Cullen's Bride (25 page)
Authors: Fiona Brand
“Why do you think I went so crazy when I saw you? Damn it, when I said I wanted you to stop taking risks, I meant it.”
“You needed help with the horse,” she countered stubbornly.
“The hell with the horse. ”
“There's no need to yell! I wanted you out of that paddock. If I'm going to lose you, it won't be to a flood”
Cullen made a rough sound. His hand curved around her jaw; warm hard fingers stroked her skin, “You are one crazy woman. It would take a lot more than this to bring me down.”
Rachel rubbed her cheek against Cullen's palm, unable to resist the shimmering delight of his touch, even if he was mad at her. “A tree branch smashed into the garage. When that happened, I couldn't stop thinking about the same thing happening to you. I couldn't bear to stay inside when I thought you might be hurt or drowning.”
“You shouldn't have gone outside. If something hit you...” His fingers tightened on her chin. “How in hell did you get the garage doors open by yourself? And what were you doing in there with trees falling on the building?”
“Not trees,” she corrected, irritated by the way he'd homed in on what she'd already privately acknowledged as a miscalculation on her part. “One branch. And I opened the doors in the usual way.”
“The usual way.” He said something terse beneath his breath. “The wind was slamming in hard against those doors when I secured them this morning.”
“I managed.”
His expression said he believed that only because she was here now. “You're supposed to be resting,” he said in the controlled tones of one talking to a particularly dense child.
“I've been resting for months! I'm sick of resting. I'm sick of you saving me, too. It was going to be my turn to do the saving.”
Cullen's eyes narrowed at her outburst. A bubble of silence seemed to grow and expand to fill the cab of the truck, pushing back the sounds of the storm. He released her chin and raked his fingers through his wet hair. “Oh, baby,” he said softly, his mouth curling in a way that made her bones melt “What am I going to do with you?”
Rachel blinked and looked away before she made a couple of pertinent suggestions that involved the next fifty odd years. Before she gave in to the need to reach out and touch him in the way he'd been touching her, to demand a kiss that would involve a lot more than longing and regret.
“I brought you coffee and sandwiches,” she said instead, reaching for the pack she'd dumped on the floor when she'd shifted seats Just as she unscrewed the cap of the thermos, there was a loud cracking sound. Her head jerked up. She was just in time to see the bridge tilt, skew, then half submerge as the water gained momentum and punched through the gap where the supports had once been.
Cullen swore with an earthy, somehow reassuring, fluency.
“What do we do now?” Rachel whispered.
“What we were going to do anyway. With the water running so high, we can't use any of the fords. Aside from that bridge, there's no other way out of this part of the farm other than to head up into the hills, then down onto Sinclair land. I'm going to call Cole on his mobile and tell him where to meet us. Then we drive as far as the road will take us, ride Mac along the stock routes until the going gets too rough. Then we walk. Or rather, I walkâyou're not doing one more thing if I can help it, except breathe.”
Rachel stared at him with unfeigned horror. “You mean you're going to carry me?” Blessedly, in the past few weeks the nausea had stopped. Unfortunately, her appetite hadn't.
Cullen. didn't answer, which meant he was going to carry her. Rachel stared in dismay at her very pregnant body as Cullen swung out of the cab and hitched a sodden Mac to the rear of the truck.
When Cullen clambered back into the cab, he jabbed a number on his cell phone and spoke tersely, then handed the phone to her. “Cole wants to talk to you.”
Rachel took the receiver and listened to a furious catalogue of brotherly anxiety and abuse. She noticed almost absently that Cole didn't blame Cullen as be once would have. He placed the blame securely where it belongedâon her shoulders.
“I love you, too,” she said wryly, when Cole had run out of sensible reasons for his sister's irrational behaviour and had started on the insane ones. Then she gave him the only reason that mattered. “I couldn't stay in the house when I thought Cullen might need help.”
After a few more gruff words, this time in a more reassuring vein, Cole let Rachel terminate the call. Cullen started the truck and headed up into the greyness that she knew hid hills, hills and more hills. Rugged country cloaked by a dense coverage of bush and broken by sheer rockfaces.
He stopped the truck at the base of a particularly steep piece of road. “This is as far as we go on wheels.”
“Couldn't we four-wheel drive up there?”
Amusement took some of the grimness from his expression. “We
could
rock and roll over these hills, but somehow, I don't think junior would appreciate it.”
could
rock and roll over these hills, but somehow, I don't think junior would appreciate it.”
Rachel touched her stomach. “I'm sorry. I came to help, but all I've done is cause you more trouble ”
His hand covered hers in what was now a familiar gesture. “You did help. Without the truck, I couldn't have got that mare out, and we would probably have lost the colt, too. If this is anyone's fault, it's mine. I should have had the damned bridge either repaired or demolished by now.”
Rachel stared out at the rough country, where the tussocky grass disintegrated into brooding bush and dark, towering peaks. She couldn't help thinking that if Cullen hadn't sacrificed so much of his time to help her, he would have finished the work on the bridge weeks ago.
“Don't worry,” he said, misreading her expression. “We'll make it out of here. We've got hours of daylight, and we'll take it slow. The first thing we need to do is check on the weather. The wind's eased, but I'd like a report before we leave the truck.”
Cullen turned on the radio and they both listened, frustrated at the static that fuzzed up the reception so badly that they could hardly hear what was being said. The hills cut off or disrupted the radio signals.
“There goes Plan A,” she muttered. “Do we have a Plan B?”
Cullen switched the radio off. His gaze drifted to the pack she'd brought. For some odd reason, he smiled. “We eat. What did you cook me?”
She plunked several spongy packages in his hand.
“Peanut butter. Mmm. My favourite.”
He handed her one of the thick, doorstop sandwiches.
Rachel's stomach twinged in protest “I'm not hungry.”
“Eat it for her,” he murmured, glancing at her tummy.
Rachel took the sandwich and nibbled at a crust. It disgusted her that once she began to eat, she developed a hearty appetite and polished the whole sandwich off. “How do you know she's a she? She could be a he.”
He gave her a complacent, very male look. “There's a little lady in there. I could tell by her foot.”
Another annoying twinge tightened her stomach, then shot up her back. She shifted her position to ease it. “Before you got the boot off or after?” she demanded irritably.
Cullen frowned. “What's wrong?”
Rachel rubbed at her back. Now that she'd eaten, she felt slightly nauseous. And she needed to go to the bathroom something fierce. “The usual. My back feels like it's got a knife stuck in it, and I need the bathroom. Now.”
“I'll help you.” Cullen screwed up the sandwich wrapping, shoved it back in the day pack, then came around to her side and opened the door.
“What do you think you're doing?” she asked weakly, knowing very well what he intended.
“Taking you to the bathroom.”
“I can hold on.”
His brows lifted. “For how many hours?”
She closed her eyes and held out her arms. He lifted her out of the truck, cradling her against the angled, driving rain as he walked as if she weighed nothing.
“This is as sheltered as you're going to get,” he said into her ear. Cullen set her on her feet, his big body shielding her from the worst of the weather. His hands slipped up beneath the oilskin, firm and gentle as he began pulling her leggings down.
“I don't need any help,” she protested, grabbing at her leggings as a cool, moist draught blew up her legs. She knew the sensation of exposure was ridiculous; she was draped in enough oilskin to make a tent, and they were standing in the middle of nowhere, with wind and rain howling around them. There was no one for miles, and no reason to blush. Biting back a disgusted groan, she gave in to Cullen's gentle pressure and squatted. Her back protested the movement, and the sudden stab of pain made her sag against his chest.
“That's it,” Cullen murmured into her ear. “Lean on me.”
His thighs were on either side of hers; he was all around her like a muscular supporting framework. Rachel gave in. Not that she had much choice. Her face burned as she voided a ridiculously small amount of liquid. When she was finished, Cullen helped her back to the truck. Once they were inside, he stripped them both of their oilskins, rolling one up so that the dry lining was on the outsideâa crude, but usable bolster that he positioned in the small of her back.
“See If you can sleep for an hour. By then the wind will have dropped even more and the going will be easier.”
Rachel tensed on another tightening pain.
“Damn,” Cullen muttered, grabbing a cloth from beneath his seat and mopping up a trickle of moisture. “The rain must have soaked through the oilskin.”
Rachel bit her lip. “Cullen,” she said softly. “That's not rain. I think my water just broke.”
His gaze locked on hers, pupils expanding with shock, but he said quite calmly, “How long have you been having contractions?”
“I didn't think I was! I've been having the usual back pain, and some twinges that I put down to muscle strain.”
“Muscle strain?” he repeated with a dangerous quietness
“The wind was pinning the garage doors closed. I had to get in the garage.”
Cullen stared out at the grey, relentless hell of the storm. At the sheer, brutal force of the weather spinning off from the Pacific hurricane belt Weather that killed. scything down on land just as wild. Even though the storm was diminishing in intensity and would blow itself out overnight, they were still cut off, isolated from any form of help. And Rachel needed to be in hospital. Now.
Adrenaline surged white-hot through his veins, tearing a low, rough sound from his throat. Sweat leaped from his pores Suddenly he couldn't block the emotion that beat at him from all directions Sweet hell He'd never felt such fear.
Rachel's mother had died giving birth. Rachel and the baby could die because of him
He was the one who had allowed this impossible situation to develop. He'd gotten her pregnant, risked her health with the burden of bearing his child, brought her to live on his wild property with its dangerous propensity to flash flood.
Ever since he'd returned to Riverbend, events had careered out of control. In the SAS, if there was an enemy to overcome, his options were as clinically precise as black on white. In Riverbend, the rules were wild, and the shadows of his past reached forward and touched everything with grey. And even though he now knew that most of the trouble and bad feeling had been deliberately manufactured by the man who'd been indirectly responsible for his father's death, he still had his own personal demon to deal with.
And that demon seemed determined to give him a guided tour of hell. He loved Rachel more than his next breath, but all he seemed to bring her was trouble and danger, then more trouble and danger.
Rachel met his gaze unflinchingly. Despite the discomfort and uncertainty she must be feeling, her eyes were clear, trusting. Trusting him. Pain spasmed in Cullen's chest. He picked up one of her tightly clenched hands and folded it in his. “The weather's too bad to airlift you out. The rescue services would never get a chopper in the air, even if they were willing to try. Our original plan is still our best option.” He didn't add that it was their only option. “I'll get you to the hospital. It'll take two, maybe three, hours to get above the mouth of the river, then it'll be downhill all the way until we bit Sinclair land. Cole will be waiting for us with a four-wheel drive.”
As he catalogued everything he would have to do, everything he would need to take, Cullen's thought processes sharpened, clarified, shifting into the disciplined cadences of tactical planning. He let out a slow breath, deliberately relaxing his muscles, then reached for the phone. He knew the extent of his strength and endurance; he'd been tested often enough and in worse conditions than these. Ironically, now that Rachel was in trouble, she couldn't be in better company.
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