Daddy By Accident
Paula Detmer Riggs
MOTHER-TO-BEDespite the screech of tires and the shattered glass, pregnant Stacy Patterson was aware that sexy Boyd Macauley had gotten her out of her car accident alive. But she had no money, no place to go, and too much pride to ask for help - until Boyd came to her rescue again.FATHER-BY-PROXYBoyd had vowed never to let another person get too close, yet fragile Stacy needed a place to stay. By day they prepared for the birth of her child, and by night they gave in to their overwhelming passions. He'd vowed that it was strictly temporary - but was he only fooling himself?MATERNITY ROW: The street where little miracles are born!
“Don’t Look At Me Like That, Stacy. (#u2027faa0-500d-5388-976e-cfb0a6ffd025)Letter to Reader (#u58dfdb86-2224-5d33-947d-18b0c992050a)Title Page (#u57e6c9f3-985b-5d45-b00d-6b90ead0e7e5)About the Author (#u044e9706-dc50-59a9-9499-fd98687efa83)Dedication (#u0b362769-eba9-5a6a-8419-0a2a98de9e07)Chapter One (#u57345b49-0726-5ecf-b157-07eb689fee8a)Chapter Two (#u04d0ecbb-1aa7-5c49-b8fc-df4936e0b5e2)Chapter Three (#u9aa54644-f837-570a-90ad-e2f29ac89820)Chapter Four (#uafebfcfe-c081-532f-afe5-eb2d395eba54)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Don’t Look At Me Like That, Stacy.
“I’m trying to do the right thing here. The decent thing. You’ve just been through a hell of a bad time. You’re scared, and you’re vulnerable.”
“And you felt sorry for me.” Her chin came up, and she smiled. “That is what you’re trying to say, isn’t it?”
“That’s just it, Stacy, I don’t feel. It’s the way I like it. The way it has to be.”
“I think you feel very deeply. Too deeply. And I think you felt something just now when you kissed me.”
He felt the heat climbing up his neck. He was immune to nearly every wile a woman possessed—everything but the unguarded look of longing in the eyes of a woman who believed in him....
Dear Reader,
There’s something for everyone this month! Brides, babies and cowboys...but also humor, sensuality...and delicious love stories (some without a baby in sight!).
There’s nothing as wonderful as a new book from Barbara Boswell, and this month we have a MAN OF THE MONTH written by this talented author. Who’s the Boss? is a very sexy, delightfully funny love story. As always, Barbara not only creates a masterful hero and smart-as-a-whip heroine, she also makes her secondary characters come alive!
When a pregnant woman gets stuck in a traffic jam she does the only thing she can do—talks a handsome hunk into giving her a ride to the hospital on his motorcycle in Leanne Banks’s latest, The Troublemaker Bride.
Have you ever wanted to many a millionaire? Well, heroine Irish Ellison plans on finding a man with money in One Ticket to Texas by Jan Hudson. A single mom-to-be gets a new life in Paula Detmer Riggs’s emotional and heartwarming Daddy by Accident. And a woman with a “bad reputation” finds unexpected romance in Barbara MeMahon’s Boss Lady and the Hired Hand.
Going to your high-school reunion is bad enough. But what if you were voted “Most likely to succeed”...but your success at love has been fleeting? Well, that’s just what happens in Susan Connell’s How To Succeed at Love.
So read...and enjoy!
Lucia Macro
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo. NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3
Daddy by Accident
Paula Detmer Riggs
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PAULA DETMER RIGGS discovers material for her writing in her varied life experiences. During her first five years of marriage to a naval officer, she lived in nineteen different locations on the West Coast, gaining familiarity with places as diverse as San Diego and Seattle. While working at a historical site in San Diego she wrote, directed and narrated fashion shows and became fascinated with the early history of California.
She writes romances because “I think we all need an escape from the high-tech pressures that face us every day, and I believe in happy endings. Isn’t that why we keep trying, in spite of all the roadblocks and disappointments along the way?”
For Catherine Anderson, who has a great talent, a
generous heart and an astonishing wisdom.
Thanks for being my friend.
One
Stacy Patterson gripped the edge of her seat belt and watched the houses whiz by at sixty mph. “Len, please, you have to slow down!” she shouted desperately over the roar of the souped-up engine. “This is a school zone.”
Behind the wheel of the lethal black Trans Am, her ex-husband seemed oblivious to all but the inner voices raging at him. Beneath the bill of the dark blue SWAT team cap he was no longer entitled to wear, his once-handsome face was grotesquely contorted. The mask of madness, one of his psychiatrists had termed it.
“I told you I’d find you, bitch, and I’m not letting you leave me again!” he shouted before baring his teeth in a manic smile. As if to emphasize his sick triumph, he deliberately accelerated, rocketing the sports coupe around a curve so fast the tires screeched. Flung hard against the belt, Stacy felt the rear of the Trans Am fishtailing violently and screamed a warning.
Len sliced off an obscenity and jerked the wheel. For an instant she thought he had regained control, only to catch sight of a towering pine tree looming directly ahead. Too terrified to scream. she curled forward against the belt’s restraint in a desperate attempt to protect the fragile life in her belly.
The impact threw her violently forward against the dash before the belt drew her back. Like a hot poker, pain stabbed through her head. Her last thought before the blackness closed in was of the child she carried.
High on the scaffolding that encircled the three-story Victorian remodel’s elaborate turret, Boyd MacAuley was methodically installing a new stained-glass window when he heard the earsplitting din of a violent collision. He knew even before he turned toward the sound that another unsuspecting driver had missed the notorious Astoria Street corkscrew turn and smashed headlong into the already scarred Douglas fir across the street.
With the sound of crunching metal still reverberating in his ears, he vaulted onto the ladder and headed down fast, leaping the last four feet to the ground just as the door to the small cottage next door slammed open.
“Call 911!” he shouted to the skinny nine-year-old girl who emerged. Without a word, Heidi Lanier made an abrupt about-face and disappeared inside.
As he sprinted across the grass toward the automobile, Boyd took quick stock of the situation. The vintage Trans Am that had collided with the massive fir was far too dated a model to have air bags. And if the occupants weren’t wearing their belts... Hoping for the best, he prepared himself for the worst.
The car had hit head-on, and the front end had jammed into the massive trunk with such force it had compressed the hood like a flimsy soda can. On impact, the driver had obviously gone through the windshield and lay sprawled facedown amidst shattered glass on the slanted hood. Bigger than most men, the driver appeared to be in his mid-thirties and, from the angle of the neck, not destined to get any older.
Even before Boyd skidded to a stop next to the wreck, he was tugging off one grimy leather work glove. Gasping for air, yet forcing himself to remain calm, he touched two fingers to the man’s carotid artery and prayed to feel even a faint pulse. Just as he’d suspected, the driver was dead or so close to it he doubted that even a fully equipped trauma team could save him.
Cursing the man’s folly at not wearing his seat belt, Boyd peered through the shattered windshield at the female passenger who was slumped forward against the seat belt, masses of curly brown hair obscuring her facial features.
A small woman with slender shoulders, she was dressed in a sloppy man’s shirt and shorts, and from what he could see, she appeared to be in her late twenties. There was a smear of blood on her head and blood on the dash, and she wasn’t moving.
Damn, he thought as he hurried around the rear of the car and reached for the door handle on the passenger side. The shiny chrome was blistering hot against his palm, and the door refused to budge, no matter how hard he jerked. Either the blasted thing was locked or the car’s frame had been sprung in the collision. He was about to make a dash for his truck and the pry bar in the rear tool compartment when he saw the woman in the passenger’s seat stirring.
“Ma‘am? Can you hear me?” he shouted through the glass. “Ma’am?”
Was someone calling her? Stacy turned her head and struggled to see through a haze of throbbing pain. It seemed an effort to blink, more of an effort to breathe. Ahead of her was a wall of greenery from the tree they’d hit.
Fighting off waves of sickness, she slowly swiveled her head back toward the driver’s seat, then wished she hadn’t. From a distance she heard buzzing in her head and felt her skin grow clammy. She’d fainted once during the early days of her pregnancy and recognized the warning signs.
“Ma’am? Listen to me.”
The voice seemed to come from very far away. Stacy blinked, turned back toward the window. For a moment she’d forgotten the man on the other side of the glass. With great effort she managed to bring the man’s form into sharper focus.
She saw his belt buckle first, cinching a low-slung carpenter’s belt over worn and dirty jeans. Above stretched a corded male torso the color of old bronze, which glistened under a tine sheen of sweat. His chest was massive, its obvious strength scarcely softened by a triangle of damp blond chest hair. His brawny arms were corded from the effort he was making to tug open the car door. Numbly she realized that he was trying to help her.
“Please help my ex-husband!” she cried.
He glanced past her, his face tightening for an instant before he returned his gaze to her face. She saw the truth in his eyes and felt a sob rising from her chest, part rage, part grief.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Her voice was hollow, a mere whisper.
From the questioning look that flashed in his eyes, she realized he couldn’t hear her through the glass. “Ma’am, can you unlock the door?”
Stacy blinked, tried to focus on her rescuer’s face through the streaked window glass. Though his features were partially shadowed by the brim of a straw cowboy hat, she made out the bold slash of tawny brows over deep-set eyes the color of tempered steel and a not-quite straight nose. His mouth was wide and compressed into a hard line.
“Ma’am? The door?”
Summoning what remained of her wits, she forced herself to focus. “It’s...not locked,” she said through cold lips.
“Jammed,” the man grated. At least that’s what she managed to make out. The thudding in her head was making it difficult to concentrate. After staring down at her for a second, he straightened and pulled something from his belt. A hammer, she realized after a moment of fierce concentration.
“I’m going to have to break the glass. I need you to cover your face,” he yelled.
Break the glass? That made sense, she thought and managed a nod before burying her face in hands that felt icy. She heard a crack, felt pebbles of safety glass showering her side, and cried out. A few seconds later, she lifted her head and saw him butting the remainder of the cracked glass from the window frame with huge, gloved hands. Then, with what looked like tremendous effort, he gripped the doorframe, braced his left foot on the side panel and pulled. Metal ground against metal in an earsplitting screech but refused to yield.
“Damn,” he muttered, easing his grip long enough to wipe the sweat from his eyes with the back of one thick wrist Teeth bared, tendons straining under bronzed skin, he tried again. Just when she was sure he would injure himself, the door yielded. An instant later she felt a blast of hot air hit her with the force of a freshly stoked furnace. She winced, blinked in the harsh glare, then tried to figure out what she was supposed to do next.
As though sensing her disorientation, her rescuer slowly squatted on his haunches, one tanned hand braced on the doorframe while he eased the seat belt from its latch with the other. He had removed his gloves, she noticed, and tucked them under his belt. He had large, rough hands, nicked here and there, and the wide, corded forearms of a working man.
She licked her lips and tried to formulate the words to thank him, only to have her train of thought interrupted by another voice close at hand. “Is she all right?”
Another face appeared in her field of vision. A young girl, waif thin, hovering at the stranger’s side. She looked to be nine or ten at the most—and terrified. Stacy tried to reassure her but found she had no strength.
“She’s going to be fine,” the man answered before asking curtly, “Is the ambulance on the way?”
“Yes, the lady at 911 said five minutes—”
“Which means at least ten because of the sewer work on Fifteenth,” he bit off impatiently.
“And she said to be sure and not move any of the passengers.”
“Right.” He leaned forward, his large body shielding Stacy from the searing sunshine. It hurt to draw the scorching air into her lungs, and yet she’d never felt so chilled. The shivers started inside, like a flood of icy water through her veins. When her teeth started to chatter, he uttered an oath before commanding, “Heidi, run and get a blanket from your house.”
“Be right back,” the girl told him before taking off running.
“I.. shouldn’t be...c-cold,” Stacy breathed between shudders.
“Won’t be long and you’ll be tucked into a nice warm ambulance.” He swept off his hat and dropped it to the ground outside the car. His hair was thick and blond and damp where wisps of lazy curls had been plastered to his forehead by the hatband.
“An h-hour ago I was w-wishing for w-winter.”
His grin flashed, but his dark gray eyes remained probing as he pulled a folded handkerchief from his back pocket and gently blotted her temple. When the folded hnen came away drenched in blood, she stared in bewilderment.
“Are you feeling any pain in your neck or your back?”
“No,” she mumbled, then winced as another savage pain stabbed her temple. He swept his gaze lower, past her swollen breasts to the bulge beneath her oversize paint-spattered shirt.
“Damn, you’re pregnant!” His tone was so harsh she blinked.
“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”
His expression told her he didn’t appreciate her joy. “How far along are you?”
She tried to smile the way she always did when she thought of the tiny little body that seemed to get bigger every day. “Just past seven months.”
His jaw tightened, flexing muscle and sinew, and a look she could only describe as tortured traversed the hard planes.
“Who’s your obstetrician?”
“I don’t have one yet,” she admitted, glancing away from his suddenly narrowed gaze. “I’ve only been in town a few weeks.” After Len’s depressingly frank doctors had begged her to leave, for her own safety.
“When was the last time you had an ultrasound?” he demanded an instant before the girl he’d called Heidi came running up with a multihued knitted afghan clutched to her thin chest. Stacy tried to smile her thanks, but her lips felt wooden.
“Oh God, there’s a man...is he dead?” the girl cried in a frightened tone. Stacy saw the child’s eyes glazing over and realized she’d just noticed Len’s motionless body.
Her rescuer stood and turned, putting his wide chest between the child and her view of the hood. “Heidi, I need you to stay calm, for this lady’s sake.” he ordered in a gentle yet no-nonsense tone.
“I’ll t-try.” The girl sounded dazed, and Stacy’s heart went out to her.
“I’m sorry,” Stacy said softly.
“She can handle it, can’t you, toots?” The big man wrapped the girl in his arms for a hard hug before holding her at arm’s length. “Now, go call 911 again, and then stay in the house in case the operator calls back. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Stacy watched the girl run across the street, her long blond hair flying. “Is she your daughter?” Her voice sounded strangely distant, as though she were speaking through layers of cotton.
“No, she’s just a kid who comes home to an empty house. She’s gotten into the habit of hanging around the job while I’m working.” His face tightened for an instant before he bent forward to tuck the soft wool around Stacy’s shivering body.
She saw then that his golden hair was lashed with strands of silver and smelled like sawdust, and his big bare shoulders were covered with a mixture of golden freckles and a fine layer of grit.
“Warmer now?”
Stacy tried to nod, but even that slight movement sent pain lancing through her skull. “Th-thanks,” she said when the pain eased slightly.
“You say you just moved to town?”
“After my divorce was final.” She started to turn her head toward the driver’s side, but he placed a hand against her cheek, stopping her. “Len never accepted the d-divorce. His doctors thought it would be better to make a clean break.”
She saw the questions in his eyes. And sympathy.
“Doctors?”
“He’d been in and out of...of a mental hospital in Washington for the past two years. I thought he was back in until he came to my apartment with a g-gun. Made me g-go with him.”
Her rescuer bit off an expletive even as he darted a quick look at the driver’s seat and floor. She saw the nine millimeter at the same time as he did, wedged between the clutch and brake, and shuddered. A siren wailed in the distance, growing louder quickly.
“About time,” the man muttered, glaring toward the sound for a moment before turning his dark gray eyes on her face again. “It won’t be long now. You’ll be in good hands.”
“You’re very k-kind, Mr. uh...” She stopped, searching for a name, then realized he hadn’t given her one.
“Boyd MacAuley.”
“I’m..Stacy Patterson.” She slipped a hand free of the blanket and held it out. His big hand closed over hers, his rough fingers wonderfully warm and reassuring. Woozy now, she let her eyes close. She would rest now, for just a moment, she told herself. Until the dizziness eased up.
“Hang on tight, Mrs. Patterson,” she heard him say, and for the first time in months she felt safe.
Portland General Hospital was solid and square and resembled a brick fortress. Located in the downtown rabbit warren sandwiched between the Willamette River and the majestic Columbia, it had felt like home to Boyd the instant he’d first walked through the front door as a scared intern eight years ago. Now, however, it was just a place he didn’t want to be.
As soon as the paramedic driving the ambulance had backed into the reserved space directly in front of the emergency room door, Boyd stepped from the back of the rig and squared his shoulders. Though Mrs. Patterson had fainted shortly before help had arrived and was still unconscious, her vitals were steady and she seemed in no great danger. Once she was safely in the hands of the trauma staff, his responsibility was ended.
Ten minutes tops, he told himself as he followed the two EMTs pushing the stretcher through the automatic sliding doors. Long enough for him to relate to the triage nurse all he’d learned before she’d passed out. Long enough to make sure she was getting the best Portland General had to offer.
Inside, there was an atmosphere of controlled urgency. Nurses in scrubs and doctors with surgical masks dangling under their chins moved swiftly yet with a sense of purpose that Boyd had once shared. Little had changed at PortGen in three years, he realized as he drew a deep breath of hospital air. It smelled the same, part dust and old wax, part disinfectant, and an unwanted rush of memories crashed over him.
He went cold inside and the floor seemed to shift. Fisting his hands at his sides, he drew in great gulps of air, fighting against the sharp claws of fury. Slowly the chill receded, bit by bit, until he could breathe normally again.
Around him, the controlled urgency took form and shape. And sound.
“Cubicle four, gentlemen,” the admitting clerk barked as the paramedics slowed. Boyd didn’t recognize the woman, but he knew the type—a drill sergeant with a clipboard and absolutely no sense of humor. More than once during his years as an intern and resident in this place, he’d tangled with this one’s clone. The best he’d managed during all that time was a draw.
“Are you a relative, sir?” the clerk asked while strafing his naked chest with a disapproving gaze.
“No, just a witness.” He saw the militant glint in her eyes and was about to brush past her when he heard a familiar voice calling his name. Turning toward the sound, he felt a jolt of relief. Prudence Randolph was the best nurse he’d encountered in the five years he’d spent practicing medicine. She was also his neighbor and his friend.
“So that really is the reclusive Boyd MacAuley under that gorgeous tan?” Prudy was an irrepressible tease and a charming flirt, but only with men she considered safe. She’d been divorced for years and claimed to have sworn off marriage forever.
“Sawdust is more like it,” he replied, suddenly conscious of his sweat-stained jeans and grimy skin No doubt he smelled like the mangy dog he resembled.
Prudy flicked him a curious grin, even as she was focusing her intelligent brown eyes on the patient. “Is she a friend of yours?”
“Never saw her before. Said her name’s Stacy Patterson. We weren’t able to find a purse or any identification.”
“Auto accident?”
He raked a hand through his hair and nodded. “Trans Am hit a tree on Astoria. She was in the passenger’s seat. From what I can tell she banged her head on impact.” He drew a hard breath. “She’s pregnant. Just over seven months. No attending OB.”
Prudy’s eyes clouded. “Vitals?” she asked the uniformed paramedic on the other side of the stretcher.
While the EMT recounted the numbers, Boyd searched the young woman’s face for signs of returning consciousness. The gash on her forehead was oozing blood into the bandage applied by the paramedics, and her skin was purpling around the wound.
Small boned and too thin, she reminded him of a priceless porcelain doll his grandmother had kept on her dresser. Her skin had the same translucent quality as the fragile china, and her lashes were long and thick. Lost in the oblivion of sleep, she seemed very young and vulnerable—and terribly alone. It hurt to look at her, and yet he couldn’t make himself walk away.
“Call Dr. Hoy,” Prudy told the clerk briskly. “And get a lab tech up here stat. We’ll need blood work done.” The clerk flicked Boyd a curious glance before she turned to leave. He could almost predict the questions she would ask Prudy later.
“What about the driver?” Prudy asked as she held back the curtain to number four.
Boyd hesitated, the image of death still vivid in his mind. “The poor guy went through the windshield. Looked like a broken neck.”
Prudy sighed. “Her husband?”
“Ex, I think she said.”
“Is he the baby’s father?”
Boyd raked back the still-damp hair that had flopped onto his forehead. “She was pretty woozy and a little sparse on the details, but yeah, that seems a good bet.”
Prudy frowned. “Ex or not, it’s still going to be rough on her when she wakes up, especially if she loses the baby, too.”
Yeah, it’s always hardest on the one who’s “lucky” enough to survive, Boyd thought as he watched Prudy and the two paramedics transfer Stacy to the narrow bed. There was a slash of yellow paint on one high cheekbone and yellow splatters on the bright pink basketball sneaker peeking out from the gray ambulance blanket tucked around her small form.
“Oops, sorry.” Jenkins, the senior medic shot Boyd an apologetic glance, and Boyd realized that he was in the way. He’d forgotten for the moment that he was a carpenter now, a blue-collar guy with callused hands more suited to holding a hammer than a scalpel. Though his profession had changed, his knowledge of medicine hadn’t, however. He waited until the paramedics left, then cleared his throat. “Who’s the OB on call?”
“Jarrod.” Prudy looked up from the blood pressure cuff she was affixing to the patient’s too-thin arm and smiled. “We’ll take good care of her, Boyd. The best. She’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, sure she will.” A sudden lump pressed his throat and he had to swallow twice before he could make it dissolve. He’d heard that before. He’d even believed it. He knew better now. “Guess I’ll head on back then.”
Taking another step backward toward the curtain had him nearly colliding with an entering tech who sidestepped gingerly. “Sorry,” Boyd muttered, and earned himself a pained look.
“Sir, you’ll have to wait outside until after the doctor examines your wife,” the tech instructed impatiently.
“She’s not...” He stopped, realizing that the tech wasn’t listening. Frowning, he turned to go, only to be halted by the sound of Mrs. Patterson’s soft voice.
“No, wait. I don’t...want him to go.” Across the cubicle, Mrs. Patterson was now awake and watching him with bruised eyes. When he locked his gaze on hers, she tried to smile. “I haven’t thanked you.”
He cleared his throat. “No need. Mostly I just kept you company until the bus showed up.”
Stacy wet her lips and struggled to focus her mind on her rescuer’s words instead of the all-encompassing pain in her head. “Bus?”
“Sorry, I mean the ambulance.” His mouth quirked. It wasn’t quite a smile but held a certain promise she found endearing.
“I don’t...but of course, there would have to be...an ambulance. How silly of me...not to remember.”
The effort to speak set her head to spinning, and she hauled in air in an effort to clear her brain. Concentrate on his eyes, she told herself as his face wavered in and out of focus. Gray eyes in a deeply tanned face. Quicksilver eyes, framed by thick, blunt lashes the color of bronze. There was something haunting about those eyes. Something sad. Memories he didn’t want, perhaps, or lingering shadows of a terrible suffering. For an instant, she thought she was looking into the eyes of her tormented husband.
“Boyd?” she murmured, and heard his deep voice answering. The words were indistinct, yet she felt a sense of comfort.
Another face swam into her field of vision. A face with feminine features and a kind smile. A face topped by a halo of shining copper. A nurse, she finally decided.
“Is there anyone you want us to call for you, Mrs. Patterson ? Family? Friends?”
Stacy concentrated for a moment. “Some...someone should call my ex-in-laws in Seattle. Leonard Patterson, Sr., on Stanton Street.” Old and frail now, the Pattersons had never forgiven her for signing the papers to commit their only son.
Someone repeated the information, then asked if there was anyone else. A member of her own family perhaps? The baby’s father?
“Len...”
“Len was the baby’s father?” the voice repeated with a soothing calm.
“Yes.” Len had longed to become a father, but that was before a hopped-up kid bent on robbery had split his skull with a baseball bat. After that, he’d become a mean, angry man given to bouts of violence that had finally worn out her love and her loyalty.
“Anyone else? A neighbor, maybe? Or a co-worker?”
Stacy cleared her throat again of a sudden thickness and searched for the name that hovered just beyond her consciousness. A face wavered, round and patrician, with a frizz of curly white hair swooping over the apple cheeks. “Adeline... Marsh.”
“Is she a friend?”
“Principal at Lewis and Clark Elementary. I’ve been substituting. Morning kindergarten.” Stacy licked her lips, aware suddenly that somehow, her hand was in Boyd’s again. Had she reached for him? Or had he reached for her? Either way, she was grateful for the human contact and curled her fingers tighter around his.
“I’m...sorry about taking you away from your work,” she murmured, her voice oddly thin.
“It’ll still be there when I get back.” He bent lower, and his bare shoulders blocked out the overhead light.
“Will your boss be angry?”
“No boss. I work alone.”
She heard a low drone of whispered conversation and turned her head toward the sound. The resulting pain in her temple caused her to inhale sharply.
“Easy, honey.” he soothed, his voice low and scratchy.
Slowly she adjusted the angle of her head until she could see his eyes, now dark and intense and probing. Deep lines fanned the outer corners, suggesting a man who knew how to laugh, yet the strongly molded face had the look of a man more accustomed to discipline and control and restraint.
“Miz Patterson?” a third voice inquired softly. “I need to draw blood for the lab now.”
It wasn’t really a question, saving Stacy the trouble of replying. Boyd stepped back to allow room for a roly-poly woman in a blue smock. Stacy watched anxiously as the woman readied a syringe and hoped she wouldn’t disgrace herself by fainting. Just in case, she looked away before the needle entered her arm. She felt a prick, then pressure. The overhead light was beginning to sear her eyes, and her head was spinning again. She felt her lashes drooping and quickly forced her eyes wider. It was important to stay awake and alert. In control.
“Boyd?” Mindless of her aching head, she looked around anxiously.
“Right here, Stacy.” He took her hand again, and the cold that had begun to seep into her again abated. The self-confidence she’d built up over the past year was crumbling fast, leaving her feeling lost and scared and lonely.
Some independent woman you are, she thought, disgusted with her pitiful lack of fortitude. Here she was, an expectant mother who wanted desperately to be held in the arms of a man she’d just met.
She started to thank him again, only to find herself seized by a spasm of pain in the small of her back. She stopped breathing, her heart tripping. The pain spread, rippling toward her belly, nearly squeezing her in two.
“No!” she cried in sharp agony. “It’s too soon!”
“Get Dr. Jarrod, stat,” she heard the nurse order sharply. “Tell him the patient may be going into premature labor.”
Stacy clung to the strong hand wrapping hers, terror racing with the adrenalins in her veins.
“Try to relax, Stacy. Take deep breaths.” Boyd’s voice was steady and call, everything she wasn’t.
“Tell them to save the baby,” she pleaded. “Make them promise. If there’s a choice, my baby has to live.”
“Look, babies are surprisingly resilient, especially in utero,” he said in that curiously raspy voice.
“But what if she isn’t? What if—”
“Hey, none of that, okay?” Lifting a hand from hers, he brushed back a lock of her hair, his touch as gentle as a lover’s caress. “You’re going to be fine. Both of you.”
Stacy tightened her grip on his hand. “Is that a p-promise, or a guess?”
His hesitation was slight but noticeable. Because he didn’t want to lie? she wondered.
“Definitely a promise,” he declared an instant before the curtains parted to admit a tall, lanky man who, in spite of the blue scrubs, reminded her more of a working cowboy than a doctor.
“MacAuley?” he exclaimed on a double take. “What the hell?”
“Later,” Boyd said, stepping back. He’d done all he could do for the dark-haired angel with the beautiful eyes. Now it was up to the professionals. And luck. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to believe in either one.
Two
Boyd thumbed open his third can of beer, drank deeply, then wandered out of the kitchen onto the back porch. It was nearly seven, and the sun was hovering at the edge of the western horizon, turning the sky to flame, while the conifers that typified the Oregon skyline suggested black teeth eating the sunset inch by inch. Below the ridge that wedged downward at a sharp angle, the Columbia River resembled molten lava as the sun’s rays skimmed the surface.
Propping a bare foot on the railing, he leaned forward slightly, hoping to catch a breeze, but the air was deathly still. At the house to the left, Linda and Marshall Ladd were barbecuing burgers. At the end of the short street, Portland firefighter, Cliff Balisky, was roughhousing with his two boys, who from the sound of their triumphant shouts were whomping up on the old man.
Suddenly restless, he chugged down the rest of the beer in his hand and gave some thought to opening another. How long had it been since he’d been drunk enough to pass out? Drunk enough to buy himself a few hours of mindless oblivion? Four, five months maybe? Longer?
Before Karen and the baby had died, he’d never been much of a drinker, mostly because he didn’t like the reckless edge it put on his personality. Tonight, however, the need for numbness had overridden his customary caution.
He knew the reason for his black mood. The ambulance ride, the all-too-familiar bustle of the ER. A baby in danger. A wisp of a woman with big green eyes and a tumble of silk-soft hair who’d somehow slipped beneath his guard and touched a part of him he’d thought he’d lost.
The woman was fine, he assured himself firmly as he headed inside for another beer. Definitely in good hands and no doubt still sleeping peacefully, just as she’d been when he’d left her a couple of hours ago. Still, his conscience would likely give him fits unless he made sure, he decided as he reached for the wall phone by the kitchen window.
Though the hospital switchboard was known for its efficiency, it took the operator an interminable five minutes to track down Prudy, another minute before he heard her calm voice in his ear.
“I thought you might be calling,” she said after he’d identified himself.
“The hell you did.” Boyd glowered at his reflection in the window over the sink. He was already regretting the impulse to call.
“In answer to your question—”
“What question? All I did was say hello.”
“She’s resting comfortably.”
Boyd heard the teasing note in Prudy’s tired voice and felt his patience thinning. “Are you going to tell me what I want to know or am I going to be banging on your door at five a.m. for the next week?”
Prudy groaned. “You sure know how to bargain from strength, you rat.”
“A man’s got to do—”
“Okay, okay.” He heard laughter in her tone and felt the tension clawing his spine ease off a notch. “She’s concussed, which you already know, has a severe sprain of the left ankle and an impressive collection of bruises.”
Boyd cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “And the baby?”
“So far so good, although Mrs. Patterson’s been spotting. Jarrod has her on a fetal monitor and an IV drip, mag sulfate. The fetal heartbeat is strong and steady.”
Boyd acknowledged that with a grunt. It was exactly what he would have done. “What’s Jarrod’s prognosis?”
“Guardedly optimistic.”
He lifted a hand to the back of his neck and methodically kneaded the tension-twisted museles. “Do me a favor and read me Jarrod’s notes, okay?”
“You know I can’t do that,” Prudy exclaimed softly through the wire.
“Why the hell not?”
“Come on, Boyd. You know the rules about a patient’s right to privacy as well as I do. You’re not a relative and you’re not on staff, so therefore—”
“Screw the rules. Tell me.”
“No.”
He felt his face growing hot. “Since when did you become so righteous, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou?” As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to call them back.
The silence at the other end was more damning than a curse, and he drew a long breath in an attempt to level the sudden spike of anger that had had him speaking before he thought. Prudy was the last person he wanted to hurt. As friends go, she was the best. After the accident, she’d taken care of him like a persistent little mother hen, there for him when he’d needed someone. He’d been close to losing it then, closer than he wanted to recall. He’d battled back to a semblance of normality by burying his memories along with his ability to care too deeply for anything or anyone.
“I’m sorry, that was out of line,” he said when the silence grew longer than he could handle.
“She really got to you, didn’t she?” Prudy questioned quietly.
“Yeah, I guess she did.” More than he wanted to accept.
“Boyd—”
He heard the sympathy in Prudy’s voice and ruthlessly cut her off. He could handle the past as long as it remained buried. “Give her my best, okay?” He hung up before Prudy could say more.
Stacy woke to the echo of a scream. Her own, she realized with a pounding heart and drenched skin. She felt queasy and heavy, and her ankle throbbed. Disoriented, she turned toward a glimmer of light to her left, then wished she hadn’t as the dull pain in her head took on star-burst edges.
The room’s bare white walls were shadowed. The narrow bed came equipped with side rails and was slab hard The pillow beneath her aching head was only marginally softer. Still, she was thankful that she and the baby were alive and in good hands.
In the hospital, she recalled with relief. And for the moment, safe. The image of Len sprawled on the hood flashed into her mind again, and she shuddered. The baby was what mattered, all that mattered.
Babies are surprisingly resilient, especially in utero.
She drew a breath, thinking about the man who’d spoken those words earlier. Sweet, calming, positive words from a man with sawdust in his hair and calluses on his hands. A man accustomed to taking charge, she realized now. A quiet sort of guy with smoky eyes and a raspy voice. A powerful male with raw edges, a hard, arrogant mouth with surprisingly sensitive corners, and a don’t-tread-on-me air riding those burly carpenter’s shoulders. There wasn’t a reason in the world why she should feel as though she’d known him—and trusted him—for a very long time, but she did.
Sleepy now, she let her mind linger on the image of an off-center smile and kind eyes in a deeply tanned face. Fathomless, intelligent eyes with whispers of pain still lingering m devil-dark pupils, framed by laugh lines suggesting a sense of humor.
His mouth, too, had given a hint of that same humor, a faint upward tilt at the corners of those aggressively masculine lips. More pronounced was the threat of an intensely male sensuality, the kind that had her fantasizing about lazy rain-washed afternoons spent in a man’s arms in front of a warming, pine-scented fire And when he’d smiled—once—she’d felt oddly cherished, as though he’d brushed those hard lips over hers.
Drowsy now, she brought her fingers to her lips and felt them curve into a languid smile. Ships in the night, she thought. Destined for different ports. She doubted she would see him again, but for the rest of her life she would always have a special place in her heart for a very special, rough, tough-as-nails Good Samaritan. She was still thinking about him when she drifted off.
“Oatmeal is wonderful I truly, absolutely love oatmeal. Oatmeal is my friend.”
Stacy sighed and looped another circle in the lumpy stuff beneath her spoon. She was hungry, the baby was awake and hammering on her insides with tiny fists as though she, too, were eager for breakfast, and yet, Stacy couldn’t seem to work up the courage to swallow that first mouthful.
“It’s just that it tastes like used wallpaper paste,” she muttered to the empty glass that had held eight ounces of milk only a few minutes earlier. That, at least, she’d learned to stomach during the first few weeks after she’d found out about the baby. But oatmeal?
“Definitely a challenge.”
Using her free hand, she raised the head of the bed a few inches more by pressing the button on the railing, then ran her tongue over her lips. Okay, this is for the baby, she thought as she grimly scooped up a tiny spoonful. She had it halfway to her mouth before she realized she had an audience.
Her Good Samaritan was standing just inside the door, a ragged bouquet of pink blossoms in his hands and a crooked smile on his deeply tanned face. Gone was the day’s growth of beard that had given his face an outlaw appeal. His hair, now shiny clean and neatly brushed, was an intriguing mix of gold and platinum and silver blended into a unique color she could only call dusty blond.
Unlike yesterday, he was fully clothed in a chest-hugging T-shirt of faded blue, sporting the logo of a local lumberyard, and tight jeans worn thin from the stress of hard muscle rubbing against unyielding seams.
“This is just a guess, but I have a hunch you’re not crazy about PortGen’s breakfast special,” he said, widening his smile into a truly dazzling but all-too-brief grin bracketed by engaging creases.
When she realized she was drinking in the sight of him like a parched desert nomad in sight of a spring, she quickly lowered her gaze to the spoon and shuddered. “I can’t believe there are actually people who order this stuff on purpose.”
She heard him chuckle and glanced his way again. Their gazes met, and she found herself holding her breath. More alert now, she decided that his irises weren’t merely gray, but intensely so, the color of sooty topaz shot through with silver.
It had been forever since she’d felt such an instant attraction to a man, and she’d learned since not to trust any feeling that flashed so hot and fast. Still, she couldn’t prevent her heart from skipping and her lips from curving as she feigned indignation.
“I’m starving to death, and the man is laughing,” she groused to the ceiling.
“Sorry,” he said, coming closer, adding the fresh tang of soap to the hospital mix. “I forgot myself for a moment.”
Stacy felt her spirits reviving. After months of unremitting tension and fear, it felt good to smile again, even if it did hurt to move her facial muscles. “I’ll forgive you, but only because you saved my life yesterday.”
“Nah, wearing your seat belt saved your life.”
She didn’t waste breath arguing with a man whose jaw had taken on the texture of mountain granite. Instead, she directed an inquiring look at the fluffy blooms held in an awkward, one-handed grip against his flat belly.
“The hydrangeas are beautiful.”
His eyebrows drew together and she noticed a faint scar angling across the left one in a jagged line. “Is that what they are?”
She nodded, then realized she was still holding the spoon and carefully returned it to the breakfast tray before pushing the table toward the foot of the bed. “I feel better just looking at them.”
She smiled, drawing Boyd’s gaze for an instant to her lips. Most guys he knew were suckers for the kind of impudent dimples framing her mouth. Thank the saints he was immune, he thought a smug instant before he found himself wondering if her pale, full lips would taste sweet. Like the wild berries that soaked up sugar-producing summer sunshine along the country roads.
When he felt heat climbing his neck, he frowned down at the sissy-looking flowers. He’d bought flowers for a patient before, but he’d always had the florist downstairs deliver them, and without a card.
“Maybe the nurse has a vase,” she said, reaching for the call button.
“No need. This’ll do fine,” He stuffed the flowers into her water jug before she could argue the point. Then feeling awkward and more than a little foolish, he shoved his hands into his hip pockets and took a step backward. It was time he returned to work.
“I’m glad you came by,” she said before he had a chance to get the hell out of there. “I wanted to ask you about that little girl who was so helpful and sweet. Um, Heidi, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. “What can I tell you? She’s a lonely little kid with too much imagination and not enough of the good stuff parents are supposed to provide.”
“I’d like to do something to express my appreciation to her as soon as...as...” She halted and drew a breath that seemed to drain more than invigorate. “What would she like, do you think?”
One of Stacy Patterson’s smiles for starters, he thought, and then frowned. Where the hell did that come from?
“Hell if I know,” he hedged.
“I was thinking of a CD, but I have no idea what kind of music she prefers.”
“She hates country, I know that.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s always making remarks about my lousy taste in radio stations.”
Her lips curved, and for an instant her eyes sparkled. He felt something loosen inside, and frowned. “I take it you listen to country,” she asked, touching one of the blossoms with a caressing fingertip,
“When I’m working, yeah.” He’d been thinking her eyes were green, but now he saw a hint of gold mingling in the depths. Sunshine pretty, he thought, and as warming as summer’s rays.
He wanted to gather her close and bask in the warmth of that sweet, soft smile until he couldn’t remember what it felt like to be a man on the outside of happiness, looking in, longing to feel strong and protective and loved by a woman he adored. But those days were gone. Lost.
“Uh, maybe I could find out for you,” he said lamely. “The kind of music she likes.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
“No sweat.” He pulled his hands from his pocket and glanced at his watch. “I’d best be heading out,” he said, shifting. “I promised I’d have this job done in time for the owners’ tenth anniversary, and time’s getting short.”
Was that disappointment he saw wisping across her gaze? Or relief to be rid of the blundering brute? He’d never been all that great at entertaining women. When he’d been a gawky kid working a couple of part-time jobs in order to save for college, he’d been too busy to learn the moves other guys had mastered by the time pimples gave way to whiskers.
In college, the women he’d met seemed all too willing to entertain him--once they found out he was headed for medical school and the big-bucks future. Now that he had an ordinary job with ordinary pay—well hell, he’d been boring even when he’d been a doctor. Even Karen had said as much more than once, but she’d put up with him for reasons he never fully understood.
After her death, he hadn’t cared much one way or another about his skill with the ladies. But now he wished he could crack jokes like his kid brother, Ben, or flirt without coming on too strong or too awkward like his friend, Luke Jarrod—anything to arouse another sparkling smile in those now-somber emerald eyes.
“Thanks again,” she murmured. “For the flowers.” Before she shifted her gaze to the puffy bouquet he thought he saw moisture pooling in her eyes.
“I’m sorry about your ex-husband.”
“So am I.”
“He was in the hospital, you said?”
“He was hurt doing what he loved—protecting others.” Stacy drew a suddenly shaky breath. “There were two of them robbing a convenience store near our house. They’d nearly beaten the clerk to death by the time Len had walked in to buy cigarettes. He’d drawn his gun, but the boys were so young—scarcely fourteen.”
Boyd bit off a curse that had her pale lips trembling into a rueful smile that she couldn’t sustain. “No one’s really sure exactly how it happened. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that one of the boys hit Len in the head with a baseball bat he must have found behind the counter.” She stopped to clear her throat. “By the time I got to the hospital, Len was in surgery. When he woke up, he was...changed.”
“Brain damage?”
She nodded. “All cops have a capacity for violence or they wouldn’t be cops. The good ones have a...an instinct for right and wrong that keeps that violence inside unless it’s needed to protect human life. After his injury, Len had these rages that just... took over. And when that happened, he enjoyed hurting people.”
“He hurt you?” His voice was too harsh, but there was nothing he could do about it, just as there was nothing he could do about the anger pouring through him at the thought of those huge wrestler’s hands bruising her smooth skin.
“Not at first. He was more like a lost child. But... later, after he’d recovered physically, he had episodes ”
She thought about the wild look of fear that had sometimes surfaced in his eyes when he’d thought he was being stalked by some nameless, faceless enemy. Some nights he’d sat up, waiting, his weapon cradled lovingly in his hands. Watching and waiting. She sighed, looked down at her hands.
“I had him committed twice. Once, after he stopped taking his medication and started drinking, and again, about six months later when he started showing up at the school where I was teaching.” She drew in a lungful of air and held it for a long moment before releasing it slowly. “Several times he even got violent when there were children present, waiting for their bus. When I threatened to call the police, he cried and promised to stop. He seemed like his own self for a while and I started to think he was recovering But when I found out I was pregnant, he got it into his head that the baby wasn’t his and—” She couldn’t go on. The memories were too vivid, too painful.
“I’m sorry, Stacy.”
“It wasn’t his fault. I know that.” She forced a smile. “Len always wanted a daughter.”
Boyd felt a hole open inside, a hole he’d thought he’d cemented tight. Suddenly the room seemed too small and the air too thin. Dumb move, coming back here, he thought, drawing in a long breath. “Guess I’ll leave you to your breakfast.,” he said in a decent enough tone.
“I thought you were my friend,” she muttered, glancing pointedly at her congealing breakfast.
He turned the idea of being her friend over in his mind and found he liked the idea more than he should. “Uh, I just came by to see how you’re doing. Both of you.”
“We’re both feeling much better this morning. Dr. Jarrod removed the monitor this morning, and Tory is back to her usual rowdy antics. I expect her to become a world-class gymnast someday.”
“Tory?”
“Mmm. Short for Victoria.”
One side of his mouth quirked. “Nice name. Classy.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit stuffy for this day and age?” She inhaled, then rushed on. “I mean, the books all stress how important a name can be in the development of a child’s personality.”
“No, it’s not stuffy at all.”
Stacy heard the sudden hoarseness in his voice, saw the shutters come crashing down in his eyes. As though he were retreating from the friendship she was offering—and her. So she found herself utterly dumbfounded when he suddenly reached out a hand to caress her bruised cheek. The gesture was so utterly tender, the moment so intensely intimate she forgot to breathe.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
She swallowed the hard lump in her throat “Believe me. so am I.”
“If there’s anything I can do, anything you need—”
“No, but thank you,” she assured him.
“Take care of yourself and Victoria,” he said brusquely before turning away. Two steps later he stopped and stood motionless, staring at the stark white linoleum under his boots as though searching for an answer to some deeply disturbing question.
Stacy was about to ask him if she could help when he turned and retraced his steps. Leaning forward, he braced one hand flat on the mattress while the other gently cupped her shoulder.
“For luck,” he murmured before he brought his mouth to hers. Sweetly, with no demand, he kissed her, his lips soft and searching, his breath scented with strong coffee and toothpaste.
A heartbeat later, he was gone, swallowed by the cavernous hospital corridor, leaving her stunned and bemused. It was only when she felt the tears dripping onto her breast that she realized she was crying.
Three
Stacy was still groggy from an afternoon nap when a strangely familiar, copper-haired nurse stuck her head in the door. A small woman, in a fuchsia-and-pink smock over pink slacks and yellow canvas sneakers, she reminded Stacy of a bright winter sunset.
“Hi, I’m Prudy Randolph. We met in the ER yesterday,” she said when she saw that Stacy was awake.
“We did indeed,” Stacy replied, waving her in. “I was hoping to get a chance to thank you for all your help.”
Nurse Randolph shrugged off her thanks with an infectious grin that had Stacy’s spirits lifting. “How’re you feeling?”
“Antsy. I hate hospitals.”
“On days like this, so do L”
Stacy laughed and found it felt good. “Feel free to bide out here with me. I promise I won’t tattle.”
“Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.” Looking very much like a mischievous six-year-old playing a prank on her teacher, the elfin nurse pulled up the only chair and sat, “Lord, I’m bushed,” she said, and let out with a heartfelt sigh. “And it’s not even a full moon.”
“Sounds like you’ve been inundated with accident victims.”
“You have no idea.” Prudy blew a lock of hair from her forehead before grimacing. “Everything from the usual fender-benders to a parrot attack.”
Stacy blinked. “Parrot attack?”
“Hmm. On the owner. A case of adolescent rebellion mixed with rampaging hormones.”
“The owner was a teenager?”
Prudy laughed. “No, the parrot A male, naturally, and not at all happy to be kept away from the newest addition to the family bird population, which just happened to be a very attractive—and willing—female.”
“Naturally.”
Prudy swiped a hand through her Orphan Annie curls. “Sorry to unload on you. Sometimes I wish I’d followed my mother’s advice and become a supermarket checker.”
“At least the hours are better.”
“Not to mention the pay.”
Stacy laughed, then moaned at the sudden explosion of glittery light behind her eyes. Nurse Randolph’s expression became solicitous. “Head still hurting?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got a long way to go before I’m up to the ‘feeling lousy’ stage.”
Chocolate brown eyes studied hers with professional expertise. “Any idea when Dr. Jarrod plans to release you?”
“This morning he said three or four days—if Continued to improve, and if there are no more indications of labor.” She sighed. “Keep your fingers crossed for me.”
Prudy pretended to take offense. “Hey, you sound as though you don’t like our deluxe accommodations.”
“I can’t afford deluxe, or even economy class. I’m not even sure I can afford the cost of that box of tissues.”
The nurse looked startled and then embarrassed, “If there’s a problem. I could contact Social Services for you.”
Stacy felt a sudden heat scalding her cheeks. The thought of having to apply for public assistance made her uncomfortable. “Don’t mind me,” she said with a laugh to show she wasn’t really concerned. “I’m addicted to worrying. It’s my drug of choice.”
“Sounds like my mother,” Prudy said with a wry grimace. Settling back, she propped her feet against the bottom railing of the bed and yawned. “Sorry, it’s the rotating shifts, not the company.”
An ambulance was approaching below, its siren’s wail growing steadily louder. Down the hall, a baby cried and a woman crooned. According to the aid who’d served her breakfast, the birthing rooms were full. Five rooms, five moms in labor.
“Nice flowers,” Prudy said with a nod toward the hydrangeas. “I’ve got some just like that in my yard.” Her eyes narrowed, then turned quizzical. “At least I did when I left this morning.”
Stacy adjusted the head of the bed and tried to ignore the sudden craving for a pastrami sandwich and a kosher pickle. “My Good Samaritan brought them by earlier. You remember him? The man who came with me in the ambulance.”
Prudy stretched out her legs and frowned. “Oh yeah, I remember him, all right. Boyd MacAuley, the flower-poaching rat.”
Stacy frowned. “You know him?”
“He’s my neighbor, and I’m going to kill him for stealing my pampered darlings, that’s what I’m going to do.” She sighed, then offered Stacy a look. “Not that I wouldn’t have given him permission to pick them, mind you, but it would have been nice if he’d asked. Fat chance, though, since Boyd was never one for polite niceties.”
Stacy fought a fast battle with herself—and lost. Curiosity might kill a cat, but she’d always considered herself more bulldog than feline. Besides, she had to know. “I...suppose he doesn’t live alone.”
“No, he lives with a ghost.”
Stacy blinked. “Pardon?”
Prudy sat up and arched her back, as though working out a few kinks. “Boyd’s a widower. For more than three years now, but to all intents and purposes, Karen’s still in that house.”
“Karen is—was his wife?”
The nurse nodded. “She was a Waverly. Her family owns mills. The complex where Boyd and I live used to belong to her grandfather—along with half of Portland.”
“What happened to her?”
“An auto accident, what else?” Prudy shook her head, her brown eyes sad. “Karen was seven months pregnant Luke Jarrod tried to save the baby, a beautiful little girl who looked exactly like her daddy, but the pour little angel only lived a few minutes longer than her mother. After that, Boyd just shut down emotionally. For a long time I thought we might lose him, too.”
Stacy thought back to the conversation she and Boyd had shared that morning—and the change that had come over him when she’d started gushing about the baby. No wonder he’d turned to stone.
A wave of embarrassment ran through her, followed closely by empathy for a man who’d lost so much and yet had been so quick to comfort a stranger.
“He’s a nice man,” she murmured, her voice thick.
“You like him, don’t you?” Stacy heard sympathy in the other woman’s voice and looked up slowly.
“Very much,” she admitted, because there didn’t seem to be a point in denying it. “I think I would have liked him even if he hadn’t come racing to my rescue.”
“Stacy—”
“Don’t worry, I’m not mooning over the man,” she assured the other woman whose clouded eyes and worried expression seemed to signal genuine concern. “Whatever romantic illusions I might have had about white knights and happily-everafter endings faded a long time ago.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” A piercing sadness came and went in the other woman’s eyes an instant before she curved her lips into a smile and stood up.
“Much as I hate to, I’d better get back down to the zoo. By this time the animals should be good and restless.”
Ever conscious of the tenderness lurking in her skull, Stacy offered a restrained laugh and a look of commiseration that Prudy returned before slapping her palm gently against her forehead.
“For Pete’s sake, I almost forgot the reason I came up in the first place,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Yesterday, when I called the principal at the school where you’re subbing, she said to give you her best regards and to tell you not to be in a stew about getting straight back to work. Something about a permanent position she thought might be opening up next September? I guess it fell through, so you’re off the hook. I thought you’d like to know. There’s nothing worse than being strapped to a bed when you think your world may be falling apart because you’re on hiatus.”
Off the hook? More like, out in the streets, Stacy thought. She gulped down a wave of disappointment and wondered why she always felt like laughing when disaster struck. Hysteria, no doubt. To say the least, it was not good news that the permanent position at the school had not come through.
“When it rams, it pours,” she muttered, feeling suddenly battered on the inside, too.
“Bad news?” the coppery-haired nurse asked. “Geez, I’m sorry. I thought—” She waved a hand. “Well, it’s obvious what I thought. Getting back to work is usually a major concern. I kind of hoped the news would ease your mind.” She shot a disgruntled glance at the ceiling. “Good going, Prudy, old girl. Traumatize the patient with bulletins of disaster.” She brought her gaze back down to Stacy. “Jarrod will have my hide.”
Stacy couldn’t help but chuckle, even though the gesture sent a pain lancing through her skull. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Under normal circumstances, it would have eased my mind knowing I wasn’t needed desperately at my workplace.”
“Only your circumstances aren’t normal?”
“And whose are?” Stacy asked with a tone of levity she was far from feeling. “We women are the stronger gender, remember I’ll survive.”
The question, at the moment, was how, she thought after she exchanged goodbyes with Prudy and watched her walk from the room. She’d been desperately hoping for the regular paycheck offered by a permanent position—and medical insurance for both her and the baby. At the moment she had neither. Every moment she spent in this hospital bed was costing her a fortune she didn’t have, didn’t even hope to have.
Wearily she closed her eyes, but the desperate worry that had been her constant companion for six long months was still there, hovering, reminding her that she had another life to consider, another soul to nurture.
Gently she pressed her hand against her womb and tried to imagine the face of the baby inside. Len had been an extremely striking man, with jet-black hair and startling blue eyes. Her own eyes were mostly hazel, unless she happened to be wearing green, and then they darkened to the color of moss.
All her life people had been marveling at her eyes and the thick dark lashes framing them. Her best feature, they’d invariably declared, the only physical attribute of hers she cared to pass along to her daughter. The rest of her was little better than average, except her height, which was a good three inches below the national mean of five-six.
No, Victoria would be tall and slender, with the grace of a ballerina, not saddled with her mother’s two left feet and pear-shaped figure. Not if there was a God in heaven.
The smile that always formed when Stacy thought of her daughter faded, replaced by a frown that tugged painfully at the bruised parts of her face. She had exactly $226 in her checking account, a tiny studio apartment that was paid for through the end of the month only and one suitcase of clothes for both herself and the baby. Everything else had been left in the house in Wenatchee Falls. It was all gone now, burned up in the fire that Len had started in a rage over the separation.
Oh Tory, what are we going to do? she cried silently, feathering her fingers over the soft bulge where the baby lay. Even if she healed fast, it would be at least a week before she was presentable enough to enter a classroom without frightening the children half to death. Worse, the school year would soon be ending, leaving her without even the meager earnings she’d been earning as a sub.
Did McDonald’s hire expectant moms? she wondered. Did anyone?
The thought of having to swallow her pride and apply for welfare was disturbing. But what else could she do if she couldn’t find work? She was an only child. Her parents were both dead, and Len’s parents had written her off.
She felt tears collecting in her eyes and blinked them away. What she needed now was a plan of action, a strategy to see her through the next three months until the baby was born and for at least six weeks after that. But what?
Think, Stace, she urged silently. Use that brilliant intellect you’re supposed to have to come up with something... brilliant. Okay, forget brilliant, she amended after a moment’s consideration. Just come up with something that will work.
Ten minutes later she was still trying when she heard a rap on the door. Wearily she opened her eyes to find a uniformed policeman standing in the doorway, looking ill at ease. For a frozen moment she thought it was Len standing there, returned from the dead to mock her.
“Mrs. Patterson? I’m Officer Klein from Portland P.D. traffic investigations. Do you feel up to giving me a statement about the accident yesterday?”
Shaking in relief, she cleared her throat and tried to marshal her thoughts. “There’s not much to tell, Officer. My ex-husband was driving too fast and the car went out of control. We hit a tree and...and Len was killed. Leonard Patterson. He was a retired policeman, from the Wenatchee Falls, Washington, P.D.”
The officer approached slowly, his gaze giving the room and her an instinctive inspection. “Yes, ma’am. I got an ID from the DMV and a description of the accident from the witness, Dr. MacAuley, but—”
“Oh no, Officer, Mr. MacAuley’s a carpenter, not a doctor.” Once again, she saw the hard, lean contours of Boyd’s massive chest as he’d leaned over her. Muscles like those had been built up over a long stretch of hours spent in punishing physical labor.
“If you say so, ma’am, only the ID he showed me said he was an M.D.”
Stacy furrowed her brow and thought about the steady note of confidence in his voice and the words he’d used. In utero, he’d said. At the time she hadn’t noted the incongruity of the clinical usage and the sawdust frosting his massive shoulders.
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” she murmured.
The officer shifted his feet and glanced down at the yellow sheet of paper in his hand. “Ma’am, according to the registration we found in the glove box, the Trans Am is in your name as well as your ex-husband’s. Is that correct?”
“I don’t know. To tell you the truth I just assumed that Len had changed that when the divorce was final.”
Officer Klein nodded before consulting his notes once more. “There are charges for towing,” he said when he glanced up again. “Since the insurance has lapsed, the owner is liable.”
Stacy stared, her mouth open, her breath stilled, unwilling to take in the words. When the officer began to look acutely uncomfortable, she realized that she was expected to respond. “How...much for towing?” she said.
“One hundred and seventy-five dollars.” This time there was no mistaking the apology in his tone. Lord, she must really look pathetic, she thought as she nodded slowly. Two hundred and twenty-six minus one-hundred and seventy-five was...fifty-one? Surely that couldn’t be right, she thought desperately. But it was.
“Leave the bill and I’ll send you a check as soon as I get back to my apartment.”
“Yes, ma’am.” But instead of handing her the bill, the man continued to stand stiffly, his expression troubled.
“Is there something else?” she demanded, resigned to taking the bad news stoically, like nasty medicine.
The officer glanced around, as though looking for backup, and Stacy’s heart rate accelerated. “It’s okay, Officer. I promise I won’t go for your throat.”
That won her a brief smile and an appreciative salute from those cautious blue eyes. “Uh. there’s also a storage fee.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five dollars a day.”
Stacy couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. She figured the baby would appreciate laughter more than tears, but even as she curved her lips into a smile, she felt the hot press of tears in her throat.
“Leave that bill, too,” she said in a voice that wasn’t quite steady.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And then do me a favor, okay? Blow the darn wreck to kingdom come.”
The young officer dropped the paper onto the bed tray next to the bright, lacy bouquet and fled. It was a long time before Stacy could stop shaking.
Four
“Please, please answer,” Stacy pleaded silently, but the phone on the other end continued to ring and nng. When the receiver began to feel welded to her ear, she reluctantly gave up and let the receiver drop into the cradle on the table by the bed.
“Nobody home?”
The voice was sand over steel and familiar. Her heart was speeding even before she turned her gaze toward the man who’d uttered the words.
Boyd was standing in the open doorway, looking ill at ease, as though unsure of his welcome. Was it the kiss? she thought suddenly. Had he regretted the impulse to show his support in such an intimate way? Or was he expecting her to be angry and bracing himself to apologize?
She felt her face warming at the thought of that very con trolled mouth relaxing over hers again. His breath had been flavored with strong coffee and restraint, yet for the briefest instant his lips had clung hungrily to hers as though he’d been the one in need.
Her breath caught, then whooshed out in an embarrassing rush. It was silly to feel all warm and cozy inside at the memory of a single kiss. A kiss she hadn’t been able to resent—or forget.
“Nobody home,” she echoed, curving her lips into what she hoped was a composed smile.
“Someone special?” He raised one thick golden eyebrow. It was the one bisected by a scar and added a hint of wry humor to the rough-hewn face. It was a deadly combination of brooding intensity and hidden sensitivity that tempted a woman to take chances and ignore risks.
“My downstairs neighbor. I was hoping he could bring me my purse and a change of clothes from my apartment.” She waved her hand to show him it wasn’t important “I’ll try him again later.”
He nodded and strode closer, bringing the scent of the outdoors into the small room. The rumpled look to his dark blue T-shirt and ragged jeans suggested he’d just come from the job site, as did the lines of weariness around his eyes. He needed a shave, she realized, and the dark blond stubble added rugged texture to an already unyielding jaw.
“How are you feeling?” he asked as he set a small brown paper bag in front of her on the bed tray.
“Psychedelic,” she said, indicating the multicolored bruises surrounding both of her eyes. “Too bad it’s not Halloween. I wouldn’t have to rent a costume.”
His mouth softened as though contemplating a smile that never came. “Give it a week and you’ll be back to normal.”
“I’ll settle for presentable,” she countered with a rueful smile that sent a sliver of pain into her right temple. “Ouch,” she muttered, pressing two fingers gingerly against the now-throbbing spot, and held her breath until the ache eased.
Mindful of keeping her head perfectly still, she lifted her lashes and found him watching her. “Everyone keeps telling me I’ve got to be careful, but who’d think the simple act of smiling would be dangerous?”
“Depends on who’s doing the smiling.” His gaze flickered to her mouth and lingered until she felt her lips tingle and then part. He frowned then, and jerked his gaze to the door, as though looking for an escape.
Surely this intensely masculine man who’d been so utterly cool in an emergency couldn’t be shy, she thought. Or could he? The thought both gave her pause and aroused her protective instinct.
“Would you...um, like to sit down?”
“Sure, I guess I can stay for a few minutes,” he said, after taking what seemed like forever to think it over. He glanced around, then pulled the chair closer before settling into the seat.
“Is this for me?” she asked, touching the bag touting Mac and Joe’s Famous Double-deckers. The thought of real food was making her mouth water.
“Yep. I figured you’d be pretty tired of hospital cuisine by now.”
“You figured right,” she admitted with a little laugh. “Four days of bland and boring is about my limit, even if it is good for Tory and me.” Without bothering to hide her eagerness, she opened the bag and inhaled the wonderfully sinful aroma of hamburger grease.
“I hope you ordered it with everything,” she said as she reverently lifted the foil-wrapped burger from the bag.
His eyes crinkled, lending an irresistible charm to his starkly male features. “Is there any other way?”
“Not in this lifetime,” she said with a hearty sigh before taking a bite. “Ambrosia,” she murmured when she’d chewed and swallowed.
The cheeseburger did indeed taste marvelous, but she couldn’t help wishing she had a serving of sauerkraut to go with it. Followed by a double scoop of peppermint ice cream slathered in fudge sauce.
Conscious that Boyd was watching her more closely than she at first realized, she made herself finish the entire sandwich, even though her stomach was threatening to rebel. The last thing she wanted to do was appear ungrateful for his kindness. And it was a kindness, she realized as she blotted her lips with the napkin she’d found tucked neatly beneath the hamburger.
She wanted to tell him she understood how difficult this must be for him, given the loss of his wife and child, but she was hesitant to bring up a painful subject, especially since she’d heard the story from a third person.
“If I were a cat, I’d be purring big-time,” she said instead, and hoped the smile she gave him expressed the depth of her appreciation.
“How’s the little one?”
His question was casual, even offhand, but Stacy caught the flash of strong emotion in his gaze when it had rested briefly on her tummy.
“Actually she’s been very quiet today.” She tried for a light tone as she added, “Dr. Jarrod was telling me this morning about the good luck they’ve had here with preemies.” Her hands trembled slightly as she returned the foil to the bag and crumpled both into a tight ball. “Of course, the odds would be more favorable if I could just make it into my ninth month.”
Boyd heard the quaver in her voice, saw the sudden shimmer of tears in her eyes and wanted to bolt. Try as he might, he’d never quite managed to numb himself to the sights and sounds of another’s suffering, which was just another reason why he made a better carpenter than doctor.
Uncomfortable and antsy, he shifted until he was resting one ankle on his knee. A few hours in that bard plastic chair could effectively wring a confession from a saint, he thought. And he was about as far from sainthood as any man could get.
“Jarrod is the best,” he said, and meant it. “If anyone can keep that little one where she belongs for another month he can.”
“Yes, so everyone here keeps telling me.”
“But you don’t believe it?”
She took a breath and straightened slender shoulders more suited to tailored silk than faded hospital cotton. “Yes, I believe it I have to believe it. Otherwise...”
She took a breath, then another, clearly struggling for control. She did her best to blink back tears but there seemed to be too many.
He felt his mouth go dry. The quick, determined smile had him shoring up walls he’d thought invulnerable. Worse, he was strongly tempted to bundle her poor bruised body into his arms and hug her until she felt safe and reassured again. Only the memory of the last time he’d held a woman had him backing down hard.
“There should be a box of tissues around here someplace,” she murmured, wiping her wet cheeks with her fingertips. Leaning forward, Boyd plucked one from the box on the small metal storage cabinet and handed it to her.
“Here, blow.”
“I went to a psychic once, right after I graduated from college,” she said between unladylike honks. “She told me I was an old soul, and therefore likely to be rather intense about things.” Finished with the tissue, she tossed it into the nearby trash basket.
Boyd heard the clatter of dinner trays and realized he’d stayed far longer than he’d planned. Determined to say goodbye and mean it this time, he glanced at his watch and was about to make his polite farewells when the RN on duty walked in.
Built like a bean pole topped with straw, Maureen Schultz was as professional as they came—and as irreverent. Nothing was sacred to her—except human life. As a nurse, she had no equal. The same could be said about her tendency to be a pain in the butt.
Spying him sitting next to the bed, she broke into a teasing grin. “My stars, the reclusive Dr. MacAuley has actually graced the halls of PortGen with his presence again.”
Even though her tone was light, he heard the unspoken questions. Was he still grieving? Still having nightmares? Still not returning phone calls from well-meaning friends?
“Still terrorizing the interns?” he inquired mildly as he got to his feet.
“Just the lazy ones.” Grinning, she reached for the blood pressure cuff in the wall holder. Widening her grin, she turned toward Stacy, who obediently held up her arm. “Would you believe this hulking brute was once the most promising resident we had on the surgical service?” she asked as she wound the cuff securely.
“I know he’s cool in an emergency.”
Boyd saw the quick took Schultz shot his way and gritted his teeth. Restless again, he ambled to the window and looked out on the parking lot. The mercury vapor lights cast an eerie blue aura over the cars lined up in their neat rows. How many of the visitors who had come in those cars had come to see near-strangers? he wondered. A half dozen, a couple? One?
So he had a soft spot in his cynical heart for a small, sleek woman with grit. No problem. Hell, he also had a soft spot for lonely little kids like Heidi. Who wouldn’t? But, hey, he was a guy who pounded nails for a living, not a social worker.
When the job on Astoria was done, he’d move on to another job, and Heidi would find another “best friend” to jabber at when she was lonely. When Stacy’s bruises were healed and her condition stable, she would go back to her world and out of his thoughts. When that happened, they would both be better off.
“Any contractions since the last time I was in?” he heard Schultz ask, and turned his gaze toward the bed in time to see Stacy’s eyes cloud.
“A tiny one. More like a twinge.”
“How long ago?” he asked, earning him another appraising glance from Schultz’s laser-keen eyes.
“Two hours, more or less—” Stacy admitted, before adding too quickly, “—nothing to worry about, right?”
Boyd lifted a hand to the back of his neck, where a sudden knot had formed. “Like someone told me once, worry is the world’s most useless emotion.”
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