The Sweetest September. Liz Talley

      Okay, she wasn’t touching that one. “Will do.”

      “I’ll get a towel outta the barn for you to sit on. Don’t want to mess that fancy dress up,” Homer said, loping off toward the barn.

      Shelby waited, fiddling with the key chain and double-checking she’d locked the rental car since she’d left her purse on the floorboard. Of course no one was around to make off with it, but living in Seattle most of her life had ingrained certain precautions.

      But then, sometimes taking precautions failed. She stood here living proof about to climb into a cart and bump out to a tractor operated by a man who was going to get the shock of his life. Yeah, sometimes in spite of a best effort, shit happened.

      Like getting pregnant.

      When Homer came back around, he carried a faded striped beach towel, which he placed on the seat of the cart. “Here ya go.” He patted the towel.

      Shelby eyed the new boots she’d bought before peeing on the pregnancy test stick and learning her life would go from single, focused substitute teacher to single, unfocused mother. Somehow the sleek knee-length boots she’d bought to make her feel better about the whole Darby fiasco seemed frivolous for her new role, but that didn’t mean she wanted them spattered with Louisiana mud.

      Minutes later they took off, rolling over ruts in bone-jarring fashion. Shelby clung to the handrail attached to the roof of the cart and focused on not sliding out since the seat belts looked to have been cut out.

      She watched the green tractor in the distance grow larger. It still chugged along, workers scurrying behind. Finally, when the motorized cart Homer called a mule got within a hundred feet, the big tractor stopped. Seconds later the stranger from the bar climbed out, looking tired and puzzled.

      Homer hopped out of the cart and jogged over to John Beauchamp whose edges looked sharper than she remembered. Sobriety did that. “Brought you a pretty lady who says she needs a word with you. I’ll come back for her in a few. Gotta get this part over to Henry.”

      John glanced over to Shelby, his eyes narrowing, face bewildered. Shelby wondered what he thought. Probably had that same sinking feeling she’d had when her boobs had grown heavy and achy and the telltale crimson flow hadn’t appeared. Pure dread.

      “Thanks, Homer, but you better give me the part. I’ll drive it over to the combine. Can you take over here for me?”

      Homer saluted before scrabbling up the tractor into the cab. He called down, “Sure thing, Boss Man.”

      John frowned, shaking his head. “Stop calling me that.”

      Homer cackled. “Hey, it’s what you are.”

      Shelby sat still as a puddle, watching John walk toward where she held a death grip on the handle. This wasn’t going the way she’d planned, but then again, things were all over the map in regards to plans lately.

      Readjusting an old ball cap on his head, John stopped beside the driver’s seat, glancing back at the men standing behind the tractor, drinking water. They all stared, questions in their eyes, at the woman dressed for brunch sitting in a mucked-up cart in the middle of a cane field. “Go on, fellows. We need to finish this field today. Already late on this planting.”

      The men leaped into action as the tractor lurched forward with Homer at the helm.

      Shelby took a moment to take stock of the man she hadn’t seen since he’d slipped out of the bathroom that fateful night. John’s boots were streaked with mud and his dusty jeans had a hole on the thigh. A kerchief hung from his back pocket, and the faded chambray shirt he wore stretched across broad shoulders. He looked like a farmer.

      She’d never thought a farmer could look, well, sexy. But John Beauchamp had that going for him...not that she was interested.

      Been there. Done him. Got pregnant.

      He looked down at her with cautious green eyes...like she was a ticking bomb he had to disarm. “What are you doing here?”

      Shelby tried to calm the bats flapping in her stomach, but there was nothing to quiet them. “Uh, it’s complicated.”

      He slid in beside her, his thigh brushing hers. She scooted away. He noticed, but didn’t say anything.

      “Complicated,” he repeated as though tasting the word. “You didn’t go back to...Seattle, was it?”

      “No, I went back.”

      “But you’re here again.” His words held the question.

      She glanced at him and then back at the men still casting inquisitive looks their way as they followed the tractor down the furrows.

      John got the message and stepped on the accelerator, this time heading toward the huge combine sitting silent in the opposite field.

      Shelby yelped and grabbed the edge of the seat with her other hand, nearly sliding across the cracked pleather seat and pitching onto the ground rushing by the wheels. John reached over and clasped her arm, saving her from meeting the hard ground.

      “You good?” he asked, releasing her arm and making no apology for the abrupt launch and turn.

      “Yeah,” she said, finding her balance, her stomach pitching more at the thought of revealing why she sat beside him than at the actual bumpy ride.

      So how did one do this?

      Probably should just say it. Rip the bandage off. Pull the knife out. He probably already suspected why she’d come. If it had been anything other than her being pregnant, she’d have found him before now.

      As they turned onto the adjacent path, Shelby took a deep breath and said, “I’m pregnant.”

      He made no sound, but she felt his reaction. Glancing sideways, she saw him go rigid, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

      “Pregnant?” he said, his voice low, perhaps even angry. “By me?”

      “That’s why I’m here.”

      “That’s very unlikely.”

      “Oh, I am. Went to the doctor. Saw the heartbeat on the ultrasound. Pretty sure there’s a baby in there.”

      He slowed down and eyed her in the brightness of the afternoon, looking as if he studied an insect that had landed on his windshield. Squash or let it blow away on its own? “I understand the concept, but it’s not mine. We used a condom. I remember because it was bright pink and I’d never seen anything like that before.”

      “Yeah, I thought pink condoms were kind of fun, but that’s not important. Or maybe it is, because something went wrong with it. Besides you ran out before—” She snapped her mouth closed, wishing she hadn’t mentioned his running out. The fact he hightailed it like a coward was the least important part of the whole travesty. “The condom must have broken. Or did you notice any, um, leakage maybe?”

      His head snapped around. “No.”

      For a moment he didn’t say anything and she wondered if he was searching his memory for that night. “Look I don’t remember much, but I’m pretty sure I would remember that. I was drunk but not stupid.”

      “I’m not lying.”

      John frowned. “I’m not saying you are, but I can’t accept you got pregnant that night.”

      “Look, I’m not thrilled, okay? I’m only here because I thought you should know.”

      “Are you sure it’s mine?”

      She almost slapped him. Would have been melodramatic and very Scarlett O’Hara-like, fitting considering she sat in the middle of a field in the Deep South feeling rather beat down. “Thanks for the unspoken accusation that I’m a whore. And a stupid one at that.”

      John slammed the brakes, his arm catching hers before she could slide forward into the