скачать книгу бесплатно
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.
