Remember Me, Cowboy. C.J. Carmichael

      With Brock gone, though, there was going to have to be some reshuffling of responsibilities.

      Corb entered the main house from the back entrance, kicking off his boots in the mudroom, then washing his hands in the stainless-steel sink next to the coatrack.

      Bonny Platter, their housekeeper for the past three years—a record tenure for the position—came to the doorway with her hands on her ample hips.

      “I have pancakes and sausages waiting, but first you better get your mother out of bed. It’s time she joined the land of the living.”

      Corb was damned hungry, having started the day three hours earlier on just a package of oatmeal and a cup of instant coffee. But he shared Bonny’s concern about his mother.

      “I’ll round her up,” he promised.

      “What about Jackson?”

      “Just spoke to him. He’s giving breakfast a pass.”

      “Again?” Bonny sounded annoyed.

      “Again. I’ll go get Mother.” Corb crossed through the kitchen to the hall that led to the master bedroom. After his father’s death ten years ago his mother had redecorated the room with a bunch of flowery fabrics and pinkish colors. Now he always felt awkward when he was called to enter the feminine space.

      For that reason, or perhaps out of habit, he hesitated at the door after knocking. When a full minute passed without any answer, though, he finally cracked the door open.

      “Mom? Are you awake?” Ten o’clock on a weekday morning and she was still in bed. Prior to Brock’s death, this behavior would have been unthinkable.

      “Yes, Corb. Please shut the door. I’m not ready—”

      He ignored her and strode inside, stopping abruptly in the near darkness. “Jeez, you can’t even tell it’s daylight in here. Why didn’t Bonny open the curtains?”

      He made his way toward the outline of the windows at the far wall, then pulled back on the fabric, allowing in the brilliant morning sunshine.

      “Bonny didn’t open the curtains because I asked her not to,” his mother answered tartly. Normally she styled her hair in a sleek bob, but it was looking lank and gray today. An appointment at her hair salon was long overdue.

      She squinted at him and frowned. “The sunshine gives me a headache.”

      Feeling the scar on his scalp throb, Corb could relate. But he didn’t admit it. Instead he checked the tray on the table beside his mom’s bed. The toast and coffee were untouched. “What’s this? Mom, you have to eat. Come on, Bonny will serve you something fresh in the dining room.”

      Her expression turned contrite. “You’re a sweet boy to worry about your mother, Corb. I’m just not hungry.”

      “At least sit at the table with me.” He stood by her bed, until finally she sighed and sat upright. He waited until she swung her feet to the ground, then held out his hands to her.

      “You’re kind and patient, Corb. Just like your father.”

      Being compared to his father was about the highest compliment his mother could give. It was curious, Corb thought, that while his father had treated all of them pretty much equally, his mother seemed to have a unique relationship with each of her children.

      B.J., as the eldest, had always been the son that Olive expected the most from—until he’d decided to become a full-time rodeo cowboy. Now Olive rarely mentioned his name.

      Brock had been the doted-upon youngest son, while Cassidy, the baby of the family and the only daughter, seemed to take the brunt of their mother’s criticism.

      He’d gotten off easy as the middle child, Corb expected. Often ignored, but that was okay with him. And if he suspected that his mother would have traded his life if she could have spared Brock’s, that didn’t bother him, either.

      Frankly, he would have given his life for Brock’s, as well.

      He led his mother to the dining room, pulling out her chair and waiting for her to sit, before settling at his own spot at the gleaming oak table. Bonny emerged from the kitchen with two hot platters of food, pancakes and sausages for him, a boiled egg and toast for his mother.

      Corb was reaching for a second helping of pancakes, when the house phone rang. A moment later, Bonny brought him the receiver. “It’s Laurel Sheridan.”

      His heart flip-flopped at the mention of Winnie’s pretty friend. He reached for the phone, at the same time rising from his chair and heading for the patio door leading outside.

      “Hi, Corb. I— This is going to sound strange but I was wondering if you could come by the café tonight after closing time?”

      “That shouldn’t be a problem. You close at five?”

      “Yes. I— The thing is, I have something to tell you. Something that happened during the week before the wedding. I know you don’t remember. But...”

      Lord, but she sounded nervous. Was she worried he’d say no? But he was certainly keen to spend more time with her. And he was also anxious to fill in some of the missing blanks in his memory, as well.

      He paced to the edge of the deck then stared beyond the outbuildings and pastures to the profile of Square Butte, the mountain that flanked the south side of their property.

      In between were hundreds of acres of rolling hills covered with wild grass and dotted with patches of brush, aspen and ponderosa pine.

      Usually the sight of the land—his family’s legacy—filled Corb with a profound sense of calm and peace.

      Today, he felt anything but peaceful.

      There’s something about this woman, he realized. Something he should be remembering.

      “We’ll talk at five,” he promised, wondering what she had to tell him.

      * * *

      WHEN THE FACT of her pregnancy had been confirmed yesterday, Laurel had spent most of the night wondering how she would break the news to Corb.

      She’d spent the better part of the day thinking about the very same problem. During a lull in business, around 9:00 a.m., she’d called the ranch to ask Corb to come into town.

      He’d sounded surprised to hear from her.

      Of course he was. In his mind they had only just met yesterday.

      “My pie, Laurel?” Burt, the postmaster had finished his sandwich and was looking expectantly at the pie on display just twelve inches from his nose.

      “I’m sorry, Burt. My mind is somewhere else today, I’m afraid.” She lifted the glass cover off the stand and slipped a wedge of the juicy bumbleberry pie onto a plate, then grabbed a clean fork and set it down, too.

      The door chimed and she snatched a quick look.

      A couple of young mothers with strollers headed for the corner booth. Laurel smiled at them, then turned to the cash register so she could get the bill for the elderly couple who’d been waiting to pay for five minutes now.

      Corb wasn’t due for another four hours. She had to relax and focus on the present instead of fretting about what she was going to tell him. So what if she didn’t have a plan? She’d just have to trust that she’d know the right words to say when the time came.

      * * *

      BY FIVE MINUTES to five Laurel was rethinking the wisdom of meeting Corb right after work. She should have given herself an hour to rest and get cleaned up. Every time she caught a glance of her reflection in the mirror by the sink, she thought she looked drawn and pale. Her feet and lower back ached. And she was tired. You’d think her body would have adjusted to being on her feet all day by now, but the job seemed to wear her out more and more each day.

      If this was pregnancy,