reasons why there should be no lasting repercussions from this morning's event. Surely Roxanne was on some sort of birth control? Yeah. Sure. Had to be. Woman with her past must take precautions all the time. There was nothing to sweat. But just in case she wasn't on birth control, he thought uneasily, luck couldn't have been so against them that they had happened to go crazy just when she was ripe and fertile. But what if she had been ovulating? Feeling like a fist had just slammed into his chest, he groaned and buried his head in his hands. Jesus! He didn't want to think about this. Didn't even want to think for one second about Roxanne having an abortion. Didn't want to think about her bearing his child and tripping off to New York with it. What he discovered to his fascinated horror was that he liked the possibility of the pair of them raising a child together. He froze, his eyes almost starting from his handsome head. The idea that he had actually considered having a child with Roxanne made him break out in a cold sweat.
He sat up and ran a hand across his forehead. He felt a little hot. Maybe he was coming down with something. Summer flu? A cold? Brain fever? Yeah, his brain was all scrambled, fevered. That was it. He was sick. His brain not processing information the right way.
Getting up from the couch, he walked into his bedroom to the master bathroom and opening the medicine cabinet took out a bottle of aspirin. He swallowed two of them, threw some cold water on his face, and accompanied by the two dogs, lay down on his bed. The dogs joined him, Dawg laying her head on his chest and Boss on the opposite side curling up next to his hip.
Both dogs were mixed breeds—Boss part Dobie and shepherd with maybe some pit bull thrown in for good measure; Dawg appeared to be some sort of poodle/cow dog cross and if her wrinkled forehead was anything to go by, sharpei. He'd found Boss five years ago, a half-grown, half-starved black and tan pup prowling around Joe's Market, and even knowing he was being a soft-hearted fool had taken pity on him and brought him home. Even at that young age, from the size of his feet, Jeb had known that Boss would grow up to be a big dog and he'd been right. Boss's back came to Jeb's knee, and he was close to seventy-five pounds. Dawg was smaller, her head barely reached Jeb's knee, and like Boss she'd been a stray. She'd just shown up one day about four years ago, a spotted curly-haired puppy not weaned for very long, starving and dehydrated. She'd been lying in the shade next to Boss's kennel and had met Jeb with a shyly wagging tail when he'd come home from a particularly bad day—a murder/suicide on the coast, father, mother, and six-month-old baby. He'd taken one look at the flea-bitten, mangy little lump of skin and bones and some of the anger and pain of the day ebbed. It had been, Jeb informed her frequently, Dawg's lucky day. Neither dog would ever be called beautiful, neither having picked up the best genes from their respective parents—whatever they may have been—but they suited Jeb just fine.
The familiar weight of Dawg's head on his chest comforted him, as did the warmth radiating from Boss. Absently he scratched Dawg's floppy ears, trying not to think about Roxanne, sex, or the prospect of parenthood. It was difficult. Just about the time his thoughts would be drifting in another direction, like steel to a magnet, they would switch right back to Roxanne and this morning's events.
Finally he gave up trying not to think about it and attempted to consider the situation realistically. After chasing various scenarios around in his mind for the better part of two hours, he concluded that if, and it was a big if, Roxanne did become pregnant, he would support her in whatever decision she made about the baby. He would support her, emotionally, financially, morally, whatever—with no strings. His mouth twisted. That would be the hard part—no strings. And in the meantime, if fate
He sat up and ran a hand across his forehead. He felt a little hot. Maybe he was coming down with something. Summer flu? A cold? Brain fever? Yeah, his brain was all scrambled, fevered. That was it. He was sick. His brain not processing information the right way.
Getting up from the couch, he walked into his bedroom to the master bathroom and opening the medicine cabinet took out a bottle of aspirin. He swallowed two of them, threw some cold water on his face, and accompanied by the two dogs, lay down on his bed. The dogs joined him, Dawg laying her head on his chest and Boss on the opposite side curling up next to his hip.
Both dogs were mixed breeds—Boss part Dobie and shepherd with maybe some pit bull thrown in for good measure; Dawg appeared to be some sort of poodle/cow dog cross and if her wrinkled forehead was anything to go by, sharpei. He'd found Boss five years ago, a half-grown, half-starved black and tan pup prowling around Joe's Market, and even knowing he was being a soft-hearted fool had taken pity on him and brought him home. Even at that young age, from the size of his feet, Jeb had known that Boss would grow up to be a big dog and he'd been right. Boss's back came to Jeb's knee, and he was close to seventy-five pounds. Dawg was smaller, her head barely reached Jeb's knee, and like Boss she'd been a stray. She'd just shown up one day about four years ago, a spotted curly-haired puppy not weaned for very long, starving and dehydrated. She'd been lying in the shade next to Boss's kennel and had met Jeb with a shyly wagging tail when he'd come home from a particularly bad day—a murder/suicide on the coast, father, mother, and six-month-old baby. He'd taken one look at the flea-bitten, mangy little lump of skin and bones and some of the anger and pain of the day ebbed. It had been, Jeb informed her frequently, Dawg's lucky day. Neither dog would ever be called beautiful, neither having picked up the best genes from their respective parents—whatever they may have been—but they suited Jeb just fine.
The familiar weight of Dawg's head on his chest comforted him, as did the warmth radiating from Boss. Absently he scratched Dawg's floppy ears, trying not to think about Roxanne, sex, or the prospect of parenthood. It was difficult. Just about the time his thoughts would be drifting in another direction, like steel to a magnet, they would switch right back to Roxanne and this morning's events.
Finally he gave up trying not to think about it and attempted to consider the situation realistically. After chasing various scenarios around in his mind for the better part of two hours, he concluded that if, and it was a big if, Roxanne did become pregnant, he would support her in whatever decision she made about the baby. He would support her, emotionally, financially, morally, whatever—with no strings. His mouth twisted. That would be the hard part—no strings. And in the meantime, if fate
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