The doorbell’s sudden chime made her feel worse. “No,” she said aloud, “not this early.”
Was Dallas at the front door again with more plans for the rodeo? His enthusiasm was contagious, and she’d certainly stepped into the event with both feet last night. The soft yearning she’d seen in his eyes, the obvious pain caused by his birth parents—and that must be only half the story—had done the trick. That, and her own cowardice. She wanted to do the right thing. She’d tried several times to tell him about this baby, but then Dallas had claimed he wasn’t marriage material or a great prospect as a father, and she’d lost whatever nerve she had. He might not want a family, yet she guessed he needed something.
When the bell rang again, she flung back the covers, stood without thinking, and another wave of nausea rolled through her. Elizabeth clung to the bedpost until her stomach settled, then grabbed yesterday’s jeans and tunic. Taking no time to comb her hair, she flew down the stairs.
Not quite to her surprise, instead of Dallas, Bernice was trying to see through the frosted side glass in the front door. Elizabeth unlocked then opened it. With bleary eyes, she studied the Pyrex dish in the other woman’s hands before Bernice walked into the house as if she’d been invited. “I’ve brought my special breakfast casserole.”
The very thought of food roiled her stomach again. “That was thoughtful of you, but I’m not hungry.”
Bernice, brown-haired and brown-eyed, was already bustling down the hall to the kitchen. With a sinking feeling, Elizabeth went after her. What do you want? She could guess the answer to that. Several times this summer Bernice had shown up with such an offering, her way of getting into the house. Who is the young man who just moved in? she’d asked her first visit. And more recently she’d suggested, With Harry and the children gone, you must be lonely.
Bernice shoved the casserole into Elizabeth’s microwave, found the coffee canister and set the machine to brew. While Elizabeth looked helplessly on, she pulled mugs from the upper cupboard, plates from the lower one, obviously familiar with the layout of Elizabeth’s kitchen. “My appetite’s never good before coffee either,” Bernice said, assessing Elizabeth’s pale face, “but I can see that with everyone away you’re not eating well.”
She couldn’t deny that. She was trying to keep her last meal down right now. “You’re probably right.”
The microwave dinged. While Bernice poured coffee then served, Elizabeth did her best not to bolt for the bathroom. She refused the coffee, then nudged her plate aside. “Bernice, I’m in a bit of a rush today. I’ll save these eggs—”
“With ham, onion, cheese, a touch of fine herbes...” As a longtime widow, and with no job, without grandchildren to spoil, Bernice likely had time on her hands, and Elizabeth figured cooking, when she didn’t eat out, was better than Bernice watching out her window. Still, Elizabeth didn’t care to become her latest project. Nor was Bernice alone. Her mother was part of that club.
Trying to remember her manners, Elizabeth rose. “I wish I could chat, but I really need to get to work.”
Bernice touched her arm. “Before you go, I just want to say I think Harry did you a terrible disservice. Your mother doesn’t agree, and I also used to think he was an outstanding mayor, a model husband and father, but...”
“That wasn’t true.” Elizabeth dropped into her chair again. All right, let’s get this out in the open. After Bernice left, she’d have to call Becca to say she’d be late. “What’s on your mind, Bernice? Mom says you mean well, but you’ve made a habit of crossing the street to probe about one subject or another ever since Harry moved out.”
Bernice cut her portion of the casserole into ever smaller pieces. “I was happy to see someone rent the Whittaker house but...really, Elizabeth? I’ve seen Mr. Maguire cutting your grass. I heard voices only last night—”
“What?” Elizabeth said sharply. As she’d suspected, even sitting in her backyard with Dallas hadn’t worked to avoid prying eyes. At Olivia’s shop she’d tried to defuse such interest in Dallas from her mother, but Bernice needed the same line drawn in the sand. “It’s not enough that my entire life turned upside down—because of Harry—or that, yes, I’m the subject of everyone’s constant scrutiny, but it seems people aren’t just talking. They’re spying.”
Bernice bristled. “I’ve done no such thing.”
Elizabeth wouldn’t dignify that with an answer. How often had she seen Bernice at her window, the draperies pulled back, peering out across the street? It was a wonder she didn’t use a pair of binoculars. Perhaps she did. “I don’t need to be watched—or minded like a five-year-old. If you have questions about me and Dallas Maguire, ask them. Bernice, please, go ahead. I’m sure my mother will hear a report from you before I leave for work.”
Bernice’s eyes snapped. “How dare you speak to me this way. This is a quiet neighborhood. Hardworking people, families, don’t need such goings-on on this street. Near my own house!”
Elizabeth was shaking so hard her teeth threatened to click together. “I did nothing wrong, not when I was married to Harry and he was cheating behind my back, and not after our divorce. Last night Dallas and I were working together on his rodeo, a charity event to benefit this town. He doesn’t have to do that. He could let his injuries heal until he’s ready to go back to the rodeo circuit, spend time with his brother instead, but he wants to contribute—and I’m helping, which my mother already knows, so I can save you the trip to see her. Or did she tell you?”
Neither of them had eaten a bite of Bernice’s casserole, and their two coffee cups were still full. “You would do far better to keep company with my son,” Bernice said. “He’s a respected citizen
