Staking His Claim. Karen Templeton

for even longer, came streaking in from the kitchen, a glass of water trembling at the end of a spotted, chicken-skinned arm.

      “I saw it all from the kitchen window. She sick or something? Oh! She’s comin’ ’round!”

      Cal felt set apart, like he was watching one of those reality shows on TV, as Dawn stirred and grimaced and finally opened her eyes. Talk about your life changing in an instant. He had thought—hoped—when he hadn’t heard after a month, that they’d been lucky. Not that the idea of making babies with Dawn Gardner hadn’t crossed his mind a time or six over the past decade or so. He just didn’t figure the fantasy was reciprocated, was all. Actually, judging from the edge to her voice when she mentioned the busted condom, he was sure of it.

      “Here, sugar,” Ethel was saying, simultaneously offering Dawn the water and wriggling her ample butt, stuffed as usual into a pair of jeans made for a woman a good size or two smaller, onto the edge of the sofa beside her. Cal noticed her peach-colored hair could do with a touch-up. “Drink this.”

      Dawn obeyed, her waist-length braid slipping back over her shoulder as she struggled to sit up so she could take the glass. It was always easier to just do what Ethel asked.

      “You look absolutely terrible, child,” Ethel said. “The heat got to you?”

      Now fully upright, if still wobbly, Dawn glanced at Cal, then smiled for Ethel. “That must be it,” she said, taking a sip of the water.

      Ethel crossed her arms over the sleeveless blouse crammed into those too-tight jeans and said, “Uh-huh,” which prompted Cal to ask if she didn’t have something she needed to be tending to in the kitchen, because he was not about to discuss this very private matter with anybody—not even Ethel—before he’d have five seconds to come to terms with it himself. News’d get out soon enough.

      Still, he was hard-pressed not to wither under Ethel’s glare before she popped to her feet, spun around hard enough to make her tennis shoe squeak against the floor, and marched back to the kitchen. The silence left in her wake was so heavy, Cal half expected the room to tilt.

      Dawn noiselessly set the glass down on the end table, then fingered the lace table topper, yellow with age. “I can’t believe this is still here.” She glanced around the room, frowning slightly at the collection of Early American furniture, the worn fake oriental rugs, the card table set up by the window with a half-finished jigsaw puzzle spread out on it. It occurred to him she hadn’t seen the living room the last time she was here, neither of them being much interested in a house tour just then. “Incredible. Everything’s exactly the same. From when we were kids, I mean. Even the piano,” she added with a nod toward the baby grand taking up the far corner of the room.

      Cal linked his arms across his chest. “I like it like this.”

      Her deep-brown eyes met his, her fingers curled around the edge of the sofa. That slightly pitying expression women got when faced with home-decor issues flickered across her features before she said, on a sigh, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, showing up out of the blue like this.”

      Worry settled into the pit of his stomach like it planned on staying for a while. She looked like death warmed over, too pale, too thin, no makeup, bits of her tea-colored hair—still long, even after all those years of living back East—hanging like tipsy snakes around her face. And yet, even motionless, she seemed to vibrate with the same restless energy that had marked her as different from everyone he knew—especially himself—from the time they were kids.

      “No problem. You feelin’ better?”

      “As opposed to being dead? Yeah, I suppose.”

      They needed to talk, he knew that, but he didn’t have a clue what to say. Or think, even. He kept trying to drive the words I’m gonna be a daddy through his skull, but they wouldn’t go. To be truthful, Cal had worked his way through a fair number of condoms in his time—he wasn’t much into torch-carrying—but this was the first time one had let him down. That it should do so at the precise moment somebody’s egg was moseying on down the pike was just not fair.

      Panic raced through him like a brushfire.

      He glanced outside, toward the barn and the pasture beyond. Toward that part of his life that was still what it had been ten minutes ago. It was selfish, yeah, but right now he needed to be somewhere where he felt like he knew what the hell he was doing. He looked back at Dawn, met her questioning gaze.

      “I don’t suppose you’d be up to takin’ a short walk? Just to the pasture?”

      Her answer was to take another sip of water, nod and get to her feet, that multicolored skirt floating around her ankles as she wordlessly followed Cal outside into the molten early-evening sunshine. The dogs massed around them, tongues lolling, butts wagging; Dawn spoke to each one, softly, her words still tinged with an Oklahoman tang, even after all this time. He also noticed, when he looked over, that her hair flamed.

      And so did he.

      No point denying either his memory of their encounter two months ago or his body’s reaction to her, he realized as they made their way to the pasture where several of his mares still grazed, yet to be brought in for the night. He knew she’d always felt uneasy in her own body, her legs too long, her breasts too large for her frame. So he’d been sure to show her that night—Cal had always been one to take advantage of an opportunity—the truth of the matter in as many ways as he could think of. Not that the size of her breasts mattered one whit to him, but he had to admit God had outdone Himself this time.

      And maybe it wasn’t right, his thinking about her breasts at this moment, but it wasn’t like he could forget them, for one thing. And for another, he’d always thought of sex as kind of a mental comfort food. It was hardly all he thought about, but when things got tough, he found letting his mind wander down that path brought him a certain measure of peace.

      “Cal? Wait a sec…”

      He turned. Dawn was leaning against the trunk of a cottonwood, her hands cupped over her nose and mouth. “The odor,” she mumbled from behind her hands. At his probably perplexed expression—it was just a little fresh dung, for heaven’s sake, and the wind was blowing away from them at that—she added, “Everything smells…stronger right now.”

      So much for peaceful thoughts. Not even thinking about Dawn’s breasts was going to do it this time.

      “Oh. Uh…you wanna go back…?”

      But she shook her head, pushing away from the tree and plastering on a fake smile. “Nope. All better. Let’s go.”

      Never mind that she looked like she was gonna hurl for sure.

      In the pasture, most of the mares, all pregnant, as well as the ten or so foals he was still hoping to sell before winter set in, stood in sociable clumps of twos and threes, like folks at a barbecue. Cinnamon, a sleek and sassy bay, pregnant with her ninth foal, ambled over to the fence, begging as usual. In this light, the mare’s coat and Dawn’s hair were nearly the same color.

      Cal patted the mare’s glistening neck, chuckling when she nibbled at his hair. The mare whuffled, nodding toward Dawn, then back to him.

      “Cindy, meet Dawn. She’s gonna have a baby, too.”

      He saw Dawn’s attention snap to him, but by then Cindy had cantilevered her massive head over the fence for some loving. Dawn was smart enough, or needy enough, not to turn down the horse’s offer. She linked the fingers of one hand in the horse’s bridle, stroking the mare’s white stripe with the other, an expression on her face like she wanted to somehow sink into the mare’s calmness and never come out. One of the barn cats, out for his evening hunt, rubbed up against her leg, marking her.

      “She’s gorgeous,” Dawn said of the mare. “They all are. What are they?”

      “Horses.”

      That got a laugh. Well, what you could hear around the snort. “No, doofus. I mean what…kinds. Breeds, whatever.”

      He