HAVEN'T THOUGHT OF BABIES

"I'll do it," Francisca declared, taking the apron from him and tying it around her waist. "I want to."

"Do what?" Andrew asked with a blank expression.

"You don't know anything about cleaning or cooking," Rose pointed out.

"I cooked in college, when we had the dorm with the kitchen. And how hard can cleaning be?"

"Bobby's not going to like this," Andrew said.

"You are a guest."

"Not for long," the young woman declared. "In eight days this will be my home."

Rose realized her mouth was hanging open and quickly pressed her lips together. Francisca now saw herself as a ranch wife, which meant there was no way she would allow herself be talked out of it. "She's right," Rose declared. "She may as well learn what she's getting into."

Francisca rolled her eyes. "You make it sound horrible, Aunt Roro."

"Not horrible," Rose said, blinking away a startling and appealing vision of making breakfast to share with Andrew at sunrise. "Just different from what you are used to."

"Now you have to stay," her niece insisted. "So I can prove to you that I can do this. But I can't plan my one and only wedding without your help."

"All right," she said, knowing full well she couldn't deny Francisca anything. "I will help you plan the wedding, but you are on your own in the kitchen."

Rose avoided Andrew's look of triumph. The truth was she hated to think of missing Francisca's wedding. If it really was going to happen, she wanted to be there. Surely she could manage to keep her clothes on for eight more days.

Less, once Francisca realized there was more to getting married than being in love.

"WE CAN WAIT EIGHT MORE DAYS," Francisca declared, turning to kiss her fiancé. He stood behind her at the sink and nuzzled the back of her neck. Somehow he had managed to unzip her jeans while she was washing the dishes. All those pots and pans wouldn't fit into the dishwasher, which was disappointing.

"Eight days?"

"Until our wedding night."

He sighed. "You are killin' me, honey."

"It's only eight days," she assured him. And felt quite virtuous for doing so. "Can you hand me that frying pan over there?"

His hands, which had managed to slide up from her waist to her breasts, slowly left her. Bobby shifted to the right and grabbed the pan. "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"It's only eight..."

"Not that. This cooking and cleaning thing."

Bobby leaned against the counter and watched her scrub dried egg from the pan. The darn stuff stuck like glue to the sides. "I can find another housekeeper."

"Andrew said you couldn't."

"Well, he doesn't know everything. I will bet I could scared up one somewhere."

"Right now you don't need one."

"We will when the babies start coming."

"Babies?" Francisca hadn't thought of having babies. At least not right away. Not until she was twenty-nine. Or thirty. Or thirty-five.

"Sure." Bobby winked at her before moving toward the door. "I'm gonna need three or four sons to help me run this place. See you later."

Of course he was only teasing her, Francisca thought, turning on the water to rinse the soap off the pans before putting them in the dish drainer. She heard the door slam, heard his booted footsteps on the wooden porch floor as he headed to whatever he was doing. For a man who ran a large ranch, Bobby Calhoun seemed to have a lot of free time. She eyed the stack of pots and grabbed a dish towel from it's hook by the sink. Maybe she should have asked him to help dry.

"YOU HAVE GOT IT BAD, BOSS," Dusty said, and pulled two bottles of beer out of the bunkhouse refrigerator. He set them on the table and sat down, motioning for Andrew to join him

"Yeah?" Dusty was about his age, but Andrew didn't

*****

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