Читать книгу Lonetree Ranchers: Morgan - Kathie DeNosky - Страница 7

“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.