Chapter 13
Tessa
Seriously?!
Of course the broody hot cowboy would end up being the guy who’s suing us. The guy whose electric fence I breached. The guy who slung me over a horse like Tarzan.
So far, “Oh, and I’m pregnant with your baby” hasn’t organically worked its way into our conversation because how would it organically work into any conversation?
Once we get to town, Fitz pulls his horse to a stop, but there’s no indication of a medical facility anywhere around here.
He slides off the saddle, and I start to follow him.
“What the heck do you think you’re doing?
Stay there.” He points at me like he’s ordering around a surly goat, but since my skinny skirt doesn’t offer me much leeway, I do what I’m told.
“Bossy,” I grumble.
He rolls his eyes.
I pet the horse’s neck as Fitz walks us to a fence a few feet down the road and ties Dolly’s bridle to the wood.
Then he slips an arm beneath me and slides me from the horse to the ground, careful not to let me put weight on my injured ankle.
The whole motion has the grace of a dancer, and I wonder where this gruff cowboy got his gentle ways.
“Lean your weight on me. Don’t be shy,” he grunts, pulling me toward him with a large hand on my waist. He’s strong enough that I don’t have much hope of pulling out of his grip, and giving in is easier than arguing.
Leaning against his side, I inhale the rugged scent of pine and sage and recall our night together a month ago. It feels like a year ago. So much has changed, and yet I still feel just as attracted to him in broad daylight. Maybe more so.
I wish I didn’t.
His arm loops around my shoulders again like he owns me. He puts his other hand on my hip, steadying me and holding the weight off my ankle. I’m practically floating under the raw strength of him.
We hobble toward a small adobe that could easily be a house or a library. Fitz pulls a heavy brown barn door open to reveal a clean, white room that appears to be a state-of-the-art medical clinic.
Nodding at the receptionist behind the check-in desk, Fitz ushers us to a pair of empty seats and wordlessly supports most of my weight until I drop onto a padded bench. Then he walks over to a water cooler.
I watch his jeans-clad ass and muscled legs move through the room, certain that everyone with a pulse has stopped to stare. He comes back with two cups of water, hands one to me, and sits on the bench.
I’m aware of the hum of people talking among themselves, and a couple of them point at Fitz or raise a hand in greeting. He nods and returns their gestures, then tips his head down.
I sneak a glimpse at him in his dark-washed jeans and long-sleeved gray tee and wonder what he was doing before he rode up and found me in the dirt.
I’m about to ask when a door opens, and a nurse nods at me.
I look at Fitz questioningly and tip my head toward the half dozen people in the room who have been waiting longer.
“Let’s go,” he says.
He helps me up and ushers me through the door to a small exam room, where he lifts me onto an exam table and slides the boots from my feet. He tucks them in a corner and sits on a rolling stool.
The nurse, dressed in light-blue scrubs, takes my vital signs and asks for my medical history, which she types into an iPad. Then she hands me what looks like a paper gown, but if she thinks I’m changing into that with Fitz in the room, she has another thing coming.
“It’s a modesty shield.” She points at my skirt. “You can drape it over your lap since your skirt is short.”
“Oh. Okay.” I unfold it and drape it over myself, but I hardly feel less exposed.
“Allergies to any medications?” she asks.
“Nope. I’m good.”
My mouth suddenly feels dry, and my heart starts racing as I anticipate answering personal questions with Fitz sitting right there. I also want to check and make sure everything is okay with the baby after my fall, but…My palms are sweaty, and I feel dizzy.
“Family history of anything on this list?” She hands me the iPad, where I scan the list of ailments from heart disease to gout.
I glance at Fitz, considering asking him to give me some privacy, but he’s scrolling on his phone and doesn’t seem to be overly invested in my medical history.
It’s just my ankle we’re dealing with, after all, so I suppose there’s no harm in him sitting here while the doctor examines it.
“Nothing. Healthy ancestors,” I say, my voice an octave too high.
“Date of your last menstrual period?”
My stomach drops. I start to sweat, and my pulse pounds in my ears. I do all sorts of mental gymnastics, trying to remember the date of my last period, which was over two months ago, and then a few backflips and cartwheels, figuring out how to get out of answering the question.
“Um…”
“Approximate is fine.”
I blink as though she’s asked me to find the square root of the national debt in my head. I go so long without answering that Fitz finally looks up.
“June twenty-first,” I blurt out. “Approximately. My cycle is irregular.”
The nurse hesitates before typing. “Are you pregnant or breastfeeding?”
Words choke in my throat. My face heats.
I look away from Fitz, hoping he doesn’t notice.
In all the scenarios I worked through in my mind before driving out here, a few included blurting my news at the Hitching Post over loud music or following him out to the parking lot.
None included me wearing a modesty shield in an urgent care clinic.
“I-I don’t see what any of that has to do with my ankle,” I stutter. “And, in fact, it feels fine. I think I just bruised it, so…”
“These are routine questions.” The nurse looks at the iPad, as though to make sure the question is still there.
“Irrelevant routine questions. Should we just go? I feel fine, really.” Why can’t I show this much swagger when I depose a witness for one of the partners’ cases? I wriggle to get up, but Fitz shoots me a glare.
“Just answer the question and don’t make things harder than they need to be.”
“Um, no?” My response sounds like a question I can’t answer myself, and I feel like a weakling.
The nurse has been looking between Fitz and me. Then she starts coughing into her elbow. Fitz asks if she needs some water, and she nods and points him out of the room. “I know where it is. Be right back.”
The second the door closes, the coughing stops. “You’re pregnant.”
My heart floods with relief. I nod, touched that a stranger understands. “Yes, I think so.”
“You think so? Do you want me to run a test?”
“No, no. I’ve been to the doctor. I didn’t want to discuss it in front of Fitz. I don’t know him that well. But I did fall, and I want to make sure the baby is okay.”
“I doubt you have anything to worry about, but let’s do a quick check.”
She plugs in a Doppler, and moments later, I hear the whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat, strong and steady. It hits differently now that Fitz is right in the next room. I feel a surge of emotion at the sound of the baby.
Our baby.
“Sounds perfect. I’m putting a note in your chart about the pregnancy, but I’ll let the doctor know to keep it confidential.”
“Thank you.” I sense a rare opportunity to dig for information. “Also, I’m not from here, but I noticed a lot of people seem to know Fitz. What’s that about?”
She laughs. “You really aren’t from here. John Fitzgerald owns half the land in this town and pays half the taxes. You’re either an FOF or you’re on the wrong side of history.”
“FOF?”
“Friend of Fitz.”
I’m dying to ask more, but the door swings open and Fitz returns with the water. The nurse resumes her coughing and gratefully chugs down the glass. “Thanks, you saved the day. The doctor will be in shortly.” Then she takes her iPad and shuts the door.
“What was that about?” Fitz asks as soon as the door closes.
I wave my hand, dismissing the question as though I’m the innocent party here. “I don’t know why they have to go overboard with my medical history for a hurt ankle. There are privacy laws, you know.”
“Lawyers.” He rolls his eyes.
“Isn’t there somewhere else you need to be, firefighter? Surely there’s a cat in a tree that needs rescuing.”
“More fun to rescue a lady from the dirt pile.”
“I'm not taking my clothes off in front of you, in case that's why you stuck around.”
“Oh, Duchess, I don't need to escort you to a doctor's office to get you to do that, remember?”
“That was a one-night thing.”
“I recall.”
“Good, I'm glad your memory works.”
“Honey, it does. And I’m not going to lie. You’re the best memory I’ve had in a long time, but I know what one-and-done means.”
I don’t want to like this man. It will be so much easier to tell him I’m pregnant, let him know I have no expectations of him, and go on my merry way. But despite myself, I do like him, that gruff exterior and reluctant inner kindness.
The door swings open, and a doctor comes in. He shakes Fitz's hand. Then he turns to me. “I'm Dr. Cassidy. I hear we have an injury.”
Fitz starts talking before I can open my mouth. “She took a fall, likely sprained her ankle. I figured you should take a look, but my advice was for her to stay off it for a few days.”
Dr. Cassidy laughs. “Because you know everything. Right, Fitz?”
Fitz nods. “Sure as shit. How many times did we sprain our ankles as kids playing basketball?”
“More times than I can count, but I’m glad you had the good sense to bring her here for an x-ray.”
He points at the stool, and Fitz relinquishes it so the doctor can roll over to me. He puts my foot on top of his thigh and palpates my shin and ankle, asking me what hurts and what doesn't. I yelp and nod and explain where it hurts.
“I wish I could say it was something as sporty as basketball, but I was climbing up a
sandy hill and I slid.”
“Because she was wearing stilettos.” Fitz points accusingly.
“Very sensible pumps.”
“Nothing sensible about climbing a mound of dirt and weeds in pumps.”
I let out an exasperated sigh and try to ignore him. “I think I hit a tree root or stepped in a hole and lost my balance. My ankle twisted, and I slid down the hill.”
The doctor rolls away and makes some notes on his own iPad. “I'm going to take a quick x-ray, but I'm betting it's just a bad sprain. You'll want to wrap it, ice it, elevate it, and take some anti-inflammatories for the pain and swelling.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Fitz says, extending his hand again.
“No worries. I know you'll make it up to me.”
“The Holloway is doing a tasting menu next month, and I’ll put your name down for dinner with Betsy any time you want. Bring friends if you want.”
“Not gonna say no.”
Fitz helps me hobble over to the x-ray machine and waits while Dr. Cassidy reads the scans and confirms that I do, in fact, have a bad sprain.
He wraps my ankle in a bandage, which allows me to put more pressure on it.
“Let the pain be your gauge. And no more hill climbing until it heals, please. Fitz, get her some decent trail shoes, at least,” Dr. Cassidy says.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m already on it.” I shoot him a look, wondering if he’s serious. “For now, these oughtta work. Big enough not to interfere with the bandage.”
Fitz slides the cowboy boots back onto my feet and guides us out a side door that bypasses the checkout desk.
“Wait, I have my insurance card,” I say, trying to fish my wallet out of my purse.
“We’re good. Don’t worry about it.” Fitz directs me down a side alley to the street.
“Because of the tasting menu you mentioned? Is that how you guys pay for stuff here, everything on the barter system?”
Fitz stops and turns to face me. “Yes, someday maybe we’ll go on the gold standard, but for now, a pound of grain pays for a dental exam, and a hog gets your house painted. This isn’t the nineteenth century, Duchess.”
From our spot on the sidewalk, I look around.
All the buildings are Spanish adobe, and the homes we passed on our ride were ranch-style or traditional California Craftsman, similar to the older neighborhoods in LA.
The sky is an impossible blue color with a few dots of clouds that seem too lazy in the late afternoon to bother moving.
“Whatever it is, it seems pretty awesome to me.” I look in the direction of where Fitz left Dolly tied to a rail, but he turns me in the other direction.
“Come on, I'm hungry.”
“Yeah? What if I’m not?” I am, but I don’t like him bossing me. “I have a busy day.”
“Not too busy to go peeping around other people’s property. Come on, lemme show you where folks eat ‘around here’ when they’re not busy exchanging tanned hides for salt.”
“Very funny.” I’m beginning to understand that between my lame ankle and a stubborn cowboy, I don't have a lot of choices. I'm still hobbling, and I don't know my way around town. Not to mention that he's my ride back to the ranch.
So I cling to his elbow like Grandma Ann does with Gramps and limp along next to him.
Only in this case, Fitz is ridiculously and unfairly attractive, tanned and muscular, and I can’t help staring at his forearm.
His raw strength and pine scent, which overwhelm my senses, make me lean harder against him for reasons that have nothing to do with my injury.
He opens a tiny red door in an adobe building with a sign that reads “Madre’s” and walks me inside. The smell of spicy char-grill hits me immediately.
“Oh my god, what is that?” I ask, noticing that every tiny table is full and the line at the counter is long.
Strings of red peppers hang from the rough beams above, and a floor-to-ceiling cabinet holds painted ceramics in bright colors.
Bright woven art hangs from the pale plastered walls, and the floors are Saltillo tiles.
But it’s the incredible garlicky, sweet chili scent that has my mouth watering.
Fitz guides me to a bench and props my leg up on it before going to the back of the line, which already has at least a dozen people in it. The place is teeming with energy, and nobody seems to mind sharing the tight space with everyone else in line.
Apparently, the promise of a good tamale is worth it all.
As soon as we’ve eaten, I’ll stop stalling and tell Fitz I’m pregnant. And hope that his tamales don’t end up on the sidewalk.