The Husband School. Kristine RolofsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 she’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