Читать книгу: «Having The Rancher's Baby»

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

“Easy does it, Hotshot.”

Cole Dempsey nudged the paint gelding slowly forward. One step, two steps, then wait.

The six steers at the end of the corral shifted nervously and bunched closer together. Several ears twitched impatiently. Every pair of eyes stared unblinkingly. No one, not horse, rider or steer, moved for a full thirty seconds.

“See him?” Cole murmured. “Number 497.”

As if in answer, Hotshot turned his head to the left, something horses did to bring an object into better focus. In this case, it was the steer with the white patch on his chest. The one getting ready to bolt.

Cole was pleased. What the horse lacked in experience he made up for with inherent cow sense. A few more months’ training under his belt, and Hotshot would make a respectable, if not outstanding, cutting horse. Cole might even cross-train the horse for calf roping. Along with cow sense, both required speed, agility and fearlessness.

“Let’s go!” He pushed Hotshot into a quick run at the small herd, which split at the center like pins being scattered by a bowling ball.

Number 497 took off, instinctively heading for the gate. Cole and Hotshot followed, matching the steer’s every twist and turn as if attached by an invisible cord. Within seconds, they separated the steer from the rest of the herd and ran him to the far end of the corral. He reached the corner and turned to face them, awaiting his fate.

Cole pulled Hotshot to a stop. In a real team penning event, they would have herded the steer into a small holding pen, then gone after the next one until the required three were rounded up and contained. Today, they settled for simply boxing him in a corner.

“Good job.” Cole reached down to give Hotshot a pat on the neck.

The horse had hardly broken a sweat, while Cole was drenched in it, his hair plastered beneath the tattered straw cowboy hat he wore. Mid-May, early afternoon, and the temperature was already in the high eighties. Southern Arizona tended to be like that, alternating between an oven and a boiler room six months of the year. Far different from northern California, where Cole grew up.

Some might say he hailed from here, Mustang Valley. Technically, they’d be right. But his mother had taken him and his older brother, Josh, away when Cole was five to live with their grandparents. California was and always would be home to him. Dos Estrellas, his late father’s six-hundred-acre cattle ranch, now owned by him, Josh and their half brother, Gabe, was a temporary place for Cole to hang his hat. Nothing more.

As soon as the ranch was free of the debt incurred during their father’s lengthy battle with colon cancer, and Cole’s brothers purchased his share, he planned on returning to the rodeo circuit and his life as a professional cowboy.

In the meantime, he filled his days working as a wrangler and learning the cattle business, whether he wanted to or not. Whenever he found a free hour or two, he trained one of Josh’s girlfriend’s rehabilitated mustangs. Hotshot was the first to show potential for being more than a dime-a-dozen ranch horse. The first to light a fire in Cole, albeit a small one.

Practicing on green broke cutting horses wasn’t the same as busting broncs or riding a bull, but team penning was a close cousin to rodeo and, for a while anyway, allowed Cole to be his old self.

“Get a move on.” Waving his coiled lasso over his head, he walked Hotshot along the fence, encouraging number 497 to rejoin the others.

“You’re sweating the fat clean off those steers.”

Hearing a familiar voice, Cole turned in the saddle.

Violet Hathaway, ranch foreman and the only female on Dos Estrellas’s payroll, strolled unhurriedly toward the corral, her boots stirring up dust with each step. She wore her usual attire, a worn blue work shirt and faded jeans. Nonetheless, she looked good. Too good for Cole to tear his gaze away. Not that he tried very hard.

Careful, pal, he warned himself. Thinking of her in those terms was a waste of energy. She was off-limits and had made that crystal clear.

She stopped at the railing. “Skinny steers won’t bring in much money at the sale next month.”

They’d had this discussion before. Every time he borrowed a few head for practice.

“What are you doing here on your day off?” he asked.

Sundays were usually quiet at the ranch. Barring an emergency, Violet always stayed home—home being a cozy house on the outskirts of town. Cole had recently learned that about the ranch foreman, along with a few more interesting tidbits, such as the fact that she owned two cats and read gossip magazines.

“Tying up a few loose ends.” She grabbed the top railing and studied Hotshot with her expert eye. “He looks good.”

“Thanks. Hard to believe he was near starving three months ago.”

“Just goes to show you what regular meals and a little TLC will do.”

The drought last winter had been hard on the few remaining wild mustangs in the area. Hotshot had belonged to a ragtag group rounded up near the Salt River and brought to the sanctuary on Dos Estrellas in the hopes that he might be fattened up and adopted out. Now he belonged to Cole.

He rode the horse over to Violet, offering a smile as he dismounted. Looping the reins around the saddle horn, he rested an arm on the top railing near her hand. He and Violet were face-to-face, except that he had a good five inches on her. She was forced to lift her chin in order to meet his gaze.

Truth be told, he liked her petite stature. She was a lot of snap, crackle and pop in one small package. A very attractive package.

“It’s Sunday,” he said. “The day of rest.”

“Yeah, well, no rest for the wicked.”

He let his voice drop and his eyes rove her face. “You’re not wicked, Vi.” Though she could be flirtatious and fun when she let loose.

For the briefest of seconds, she went still. Then—strange for her, as Violet usually oozed confidence—she turned away. “I asked you not to call me that.”

“I like Vi. It suits you.”

And it was personal. Something just the two of them shared. Calling her Vi was his way of reminding her about the night they’d spent together, which he supposed explained her displeasure. She didn’t like being reminded.

She’d made the mistake of telling him that Vi was a childhood nickname, one she’d insisted on leaving behind upon entering her teens. They’d been alone, lying in bed and revealing their innermost feelings. Unfortunately, the shared intimacy hadn’t lasted, disappearing with the first rays of morning sunlight.

“Cole.” She sighed.

“What?” He feigned innocence.

“You know what. We agreed.”

“To what? Me not calling you Vi?”

“Don’t joke.”

She was definitely out of sorts today. And pale. She hadn’t been feeling well all week, which might account for her prickliness. Not that she’d complained to anyone, but he’d noticed.

“Okay.” He shrugged one shoulder. “No joking.”

Finally. A smile from her, though it was a small one. Even so, a powerful jolt shot through Cole. She really was lovely. Vivid green eyes, reddish-brown hair reaching well past her shoulders and twin dimples combined to give her an irresistible girl-next-door appeal.

No surprise she kept that bubbly personality under wraps. Otherwise, she’d be fighting the guys off right and left.

“I was wondering. If you weren’t busy later...” She let the sentence drop.

“I’m not busy.” Cole leaned closer, suddenly eager. “What do you have in mind?”

Could she have had a change of heart? They weren’t supposed to see each other again socially or bring up their one moment of weakness. According to Vi, it had been a mistake. A rash action resulting from two shots of tequila each, a crowded dance floor and both of them weary of constantly fighting their personal demons.

Cole didn’t necessarily agree. Sure, the road was not without obstacles. As one of the ranch owners, he was her boss. On the other hand, she oversaw his work while he learned the ropes. Confusing and awkward and a reason not to date.

But incredible lovemaking and easy conversation didn’t happen between just any two people. He and Vi had something special, and he’d have liked to see where it went, obstacles be damned.

Strange, he hadn’t given her a second thought before their “mistake.” One moment on a dance floor and, boom, everything had changed. A shame she didn’t feel the same.

Unless she did and was better at hiding it? The possibility warranted consideration.

“We need to, um, talk.” She closed her eyes and, pressing a hand to her belly, swallowed with obvious difficulty.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just this darn stomach flu.”

He was becoming concerned. Her bout with the flu had been hanging on far too long. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”

“Maybe.” She squeezed her eyes shut, appearing to be fighting another wave of nausea.

“Are you sure you feel all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me put Hotshot up. I’ll return the steers later.” They’d be fine for the time being, as there was both a metal shade covering and a water tank in the corral. “Give me ten minutes.”

She nodded, and he led the horse to the gate, expecting her to be standing there. By the time he opened the latch, however, Vi was gone. He caught sight of her running across the open area toward the horse stables.

Cole frowned. She was certainly in a hurry. A big hurry.

He walked toward the stables, Hotshot following along. The closer he got, the more his concern mounted. She was normally healthy as a, well, as a horse.

Entering the stables, he started down the aisle. Where had she gone? There weren’t many places to choose from. He settled on the tack room as the most logical one. If she wasn’t there, he could at least tether Hotshot to the post outside the door while he searched elsewhere.

Horses nickered as they went by, some of them stretching their long necks for a sniff or a nip at Hotshot’s hind quarters. He took the attention in stride, displaying yet another good quality.

Cole tied Hotshot to the post and opened the tack room door. It was dark inside, and no one answered when he called out. Maybe Vi had headed to the house. He started back down the aisle, only to stop short at the sound of retching and choking.

“Vi? Is that you?”

He followed the sound three stalls down to the only empty one in the entire stables. Vi was there, bent at the waist, her long hair forming a silky curtain that shielded her face.

“Whoa. Are you okay?”

She coughed and held out a hand as if to ward him off. “Leave me alone.”

Like hell he would. Cole strode forward and reached her just as her knees buckled and she slumped to the ground.

* * *

THIS WASN’T HOW Violet had wanted to start her conversation with Cole, the two of them crammed elbow to elbow in the restroom behind the stables.

He ran the cold water in the tiny sink, wet a paper towel and handed it to her. “Here. You missed a spot.” He motioned to her face.

“I did?” She automatically touched her chin and cringed. Yep, there it was. She quickly wiped her entire face on the chance she’d missed another blob, then tossed the paper towel in the wastebasket. “Sorry.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

She wondered about that. How many times, exactly, had he seen a woman lose her lunch before collapsing in his arms? Did he make a habit of hurrying them to the nearest bathroom and dispensing wet paper towels? Apparently so, because he was fairly adept at it.

“You don’t say.” She tried not to sound curious.

“On the circuit. There’s always one guy who upchucks after finishing his run.”

Riding a bucking bull or horse. Being tossed through the air and landing hard. That would definitely be a reason to throw up.

She reached for the doorknob, utterly humiliated and more than ready to leave.

He waylaid her with a hand on her arm. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine to me.”

“I’m probably dehydrated.” Violet knew that wasn’t the case, but no way was she telling Cole what ailed her. Not while she wore a vomit-stained shirt and her queasy stomach threatened to revolt again any minute.

Shouldering open the bathroom door, she stepped outside and gulped fresh air like a miner newly released after days in an underground tunnel.

“I’ll take you to the clinic if you want.”

Cole stood beside her. Right beside her. She told herself she was being overly sensitive and that he wasn’t looking her up and down with far too much curiosity.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind.”

Mustang Valley’s one small urgent-care center was open most days. Violet doubted the nurse on duty could do anything for her that she hadn’t done already.

Rubbing her forehead, she inhaled slowly. The air might be fresh, but the sun was hot and stifling. “You don’t have to take me, because I’m not going.”

“Vi, be reasonable. You’re sick.”

“I asked you not to call me that,” she snapped, then gritted her teeth. “Sorry.” She was apologizing a lot today and would again if they continued this conversation.

“You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t tease you when you’re not feeling well.”

Did he always have to be so nice to her? Violet suspected he showed her a side of himself he kept from most people. The night they’d spent together was an example of that. He’d been funny and sweet in the bar when they were dancing, attentive and passionate when they’d made love and tender when he’d cradled her in the aftermath.

Were he not Cole Dempsey, they’d probably be dating now. Perhaps optimistic about what the future held for them.

Yet he was Cole Dempsey and wrong for her for too many reasons to list. Not only was he her boss, which in itself was bad enough, but he’d been adamant from the day he arrived that he had no intention of remaining in Mustang Valley. Violet didn’t blame him; she might feel similarly in the same circumstances. But she needed someone who was willing to put down roots.

She certainly wasn’t traipsing after a man whose only interest was the next town and the next rodeo. Not in her condition. Not any time, ever.

Would Cole insist on staying when she told him? Violet had no expectations. The only reason she’d considered saying anything today was because she couldn’t hide her pregnancy much longer. This morning sickness—correction, all-day sickness—was kicking her in the butt and difficult to explain away.

That was new, but not the other symptoms. She’d been pregnant three times previously, back when she was married. She’d miscarried all three times, never making it past week seven. Until now.

She was over eight weeks along. There was no question as to the date of conception or the father’s identity. She’d broken her celibacy streak only once in the past three years, and that was with Cole.

Pregnant from a one-night stand? No one was going to believe her. She hardly believed it herself.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts and returning her to the present.

“That I shouldn’t have eaten chicken salad for lunch.”

She started for her truck, parked near the stables, deciding she’d been wrong to approach Cole today. Better to wait until her second trimester. With her history, the odds of carrying to term weren’t in her favor.

A painful lump promptly formed in Violet’s throat. She wanted this baby with the same intensity she’d wanted all the others. After the last miscarriage, and her marriage falling apart, she’d given up the dream of ever having a big, happy family.

Then, suddenly, she’d been thrown a crumb. A tiny positive sign on the early pregnancy testing wand and a second one a week later, just to be sure.

Could fate be playing another cruel trick on her, or was it answering her prayers at last?

Another wave of nausea struck. Violet reminded herself it was a good sign. The more numerous her symptoms, the stronger they were, the better chance the fetus was thriving. Not like before.

“Are you going home?” Cole asked.

Honestly, could he be any harder to shake loose? “Yes. See you tomorrow.” Her truck was only a few feet away.

He kept pace with her, and she groaned softly. Apparently, she needed to be blunt. Tell him straight out to beat it.

“I can follow you home,” he said. “In case you feel dizzy again.”

She stuffed her hand in her side pocket, searching for her keys. Finding them, she wiped her damp brow. Sweet heaven, it was warm today. “No, you need to put Hotshot away and return those steers to the pasture.”

“Is that an order?” A hint of amusement colored his voice.

If her stomach wasn’t busy trying to empty itself, she might have found his remark funny. As it was, she desperately needed to get away before she lost whatever small amount of her lunch remained.

“Now that you mention it.” She tried to smile. All she accomplished was a trembling of her lower lip.

“Vi, let me help you.”

He sounded sincere and well-intentioned. If only he weren’t waiting for the day when he could hit the road.

“I’m fine.”

She might have maintained her composure if he hadn’t reached for her hand and linked their fingers. She’d always been a sucker for a man who held hands. It was so intimate and personal. Her grandparents had been like that, holding hands until the day Papa Hathaway passed away.

A soft sob broke free, and Violet pressed a fist to her mouth. Besides being sick every waking hour, she was also fast becoming an emotional wreck, crying at the least little thing.

Hormones, she reminded herself. Manufacturing lots of them was another sign that her pregnancy was progressing. Still, hormones were nothing but trouble when facing her baby’s father and not wanting to tell him in case the worst happened.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his startling blue eyes filled with concern.

She’d lost herself in those eyes before.

“I’m just tired.” It was true. She slept more than ever, yet struggled to stay awake during the day. “Think I’ll go home and take a nap.”

When she would have opened her truck door, he held fast to her hand, waylaying her. “Don’t take this the wrong way...”

Uh-oh. She suddenly tensed, not liking his tone. “Cole, please. Let me go.” When he didn’t, every nerve in her body went on high alert. “Please,” she repeated.

He hesitated, his thumb caressing the back of her hand, then blurted, “Vi, are you by any chance...pregnant?”

No! He couldn’t have guessed. How could he? Men weren’t that astute. Especially single, childless ones.

Panicking, she brushed him aside. “Why would you even think that?”

“I bunked with a friend and his wife for a few months last summer. She was pregnant. Had a lot of the same stuff wrong with her that you do. Tired. Throwing up. Dizzy. Moody.”

“Moody!”

He outright laughed. “It wasn’t an insult.”

“Glad you find me so funny.” She concentrated on trying to hold down the contents of her stomach. “And, in answer to your accusation, don’t be silly.”

“No reason to get defensive.” He released her hand, only to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was gentle and, there was no mistaking it, affectionate. “If you were pregnant, we’d need to make some decisions.”

He assumed he was the father. She didn’t know whether to be appalled at his arrogance or flattered that he took for granted she didn’t go to bed with just anyone and at the drop of a hat.

“It’s hot.” Sweat pooled between her breasts. “I need to get out of the sun.”

“Let’s go to the ranch house. No one’s home till suppertime.”

She shook her head, which only exacerbated her nausea. “We have nothing to talk about.” Yet.

He stepped closer. “You’re saying there’s no chance you’re pregnant?”

Her reply was to double over and throw up on his boots.