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Lonetree Ranchers: Morgan
Kathie DeNosky
The Chivalrous Cowboy: Morgan WakefieldHis Profile: Protective, proud and passionateHis soft spot: Single moms-to-beMorgan didn't know a thing about delivering babies, but when he came across a stranded woman in labor, he knew he was her only hope. Soon he was rolling up his shirtsleeves and helping to bring Samantha Peterson's precious child into the world. And when the rugged rancher discovered that single mother Samantha and her brand-new son needed a place to stay, he felt duty-bound to offer his home. Morgan didn't anticipate the urgent, primitive stirrings the breathtaking beauty aroused. Although he had given up on ever being a husband or father, Samantha evoked his every masculine instinct–to protect, defend…and possess?
“I Promise You Won’t Be Lonely,” Morgan Said.
“At least for the next two years?”
“At least,” he said, nodding as he lowered his mouth to hers.
He didn’t want to dwell on the length of their upcoming marriage, or the reason for it. At the moment, the feel of Samantha’s soft body against his and the sound of her soft sigh were sending his libido into overdrive.
Tracing her lips with his tongue, Morgan deepened the kiss to leisurely reacquaint himself with her sweetness, to explore the woman who in two days would become his wife.
Knowing that if things went much further he wouldn’t be able to stop, he broke the kiss and took a step back. “I…really should check on a new colt,” he said, turning toward the back door. Without waiting for her response, he stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him.
Their marriage might not be a love match, but the attraction between them was too strong to be denied. There was no way the two of them could live in the same house, day in and day out, without the inevitable happening between them.
It wasn’t a matter of if they made love. The question now was when?
Lonetree Ranchers: Morgan
Kathie DeNosky
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KATHIE DENOSKY
lives in her native southern Illinois with her husband, three children and one very spoiled Jack Russell terrier. She writes highly sensual stories with a generous amount of humor. Kathie’s books have appeared on the Waldenbooks bestseller list and received the Write Touch Readers’ Award from WisRWA and the National Readers’ Choice Award. She enjoys going to rodeos, traveling to research settings for her books and listening to country music. She often works through the night so she can write without interruption while the rest of the family is sleeping. You may contact Kathie at P.O. Box 2064, Herrin, Illinois 62948-5264 or e-mail her at kathie@kathiedenosky.com.
To Charlie, who puts up with my odd hours and loves me anyway.
And a very special thank-you to the Professional Bull Riders.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
One
“What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?”
In the process of building a fire in the big stone fireplace, Samantha Peterson jumped and spun around at the sound of the man’s angry voice and the old wooden door slamming back against the wall. The biggest cowboy she’d ever seen stood like a tree rooted in the middle of the threshold. Lightning flashed outside behind him and every story she’d ever heard about the bogeyman flooded her mind.
His eyes were hidden by the wide brim of his black cowboy hat pulled down low on his forehead, but if the grim set of his mouth was any indication, he was not only the biggest cowboy she’d ever seen, he was also the angriest. He took a step forward at the same time a gust of wind whipped his long black coat around his legs. That’s when Samantha noticed he held a rifle in one big gloved hand.
“I…I’m…ooh—” Samantha bent forward slightly, squeezed her eyes shut and groaned from the sudden tightness gripping her stomach.
“Good God, you’re pregnant!” He sounded shocked.
Anger coursed through her. He’d scared the bejeebers out of her and all he had to say was, “You’re pregnant?”
“Thank you for informing me…of that fact,” she said through clenched teeth. “I doubt that I’d…have noticed otherwise.”
“Are you all right?”
His voice sounded too close for comfort, but that was the least of Samantha’s concerns. She had a feeling this wasn’t one of the Braxton-Hicks contractions that she’d been experiencing for the past couple of weeks. It felt too different to be false labor. This felt like it might be the real thing. But that wasn’t possible, was it? She still had three weeks before she reached her due date.
“No, I’m not all right,” she said as the tight feeling decreased. Ready to give the man a piece of her mind, she straightened to her full height. “You scared the living daylights…”
Her voice trailed off as she looked up—way up—at the man standing next to her. The sheer size of him sent a shiver of apprehension slithering up her spine and had her stepping away from him. The top of her head barely reached his chin. At five foot six, she wasn’t an Amazon by any means, but she wasn’t short either. But this man was at least ten inches taller and appeared to be extremely muscular.
“Look, I’m sorry I yelled,” he said, his deep baritone sending another tremor through her that had nothing whatsoever to do with fear. “I expected to find one of the local teenage boys getting ready to throw one of his Saturday night beer busts.”
“As you can see, I’m not a teenage boy.” Samantha moved away a couple of extra steps. She needed to put more distance between them, in case a fast getaway was in order. At least, as fast as her advanced pregnancy would allow. “And I can assure you, I’m not getting ready to throw a drinking party.”
His mouth curved up in a smile and he used his thumb to push the wide brim of his cowboy hat up, revealing the most startling blue eyes she’d ever seen. “Let’s start over.” He extended his big hand. “I’m Morgan Wakefield.”
When she cautiously placed her hand in his, his fingers closed around hers and a warm tingle raced through her. As he stared at her expectantly, she had trouble finding her voice. “I’m, uh, Samantha Peterson,” she finally managed as she tugged her hand from his.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Peterson.”
“That’s Ms. Peterson,” Samantha corrected. “I’m not married.”
His gaze traveled to her swollen stomach, then back to her face before he gave her a short nod. Had that been a hint of disapproval she’d detected in his expression just before he gave her a bland smile?
If so, that was just too darned bad. It was none of his business whether she was married or not.
As they continued to stare wordlessly at each other, the sound of dripping water drew their attention to the corner of the room. Hurrying into the kitchen, Samantha rummaged through the cabinets until she found a large pot.
When she returned to the living room, she shoved it under the steady stream of water pouring from the ceiling. “That’s just great. Not even the roof on this place is in decent repair.”
She watched Morgan Wakefield’s eyes narrow. “Why do you care if the roof leaks or not?” he asked slowly.
“I was hoping it would at least keep me dry tonight,” she said, gazing at the rain water collecting in the pot.
“You’re staying? Here? Tonight?”
“Yes. Yes. And yes,” she said, smiling at his incredulous look. “I inherited it from my grandfather.”
“You’re Tug Shackley’s granddaughter?”
Samantha nodded and walked over to the wide stone hearth to slowly lower herself to a sitting position. Another contraction was building, and making sure to keep her breathing deep and even, she focused on relaxing every muscle in her body.
When it passed, she looked up to find that Morgan had propped his rifle against the armchair and stood with his hands on his narrow hips. He was watching her as if he didn’t quite know what to think. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. I’ll be fine just as soon as I have my baby,” she said, reminding herself to stay calm, even though the baby was coming earlier than expected. “Do you happen to know where the nearest hospital is?”
If the widening of his vivid blue eyes was any indication, it had been the last thing he’d expected her to ask. “Oh hell, lady. You’re not—”
“Yes, I am.” She almost laughed at the horrified expression that crossed his handsome face. “Now, if you’ll answer my question concerning the location of the nearest hospital, I’ll get in my car and go have my baby.”
He removed his hat and ran an agitated hand through his shiny sable-black hair. “You can’t drive yourself to the hospital.”
“And why not, Mr. Wakefield?” she asked, staring up at him.
Not only was he one of the biggest men she’d ever met, he was one of the best-looking. He had a small white scar above his right eyebrow and his lean cheeks sported a day’s growth of beard, but it only added to his rugged appeal.
“The name’s Morgan,” he said, jamming his hat back on his head. “And it’s not safe for you to be driving in your condition. What if the pain caused you to run off the road?”
Samantha awkwardly pushed herself to her feet. “That’s a chance I’ll have to take. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ll have to get acquainted some other time. Right now, I have to go deliver my baby.”
He stubbornly shook his head. “Where’s your car parked?”
“In the garage, or shed, or whatever you want to call that dilapidated thing behind the house.” She collected her shoulder bag from the mantel. “Why?”
“The nearest hospital is over sixty miles from here, in Laramie.” He held out his hand. “Give me your keys and I’ll drive you down there.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m perfectly capable of—”
Arguing with Morgan, she was unprepared for the contraction that wrapped around her belly and seemed to squeeze the breath out of her. When she dropped her purse and bent double, he caught her by the shoulders and supported her until the feeling eased.
“You can’t even stand up when the pain hits.” He picked up her purse and held it out to her. “Now, give me your keys and I’ll go get your car.”
As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Digging in her purse, she handed him the keys to her twenty-year-old Ford. “You might have trouble starting it. It’s kind of tricky sometimes. I think it might need a tune-up.”
“Don’t worry. I think I can handle starting a car,” Morgan said dryly. Taking the keys from her, he turned toward the door, but stopped abruptly when she started to follow. “There’s no sense in both of us getting drenched. Stay inside until I get the car pulled up closer to the porch, then I’ll help you down the steps.”
“I think I can navigate a set of steps by myself,” she argued.
“They aren’t in the best repair and I don’t think you want to deal with a broken leg, in addition to having a baby.”
He left the house before she could argue the point further and sprinted across the yard. He’d waited for this day for almost eighteen months. Tug’s heir had finally been found. Unfortunately, she had the idea that she was going to take up residence in the place. And at the moment, she for damned sure wasn’t in any shape to listen to his arguments about why she should sell it to him, instead of carrying out her plan of moving in.
He almost laughed as he folded his tall frame into the driver’s seat of the compact car. Women. Where did they get these empty-headed ideas anyway? She’d have to be blind not to see that it would take more money than it was worth to fix up this dump.
Inserting the key into the ignition, he turned it and the dull clicking sound that followed sent a chill racing up his spine. He glanced at the dashboard. There wasn’t one of the indicator lights lit. He closed his eyes in frustration and barely resisted the urge to pound on the dash with his fist. The battery was as dead as poor old Tug.
When he climbed out of the bucket seat and raised the hood, he rattled off a string of cuss words that would have done a sailor proud. The battery terminals were so covered with corrosion he wouldn’t be surprised to see that it had eaten through the cables. He looked around for something to knock some of the oxidation loose, but abandoned that idea immediately. Even if he got rid of most of the crud without breaking the contacts, there was no way to charge the damned thing. He slammed the hood back down with force.
Desperation clawed at his insides as the gravity of the situation settled over him. The only way to get help would involve him riding his horse back to the Lonetree through a pouring rain to get his truck. That would take at least thirty minutes going across country. Then it would take another forty-five minutes to drive the road between the two ranches.
Morgan shook his head as he stared at the sheet of rain just outside the shed’s double doors. Riding through a downpour didn’t bother him. Hell, he’d done that more times than he cared to count. But the creek between his ranch and this one always flooded when it rained this hard, and it would be impossible to cross now. He could use the road, but that would take a couple of hours to get back to her, and he didn’t like the idea of leaving a pregnant woman—a woman in labor, no less—by herself. And he’d bet his right arm that she wouldn’t be any crazier about his leaving her alone than he was.
For the first time since meeting Samantha Peterson, he allowed himself to think about his first impression of her. Her golden-brown hair framed a face that could easily grace the cover of a glamour magazine. But her eyes were what had damned near knocked him to his knees when he’d first seen her standing by the fireplace. Whiskey-brown with flecks of gold, they’d made him think of hot sultry nights and long hours of passionate sex.
Morgan sucked in a sharp breath. Now where the hell had that come from?
He cussed a blue streak. It had been quite a while since he’d enjoyed the warmth of a woman’s body and the long dry spell was beginning to take its toll. What he needed was a trip to Buffalo Gals Saloon down in Bear Creek for a night of good old-fashioned hell-raising. He was sure to find a willing little filly down there to help him scratch his itch and forget how lonely the long Wyoming winter had been.
Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the matters at hand. Now was not the time to lament how sorry his sex life was. What he and Samantha Peterson were facing right now was a lot more important.
A sinking feeling settled over him as he reviewed the options to their present dilemma. He might as well accept the inevitable and start preparing for what had to be done. Within the next few hours, he was going to have to add the delivery of a baby to his arsenal of emergency medical skills. Unless, of course, by some miracle someone else showed up. And the chances of that happening were slim to none.
Sighing heavily, he turned back to her car, opened the trunk and rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. Gathering pillows, sheets, blankets and towels, he ran back to the house.
By the time he walked through the door, Samantha sat on the hearth with her gaze transfixed on the faded picture hanging on the opposite wall. She looked as if she was in some kind of daze and he wondered if she might be going into shock.
But as he mentally reviewed what he knew about treating shock victims, she took a deep breath, slowly blew it out, then looked at him expectantly. “Are we ready to go?” she asked, rising to her feet as if nothing had happened.
Relieved that she seemed to be all right, he shook his head and tried to think of a way to break the news as gently as he could. He sighed heavily. Some things just couldn’t be sugar-coated.
“The battery’s dead. I’m afraid we’re stuck here for a while.”
Her pretty amber eyes widened considerably as she looked around the room. “But I have to go to the hospital. There’s no doctor here. What if…I mean the baby is early. There might be a need for—”
Walking over to her, Morgan placed his hands on her shoulders. The last thing he needed right now was for her to go into a blind panic. “Take a deep breath and listen to me, Samantha. You’re not alone. I’m here.”
“Are you a doctor?” Her expressive eyes begged him to say that he was.
At the moment, Morgan would have given everything he owned for a medical degree. “No, I’m not,” he answered truthfully. “But we’ll get through this. You’ve got my word on that.” He just hoped liked hell he could live up to the promise.
“What about your car, or truck, or whatever you came in?” she asked hopefully. “Can’t we use that?”
He ran his hand over the back of his neck in an effort to ease some of the mounting tension and shook his head. “I rode my horse. Getting back to the Lonetree, then driving back here in my truck, would take hours.”
“Your horse,” she repeated, looking more apprehensive by the second.
“I tied it in the barn when I arrived,” he said, hoping she didn’t get hysterical.
She brightened suddenly, as if she had the answer to the immediate problem. “What about a cell phone? Everyone has a cell phone these days. You can’t go to a movie or out to dinner without hearing one ring.”
“I have one, but certain areas of this region are dead zones,” he explained. “This is one of them. Even if I’d bothered to bring it with me, it would be useless without a signal.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but instead of words she let loose with a low moan. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up and his gut twisted into a tight knot. When she began to fold, Morgan pulled her to him and supported her weight while the pain held her in its grip.
Sweat popped out on his forehead and upper lip. This was going to be hard as hell to deal with. He didn’t like seeing anything in pain, and definitely not a woman. He’d rather climb a barbed wire fence buck naked than to see a female in pain.
How was he going to handle Samantha going through hours of labor and not be able to do a damned thing but watch? And what if things didn’t go like they were supposed to?
He swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. He knew all too well what could happen if something went wrong. At the age of seven he’d lost his own mother because of complications during the birth of his youngest brother, Colt. And she’d been in the hospital.
The pain ebbed and the woman he held took a deep breath. “I’ve got to maintain my focus,” she said, sounding determined. “It will make all of this much easier if I can do that.”
Morgan wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. But at the moment, it didn’t matter. His biggest concern was to get her off her feet, make sure she was as comfortable as possible, then start gathering some of the supplies he’d need.
“Why don’t you sit by the fire while I get the couch pulled over here for you to lie down?” he asked, helping her lower herself to the raised stone hearth.
“You, um, haven’t by any chance done this before, have you?” she asked. Her hopeful tone caused the knot in his gut to tighten.
He refrained from answering as he pulled the drop cloth from the dingy green couch, threw it onto a chair and shoved the heavy piece of furniture closer to the warmth of the fire. He’d delivered hundreds, maybe thousands, of babies in his lifetime. But none of them had been human. And somehow, he didn’t think Samantha Peterson would be all that impressed with his expertise as a bovine obstetrician. With any luck she wouldn’t ask him again, and he wouldn’t have to tell her.
“Well, have you?” she persisted.
Morgan almost groaned out loud. Why couldn’t she just drop it and accept the inevitable? He was the best—the only—source of help she was going to get.
“Yes, and no.” He unfolded one of the sheets he’d retrieved from her car and arranged it over the sagging piece of furniture, along with a couple of pillows. “If you count the calves and colts I’ve delivered, yes, I’ve done this before.” He helped her up from the hearth and over to the couch. “If not, then no, I haven’t.”
She sat down suddenly and went into that trance-like state that she’d been in when he’d come in from trying to start the car. Fascinated, he watched her take deep, rhythmic breaths and lightly massage her swollen belly as she stared at the brim of his hat. Her porcelain cheeks colored a deep rose, but her determination to ride out the pain was evident in the set of her stubborn little chin and her unwavering concentration.
When she came out of the daze, she looked up at him and continued talking as if nothing had happened. It was the damnedest thing he’d ever witnessed.
“There’s a book on pregnancy in my handbag. I think it has emergency delivery instructions and a list of things you’ll need.” She nervously caught her lower lip between her teeth before she continued, “I hope you’re a quick study.”
If there was one thing Morgan admired, and a sure-fire way of judging what a person was made of, it was watching how they handled themselves in a tense situation. And he’d have to give credit where it was due. The little lady settling herself back against the pillows on the sagging green couch had her share of grit.
He could tell by the shadows in her pretty whiskey-colored eyes that she was scared witless. But the firm set of her perfectly shaped mouth indicated that she wasn’t going to panic. Whatever came their way, she was going to deal with it.
Giving her the most reassuring smile he was capable of under the circumstances, Morgan handed her the oversized purse. “You find that book. I’ll take care of the rest.”
She pulled the book from the depths of the bag, then, shoving it into his hands, went back into another one of her trances. While she took deep, even breaths and stared off into space, he quickly scanned the index of the book she’d given him for instructions on an emergency, at-home delivery.
Turning to the page the directory had indicated, he read the first entry. Calling 9-1-1 was out of the question. He skipped down to the second directive—if possible call for help.
Well hell, that was a no-brainer. If he could call someone else to assist, he’d call 9-1-1.
When his gaze dropped to the third instruction, he swallowed hard and glanced at her as she came back from wherever she went in her mind to escape the pain.
“What?” she asked when he continued to stare at her.
He cleared his throat. There was no easy way of breaking news like this to a woman he’d known for—he checked his watch—a little less than an hour.
“It says you need to strip from the waist down,” he finally answered, making sure to keep his voice even and his gaze steady.
“Is that necessary right now?” she asked just as calmly. He wasn’t sure, but it looked as if her already flushed cheeks turned a deeper shade of crimson.
Shrugging, Morgan handed her the book and walked into the kitchen to find another pot. He needed to get some water boiling in order to sterilize a few things he would have to use during the delivery. And she needed to come to grips with the way things had to be.
When he walked back into the living room on his way to set a couple of pots outside to collect rainwater for boiling, he noticed that she’d used one of the blankets he’d brought in from the car to drape over her lap. Glancing to the end of the couch, he saw that her jeans were neatly folded on the arm, while her tennis shoes and socks sat on the floor beside it. She didn’t look his way and he didn’t comment on the fact that she’d obviously done as the book had indicated.
“Would you feel better lying down?” he asked when he returned from placing the pots on the porch steps.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
Sweat beaded her forehead as she handed him the book and, once again, focused her energy on riding the current wave of pain. Standing there watching her, Morgan had never felt more useless in his entire life. He wanted to help her, but he didn’t have a clue how to go about it.
Needing to do something, anything, he turned to the woodbox by the fireplace, removed several logs, then carefully stacked them on the dying fire in the grate. Even though it was early May, and fairly warm, there was a damp chill to the room, and he figured he would need all the light he could get when the time came for the baby’s grand entrance. Besides, he needed something to keep himself busy in order to take his mind off what Samantha was going through.
The dry wood caught immediately and the fire blazed high, chasing away the approaching shadows of late afternoon. He shrugged out of his duster and tossing it toward the chair where he’d thrown the drop cloth, went in search of some other source of light. Fortunately, he found two kerosene lamps in the pantry with full reservoirs. He returned to the living room, placed them on the mantel and lit the wicks with some stick matches he’d found in the kitchen, then sat on the hearth and picked up the book. Running his finger down the list of preparations, he glanced up. Where the hell was he going to find two pieces of sturdy string to tie off the cord?
He scanned the room, then zeroed in on Samantha’s tennis shoes sitting where she’d placed them by the end of the couch. Her shoe laces would have to do. He checked the book again. It didn’t say anything about sterilizing what he used to tie the cord, but he figured it couldn’t hurt. Just to be on the safe side, he’d toss them in the boiling water along with his pocket knife. Even if the hot water caused them to shrink, they should still be long enough for what he needed.
He laid the book within easy reach, then stood up and unfastened the cuffs of his chambray shirt. Rolling the long sleeves to the middle of his forearms, he waited for Samantha to relax her intense focus.
“The book says we need to start timing your contractions in order to tell how you’re progressing. Let me know when you feel another one coming on.”
She nodded. “They’re coming closer together.”
They were getting stronger, too. That much he could tell from the tiny strain lines bracketing her mouth. On impulse he reached out and took her hand in his. Giving it a gentle squeeze, he tried to reassure her. “You’re going to do just fine, Samantha.”
She squeezed back. “Remind me of that in a few hours.”
“Will do,” he said, nodding. He had no idea why the trust she was placing in him caused his chest to swell, but it did. Deciding that he could analyze what it meant later, he released her hand and started for the door. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get the rainwater I’ve been collecting so that I can put it on the fire to boil.”
“Morgan?”
The sound of his name on her soft voice sent a tingle up his spine. He swallowed hard and turned back to face her. “What, Samantha?”
“Thank you for being so calm. It really helps.” The look she gave him clearly stated that she was counting on him to get her through whatever happened.
At a loss for words, he nodded and walked out to the porch to get the pots of water. Samantha had no way of knowing that his insides were churning like a damned cement mixer from thoughts of all the things that could go wrong, as they had with his mother.
Morgan took a deep breath, then slowly released it. And if it was the last thing he ever did, he had no intention of letting her find out.
Two
Four hours later, Morgan sat on the hearth in front of Samantha where she perched on the edge of the couch. For the last hour he’d watched her alternate between sitting forward and leaning back against the pillows in her effort to get comfortable. She had his hand in a death grip as she rode the current wave of pain and it surprised him how strong she was. It felt more like a lumberjack had a hold of his hand than a woman, and her nails digging into his palm felt as if she might draw blood. But if it helped her get through this, he’d gladly let her rip the skin clean off.
As he watched her stare off into space and pant her way through the contraction, his admiration for her grew by leaps and bounds. She was in tremendous pain, but her determination to stay on top of it, to ride it out, was amazing.
He was sure she was in what the book called “active labor” because of the duration of her contractions and the time between them. He glanced at his watch. They still had the “transitional labor” to go through and, if the book was right, they probably had another couple of hours before they got to the actual delivery. He just hoped he could last that long. With every contraction Samantha had, his gut twisted tighter and he felt a little more helpless than he had only moments before.
When she blew out a deep breath, signaling that the contraction had ended, he asked, “Is there anything else I can do? The book says that you might have some back pain? Do you need your back rubbed?”
“Would you mind?” she asked, releasing his hand. She winced. “My back is killing me.”
Removing his Resistol, Morgan sailed it like a Frisbee to land on the chair with his duster, took a deep breath and eased over to sit next to her on the ugly green couch. He slipped his hand beneath her pink T-shirt to lightly kneed the muscles of her lower back, and valiantly tried to ignore the fact that her skin felt like satin beneath his callused palm. Now was not the time for him to remember how much he missed the way a woman’s softness felt.
“Is it helping?” he asked.
“A little.” She suddenly took a deep breath and once again focused on riding out another pain.
Morgan continued to rub her back with his right hand as he glanced at the watch on his left wrist. This contraction had come a lot faster than the last one. He watched the second hand sweep around once, then halfway around again before Samantha blew out a deep breath, signaling it was over.
“Stop touching me,” she said sharply. “You’re making it worse.”
“Okay,” he said, removing his hand from beneath her shirt. He knew for certain that he hadn’t rubbed her back that hard.
Frowning, Morgan moved back to the hearth and picked up the book. Unless he missed his guess, they were moving on to the next step.
Yep. Sure as shootin’, Samantha had all the signs of a woman in “transitional labor.” She’d suddenly become as irritable as a bear with a sore paw, didn’t want to be touched, and the most telling of the symptoms was the duration of the last contraction.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and watched her struggle to stay focused as the next wave of pain hit her. Her face was flushed, her golden-brown hair hung in damp tendrils from perspiration and the lines of strain around her mouth had deepened.
He’d never felt more useless.
When she blew out a deep breath, he laid the book aside and wiped her face with a cool damp washcloth. Her gaze met his, and it was damned near his undoing when tears filled her pretty amber eyes.
“I don’t think…I can’t do this, Morgan.”
Making sure the book was within easy reach, Morgan took her hands in his. “You’re doing just fine, Samantha.” The instructions had indicated that he should encourage her and help her stay focused. He wasn’t sure how the hell to go about that, but he’d do it or die trying. “You’re in the home stretch, sweetheart. It won’t be much longer.”
He watched her eyes cloud with pain, felt her hands tighten on his in a death grip. She started to say something, but a moan came out instead.
It tore him apart to see her hurting and not be able to do anything to help. “Look at me, Samantha.”
Her breathing ragged, she shook her head. “This is…too hard,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Come on, Samantha, look at me,” he said more firmly.
When she finally did as he commanded, Morgan nodded. “That’s it, sweetheart. Stay focused and squeeze my hands as hard as you can. Concentrate on transferring the pain to me.”
He wasn’t sure if the book supported his way of taking her mind off the contraction, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that it seemed to be working. Samantha held his gaze and damned near cut off the circulation to his fingers as she tightened her hands on his.
What seemed like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes later, she suddenly released his hands to lay back against the couch. “I need to push.”
The hair on the back of Morgan’s neck shot straight up and his stomach did a back-flip. “Are you sure?” he asked, flexing his fingers in an effort to return the circulation.
Nodding, she scrunched her eyes shut, grabbed her knees with her hands and pushed with all her might.
Morgan wanted to run like hell. Instead, he grabbed the book, quickly read what he needed to do, then prayed like he’d never prayed before.
He could do this. Along with his dad and brothers, he’d played baby doctor to the herds of Lonetree cattle for as long as he could remember. Surely he could deliver one little human baby.
Placing the book within easy reach, he washed his hands in one of the pots of water that he’d boiled earlier, then fished his sterilized pocket knife and Samantha’s shoelaces from the other. Fortunately, the water had cooled enough that it wasn’t scalding, but it was still damned hot. His mind on what was about to take place, he barely noticed.
To Morgan, the next thirty minutes seemed to pass in a fast-forward blur. Samantha worked hard to push her baby out into the world as he uttered words he hoped were encouraging. Then, just after midnight, a little baby boy with dark brown hair slid out into his waiting hands, opened his mouth and started yowling at the top of his tiny lungs.
A lump the size of his fist formed in Morgan’s throat as he stared down at the child he’d helped to enter the world. Awed by the miracle he’d participated in, he couldn’t have strung two words together if his life depended on it.
“Is my baby all right?” Samantha asked, sounding stronger than he would have thought possible after what she’d been through.
Relieved that things had turned out the way they should, Morgan tied off the cord in two places, cut it between the ties, then wrapped the baby in fluffy towels. His hands shaking slightly, he placed the infant in her waiting arms.
Clearing his throat, he finally managed, “I’m not a doctor, but he looks normal to me.” He grinned. “If his squalling is any indication, I’d say he’s mad as hell about this whole birthing business though.”
“He’s beautiful.” He watched tears fill Samantha’s eyes as she glanced up at him. “I can’t thank you enough for helping us, Morgan.”
“You did all the work.” Finishing the last of what the instructions indicated should be done, he washed up and rolled his sleeves back down to fasten them at his wrists. “Have you picked out a name for him?”
The smile she gave him made Morgan feel as if the sun had broken through on a gray, cloudy day. “As a matter of fact, I think I have,” she said softly. “How does Timothy Morgan Peterson sound?”
Two days later, Samantha sat on the side of her hospital bed, staring at the discharge papers the nurse had handed her only moments ago. Now what? Where were she and the baby supposed to go? And how were they supposed to get there?
She didn’t have her car. And even if she did, it wouldn’t run. The morning after Timmy had been born, Morgan rode his horse back to his ranch, then drove over to her grandfather’s place in his truck to take her and the baby to the hospital.
She sighed as she looked at her son sleeping peacefully in the bassinet. She could call a cab. But where would she have it take her and Timmy? She certainly couldn’t afford the fare for a sixty mile trip back to her newly inherited ranch. She shook her head. Make that her newly inherited dump.
“Do you need help getting dressed?” the nurse asked, strolling back into the room with a complimentary bag of sample baby products. She picked up Timmy from the tiny bed to wrap him in a soft, baby blue receiving blanket. “By the way, I caught your husband in the hall and told him you two were ready to leave.”
Dumbfounded, Samantha blinked. “My husband?” The woman had to have confused her with another new mother. “I’m not—”
“I sent him to bring his truck around to the front entrance,” the woman said as if Samantha hadn’t spoken. “Once you’re dressed, I’ll get a wheelchair and you and this little darling can be on your way.”
“But I still have to go down to the business office to make arrangements to pay the bill. And I’m not—”
“Don’t worry, Samantha. It’s taken care of,” Morgan said, walking through the doorway as if he owned the place. He handed her a shopping bag. “All you have to do is put these clothes on and we can get out of here.”
“I’ll get the wheelchair,” the nurse said, her shoes making a whispering sound against the tiled floor as she quickly left the room.
Samantha stared at the man who had been her rock throughout the birth of her child. He was without a doubt one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen. And apparently one of the most arrogant.
“What do you mean it’s taken care of?” she demanded. She wasn’t sure what he’d done, but she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like it when she found out.
“We’ll talk about it on the drive home.”
“I think we’d better discuss this right now,” she said flatly. She wasn’t going anywhere until he told her what was going on.
Completely ignoring her protest, he took the shopping bag from her stiff fingers, opened it and pulled out a cream-colored T-shirt and denim jumper. “I wasn’t sure about the size, so I had a clerk pick out everything. She said these were ‘one size fits most’—whatever that means.” He looked a little unsure as he shoved them into her hands and turned to leave. “Go ahead and get dressed so we can get out of here. I’ll be waiting with the truck when the nurse brings you out the front entrance.”
“Morgan, I want to know what—”
“I don’t want to argue with you, Samantha,” he interrupted. “It’s not good for you, and I really don’t have time for it. I’d like to get back to the Lonetree by lunchtime. So get dressed and I’ll meet you out front.”
Before she could demand answers, he grabbed the small overnight case she’d brought with her to the hospital, turned and left the room, leaving her to stare after him. She needed to get back to her grandfather’s ranch—make that hers now—to see about her car. And with very little money, she really didn’t have any other options of getting there.
She sighed heavily, then removing the tags from the jumper and T-shirt, slipped the pieces of lightweight cardboard into her purse. She wasn’t a charity case. As soon as she could, she’d pay Morgan back for the clothes.
Hurriedly changing from the hospital gown, she hardened her resolve to find out what he meant about the hospital bill being taken care of. They had a good sixty mile drive ahead of them, and if he’d done what she suspected, they were going to have a long talk on the way. A really long talk.
Fifteen minutes later, when the nurse guided the wheelchair through the double glass doors of the hospital’s front entrance, Morgan was leaning against the fender of his shiny silver-gray truck, his arms folded across his chest, boots crossed at the ankles. His denim jacket emphasized the width of his shoulders and his well-worn jeans hugged his muscular thighs like a second skin. She gulped. He looked like every woman’s fantasy—rugged, handsome and thoroughly masculine.
When he saw her, he smiled as he straightened to his full height and opened the passenger door of the shiny pickup. A tiny shiver coursed through her when his hand brushed her breast as he reached to take Timmy.
“You three make a nice little family,” the nurse said, watching Morgan cradle the baby with one arm, while he helped Samantha up onto the bench seat with the other. “Have a safe trip home.”
“Thanks. We’ll do that,” he said, handing the baby to Samantha. He closed the door of the truck before she could correct the nurse about them being a family.
“Why didn’t you tell her we aren’t together?” Samantha demanded when he slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition.
“It just seemed faster and a whole hell of a lot easier than explaining the situation,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder.
She fastened the seat belt over the car seat she’d had him get from her car the day before when he’d brought her and the baby to the hospital to be checked over. “You don’t approve of my having a child without a husband, do you?”
“I can’t say that I do, or don’t,” he said, putting the truck into gear. He steered it out onto the street, then glancing at her, added, “Samantha, I don’t know the circumstances.” His expression turned grim. “But the baby’s father should have been here to help you through this.”
She watched the easy way Morgan handled the big truck as he navigated the traffic. He was a man in complete control, and one who could be counted on in any situation. Unlike Timmy’s father.
Her chest tightened at the thought of the man who’d fathered a child he cared nothing about. How could she have been so wrong about Chad?
When they first started living together, they’d both worked at achieving the true give and take of a successful relationship. But six months later, Samantha suddenly realized that things had changed between them. She’d been the one doing all of the giving and he’d been the one doing the taking. Then one day she’d come home from work to find that he’d moved to L.A. to pursue his dream of becoming a musician. That’s when she realized how shallow and uncaring Chad really was. He hadn’t even bothered to face her to tell her things were over between them. He’d left a rather impersonal note stuck to the front of the refrigerator, saying that he’d had fun, but that it was time for him to move on.
“There’s really not that much to tell,” she found herself saying. Why Morgan’s opinion mattered, she had no idea. But for some reason she wanted him to know that the choice to handle everything on her own, hadn’t been hers. “We weren’t married, and I didn’t find out I was pregnant until after he and I had parted company.”
She watched Morgan’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, and she knew what he was thinking before he even asked, “He doesn’t know about the baby?”
“Oh, I told him,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. She would not allow herself to dwell on how hurt she’d been by Chad’s decision. “I didn’t ask him for any kind of help when I told him. I just thought he should know he’d fathered a baby, and that he might want to be part of Timmy’s life. But he wasn’t interested in knowing his child now, or in the future. He offered to sign away all legal rights to Timmy, and I accepted. End of story.”
“Why would he do a dumb-ass thing like that?” Morgan asked bluntly. He shot her a scowl that stated quite clearly what he thought of Chad, and she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that it would be the last thing he’d do in the same situation.
Gazing down at her sleeping son, Samantha blinked back the threatening tears. “I suspect he thought it would insure that I’d never ask for any kind of financial help from him.”
Morgan snorted. “I think a man who shirks his responsibilities and denies his child should be shot.”
Samantha swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I think Timmy and I are better off this way.”
“How do you figure that?” Morgan asked, clearly unable to comprehend her reasoning.
“Chad turned out to be very selfish and self-centered,” she answered, gently touching her son’s soft cheek. She took a deep breath to chase away the sadness she always felt when she thought of all that Timmy would miss by not having a father. “Why would I want a man like that helping me raise my son? It’s not the kind of example I want set before Timmy. Besides, he deserves a father who loves him unconditionally, not one who simply views him as a monthly support check.”
Morgan was silent for several long moments before he nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. But when a man gets a woman pregnant, whether he ever sees the child or not, he has an obligation to help her.”
Reaching the outskirts of Laramie, he set the cruise control, then stretched his right arm out along the back of the seat. His fingers brushed her hair and she felt warmed all the way to her toes.
Startled by her reaction, Samantha scooted over to lean against the door. “I have a question,” she said, determined to regain her equilibrium.
He glanced her way and smiled. “And that would be?”
His easy expression caused her pulse to skip a beat. She took a deep breath to chase away her accompanying breathlessness. “When you walked into my room back at the hospital, you said everything had been taken care of at the business office. What did you mean?”
“Just that,” he said, staring at the road ahead. “The bill is paid.”
Samantha felt her stomach start to churn. “Would you like to tell me who paid it?”
“I did.”
Anger swept through her. “Why?”
“Call it a baby gift,” he said, his smile so darned charming that she had to fight the warmth filling her chest.
She shook her head as she tried desperately to hang on to her anger. “A baby gift is a high chair, a blanket, a set of bibs. It’s not paying a hospital bill.”
His smiled faded and a muscle began to work along his lean jaw. “Look, Samantha. I’ve got the money, and I don’t mind helping out.”
“I don’t need your help,” she said stubbornly. “I’m not a charity case.”
He shook his head. “I never said you were.”
“How much was the bill?” Reaching into her purse, she removed a pad of paper and a pen. “I’ll reimburse you as soon as I find a job.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will.”
“Dammit, woman.” He looked exasperated. “I said no.”
“You’re used to people doing what you tell them to do, aren’t you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
He shrugged, but remained silent.
“Well, let me treat you to a reality check, cowboy.” She stuffed the paper and pen back into her handbag. “I’ve been on my own since I was eighteen. I make my own decisions and I pay my own way.”
As she glared at Morgan, the baby suddenly opened his eyes, waved his little fists in protest and wailed at the top of his lungs. Their raised voices had startled him.
“Why don’t we put this argument on hold until we get home?” Morgan asked, steering the truck off the main road.
Samantha quieted the baby, then looking around at the scenery, she frowned. Nothing looked familiar and she knew for certain they hadn’t traveled this road when Morgan had taken her and Timmy to the hospital the day before.
“Where are we going?” she asked, noticing the neatly fenced pastures on either side of the road.
“I’m taking you to the Lonetree,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Do you need to pick up something before you take me to my place?” she asked cautiously.
“No.”
A knot of suspicion began to form in the pit of her stomach. “Then why are we—”
“I thought you and the baby should stay at my ranch for a few days,” he said, turning onto another road.
She shook her head vehemently. “I most certainly will not be staying at your ranch.”
“Don’t be stubborn about this, Samantha. Your grandfather’s house isn’t in any shape for you and the baby to stay there.” He made it sound so darned reasonable, she wanted to scream.
But as she thought about what he’d just said, some of her anger drained away. She hated to admit it, but Morgan was right. The house only had a fireplace in the living room for heat, there was no running water and no electricity. Besides all that, the roof leaked.
Frustrated beyond words, Samantha had to fight the sudden urge to cry. It just brought home how low her circumstances had become. For all intents and purposes, she was as homeless as the foster child she’d been after her mother passed away.
Slowing the truck to a stop, Morgan turned to face her. “I understand how much you value your independence, sweetheart. And I swear I’m not trying to take that away from you. But you have to be realistic about this.” He reached over the car seat between them to cup her chin in his big palm, sending a wave of goose bumps shimmering over her skin. “Right now, you need help. Please, let me do the neighborly thing and lend a hand.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. Where else was she going to go? She had a newborn to take care of, no place to live and she’d exhausted her bank account to make the move from Sacramento to Wyoming. If it was just her, she’d politely refuse Morgan’s offer. But she had to think of what was best for Timmy now.
“I don’t have any other choice,” she finally said, blinking back tears. “And I really hate not having options.”
“I know, sweetheart. I feel the same way.” His understanding smile warmed her to the depths of her soul. “But you’ll be on your feet and back in charge of things before you know it.”
As she stared into his incredibly blue eyes, Samantha wondered if he’d ever been in a situation that he couldn’t control. She doubted it. A man like Morgan was always in complete command of everything going on around him.
Resigned, she took a deep breath. “I’ll need to get some things from my car.”
He released her chin and turned his attention to the road ahead of them. Shifting the truck into drive, he nodded. “After I got back from taking you and the baby to the hospital yesterday, I had a couple of my ranch hands take one of the tractors and tow your car over here. One of them is a pretty fair mechanic and he’s got it down at the machine shed, trying to get it running again.”
Before Samantha could tell him to keep track of how much the repairs cost, they topped a hill overlooking a beautiful valley. A sprawling log ranch house, along with several neat-looking barns and out-buildings stood majestically at one end, while a large herd of black cattle grazed at the other.
“Is that your ranch?”
He nodded. “That’s the main house. My brother, Brant, and his wife, Annie, have their home about three miles east of here.”
“How big is this place?” Samantha asked incredulously.
“We’ve been on Lonetree land ever since we turned off the highway,” he answered without blinking an eye.
“That was some time ago,” she said, awed by the idea of such a large piece of property.
He nodded. “About six miles.”
“Well, it certainly is beautiful,” she said, marveling at the contrast between her newly inherited property and this well-kept ranch. She wondered if she’d ever be able to get hers looking as nice. If she could, she knew for certain she’d be able to find backers for the camp she wanted to open for homeless children.
Morgan didn’t say anything, but she could tell by the slight curving at the corners of his mouth that her comment had pleased him.
When they drew closer, he turned the truck onto a lane that led to the house. Tall wooden posts stood on either side of the road, supporting a log spanning the width between them. As they passed beneath it, Samantha caught a fleeting glimpse of the words Lonetree Ranch carved into a wooden sign suspended from the middle of the arch.
He stopped the pickup at the side of the house, then got out and came around to help her from the passenger side. “I had Bettylou, the wife of the man working on your car, come by and make up one of the guest rooms,” he said, unfastening the lap belt from the baby’s carrier. He lifted it from the center of the bench seat, then using the handle, carried it in one hand as he cupped her elbow with the other to guide her up the steps of the front porch. “After I get you two settled in your room, I’ll go down to the machine shed and check to see if Frank knows what’s wrong with your car. I’ll get your things while I’m at it.”
His big hand warmed her arm through the light jacket she wore and sent a tremor up her spine. She quickly stepped away from him.
“I won’t need everything from the car,” she said, waiting for him to open the door. “Timmy and I won’t be staying more than a couple of days.”
Holding the door for her, he smiled. “We’ll see.”
She needed to make it clear to him, she wasn’t a charity case, nor did she intend to take advantage of his generosity. Before she could respond to his obvious disbelief, they entered the foyer of the Lonetree ranch house and she forgot anything she’d been about to say. The interior of the log home was every bit as impressive as the exterior.
When Morgan led her into the great room, her breath caught. “This is absolutely gorgeous.”
A huge stone fireplace with a split log mantel stood against the outside wall of the room, the rounded blue, gray and tan stones the perfect accent to the golden hue of the varnished log walls. The house had a warm, friendly feel to it, but it was the openness that Samantha fell in love with. The ceiling was vaulted and open all the way to the huge log rafters, and the rooms seemed to flow from one into another.
“Make yourself at home,” Morgan said, placing the car seat with her sleeping son on the most unusual coffee table she’d ever seen.
A thick, flat piece of dark blue-gray slate rested on a pedestal base made from a section of an entire tree trunk. The bark had been left on and contrasted beautifully with the warm patina of the polished hardwood floor and the burnt sienna colored leather furniture.
“Were you going for durability?” she asked dryly.
Chuckling, Morgan shrugged. “Brant and I ruined the surface of my mom’s other table so many times by running our cars and trucks over it, that Mom and Dad came up with the idea of a slate topped table before Colt was born. Then after Mom died, and Dad was faced with raising three rowdy boys by himself, I don’t think he had much choice but to keep it.”
“You were raised by your father?”
She noticed a fleeting shadow in his intense blue eyes a moment before he nodded. “Mom died while giving birth to our youngest brother, Colt.”
Samantha gazed up at him for several long seconds. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I know what it feels like to lose your mother,” she said quietly. “I was almost seventeen when mine passed away.”
As they stood staring at each other, the baby suddenly let loose with a lusty cry, breaking the somber mood that had come over the two adults.
“It’s time for him to nurse,” she said, releasing the straps securing Timmy in the baby seat. “Is there somewhere I could—”
“I’ll show you to your room,” Morgan said, nodding toward the staircase behind her. The stairs, banister and railings of the loft area above were crafted from the same golden wood as the walls, and added to the rustic appeal of the house.
Samantha held the baby close and tried to concentrate on breathing as she climbed the split-log steps beside Morgan. He’d placed his arm around her waist to steady her and his touch was doing some very strange things to her insides. Tingles raced the length of her spine and a warm, protected feeling seemed to course through her.
Needing to put a little distance between them, she waited for him to lead the way across the loft and down a hall where several bedrooms were located. Her uncharacteristic reaction to him had to be due to a major postnatal hormone imbalance. That’s all it could be, she decided. After giving birth two days ago, there was no way she could possibly be feeling any kind of physical awareness. Was there?
When he opened the door to a room at the end of the hall, her eyes misted over. A cradle, made up with soft-looking, baby-blue bedding sat by a beautiful four-poster bed. She couldn’t remember a time since her mother’s passing that anyone had been as thoughtful as Morgan had been in the past few hours. He’d made sure she and the baby had a ride home from the hospital, offered them a place to stay and had gone to the trouble of arranging for Timmy to have a warm, comfortable place to sleep.
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Kathie DeNosky
The Chivalrous Cowboy: Morgan WakefieldHis Profile: Protective, proud and passionateHis soft spot: Single moms-to-beMorgan didn't know a thing about delivering babies, but when he came across a stranded woman in labor, he knew he was her only hope. Soon he was rolling up his shirtsleeves and helping to bring Samantha Peterson's precious child into the world. And when the rugged rancher discovered that single mother Samantha and her brand-new son needed a place to stay, he felt duty-bound to offer his home. Morgan didn't anticipate the urgent, primitive stirrings the breathtaking beauty aroused. Although he had given up on ever being a husband or father, Samantha evoked his every masculine instinct–to protect, defend…and possess?
“I Promise You Won’t Be Lonely,” Morgan Said.
“At least for the next two years?”
“At least,” he said, nodding as he lowered his mouth to hers.
He didn’t want to dwell on the length of their upcoming marriage, or the reason for it. At the moment, the feel of Samantha’s soft body against his and the sound of her soft sigh were sending his libido into overdrive.
Tracing her lips with his tongue, Morgan deepened the kiss to leisurely reacquaint himself with her sweetness, to explore the woman who in two days would become his wife.
Knowing that if things went much further he wouldn’t be able to stop, he broke the kiss and took a step back. “I…really should check on a new colt,” he said, turning toward the back door. Without waiting for her response, he stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him.
Their marriage might not be a love match, but the attraction between them was too strong to be denied. There was no way the two of them could live in the same house, day in and day out, without the inevitable happening between them.
It wasn’t a matter of if they made love. The question now was when?
Lonetree Ranchers: Morgan
Kathie DeNosky
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KATHIE DENOSKY
lives in her native southern Illinois with her husband, three children and one very spoiled Jack Russell terrier. She writes highly sensual stories with a generous amount of humor. Kathie’s books have appeared on the Waldenbooks bestseller list and received the Write Touch Readers’ Award from WisRWA and the National Readers’ Choice Award. She enjoys going to rodeos, traveling to research settings for her books and listening to country music. She often works through the night so she can write without interruption while the rest of the family is sleeping. You may contact Kathie at P.O. Box 2064, Herrin, Illinois 62948-5264 or e-mail her at kathie@kathiedenosky.com.
To Charlie, who puts up with my odd hours and loves me anyway.
And a very special thank-you to the Professional Bull Riders.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
One
“What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?”
In the process of building a fire in the big stone fireplace, Samantha Peterson jumped and spun around at the sound of the man’s angry voice and the old wooden door slamming back against the wall. The biggest cowboy she’d ever seen stood like a tree rooted in the middle of the threshold. Lightning flashed outside behind him and every story she’d ever heard about the bogeyman flooded her mind.
His eyes were hidden by the wide brim of his black cowboy hat pulled down low on his forehead, but if the grim set of his mouth was any indication, he was not only the biggest cowboy she’d ever seen, he was also the angriest. He took a step forward at the same time a gust of wind whipped his long black coat around his legs. That’s when Samantha noticed he held a rifle in one big gloved hand.
“I…I’m…ooh—” Samantha bent forward slightly, squeezed her eyes shut and groaned from the sudden tightness gripping her stomach.
“Good God, you’re pregnant!” He sounded shocked.
Anger coursed through her. He’d scared the bejeebers out of her and all he had to say was, “You’re pregnant?”
“Thank you for informing me…of that fact,” she said through clenched teeth. “I doubt that I’d…have noticed otherwise.”
“Are you all right?”
His voice sounded too close for comfort, but that was the least of Samantha’s concerns. She had a feeling this wasn’t one of the Braxton-Hicks contractions that she’d been experiencing for the past couple of weeks. It felt too different to be false labor. This felt like it might be the real thing. But that wasn’t possible, was it? She still had three weeks before she reached her due date.
“No, I’m not all right,” she said as the tight feeling decreased. Ready to give the man a piece of her mind, she straightened to her full height. “You scared the living daylights…”
Her voice trailed off as she looked up—way up—at the man standing next to her. The sheer size of him sent a shiver of apprehension slithering up her spine and had her stepping away from him. The top of her head barely reached his chin. At five foot six, she wasn’t an Amazon by any means, but she wasn’t short either. But this man was at least ten inches taller and appeared to be extremely muscular.
“Look, I’m sorry I yelled,” he said, his deep baritone sending another tremor through her that had nothing whatsoever to do with fear. “I expected to find one of the local teenage boys getting ready to throw one of his Saturday night beer busts.”
“As you can see, I’m not a teenage boy.” Samantha moved away a couple of extra steps. She needed to put more distance between them, in case a fast getaway was in order. At least, as fast as her advanced pregnancy would allow. “And I can assure you, I’m not getting ready to throw a drinking party.”
His mouth curved up in a smile and he used his thumb to push the wide brim of his cowboy hat up, revealing the most startling blue eyes she’d ever seen. “Let’s start over.” He extended his big hand. “I’m Morgan Wakefield.”
When she cautiously placed her hand in his, his fingers closed around hers and a warm tingle raced through her. As he stared at her expectantly, she had trouble finding her voice. “I’m, uh, Samantha Peterson,” she finally managed as she tugged her hand from his.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Peterson.”
“That’s Ms. Peterson,” Samantha corrected. “I’m not married.”
His gaze traveled to her swollen stomach, then back to her face before he gave her a short nod. Had that been a hint of disapproval she’d detected in his expression just before he gave her a bland smile?
If so, that was just too darned bad. It was none of his business whether she was married or not.
As they continued to stare wordlessly at each other, the sound of dripping water drew their attention to the corner of the room. Hurrying into the kitchen, Samantha rummaged through the cabinets until she found a large pot.
When she returned to the living room, she shoved it under the steady stream of water pouring from the ceiling. “That’s just great. Not even the roof on this place is in decent repair.”
She watched Morgan Wakefield’s eyes narrow. “Why do you care if the roof leaks or not?” he asked slowly.
“I was hoping it would at least keep me dry tonight,” she said, gazing at the rain water collecting in the pot.
“You’re staying? Here? Tonight?”
“Yes. Yes. And yes,” she said, smiling at his incredulous look. “I inherited it from my grandfather.”
“You’re Tug Shackley’s granddaughter?”
Samantha nodded and walked over to the wide stone hearth to slowly lower herself to a sitting position. Another contraction was building, and making sure to keep her breathing deep and even, she focused on relaxing every muscle in her body.
When it passed, she looked up to find that Morgan had propped his rifle against the armchair and stood with his hands on his narrow hips. He was watching her as if he didn’t quite know what to think. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. I’ll be fine just as soon as I have my baby,” she said, reminding herself to stay calm, even though the baby was coming earlier than expected. “Do you happen to know where the nearest hospital is?”
If the widening of his vivid blue eyes was any indication, it had been the last thing he’d expected her to ask. “Oh hell, lady. You’re not—”
“Yes, I am.” She almost laughed at the horrified expression that crossed his handsome face. “Now, if you’ll answer my question concerning the location of the nearest hospital, I’ll get in my car and go have my baby.”
He removed his hat and ran an agitated hand through his shiny sable-black hair. “You can’t drive yourself to the hospital.”
“And why not, Mr. Wakefield?” she asked, staring up at him.
Not only was he one of the biggest men she’d ever met, he was one of the best-looking. He had a small white scar above his right eyebrow and his lean cheeks sported a day’s growth of beard, but it only added to his rugged appeal.
“The name’s Morgan,” he said, jamming his hat back on his head. “And it’s not safe for you to be driving in your condition. What if the pain caused you to run off the road?”
Samantha awkwardly pushed herself to her feet. “That’s a chance I’ll have to take. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ll have to get acquainted some other time. Right now, I have to go deliver my baby.”
He stubbornly shook his head. “Where’s your car parked?”
“In the garage, or shed, or whatever you want to call that dilapidated thing behind the house.” She collected her shoulder bag from the mantel. “Why?”
“The nearest hospital is over sixty miles from here, in Laramie.” He held out his hand. “Give me your keys and I’ll drive you down there.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m perfectly capable of—”
Arguing with Morgan, she was unprepared for the contraction that wrapped around her belly and seemed to squeeze the breath out of her. When she dropped her purse and bent double, he caught her by the shoulders and supported her until the feeling eased.
“You can’t even stand up when the pain hits.” He picked up her purse and held it out to her. “Now, give me your keys and I’ll go get your car.”
As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Digging in her purse, she handed him the keys to her twenty-year-old Ford. “You might have trouble starting it. It’s kind of tricky sometimes. I think it might need a tune-up.”
“Don’t worry. I think I can handle starting a car,” Morgan said dryly. Taking the keys from her, he turned toward the door, but stopped abruptly when she started to follow. “There’s no sense in both of us getting drenched. Stay inside until I get the car pulled up closer to the porch, then I’ll help you down the steps.”
“I think I can navigate a set of steps by myself,” she argued.
“They aren’t in the best repair and I don’t think you want to deal with a broken leg, in addition to having a baby.”
He left the house before she could argue the point further and sprinted across the yard. He’d waited for this day for almost eighteen months. Tug’s heir had finally been found. Unfortunately, she had the idea that she was going to take up residence in the place. And at the moment, she for damned sure wasn’t in any shape to listen to his arguments about why she should sell it to him, instead of carrying out her plan of moving in.
He almost laughed as he folded his tall frame into the driver’s seat of the compact car. Women. Where did they get these empty-headed ideas anyway? She’d have to be blind not to see that it would take more money than it was worth to fix up this dump.
Inserting the key into the ignition, he turned it and the dull clicking sound that followed sent a chill racing up his spine. He glanced at the dashboard. There wasn’t one of the indicator lights lit. He closed his eyes in frustration and barely resisted the urge to pound on the dash with his fist. The battery was as dead as poor old Tug.
When he climbed out of the bucket seat and raised the hood, he rattled off a string of cuss words that would have done a sailor proud. The battery terminals were so covered with corrosion he wouldn’t be surprised to see that it had eaten through the cables. He looked around for something to knock some of the oxidation loose, but abandoned that idea immediately. Even if he got rid of most of the crud without breaking the contacts, there was no way to charge the damned thing. He slammed the hood back down with force.
Desperation clawed at his insides as the gravity of the situation settled over him. The only way to get help would involve him riding his horse back to the Lonetree through a pouring rain to get his truck. That would take at least thirty minutes going across country. Then it would take another forty-five minutes to drive the road between the two ranches.
Morgan shook his head as he stared at the sheet of rain just outside the shed’s double doors. Riding through a downpour didn’t bother him. Hell, he’d done that more times than he cared to count. But the creek between his ranch and this one always flooded when it rained this hard, and it would be impossible to cross now. He could use the road, but that would take a couple of hours to get back to her, and he didn’t like the idea of leaving a pregnant woman—a woman in labor, no less—by herself. And he’d bet his right arm that she wouldn’t be any crazier about his leaving her alone than he was.
For the first time since meeting Samantha Peterson, he allowed himself to think about his first impression of her. Her golden-brown hair framed a face that could easily grace the cover of a glamour magazine. But her eyes were what had damned near knocked him to his knees when he’d first seen her standing by the fireplace. Whiskey-brown with flecks of gold, they’d made him think of hot sultry nights and long hours of passionate sex.
Morgan sucked in a sharp breath. Now where the hell had that come from?
He cussed a blue streak. It had been quite a while since he’d enjoyed the warmth of a woman’s body and the long dry spell was beginning to take its toll. What he needed was a trip to Buffalo Gals Saloon down in Bear Creek for a night of good old-fashioned hell-raising. He was sure to find a willing little filly down there to help him scratch his itch and forget how lonely the long Wyoming winter had been.
Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the matters at hand. Now was not the time to lament how sorry his sex life was. What he and Samantha Peterson were facing right now was a lot more important.
A sinking feeling settled over him as he reviewed the options to their present dilemma. He might as well accept the inevitable and start preparing for what had to be done. Within the next few hours, he was going to have to add the delivery of a baby to his arsenal of emergency medical skills. Unless, of course, by some miracle someone else showed up. And the chances of that happening were slim to none.
Sighing heavily, he turned back to her car, opened the trunk and rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. Gathering pillows, sheets, blankets and towels, he ran back to the house.
By the time he walked through the door, Samantha sat on the hearth with her gaze transfixed on the faded picture hanging on the opposite wall. She looked as if she was in some kind of daze and he wondered if she might be going into shock.
But as he mentally reviewed what he knew about treating shock victims, she took a deep breath, slowly blew it out, then looked at him expectantly. “Are we ready to go?” she asked, rising to her feet as if nothing had happened.
Relieved that she seemed to be all right, he shook his head and tried to think of a way to break the news as gently as he could. He sighed heavily. Some things just couldn’t be sugar-coated.
“The battery’s dead. I’m afraid we’re stuck here for a while.”
Her pretty amber eyes widened considerably as she looked around the room. “But I have to go to the hospital. There’s no doctor here. What if…I mean the baby is early. There might be a need for—”
Walking over to her, Morgan placed his hands on her shoulders. The last thing he needed right now was for her to go into a blind panic. “Take a deep breath and listen to me, Samantha. You’re not alone. I’m here.”
“Are you a doctor?” Her expressive eyes begged him to say that he was.
At the moment, Morgan would have given everything he owned for a medical degree. “No, I’m not,” he answered truthfully. “But we’ll get through this. You’ve got my word on that.” He just hoped liked hell he could live up to the promise.
“What about your car, or truck, or whatever you came in?” she asked hopefully. “Can’t we use that?”
He ran his hand over the back of his neck in an effort to ease some of the mounting tension and shook his head. “I rode my horse. Getting back to the Lonetree, then driving back here in my truck, would take hours.”
“Your horse,” she repeated, looking more apprehensive by the second.
“I tied it in the barn when I arrived,” he said, hoping she didn’t get hysterical.
She brightened suddenly, as if she had the answer to the immediate problem. “What about a cell phone? Everyone has a cell phone these days. You can’t go to a movie or out to dinner without hearing one ring.”
“I have one, but certain areas of this region are dead zones,” he explained. “This is one of them. Even if I’d bothered to bring it with me, it would be useless without a signal.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but instead of words she let loose with a low moan. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up and his gut twisted into a tight knot. When she began to fold, Morgan pulled her to him and supported her weight while the pain held her in its grip.
Sweat popped out on his forehead and upper lip. This was going to be hard as hell to deal with. He didn’t like seeing anything in pain, and definitely not a woman. He’d rather climb a barbed wire fence buck naked than to see a female in pain.
How was he going to handle Samantha going through hours of labor and not be able to do a damned thing but watch? And what if things didn’t go like they were supposed to?
He swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. He knew all too well what could happen if something went wrong. At the age of seven he’d lost his own mother because of complications during the birth of his youngest brother, Colt. And she’d been in the hospital.
The pain ebbed and the woman he held took a deep breath. “I’ve got to maintain my focus,” she said, sounding determined. “It will make all of this much easier if I can do that.”
Morgan wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. But at the moment, it didn’t matter. His biggest concern was to get her off her feet, make sure she was as comfortable as possible, then start gathering some of the supplies he’d need.
“Why don’t you sit by the fire while I get the couch pulled over here for you to lie down?” he asked, helping her lower herself to the raised stone hearth.
“You, um, haven’t by any chance done this before, have you?” she asked. Her hopeful tone caused the knot in his gut to tighten.
He refrained from answering as he pulled the drop cloth from the dingy green couch, threw it onto a chair and shoved the heavy piece of furniture closer to the warmth of the fire. He’d delivered hundreds, maybe thousands, of babies in his lifetime. But none of them had been human. And somehow, he didn’t think Samantha Peterson would be all that impressed with his expertise as a bovine obstetrician. With any luck she wouldn’t ask him again, and he wouldn’t have to tell her.
“Well, have you?” she persisted.
Morgan almost groaned out loud. Why couldn’t she just drop it and accept the inevitable? He was the best—the only—source of help she was going to get.
“Yes, and no.” He unfolded one of the sheets he’d retrieved from her car and arranged it over the sagging piece of furniture, along with a couple of pillows. “If you count the calves and colts I’ve delivered, yes, I’ve done this before.” He helped her up from the hearth and over to the couch. “If not, then no, I haven’t.”
She sat down suddenly and went into that trance-like state that she’d been in when he’d come in from trying to start the car. Fascinated, he watched her take deep, rhythmic breaths and lightly massage her swollen belly as she stared at the brim of his hat. Her porcelain cheeks colored a deep rose, but her determination to ride out the pain was evident in the set of her stubborn little chin and her unwavering concentration.
When she came out of the daze, she looked up at him and continued talking as if nothing had happened. It was the damnedest thing he’d ever witnessed.
“There’s a book on pregnancy in my handbag. I think it has emergency delivery instructions and a list of things you’ll need.” She nervously caught her lower lip between her teeth before she continued, “I hope you’re a quick study.”
If there was one thing Morgan admired, and a sure-fire way of judging what a person was made of, it was watching how they handled themselves in a tense situation. And he’d have to give credit where it was due. The little lady settling herself back against the pillows on the sagging green couch had her share of grit.
He could tell by the shadows in her pretty whiskey-colored eyes that she was scared witless. But the firm set of her perfectly shaped mouth indicated that she wasn’t going to panic. Whatever came their way, she was going to deal with it.
Giving her the most reassuring smile he was capable of under the circumstances, Morgan handed her the oversized purse. “You find that book. I’ll take care of the rest.”
She pulled the book from the depths of the bag, then, shoving it into his hands, went back into another one of her trances. While she took deep, even breaths and stared off into space, he quickly scanned the index of the book she’d given him for instructions on an emergency, at-home delivery.
Turning to the page the directory had indicated, he read the first entry. Calling 9-1-1 was out of the question. He skipped down to the second directive—if possible call for help.
Well hell, that was a no-brainer. If he could call someone else to assist, he’d call 9-1-1.
When his gaze dropped to the third instruction, he swallowed hard and glanced at her as she came back from wherever she went in her mind to escape the pain.
“What?” she asked when he continued to stare at her.
He cleared his throat. There was no easy way of breaking news like this to a woman he’d known for—he checked his watch—a little less than an hour.
“It says you need to strip from the waist down,” he finally answered, making sure to keep his voice even and his gaze steady.
“Is that necessary right now?” she asked just as calmly. He wasn’t sure, but it looked as if her already flushed cheeks turned a deeper shade of crimson.
Shrugging, Morgan handed her the book and walked into the kitchen to find another pot. He needed to get some water boiling in order to sterilize a few things he would have to use during the delivery. And she needed to come to grips with the way things had to be.
When he walked back into the living room on his way to set a couple of pots outside to collect rainwater for boiling, he noticed that she’d used one of the blankets he’d brought in from the car to drape over her lap. Glancing to the end of the couch, he saw that her jeans were neatly folded on the arm, while her tennis shoes and socks sat on the floor beside it. She didn’t look his way and he didn’t comment on the fact that she’d obviously done as the book had indicated.
“Would you feel better lying down?” he asked when he returned from placing the pots on the porch steps.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
Sweat beaded her forehead as she handed him the book and, once again, focused her energy on riding the current wave of pain. Standing there watching her, Morgan had never felt more useless in his entire life. He wanted to help her, but he didn’t have a clue how to go about it.
Needing to do something, anything, he turned to the woodbox by the fireplace, removed several logs, then carefully stacked them on the dying fire in the grate. Even though it was early May, and fairly warm, there was a damp chill to the room, and he figured he would need all the light he could get when the time came for the baby’s grand entrance. Besides, he needed something to keep himself busy in order to take his mind off what Samantha was going through.
The dry wood caught immediately and the fire blazed high, chasing away the approaching shadows of late afternoon. He shrugged out of his duster and tossing it toward the chair where he’d thrown the drop cloth, went in search of some other source of light. Fortunately, he found two kerosene lamps in the pantry with full reservoirs. He returned to the living room, placed them on the mantel and lit the wicks with some stick matches he’d found in the kitchen, then sat on the hearth and picked up the book. Running his finger down the list of preparations, he glanced up. Where the hell was he going to find two pieces of sturdy string to tie off the cord?
He scanned the room, then zeroed in on Samantha’s tennis shoes sitting where she’d placed them by the end of the couch. Her shoe laces would have to do. He checked the book again. It didn’t say anything about sterilizing what he used to tie the cord, but he figured it couldn’t hurt. Just to be on the safe side, he’d toss them in the boiling water along with his pocket knife. Even if the hot water caused them to shrink, they should still be long enough for what he needed.
He laid the book within easy reach, then stood up and unfastened the cuffs of his chambray shirt. Rolling the long sleeves to the middle of his forearms, he waited for Samantha to relax her intense focus.
“The book says we need to start timing your contractions in order to tell how you’re progressing. Let me know when you feel another one coming on.”
She nodded. “They’re coming closer together.”
They were getting stronger, too. That much he could tell from the tiny strain lines bracketing her mouth. On impulse he reached out and took her hand in his. Giving it a gentle squeeze, he tried to reassure her. “You’re going to do just fine, Samantha.”
She squeezed back. “Remind me of that in a few hours.”
“Will do,” he said, nodding. He had no idea why the trust she was placing in him caused his chest to swell, but it did. Deciding that he could analyze what it meant later, he released her hand and started for the door. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get the rainwater I’ve been collecting so that I can put it on the fire to boil.”
“Morgan?”
The sound of his name on her soft voice sent a tingle up his spine. He swallowed hard and turned back to face her. “What, Samantha?”
“Thank you for being so calm. It really helps.” The look she gave him clearly stated that she was counting on him to get her through whatever happened.
At a loss for words, he nodded and walked out to the porch to get the pots of water. Samantha had no way of knowing that his insides were churning like a damned cement mixer from thoughts of all the things that could go wrong, as they had with his mother.
Morgan took a deep breath, then slowly released it. And if it was the last thing he ever did, he had no intention of letting her find out.
Two
Four hours later, Morgan sat on the hearth in front of Samantha where she perched on the edge of the couch. For the last hour he’d watched her alternate between sitting forward and leaning back against the pillows in her effort to get comfortable. She had his hand in a death grip as she rode the current wave of pain and it surprised him how strong she was. It felt more like a lumberjack had a hold of his hand than a woman, and her nails digging into his palm felt as if she might draw blood. But if it helped her get through this, he’d gladly let her rip the skin clean off.
As he watched her stare off into space and pant her way through the contraction, his admiration for her grew by leaps and bounds. She was in tremendous pain, but her determination to stay on top of it, to ride it out, was amazing.
He was sure she was in what the book called “active labor” because of the duration of her contractions and the time between them. He glanced at his watch. They still had the “transitional labor” to go through and, if the book was right, they probably had another couple of hours before they got to the actual delivery. He just hoped he could last that long. With every contraction Samantha had, his gut twisted tighter and he felt a little more helpless than he had only moments before.
When she blew out a deep breath, signaling that the contraction had ended, he asked, “Is there anything else I can do? The book says that you might have some back pain? Do you need your back rubbed?”
“Would you mind?” she asked, releasing his hand. She winced. “My back is killing me.”
Removing his Resistol, Morgan sailed it like a Frisbee to land on the chair with his duster, took a deep breath and eased over to sit next to her on the ugly green couch. He slipped his hand beneath her pink T-shirt to lightly kneed the muscles of her lower back, and valiantly tried to ignore the fact that her skin felt like satin beneath his callused palm. Now was not the time for him to remember how much he missed the way a woman’s softness felt.
“Is it helping?” he asked.
“A little.” She suddenly took a deep breath and once again focused on riding out another pain.
Morgan continued to rub her back with his right hand as he glanced at the watch on his left wrist. This contraction had come a lot faster than the last one. He watched the second hand sweep around once, then halfway around again before Samantha blew out a deep breath, signaling it was over.
“Stop touching me,” she said sharply. “You’re making it worse.”
“Okay,” he said, removing his hand from beneath her shirt. He knew for certain that he hadn’t rubbed her back that hard.
Frowning, Morgan moved back to the hearth and picked up the book. Unless he missed his guess, they were moving on to the next step.
Yep. Sure as shootin’, Samantha had all the signs of a woman in “transitional labor.” She’d suddenly become as irritable as a bear with a sore paw, didn’t want to be touched, and the most telling of the symptoms was the duration of the last contraction.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and watched her struggle to stay focused as the next wave of pain hit her. Her face was flushed, her golden-brown hair hung in damp tendrils from perspiration and the lines of strain around her mouth had deepened.
He’d never felt more useless.
When she blew out a deep breath, he laid the book aside and wiped her face with a cool damp washcloth. Her gaze met his, and it was damned near his undoing when tears filled her pretty amber eyes.
“I don’t think…I can’t do this, Morgan.”
Making sure the book was within easy reach, Morgan took her hands in his. “You’re doing just fine, Samantha.” The instructions had indicated that he should encourage her and help her stay focused. He wasn’t sure how the hell to go about that, but he’d do it or die trying. “You’re in the home stretch, sweetheart. It won’t be much longer.”
He watched her eyes cloud with pain, felt her hands tighten on his in a death grip. She started to say something, but a moan came out instead.
It tore him apart to see her hurting and not be able to do anything to help. “Look at me, Samantha.”
Her breathing ragged, she shook her head. “This is…too hard,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Come on, Samantha, look at me,” he said more firmly.
When she finally did as he commanded, Morgan nodded. “That’s it, sweetheart. Stay focused and squeeze my hands as hard as you can. Concentrate on transferring the pain to me.”
He wasn’t sure if the book supported his way of taking her mind off the contraction, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that it seemed to be working. Samantha held his gaze and damned near cut off the circulation to his fingers as she tightened her hands on his.
What seemed like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes later, she suddenly released his hands to lay back against the couch. “I need to push.”
The hair on the back of Morgan’s neck shot straight up and his stomach did a back-flip. “Are you sure?” he asked, flexing his fingers in an effort to return the circulation.
Nodding, she scrunched her eyes shut, grabbed her knees with her hands and pushed with all her might.
Morgan wanted to run like hell. Instead, he grabbed the book, quickly read what he needed to do, then prayed like he’d never prayed before.
He could do this. Along with his dad and brothers, he’d played baby doctor to the herds of Lonetree cattle for as long as he could remember. Surely he could deliver one little human baby.
Placing the book within easy reach, he washed his hands in one of the pots of water that he’d boiled earlier, then fished his sterilized pocket knife and Samantha’s shoelaces from the other. Fortunately, the water had cooled enough that it wasn’t scalding, but it was still damned hot. His mind on what was about to take place, he barely noticed.
To Morgan, the next thirty minutes seemed to pass in a fast-forward blur. Samantha worked hard to push her baby out into the world as he uttered words he hoped were encouraging. Then, just after midnight, a little baby boy with dark brown hair slid out into his waiting hands, opened his mouth and started yowling at the top of his tiny lungs.
A lump the size of his fist formed in Morgan’s throat as he stared down at the child he’d helped to enter the world. Awed by the miracle he’d participated in, he couldn’t have strung two words together if his life depended on it.
“Is my baby all right?” Samantha asked, sounding stronger than he would have thought possible after what she’d been through.
Relieved that things had turned out the way they should, Morgan tied off the cord in two places, cut it between the ties, then wrapped the baby in fluffy towels. His hands shaking slightly, he placed the infant in her waiting arms.
Clearing his throat, he finally managed, “I’m not a doctor, but he looks normal to me.” He grinned. “If his squalling is any indication, I’d say he’s mad as hell about this whole birthing business though.”
“He’s beautiful.” He watched tears fill Samantha’s eyes as she glanced up at him. “I can’t thank you enough for helping us, Morgan.”
“You did all the work.” Finishing the last of what the instructions indicated should be done, he washed up and rolled his sleeves back down to fasten them at his wrists. “Have you picked out a name for him?”
The smile she gave him made Morgan feel as if the sun had broken through on a gray, cloudy day. “As a matter of fact, I think I have,” she said softly. “How does Timothy Morgan Peterson sound?”
Two days later, Samantha sat on the side of her hospital bed, staring at the discharge papers the nurse had handed her only moments ago. Now what? Where were she and the baby supposed to go? And how were they supposed to get there?
She didn’t have her car. And even if she did, it wouldn’t run. The morning after Timmy had been born, Morgan rode his horse back to his ranch, then drove over to her grandfather’s place in his truck to take her and the baby to the hospital.
She sighed as she looked at her son sleeping peacefully in the bassinet. She could call a cab. But where would she have it take her and Timmy? She certainly couldn’t afford the fare for a sixty mile trip back to her newly inherited ranch. She shook her head. Make that her newly inherited dump.
“Do you need help getting dressed?” the nurse asked, strolling back into the room with a complimentary bag of sample baby products. She picked up Timmy from the tiny bed to wrap him in a soft, baby blue receiving blanket. “By the way, I caught your husband in the hall and told him you two were ready to leave.”
Dumbfounded, Samantha blinked. “My husband?” The woman had to have confused her with another new mother. “I’m not—”
“I sent him to bring his truck around to the front entrance,” the woman said as if Samantha hadn’t spoken. “Once you’re dressed, I’ll get a wheelchair and you and this little darling can be on your way.”
“But I still have to go down to the business office to make arrangements to pay the bill. And I’m not—”
“Don’t worry, Samantha. It’s taken care of,” Morgan said, walking through the doorway as if he owned the place. He handed her a shopping bag. “All you have to do is put these clothes on and we can get out of here.”
“I’ll get the wheelchair,” the nurse said, her shoes making a whispering sound against the tiled floor as she quickly left the room.
Samantha stared at the man who had been her rock throughout the birth of her child. He was without a doubt one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen. And apparently one of the most arrogant.
“What do you mean it’s taken care of?” she demanded. She wasn’t sure what he’d done, but she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like it when she found out.
“We’ll talk about it on the drive home.”
“I think we’d better discuss this right now,” she said flatly. She wasn’t going anywhere until he told her what was going on.
Completely ignoring her protest, he took the shopping bag from her stiff fingers, opened it and pulled out a cream-colored T-shirt and denim jumper. “I wasn’t sure about the size, so I had a clerk pick out everything. She said these were ‘one size fits most’—whatever that means.” He looked a little unsure as he shoved them into her hands and turned to leave. “Go ahead and get dressed so we can get out of here. I’ll be waiting with the truck when the nurse brings you out the front entrance.”
“Morgan, I want to know what—”
“I don’t want to argue with you, Samantha,” he interrupted. “It’s not good for you, and I really don’t have time for it. I’d like to get back to the Lonetree by lunchtime. So get dressed and I’ll meet you out front.”
Before she could demand answers, he grabbed the small overnight case she’d brought with her to the hospital, turned and left the room, leaving her to stare after him. She needed to get back to her grandfather’s ranch—make that hers now—to see about her car. And with very little money, she really didn’t have any other options of getting there.
She sighed heavily, then removing the tags from the jumper and T-shirt, slipped the pieces of lightweight cardboard into her purse. She wasn’t a charity case. As soon as she could, she’d pay Morgan back for the clothes.
Hurriedly changing from the hospital gown, she hardened her resolve to find out what he meant about the hospital bill being taken care of. They had a good sixty mile drive ahead of them, and if he’d done what she suspected, they were going to have a long talk on the way. A really long talk.
Fifteen minutes later, when the nurse guided the wheelchair through the double glass doors of the hospital’s front entrance, Morgan was leaning against the fender of his shiny silver-gray truck, his arms folded across his chest, boots crossed at the ankles. His denim jacket emphasized the width of his shoulders and his well-worn jeans hugged his muscular thighs like a second skin. She gulped. He looked like every woman’s fantasy—rugged, handsome and thoroughly masculine.
When he saw her, he smiled as he straightened to his full height and opened the passenger door of the shiny pickup. A tiny shiver coursed through her when his hand brushed her breast as he reached to take Timmy.
“You three make a nice little family,” the nurse said, watching Morgan cradle the baby with one arm, while he helped Samantha up onto the bench seat with the other. “Have a safe trip home.”
“Thanks. We’ll do that,” he said, handing the baby to Samantha. He closed the door of the truck before she could correct the nurse about them being a family.
“Why didn’t you tell her we aren’t together?” Samantha demanded when he slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition.
“It just seemed faster and a whole hell of a lot easier than explaining the situation,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder.
She fastened the seat belt over the car seat she’d had him get from her car the day before when he’d brought her and the baby to the hospital to be checked over. “You don’t approve of my having a child without a husband, do you?”
“I can’t say that I do, or don’t,” he said, putting the truck into gear. He steered it out onto the street, then glancing at her, added, “Samantha, I don’t know the circumstances.” His expression turned grim. “But the baby’s father should have been here to help you through this.”
She watched the easy way Morgan handled the big truck as he navigated the traffic. He was a man in complete control, and one who could be counted on in any situation. Unlike Timmy’s father.
Her chest tightened at the thought of the man who’d fathered a child he cared nothing about. How could she have been so wrong about Chad?
When they first started living together, they’d both worked at achieving the true give and take of a successful relationship. But six months later, Samantha suddenly realized that things had changed between them. She’d been the one doing all of the giving and he’d been the one doing the taking. Then one day she’d come home from work to find that he’d moved to L.A. to pursue his dream of becoming a musician. That’s when she realized how shallow and uncaring Chad really was. He hadn’t even bothered to face her to tell her things were over between them. He’d left a rather impersonal note stuck to the front of the refrigerator, saying that he’d had fun, but that it was time for him to move on.
“There’s really not that much to tell,” she found herself saying. Why Morgan’s opinion mattered, she had no idea. But for some reason she wanted him to know that the choice to handle everything on her own, hadn’t been hers. “We weren’t married, and I didn’t find out I was pregnant until after he and I had parted company.”
She watched Morgan’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, and she knew what he was thinking before he even asked, “He doesn’t know about the baby?”
“Oh, I told him,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. She would not allow herself to dwell on how hurt she’d been by Chad’s decision. “I didn’t ask him for any kind of help when I told him. I just thought he should know he’d fathered a baby, and that he might want to be part of Timmy’s life. But he wasn’t interested in knowing his child now, or in the future. He offered to sign away all legal rights to Timmy, and I accepted. End of story.”
“Why would he do a dumb-ass thing like that?” Morgan asked bluntly. He shot her a scowl that stated quite clearly what he thought of Chad, and she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that it would be the last thing he’d do in the same situation.
Gazing down at her sleeping son, Samantha blinked back the threatening tears. “I suspect he thought it would insure that I’d never ask for any kind of financial help from him.”
Morgan snorted. “I think a man who shirks his responsibilities and denies his child should be shot.”
Samantha swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I think Timmy and I are better off this way.”
“How do you figure that?” Morgan asked, clearly unable to comprehend her reasoning.
“Chad turned out to be very selfish and self-centered,” she answered, gently touching her son’s soft cheek. She took a deep breath to chase away the sadness she always felt when she thought of all that Timmy would miss by not having a father. “Why would I want a man like that helping me raise my son? It’s not the kind of example I want set before Timmy. Besides, he deserves a father who loves him unconditionally, not one who simply views him as a monthly support check.”
Morgan was silent for several long moments before he nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. But when a man gets a woman pregnant, whether he ever sees the child or not, he has an obligation to help her.”
Reaching the outskirts of Laramie, he set the cruise control, then stretched his right arm out along the back of the seat. His fingers brushed her hair and she felt warmed all the way to her toes.
Startled by her reaction, Samantha scooted over to lean against the door. “I have a question,” she said, determined to regain her equilibrium.
He glanced her way and smiled. “And that would be?”
His easy expression caused her pulse to skip a beat. She took a deep breath to chase away her accompanying breathlessness. “When you walked into my room back at the hospital, you said everything had been taken care of at the business office. What did you mean?”
“Just that,” he said, staring at the road ahead. “The bill is paid.”
Samantha felt her stomach start to churn. “Would you like to tell me who paid it?”
“I did.”
Anger swept through her. “Why?”
“Call it a baby gift,” he said, his smile so darned charming that she had to fight the warmth filling her chest.
She shook her head as she tried desperately to hang on to her anger. “A baby gift is a high chair, a blanket, a set of bibs. It’s not paying a hospital bill.”
His smiled faded and a muscle began to work along his lean jaw. “Look, Samantha. I’ve got the money, and I don’t mind helping out.”
“I don’t need your help,” she said stubbornly. “I’m not a charity case.”
He shook his head. “I never said you were.”
“How much was the bill?” Reaching into her purse, she removed a pad of paper and a pen. “I’ll reimburse you as soon as I find a job.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will.”
“Dammit, woman.” He looked exasperated. “I said no.”
“You’re used to people doing what you tell them to do, aren’t you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
He shrugged, but remained silent.
“Well, let me treat you to a reality check, cowboy.” She stuffed the paper and pen back into her handbag. “I’ve been on my own since I was eighteen. I make my own decisions and I pay my own way.”
As she glared at Morgan, the baby suddenly opened his eyes, waved his little fists in protest and wailed at the top of his lungs. Their raised voices had startled him.
“Why don’t we put this argument on hold until we get home?” Morgan asked, steering the truck off the main road.
Samantha quieted the baby, then looking around at the scenery, she frowned. Nothing looked familiar and she knew for certain they hadn’t traveled this road when Morgan had taken her and Timmy to the hospital the day before.
“Where are we going?” she asked, noticing the neatly fenced pastures on either side of the road.
“I’m taking you to the Lonetree,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Do you need to pick up something before you take me to my place?” she asked cautiously.
“No.”
A knot of suspicion began to form in the pit of her stomach. “Then why are we—”
“I thought you and the baby should stay at my ranch for a few days,” he said, turning onto another road.
She shook her head vehemently. “I most certainly will not be staying at your ranch.”
“Don’t be stubborn about this, Samantha. Your grandfather’s house isn’t in any shape for you and the baby to stay there.” He made it sound so darned reasonable, she wanted to scream.
But as she thought about what he’d just said, some of her anger drained away. She hated to admit it, but Morgan was right. The house only had a fireplace in the living room for heat, there was no running water and no electricity. Besides all that, the roof leaked.
Frustrated beyond words, Samantha had to fight the sudden urge to cry. It just brought home how low her circumstances had become. For all intents and purposes, she was as homeless as the foster child she’d been after her mother passed away.
Slowing the truck to a stop, Morgan turned to face her. “I understand how much you value your independence, sweetheart. And I swear I’m not trying to take that away from you. But you have to be realistic about this.” He reached over the car seat between them to cup her chin in his big palm, sending a wave of goose bumps shimmering over her skin. “Right now, you need help. Please, let me do the neighborly thing and lend a hand.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. Where else was she going to go? She had a newborn to take care of, no place to live and she’d exhausted her bank account to make the move from Sacramento to Wyoming. If it was just her, she’d politely refuse Morgan’s offer. But she had to think of what was best for Timmy now.
“I don’t have any other choice,” she finally said, blinking back tears. “And I really hate not having options.”
“I know, sweetheart. I feel the same way.” His understanding smile warmed her to the depths of her soul. “But you’ll be on your feet and back in charge of things before you know it.”
As she stared into his incredibly blue eyes, Samantha wondered if he’d ever been in a situation that he couldn’t control. She doubted it. A man like Morgan was always in complete command of everything going on around him.
Resigned, she took a deep breath. “I’ll need to get some things from my car.”
He released her chin and turned his attention to the road ahead of them. Shifting the truck into drive, he nodded. “After I got back from taking you and the baby to the hospital yesterday, I had a couple of my ranch hands take one of the tractors and tow your car over here. One of them is a pretty fair mechanic and he’s got it down at the machine shed, trying to get it running again.”
Before Samantha could tell him to keep track of how much the repairs cost, they topped a hill overlooking a beautiful valley. A sprawling log ranch house, along with several neat-looking barns and out-buildings stood majestically at one end, while a large herd of black cattle grazed at the other.
“Is that your ranch?”
He nodded. “That’s the main house. My brother, Brant, and his wife, Annie, have their home about three miles east of here.”
“How big is this place?” Samantha asked incredulously.
“We’ve been on Lonetree land ever since we turned off the highway,” he answered without blinking an eye.
“That was some time ago,” she said, awed by the idea of such a large piece of property.
He nodded. “About six miles.”
“Well, it certainly is beautiful,” she said, marveling at the contrast between her newly inherited property and this well-kept ranch. She wondered if she’d ever be able to get hers looking as nice. If she could, she knew for certain she’d be able to find backers for the camp she wanted to open for homeless children.
Morgan didn’t say anything, but she could tell by the slight curving at the corners of his mouth that her comment had pleased him.
When they drew closer, he turned the truck onto a lane that led to the house. Tall wooden posts stood on either side of the road, supporting a log spanning the width between them. As they passed beneath it, Samantha caught a fleeting glimpse of the words Lonetree Ranch carved into a wooden sign suspended from the middle of the arch.
He stopped the pickup at the side of the house, then got out and came around to help her from the passenger side. “I had Bettylou, the wife of the man working on your car, come by and make up one of the guest rooms,” he said, unfastening the lap belt from the baby’s carrier. He lifted it from the center of the bench seat, then using the handle, carried it in one hand as he cupped her elbow with the other to guide her up the steps of the front porch. “After I get you two settled in your room, I’ll go down to the machine shed and check to see if Frank knows what’s wrong with your car. I’ll get your things while I’m at it.”
His big hand warmed her arm through the light jacket she wore and sent a tremor up her spine. She quickly stepped away from him.
“I won’t need everything from the car,” she said, waiting for him to open the door. “Timmy and I won’t be staying more than a couple of days.”
Holding the door for her, he smiled. “We’ll see.”
She needed to make it clear to him, she wasn’t a charity case, nor did she intend to take advantage of his generosity. Before she could respond to his obvious disbelief, they entered the foyer of the Lonetree ranch house and she forgot anything she’d been about to say. The interior of the log home was every bit as impressive as the exterior.
When Morgan led her into the great room, her breath caught. “This is absolutely gorgeous.”
A huge stone fireplace with a split log mantel stood against the outside wall of the room, the rounded blue, gray and tan stones the perfect accent to the golden hue of the varnished log walls. The house had a warm, friendly feel to it, but it was the openness that Samantha fell in love with. The ceiling was vaulted and open all the way to the huge log rafters, and the rooms seemed to flow from one into another.
“Make yourself at home,” Morgan said, placing the car seat with her sleeping son on the most unusual coffee table she’d ever seen.
A thick, flat piece of dark blue-gray slate rested on a pedestal base made from a section of an entire tree trunk. The bark had been left on and contrasted beautifully with the warm patina of the polished hardwood floor and the burnt sienna colored leather furniture.
“Were you going for durability?” she asked dryly.
Chuckling, Morgan shrugged. “Brant and I ruined the surface of my mom’s other table so many times by running our cars and trucks over it, that Mom and Dad came up with the idea of a slate topped table before Colt was born. Then after Mom died, and Dad was faced with raising three rowdy boys by himself, I don’t think he had much choice but to keep it.”
“You were raised by your father?”
She noticed a fleeting shadow in his intense blue eyes a moment before he nodded. “Mom died while giving birth to our youngest brother, Colt.”
Samantha gazed up at him for several long seconds. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I know what it feels like to lose your mother,” she said quietly. “I was almost seventeen when mine passed away.”
As they stood staring at each other, the baby suddenly let loose with a lusty cry, breaking the somber mood that had come over the two adults.
“It’s time for him to nurse,” she said, releasing the straps securing Timmy in the baby seat. “Is there somewhere I could—”
“I’ll show you to your room,” Morgan said, nodding toward the staircase behind her. The stairs, banister and railings of the loft area above were crafted from the same golden wood as the walls, and added to the rustic appeal of the house.
Samantha held the baby close and tried to concentrate on breathing as she climbed the split-log steps beside Morgan. He’d placed his arm around her waist to steady her and his touch was doing some very strange things to her insides. Tingles raced the length of her spine and a warm, protected feeling seemed to course through her.
Needing to put a little distance between them, she waited for him to lead the way across the loft and down a hall where several bedrooms were located. Her uncharacteristic reaction to him had to be due to a major postnatal hormone imbalance. That’s all it could be, she decided. After giving birth two days ago, there was no way she could possibly be feeling any kind of physical awareness. Was there?
When he opened the door to a room at the end of the hall, her eyes misted over. A cradle, made up with soft-looking, baby-blue bedding sat by a beautiful four-poster bed. She couldn’t remember a time since her mother’s passing that anyone had been as thoughtful as Morgan had been in the past few hours. He’d made sure she and the baby had a ride home from the hospital, offered them a place to stay and had gone to the trouble of arranging for Timmy to have a warm, comfortable place to sleep.
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