A Baby in the Bunkhouse (2 page)

Looking over at her, he said, “The hired hands are asleep. So if you could be as quiet as possible…”

She nodded, incredibly grateful now that safety was upon her. She didn't care if this handsome stranger had wanted to rescue her and her unborn child or not—he had.

“No problem,” she told him just as quietly.

The bunkhouse was a large, square building, built in the same pueblo style as the main ranch house.

He held the front door for her and motioned her inside. She walked into a spacious great room, with a long wooden table and chairs on one side, a huge stone hearth in the middle—]with a dying fire—and a grouping of overstuffed chairs, sofa and large-screen television on the other side. There were three closed doors on each side of the large gathering room that looked like the entrance to private bedrooms or quarters. All was dark and quiet.

“Kitchen's to the rear if you need anything. Help yourself,” Rafferty Evans leaned down to whisper in her ear.

Taking her by the elbow, he guided her toward a door. Just as she had suspected, it opened onto a nice-size bedroom, with dresser, chair and private bath. A stack of clean linens sat on the end of the unmade bed.

“I'll see you first thing tomorrow morning,” he said.

Then he turned on his heel and left.

 

E
LI WAS WAITING
for Rafferty when he walked back in the ranch house. “Get everything all taken care of?”

Rafferty exhaled, not surprised his dad had not gone on to bed, as directed.

He hung his wet hat and slicker on one of the hooks on the wall and stalked into the kitchen. “Not exactly.” He got a beer out of the fridge, twisted off the cap and flipped it into the trash.

He took a long pull of the golden brew before continuing, “The bridge is underwater—which, thanks to the fog, we weren't able to see until we got right up on it. When we were backing up, the woman got her car stuck in the mud, so we'll have that to look forward to in the morning.”

Eli paused to take this all in. “Where is she?” he asked eventually, brows furrowing.

As far away from me as possible under the circumstances.

Rafferty took another pull on his beer, trying not to think how incredibly beautiful the woman was. “Cook's quarters in the bunkhouse.”

Eli did a double take and surveyed his son with a critical eye. “You put a
lady
in the bunkhouse?”

Worse than that, Rafferty thought, he put a
pregnant
lady in there.

Figuring his father didn't need to know that part of the equation yet, Rafferty shrugged and ambled back to the fridge. He rummaged around for something to eat, trying hard not to think of Jacey Lambert's ripe madonna-like figure and drenched state.

The bunkhouse was plenty warm. She had two blankets, a stack of sheets and towels, a warm shower if she wanted it and an overnight case that undoubtedly held dry clothing. There was no reason for him to worry. She'd be fine. If she wasn't, well, he had no doubt she was just as capable at calling for help and waking all the cowboys up as she had been backing her car into the ditch. They'd let him know. In the meantime, he needed to put her and everything else he still preferred not to think about, out of his mind.

“She seemed okay with it,” Rafferty said. Deciding he needed some food in his stomach, too, he grabbed a slice of precut cheddar.

“That's not how we do things around here,” Eli reprimanded in his low, gravelly voice.

Didn't he know it. Rafferty downed his snack, and another quarter of his beverage. Avoiding his dad's look, he walked over to the recycling bin. “Look. She was dead tired—she's probably already asleep.” He dropped the empty bottle into the plastic bin. “Which is what I plan to do.” Go to bed. Forget everything.

“We're going to talk about this in the morning,” Eli warned.

Rafferty imagined they would. But not now. Not when he had so many unwanted memories trying to crowd their way back in.

“'Night, Dad.” Rafferty gave his dad a brief, one-armed hug and headed down the hall that ran the length of the seven-thousand-square-foot ranch house.

It was only when he reached his room that the loss hit him like a fist in the center of his chest.

But instead of the image of his own family in his mind's eye, as he stripped down to his T-shirt and boxers and went to brush his teeth, he saw the trespasser he had encountered in the pouring rain.

She had glossy brown hair, a shade or two darker than his, that framed her face with sexy bangs and fell around her slender shoulders like a dark silky cloud. If only her allure had ended there, he thought resentfully. It hadn't. He'd been held captive by a lively gaze, framed with thick lashes and dark expressive brows.

Everything about the woman, from the feisty set of her chin and the fact she was stranded late at night, pregnant and alone, to the way she carried herself, said she was independent past the point of all common sense.

Thank God she'd be leaving in the morning, as soon as he could get her station wagon out of the muck, Rafferty thought as he got into bed.

The sooner she left, the sooner he could stop thinking about Jacey Lambert's merry smile and soft green eyes.

Now all it had to do was stop raining.

Jacey woke at dawn, her body aching the way it always did when she'd spent too long behind the wheel of a car, her stomach rumbling with hunger.

She opened her eyes, and for a second as she looked around the rustically appointed room, she had trouble recalling where she was.

Then she remembered the rain—which was still pounding torrentially on the roof overhead—the jagged slash of lightning across the dark night sky, thunder so loud it shook the ground beneath her. And a man in a black hat and a long yellow rain slicker coming to her rescue.

Jacey closed her eyes against the image of that ruggedly handsome face and tall, muscular frame.

She didn't know what it was about Rafferty Evans. She'd seen plenty of men with soft, touchable brown hair and stunning blue eyes. Taken item by item, there'd been nothing all that remarkable about his straight nose and even features. So what if every inch of him had been unerringly masculine and he'd been six foot three inches of strength and confidence? Just because his shoulders and chest had looked broad enough to shelter her from even the fiercest storm was no reason to tingle all over just remembering the sight of him, or the gentle, deferential way he'd helped her out of her car.

But she was. And that, Jacey decided, was not good.

She had a Volvo station wagon that was still stuck in the mud. And a baby inside her needing nourishment.

Padding barefoot to the private bathroom where she'd taken a warm shower the evening before, she slipped inside and began to dress in the long, pine-green maternity skirt and cream-colored sweater. Needing to feel a lot more put together than she had the evening before, she took the time to apply makeup and sweep her hair into a bouncy ponytail high on the back of her head.

She slipped her feet back into a pair of soft brown leather stack-heeled shoes that were going to be woefully inadequate for the conditions and repacked her overnight case. Leaving it on the bed for the moment, she opened the door to the main cabin of the bunkhouse and stared at what she saw.

Five genuine cowpunchers of varying sizes and ages, all staring at her. Waiting, it seemed. “Hi. I'm Jacey Lambert.” Awkwardly, she held out her hand.

The beanpole-thin cowpoke who was nearly seven feet tall was first to clasp her hand. “Stretch.”

Jacey could see why he was named that.

“I'm Curly.” A mid-twentyish man with golden curls and bedroom eyes was second in line.

Obviously, Jacey thought, as they clasped palms a bit too long, he was the self-proclaimed lady-killer of the bunch.

“Everyone calls me Red,” said a third.

The youngest cowhand couldn't have been more than nineteen, Jacey figured, and had bright red hair and freckles.

“I'm Hoss,” said a big fellow with a round belly and a receding hairline.

So named because of his striking resemblance, Jacey figured, to a character on the old
Bonanza
television show that still played on cable in Texas.

“And I'm Gabby,” said the last.

Jacey estimated the forty-something man's scraggly beard to be at least five days old, if not more.

“We are so glad to see you,” Gabby continued, pumping Jacey's hand enthusiastically.

“Yeah, after what happened with Biscuits, we didn't think we were going to get anyone else in here, but we're starving.”

“Actually,” Jacey said, not sure what they were talking about, “so am I.”

“We, uh, know you just got here,” Stretch said, patting his concave belly, “but could you take mercy on us and cook us some breakfast?”

Jacey blinked. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” The group shrugged in consensus. “If you wouldn't mind.”

Jacey figured she had to repay the ranch's hospitality somehow. “Sure.” She smiled. “I'd be glad to.”

 

H
OPING AGAINST WHAT
he knew the situation likely to be, Rafferty nixed a visit to the bunkhouse—where their unexpected guest was likely still sleeping the morning away—and drove down to the river. Or as close as he could get to the low water crossing; the concrete bridge was now buried under several feet of fast-moving water. With the rain still pouring down there was no way it would recede. Not until the precipitation stopped, and even then, probably not for another twenty-four to thirty-six hours.

Realizing what this meant, Rafferty stomped back to his pickup. En route back to the ranch he passed the red station wagon. It was still half off the berm of the lonely dead-end road that led to the ranch, its right wheels buried up past the hubcaps in the muddy ditch.

Worse, it looked as if it was packed to the gills with everything from clothes to kitchenware to what appeared to be a baby stroller and infant car seat. They'd have an easier time getting the vehicle out of the mud if it weren't so weighted down with belongings, but the thought of having to unpack all those belongings, only to repack them again made him scowl all the more.

He and the men couldn't start the fall roundup until the rain stopped.

Knowing however there were some things that could be done—like getting that car out of the mud so their uninvited visitor could be out of their way as soon as possible—Rafferty drove toward the bunkhouse.

He was pleased to see the lights on, the men up.

Pausing only long enough to shake the water off his slicker, he strode on in, then stopped in his tracks. Stretch was setting the table. Curly was pouring coffee. Red, Gabby and Hoss were carrying platters of food. Steaming-hot, delicious-smelling, food. The likes of which they hadn't been blessed with since he couldn't remember when.

In the middle of it all was Jacey Lambert.

Impossibly, she looked even prettier than she had the night before, her cheeks all flushed—whether from the heat of the stove or the thoroughly smitten glances of the men all around her—he couldn't tell.

“Hey, boss,” Stretch said.

“I'll get you a plate.” Red rushed to comply.

“Man, this stuff smells good.” Hoss moved to hold out a chair for Jacey at the head of the table.

Flushing all the more, she murmured her thanks and slipped into the seat with as much grace as the baby bump on her slender frame would allow.

Rafferty felt a stirring inside him. He pushed it away.

“We didn't think we were going to get someone to cook for us again until, well, heck, who knows when,” Curly said, helping himself to a generous serving of scrambled eggs laced with tortilla strips, peppers and cheddar cheese.

Curly handed the bowl of migas to Jacey, while the others ladled fried potatoes, biscuits and cooked cinnamon apples onto their plates.

Gabby paused long enough to say grace. Then the eating commenced in earnest.

To Rafferty's chagrin, the food was every bit as delicious as it looked, and then some. From his position at the opposite end of the table, he gazed curiously at Jacey. “You're a chef by profession?”

Her vibrant green eyes locked with his and she shook her head. “Property manager. Er…I was.” She lifted a staying hand, correcting, “I'm not now. Although I
like
to cook…”

“I can see why,” Gabby interjected cheerfully. “You're dang good at it.”

“Thank you.”

“Which is why we're so glad you're here,” Stretch added.

Rafferty could tell by the relaxed smile on her face that Jacey Lambert had no idea what the men were talking about. He, however, did. Which left him to deliver the bad news. “She's not our cook,” he said.

Uncomprehending expressions all around.

He swore silently and tried again. “I haven't hired her. She's not working here.”

“Then what's she doing sleeping in our bunkhouse?” Hoss demanded, upset.

“My station wagon got stuck in the mud last night,” Jacey said. She leaned back in her chair slightly, rubbing a gentle, protective hand across her belly.

Turning his attention away from her pregnancy and the unwanted memories it evoked, Rafferty looked at the men. “She'll be on her way to wherever she was headed—”

“Indian Lodge, in the Davis Mountains State Park and then El Paso,” Jacey informed them with a smile.

“—as soon as the river goes down.”

“Then let's hope it never goes down,” Curly joshed with a seductive wink aimed her way.

Everyone laughed—including Jacey—everyone except Rafferty. Finished with his breakfast, he stood. He was about to start issuing orders, when Jacey let out a soft, anguished cry.

All eyes went to her.

She blew out a quick, jerky breath. The color drained from her face, then flooded right back in.

“You okay?” every man there asked in unison.

Jacey pushed back her chair, got clumsily to her feet. Trembling, she looked down at the puddle on the seat of her chair. Eyes wide, she whispered, “I think my water just broke!”

 

T
HIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING
! Jacey thought as the door to the bunkhouse opened once again and a silver-haired, older man who bore the same rugged features Rafferty Evans sported walked in. Eyes immediately going to her, he swept off his rain-drenched hat and held it against his chest. “What's going on?” he asked with the quiet authority of someone who had long owned the place.

Jacey braced herself with a hand to the table. “I think…I'm having my baby,” she said as a hard pain gripped her, causing her to double over in pain.

The ache spreading across her middle was so hard and intense, she couldn't help but moan.

Her knees began to buckle.

The next thing she knew, Rafferty was at her side. One hand around her spine, the other beneath her knees, her swept her up off her feet and carried her the short distance to the bed where she'd spent the night.

He laid her down gently.

Jacey shut her eyes against the continuing vise across her middle.

“We need to get you to the hospital,” Rafferty said gruffly.

Another pain gripped her, worse than the first. She grabbed Rafferty Evans's arm and held on tight, increasing her hold as the knifelike intensity built. The combination of panic and pain built; hot tears gathered behind her eyes.
Oh, God.
“I don't think I can wait for an ambulance.” Glad she was lying down—she surely would have collapsed had she been on her feet—she blew out another burst of quick, jerky breaths.

This was not something Rafferty wanted to hear. He stared down at her, willing her to stop the labor, as surely as he had rescued her the night before. “Yes. You can.”

Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. She shook her head and tightened her hold on him before he could exit the cook's quarters. “I can feel the baby coming!”

“It's still going to take a while.”

Was it? She blew out more air, beginning to feel even more frantic now. This wasn't supposed to happen for another two weeks!

The group of cowhands pushed their way in. Along with them was the elder rancher. “I just called the hospital,” he reported grimly. “The Medevac chopper can't take off until the fog lifts, which won't be for at least another half hour. And with the bridge out…If this baby's in a hurry, we may have to deliver it ourselves.”

Jacey couldn't help it—she uttered an anguished cry as another excruciating pain circled her waist, pushing downward.

Vaguely she was aware of Rafferty swearing.

“Don't look at us!” the group of cowboys said, already backing up, palms raised in surrender. “None of us know anything about birthing babies.”

The elder rancher looked at Rafferty. “Looks like you're on, son.”

Rafferty did a double take that was no more encouraging. “Why me?” he demanded.

“Because you're the only one of us who's had any veterinary training!” Stretch said.

Veterinary
training! Jacey thought.

Rafferty looked as unimpressed by his education as Jacey. “One semester,” he stated plainly, glaring at the hired hands who circled the bed. “That hardly qualifies me to work as an obstetrician.”

“Maybe not,” Hoss drawled, “but right now, boss, you're all we got.”

Besieged with another contraction, Jacey grabbed the blanket she was lying on with both fists. This was going to be some story. First, she got hopelessly lost, something she never did. Then she drove her car into a ditch, spent the night in a bunkhouse, was unwittingly mistaken for the new cook, whipped up breakfast to great acclaim…and then went into hard, fast labor. Next thing she knew…She moaned out loud as the pain increased unbearably. “I can't believe I'm talking about having my baby delivered by a vet-school dropout!”

“Now, now. He's got to know something,” Curly soothed with a wink.

“Yeah, he delivers all the horses and cows on the ranch,” Red added helpfully. “The ones that need help birthing anyway.”