The Rancher's Untamed Heart

"He might know my name, but he doesn't remember that I don't do fieldwork right now," Sarah said. She gestured down at her belly, which seemed larger and rounder every week.

"I am not hauling my pregnant ass around in cow muck for six hours," she said.

"Two hours of cow muck is your limit right now?" I asked.

"I wish. You should see the bathroom at our house. Pretty sure my Neil doesn't know what a toilet brush is, and that's another thing I'm not doing right now," she said. I wondered if Clint cleaned his own toilet, and tried to remember the actual subject that we were discussing.

"Herman forgot you're on light duty?" I asked.

"Forgot, doesn't care, not clear," she said. "He tried to send me out on the Cannon ranch inspection last week, but I turfed it to you."

"Oh," I said, trying to seem casual. "Thanks for the extra work, can always use that."

Before she could see how not-actually-casual I was, I tried to deflect her to a category no pregnant woman I'd ever met could resist.

"So, ready to have that baby?" I asked.

"Oh. My. God," she said, punctuating each word with a stamp of her foot. "I feel like I have been pregnant forever. I will never stop being pregnant. All I am is a walking, talking, fetus warmer. My job is to put enough nutrients in my body to keep my baby from sucking too much of my youth out."

"You have a good start there," I said, gesturing at her enormous salad.

The rest of our lunch passed pretty casually, talking about Sarah's pregnancy and husband, and the duties we'd have for the rest of the week.

On the walk back, slow for Sarah's pregnant self, she laughed suddenly.

"At least you're getting laid," she said. "That should improve your mood."

I shifted my feet. "Actually," I began.

"Please don't tell me that he is too Mormon to actually have sex with you," she groaned. "Not again."

"No, but he's old-fashioned," I said.

"Old-fashioned?" she asked. "Old-fashioned? Come on, girl, you have got to pick the ones that will put out someday."

My laughter echoed on the quiet street, and I kept my next words down. "I'm pretty sure he'll put out just fine, Sarah, he just wants to wait a few months."

"How many?" she demanded.

"Well, six," I admitted.

"Hah," she retorted. "I give you five weeks, and if you don't buy me a cookie tomorrow, I'll start an office-wide betting pool."

"Well, my honor is definitely worth the price of a cookie," I deadpanned. "What kind do you desire, O pregnant mistress of the office?"

"Peanut butter, and sarcasm means you owe me two," she said, happily.

Back at my office, I sat down and stretched before I got back to work, letting my purse trail from my fingers and swing in thin air behind my desk.

Feeli

ng better for food and conversation, I relaxed and put my purse back underneath my desk. I slipped my phone out of my pocket and placed it on the desk by my keyboard in case Clint sent me a text message.

That was pretty rare, but there was no reason not to hope.

Before I got started on my real work, I started to make sure that my desk was organized. I skimmed through my physical inbox and outbox - why can’t government offices actually go paperless like they were supposed to ten years ago? - to make sure that everything was correctly filed.

Everything seemed in order.