospital. The first thing he had discovered was that Abby was barely hanging on. And the second thing he found out was that Scotty was in an irreversible coma. There was nothing they could do.

It had been equally hard, five days later, standing by her during the huge, media-driven funeral, the news of Scotty’s overdose plastered all over every sports page in the country.

But the hardest thing of all was leaving her behind when it was time for him to go home. If he’d had his way, he would have bundled her up and taken her and the kids with him. But he couldn’t do that. She was his brother’s wife.

After Scotty’s death, he had made a point of going to Toronto every three or four months, but Abby had totally walled up. That once vibrant smile was like an accessory she pulled out and put on whenever it was required, and she was so brittle, it was hard for him to watch. He had been concerned about her for months—damned concerned. And he had told her countless times that if she ever needed anything, all she had to do was call. But Abby had a whole lot of stiff, chin-in-the-air pride. Rooted, no doubt, in the public humiliation Scotty had put her through.

Conner had known all along things would have to get really bad before she would call. And the feeling of unease never left him. He knew something was wrong. But unless she came to him for help, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do. At least a couple of times a week he would call, and she was always very upbeat on the phone, but he could hear the edge in her voice. She would never talk long—instead she would take the first opportunity to pass the phone off to one of the kids. There were nights when he’d lay awake until dawn, trying to hatch some plan to get through to her. But he knew Abigail, and he understood that stiff-necked pride of hers. And unless she opened up and told him what was going on, he was stymied. It wasn’t as if he could play some damned white knight and ride in to rescue her, especially when she didn’t want to be rescued. So he had resigned himself to her silence.