Chapter 3
Goldie
I don’t know if I should be frightened of Davis—if he’s making some kind of move on me, having lulled me into a false sense of security—or if I should lean into his touch. No one’s touched me with a gentle hand in so long. Not since the last time Aunt Lydia palmed my belly with tears shining in her eyes, smiling after the baby kicked her frail hand.
Davis watches me, his expression shifting to one of awe, his fingers flexing over the spot my baby kicks while my thoughts spin. Do I trust him or not? Do I try chancing it with someone else? Or do I walk the remainder of the way while hoping and praying that I don’t go into labor on the side of the road? When his eyes flare brighter, and he smiles from ear to ear as he rubs his hand up and down and across, waiting for the baby to kick again, I make my decision.
“Ok. Th-Thank you.”
He nods and finally stands after a long moment of staring, seemingly reluctant to pull his fingers away until the last second, as if what he just did—touching me like that, saying those kinds of things—isn’t a big deal. I don’t know what to make of him, other than that he seems genuinely generous and kind. Protective of a woman he doesn’t know simply because he thinks it’s the right thing, the decent thing to do. The kind of man I wish was the father of my baby and not the selfish asshole who decided he doesn’t give a shit about me or our baby after professing his love for me throughout our three-year-long relationship.
I need to scrub these thoughts from my brain, though. For all I know, Davis could end up being the worst man of all. The reality is that he is a complete stranger, and it would be foolish to compare him so soon to Colton or wonder what it would be like if I really were his woman. Silly. Stupid. Dangerous even. And a complete waste of time.
I palm my stomach, feeling the baby kick against my hand. This baby deserves a better father than the boy who helped make them. But women can do anything they put their minds to nowadays. We don’t need men to give us permission or sign off on the things we want to do like opening a bank account or buying a home like it was back in Aunt Lydia’s youth. I can and will do everything in my power to take care of my baby without Colton’s help, and my child will never lack for love or anything else.
When I look up, Davis is just standing there, still staring at me with an expression I can’t read. When I tilt my head in silent question, he says, “Come on. Let’s hit the restroom one more time before bed.”
* * *
I can not for the life of me get comfortable in the passenger seat, my back screaming at me since my Braxton Hicks contractions have amped up. Davis was gracious enough to let me sleep on the bed while he slept in his seat up front, but I know my tossing and turning kept waking him up.
I’m grumpy and fussy and eventually just give up trying to get comfortable altogether. I’ll be so damn relieved when this trip is over. I breathe in deep through my nose, waiting for the next Braxton Hicks contraction to pass.
“You ok there? You look a little flushed.” Davis frowns from his seat on the driver’s side, dressed in a similar version of the outfit he wore yesterday, this time in a red and gray flannel with a gray version of his football team’s ball cap.
“I’m fine, thanks. It’s just a little hot in here.”
I flash him a grateful smile when he leans over to adjust the air vents, and I’m hit with a blast of A/C. I’m sweating in this hoodie he bought me, but it’s too cozy to take off. I close my eyes, trying to picture what it’ll be like when Dad and I see each other for the first time in eleven years. How happy we’ll be to finally be a family again. And then the first thing I’m going to do after I inevitably bawl like a baby is excuse myself to the bedroom he said he set up for me and sleep for the next twenty-four hours.
Davis clears his throat. “So…your dad and your aunt…What’s the story there?”
My eyes pop open, and the tightness in my middle returns. “Story?”
“Yeah. If you don’t mind my asking, why were you living with your aunt in Nevada?”
“Oh, that story.” It’s not really something I was planning to share with him, especially after he got all he-man-she-woman about Colton and Dad and the kind of men slash fathers they are or are not . But we still have many hours to go until we get to the warehouse, and since I can’t sleep, I might as well talk to pass the time. “Promise you won’t judge?”
“Sure,” he agrees slowly, though it doesn’t sound all that convincing. “Hit me.”
“Fine. My mom is out of the picture. She was younger than me when she got pregnant, and I don’t think she was ready to have kids yet. She left before I turned two, so it was just me and my dad until he made some…bad decisions. I went to live with my aunt when I was eight.”
Davis’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel, and his jaw clenches a few times before he asks with grit in his teeth, “What kind of ‘bad decisions’?”
“You said you wouldn’t judge!” I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Who says I’m judging?”
“Your tone of voice and the fact that you’re about to break the steering wheel off,” I say with a scowl, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Shit.” Davis opens his hands, flexes his long fingers a few times, and relaxes them on the wheel. “Sorry. What kind of ‘bad decisions’?”
I eye him, trying to get a read on his body language. His knuckles have returned to his normal tan color, and he’s not grinding his teeth to nubs anymore, so I tell him the rest, hoping it’ll take my mind off these damn contractions.
“Well, he was…he was addicted to some…illegal substances, and he lost custody of me when he got arrested the last time. That’s why I had to go live with my aunt, who lives— lived —in Nevada.” I brace myself, knowing Davis is probably not going to like that. Not that I care what he does or doesn’t like , I tell myself.
Davis’s whole body is now as locked tight as his knuckles. “Your dad is an addict, and you’re gonna go live with him? Stay with him when you have your baby?”
Crap, I knew it . “ Was an addict, Judgey McJudgerson. Was ,” I stress. “He’s not anymore.”
“How do you know that? How do you know you’re not bringing your baby into an even worse situation?”
“Because he told me! We’ve been talking almost every day since my aunt got sick. He’s been clean since he went to prison. And now that he’s out, he’s been going to NA meetings and has to do drug tests as part of his parole. He’s clean and he’s my dad, so I trust him.”
“Goldie, damnit, I—” Davis shakes his head and presses his lips together in a thin line.
I know he’s probably got a lot more he wants to say, but I don’t want to hear it. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.” I edge toward the window, choosing to watch the passing landscape of thick, brown woods. Half the trees are missing their leaves, but it’s still wildly beautiful and so different from the desert. Both environments are gorgeous, but these woods are calling me home, back to a time when my class went on a field trip to a state park in elementary school. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed living in Texas.
Davis sighs heavily but thankfully keeps his mouth shut. The practice contractions are worse now, but concentrating on the trees is better than listening to whatever judgey things he’s got to say, so I focus on them as the miles tick by.
Davis
Goldie intermittently scowls between grimaces, staring out of her window, keeping quiet the last few hours as we get closer to home. I’ve known her for less than twenty-four hours, but it seems I’m really good at pissing her off and being judgmental—both with her piece of shit baby daddy and also her real daddy.
The kicker is that I know several people who have been through recovery and are actually really great people. Hell, most of them have more of their shit together than I do and are happy, thriving , while I spend the majority of my time alone and miserable on the road. So what the fuck is wrong with me that I’m judging her dad instead of giving him the benefit of the doubt? Is it because it’s her that he abandoned when she was just a kid? Or am I just a plain and simple judgmental asshole and never had someone point it out before?
“Home sweet home,” I announce as we cross the county line. “Not too much longer ‘til we get to the warehouse.”
Goldie perks up, and her head is on a swivel as she takes in the woods that break to open land with a view of the lake Dad used to take Amanda and me to when we wanted to go fishing as kids. Since it’s winter, there aren’t too many people out on the water, but there are a few riding jet skis with some smaller boats crossing the lake in the distance.
“Wow, this is where you live?”
“Yeah. The humidity is soul-sucking come spring—I don’t know if you remember that—but the land is beautiful. My house is about another ten-minute drive from the warehouse, just before you get to town. I’ve got these same kinds of trees surrounding the property.”
“Have you always lived here?”
“Yup. Couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Plus, my mom and dad are buried here, and I could…could never leave them.”
Goldie reaches across and lightly rests her hand on my forearm. It’s the first time she’s initiated contact, and I nearly lose my breath at how right it feels. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks,” I say with a croak.
“Family means a lot to you, huh?”
“Of course. Family is the only thing that matters.”
“If you’re this nice to a stranger who broke into your truck and pointed a gun at you, then I can only imagine how lucky they were to have you.” Goldie removes her hand and drops it in her lap, and I already miss her touch.
Trying to lighten the mood, I tease her by asking, “Even if I’m a judgmental asshole?”
“Just the teensiest bit,” she says sarcastically with an unexpected laugh, then sucks in a harsh breath and clutches her stomach.
“You ok?” Without thinking, I reach across and lay by hand on her belly. I can’t feel as much as I’d like with the thick hoodie in the way, but there’s something different about it. Harder, maybe?
“Yeah, yeah, it’s just these Braxton Hicks kicking my butt. I’ll be happy to get out of this truck and stretch. My back is killing me.”
Resisting the urge to ask her to pull her hoodie up so I can palm her bare skin, I ask, “Are you sure it’s just Braxton Hicks?”
“Yeah. Nothing to worry about,” she says as she wipes away a drop of sweat from her temple with her sleeve, even with the A/C blasting and me shivering in my boots. “I’m only thirty-eight weeks, so I’ve got another week or two to get through before I get to the real deal.”
I nod, but my mind is spinning. I thought she was just angry with me, but if she’s been having contractions this whole time, it’s possible—“There’s the warehouse,” I point out. I slow the truck as we crest a small hill, then swing out and pull into the lot.
“Oh, thank god. I really need to use the restroom.” I’m sure she does after I kept prompting her to sip her water to stay hydrated and keep cool.
It takes a few minutes to back the truck up to the loading dock. Goldie’s clutching her stomach again, which heightens my worry. After packing up my rig and grabbing my duffel bag, I hop out and wave to Russell, the owner of Berenson Trucking, who comes out of the front office to greet me. I keep one eye on Goldie through the window as Russell and I talk.
He follows my gaze and asks in his thick drawl, “We got another Wyatt and Dolly situation on our hands?”
Yes . “No. It’s not like that.”
He raises a dark brown brow that’s recently started going gray. “You sure about that?”
No, I’m not sure , but I’m also not going to get into it with him when I need to help Goldie out of the truck. Leaving Russell’s question unanswered, I open the passenger door and carefully help her out.
This time, instead of holding back, I slip my hand under her hoodie when she turns around, making her gasp and her gray eyes widen with surprise. I rub my hand up and down her warm, bare skin, my knees weak as my mind conjures up a vision of me kneeling before her to kiss her belly. I push the absurd vision away to concentrate, and yup, there’s definitely something different about her. I don’t know much about pregnancy and labor, but even I can tell her belly is sitting lower than it was yesterday.
“Are you sure you’re ok, Goldie? Not to be an asshole, but your face is pretty red and sweaty.”
“I told you, I’m fine. These are just the practice ones. They’ll stop once I walk around and stretch my legs.” She smiles through small, gritted teeth, and alarm bells are ringing in my head.
Reluctantly, I drop my hand and move around her to grab her backpack from the passenger side footwell before closing the door. Keeping my hand low on Goldie’s back, I steer her toward the office so she can use the restroom before we leave. She hisses when we get to the glass door and clutches my sleeve.
“Seriously, honey, I hate to sound like a broken record, but are you sure—”
“Oh my god!” She groans and doubles over in front of me with a death grip on the door handle.
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t look! Oh god, this is so embarrassing,” she whines.
“What’s embarrassing?” I ask with a raised voice, increasingly concerned as I sweep her curtain of hair behind her shoulder so I can see her face. So silky and smooth and so damn pretty. Young, though. Too young for me to be thinking about how pretty she is and how much I love slipping my fingers through her golden-red hair.
“I knew I should have asked you to stop so I could use the restroom earlier. Turn around!” she shouts when she straightens and sees I’ve got my eyes glued to her stomach. She reaches for her backpack on my shoulder. “Is there anywhere I can change my clothes?”
I don’t turn around, and I drop my eyes to her leggings, which are damp below her hoodie, confirming my suspicions. “Honey, I don’t think you had an accident, and I don’t think those were Braxton Hicks.”
Her reddened face twists in pain, and she doubles over again. “No! They’re just…I just need to change and get to my dad’s, and—” A low, guttural groan cuts her off mid-sentence, and she pants for air with her hands now braced on her knees.
“I’d wager that was your water breaking. And the fact that you’re already in so much pain means we probably don’t have time to make the two-hour drive to your dad’s place. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“But they’re not real contractions,” she argues, though she doesn’t sound so sure anymore.
“No arguments. I told you I’d take care of you, and I’m not driving you anywhere but the hospital.” I leave her leaning against the office door, find my keys in my duffel bag, and jog across the parking lot.
I pull to a stop next to Goldie and hop out of my pride and joy—a cherry red 1995 Ford F150 with an extended cab that I saved up for and bought used right out of high school. Goldie is panting harder, looking both miserable and terrified. Her groans are coming closer together, and I’m willing to bet she’s been in a hell of a lot more pain than she’s been letting on.
“Time to go, honey.” I help her shuffle toward the truck with her hand clutched in mine, and I boost her up onto the bench seat. Russell, who had been watching the scene unfold with brows raised to damn near his peppery hairline, waves me away when I tell him I’m taking her to the hospital.
I pull into the ER lane and leave Goldie in the truck while I run inside to find a nurse. He follows me outside with a wheelchair, and I help Goldie out and into the chair. Someone curses and yells at me to move my truck, so I race to find a parking spot—which takes way too damn long—then run inside the building with Goldie’s backpack.
When I can’t find her in the waiting room, I ask the nurse at the front desk, “Where’s Goldie—I mean, Marigold?”
“Are you the father?” The nurse asks me with a kind smile, tapping away at the keyboard the whole time.
My heart is racing. I don’t know how these things work—if I’ll be allowed into Goldie’s room if the staff know I’m not the father. I barely know the girl, but this powerful sense of responsibility toward her and the baby can’t be ignored. So, without hesitation, I lie. “Yes, I’m the dad.”