The Rancher's Christmas Princess

скачать книгу бесплатно


Charlotte rose, put on her coat and scooped Ben out of the high chair. She put him in the stroller and bundled him up again.

He laughed, a delighted chortling sound that warmed Belle’s heart. “Shar-Shar. Kiss.”

“Oh, yes.” Charlotte leaned close to him and he made a loud smacking sound with his little mouth against her cheek. She beamed at him. “Thank you, young man—now let’s put on this nice, warm hat.” She put it on him and tied the yarn ribbons under his chin. “There. Are we ready?”

“Yes!” declared Ben.

“Bundle up,” she instructed Belle in that motherly way she sometimes did as she got behind the stroller and aimed it at the door. “It’s bitterly cold out there.”

“I will,” Belle promised.

Marcus opened the door when Charlotte reached it. She pushed the stroller through. Wordless, Preston and Silas watched them go.

And then, out of nowhere, Silas found his voice. “That boy’s a McCade if I ever saw one.” He said it loud enough that every listening ear in the diner was treated to the big news. And then he spoke to Preston. “And damned if he didn’t get those baby blue eyes of yours.”

“Keep it down, Dad,” Preston growled, already on his feet. He shrugged into his sheepskin coat and shoved his hat on his head. Then he grabbed Belle’s coat and held it open for her. “Belle.”

She got up and let him help her into it. “Thank you.”

Silas was sliding from the booth.

Preston stopped him. “You stay here, Dad. Have yourself to another cup of coffee. This won’t take long.”

“I’m up to my eyeballs in caffeine as it is,” Silas grumbled. But he did sit back down.

“After you,” said Preston.

She led the way to the door.

Outside, the gray sky was growing lighter. She pulled on her winter gloves and put on her wool hat against the blustery cold. With Marcus in their wake, they hunched down into their coat collars and forged off up the street, snowflakes whirling around them. Christmas decorations, battered by the harsh wind, clinked rhythmically against the Victorian-style streetlights that lined the street.

“I would like to...apologize,” he said stiffly as they passed a jewelry store and then a gift shop, neither of which were open at that hour. “I got completely out of hand this morning at the motel.”

She sent him a sideways glance. He had his head hunched very low and his hat tipped down against the wind, shadowing his eyes. His swollen mouth had a grim twist to it. In spite of the fact that he was going to take Ben from her, she felt a tug of sympathy. “I imagine it must be a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, it is—and I shouldn’t have been so hard on you last night. You’re only the messenger, right?” He laid on the irony.

That got her back up a little. “I am, as a matter of fact, Ben’s legal guardian. So my responsibilities in this matter far exceed those of one who merely bears news.”

“Fancy talk,” he muttered.

“It happens to be the truth.”

He made a low, scoffing sound. “Here’s a truth for you. He’s my son.”

“I know that, Preston.” She kept her voice carefully even.

“And he’s what—a year and a half old?”

“Yes, he is.”

“But this morning is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on him. That’s the truth. And it’s not right.” He waited—apparently for her to say something, to argue the point. When she didn’t, he added, “She should have told me.”

“I know. And she knew it, too. I don’t know why she didn’t get in touch with you before she—” it was still hard to say the words “—before she died. After college, we didn’t see each other as often as we might have wished. She had her work. I had mine. I lived in Montedoro and traveled a great deal, raising funds and awareness for Nurses Without Boundaries. She was living here, in America—in Raleigh, North Carolina, and often off on a dig somewhere for her studies. I hadn’t seen her in person for two years when she called to tell me she was sick.”

“You’d never seen Ben until then?”

“No. I kept meaning to go to her, to meet her new baby, to spend some time catching up. But somehow, I never managed to make the time. Not until she called and told me about her illness, about how bad it was. I went to her then, at the end of October. We were with her until the end, Charlotte and I. I asked her more than once about...the baby’s father.”

He did look at her then. His eyes were haunted beneath the brim of his hat. “This way.” He offered his hand. She took it and couldn’t help thinking of the night before when he had kissed her, when he had raised her hand to his warm lips.

He led her off the sidewalk, into a courtyard between the buildings, out of the wind. He let go of her fingers to brush snow off one of the benches there. They sat down, side-by-side but not touching.

He asked, “What did she say, when you asked her about Ben’s dad?”

“That it was a one-night thing. That she hardly knew the man. And that she kept meaning to get in touch with him. That she would get in touch with him—with you, as it turned out. But she did nothing to make that happen through her final month of life. When she gave me that letter I showed you last night, I was reasonably certain of what would be in it. By then, I had a good idea of what she intended. I understood that she wasn’t planning to be the one to get in touch with the father of her child. I accepted that. I couldn’t do otherwise. She was so sick. She was in no condition to reach out to you, to tell you what you needed to know.”

“But there was plenty of time before she got sick for her to have done the right thing. Why didn’t she?”

“You would have to ask her that question.”

“That would be a little difficult at this point.”

She folded her hands and lowered her head. “Yes, it would.”

He was silent for a moment. He stared at the brick wall opposite the bench where they sat. Then he asked, “Before that letter, she never told you my name or anything about me?”

Belle shivered, folded her arms around herself and shook her head. “No. Didn’t I already say that?”

“I just want to get real clear on all this.”

“She asked me not to read the letter until after she was gone. I did what she asked. I did it her way. It wasn’t an easy time. My main concern was for my friend, to help her get through the final days of her life. The only other thing that mattered then was Ben—to make that horrible time as bearable for him as I possibly could, to make certain he knew that he was loved and safe and would always be cared for.”

There was a moment. He stared straight ahead. She feared he would say something angry and hurtful. But he surprised her. In the end, he leaned toward her, bumping his shoulder against hers in way that struck her as reluctantly companionable. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I am. I know this isn’t your fault, that you’re doing the best you can here. I’m sorry you lost your friend. I’m furious at Anne, but I still can’t believe that she’s...no longer on this earth. It’s awful that she died. But the hard truth is that I’ve been a father for a year and a half and I just found out yesterday that I have a son. I want someone to blame for that and you’re way too damn convenient.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I can see that.”

He stared at that brick wall some more. “She died less than two weeks ago, you said?”

“Yes.”

“I gotta hand it to you.” His voice was rough with carefully contained emotion. “You got here fast.”

“There seemed...no excuse to put it off. Though I must confess, Preston, I wanted only to put it off, to take Ben home with me to Montedoro and bring him up as my own.”

“But you couldn’t. You did the right thing.”

She turned toward him on the bench. “Please. She’s gone. Don’t hate her. She did the best she could. And she was Ben’s mother. Don’t...poison her memory for him.”

He was looking in her eyes now. His mouth was grim, but his gaze was warmer than before. “I would never do that.”

She did reach out then. She laid her hand on his arm. Beneath the sleeve of his coat, she felt the strength of him, that steadiness she’d admired from the first. “Good. I didn’t think you would.”

He looked down at her hand. She withdrew it. He said, “It was wrong what she did. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that. But that’s not something the child has to know about. From what you’re describing, she was a good mother. A loving mother.”

“Oh, yes. She was.”

“I’ll, uh, focus on that.”

“I’m grateful that you will.” She wished she could make him truly understand the good, generous heart of her lost friend. But she didn’t really understand herself why Anne hadn’t done the right thing concerning her child’s father. She put her hands between her knees, rubbed them together—and gave it one more shot. “Anne was...so independent. She never wanted to be tied down. She had her work that she loved. I don’t think she ever planned to marry. And when she got pregnant with Ben... I don’t know. She was happy to be having a baby. She told me so more than once, when we would speak on the phone. And then after Ben was born, I could hear the joy in her voice every time she mentioned her baby. But she still had no desire to have a husband, to make the traditional sort of family.”