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  This morning she would have to take a taxi to the family services office. Mara gritted her teeth as another pang swept through her. The last three contractions had been ten minutes apart. She gripped the sheets as her abdomen tightened in an unbearable constriction. Welfare was the last thing in the world she wanted! Every time she thought about walking into that building in downtown Las Cruces, she cringed. Could she actually do it?

  Dear Lord, I need a way out, she lifted up. But hopelessness weighted her prayer like a sandbag.

  When the compression of muscle and tissue finally began to subside, Mara opened her book. With a shudder, she stared at the black script on the creamy white page. The words swam, meaningless and disconnected.

  She let the book fall onto her face. What was the point of reading about some far-off place where the world was rose-tinted and people fell in love and rode off into a happily-ever-after sunset? Mara couldn’t imagine such a thing ever happening to her again. If she thought of men, she could see only Todd, the man she had always loved. Now Todd was dead, the apartment was lost, the money was all spent and—

  Another contraction clenched her abdomen. From under the pages of her novel Mara peered at the clock. Ten minutes. Not today! Not now. She brushed the book aside. She needed to get busy. Take a shower. Fix a bowl of cereal. Pack those last boxes.

  When the pressure subsided, she slid off the edge of her bed and stood on wobbly legs. As she made her way to the bathroom, she reminded herself the baby wasn’t due for three weeks, and first babies were almost always late. Sherry had driven to Albuquerque for Thanksgiving, but she’d be back in time to coach Mara through labor.

  In the bathroom, she pushed aside the shower curtain and turned on the water. As the tiny blue-tiled room filled with steam, she allowed her one escape to filter into her thoughts. Brock Barnett. She wondered if his offer still stood. A house to live in, food to eat, a car to drive, insurance…

  She snapped up the chrome shower pull. Absolutely not! She would never rely on that man. God would help her. He would provide a way out of this—and it wouldn’t be Brock Barnett!

  As water spattered into the tub, Mara lifted her leg over the side. A dull ache poured into her back and tightened into a belt of steel around her belly. Fighting to catch her breath as the contraction hammered through her, she glanced out at the bedside clock.

  Nine minutes.

  Brock grabbed the phone on the second ring. Who would call him at this hour? “Barnett,” he barked.

  “Brock?”

  He knew her voice immediately. “Mara? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m calling to let you know I’ve made a decision. I will marry you, and I’d like to get it over with this morning. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, so I want to take care of it today. I’ve called the courthouse, and it’s first come, first served at the county clerk’s office. We’ll meet at nine.”

  Brock dropped into a chair by the door. He drew his hat from his head and set it on his knee. The kitchen suddenly seemed uncomfortably warm, and he ran a finger around the inside of his collar.

  “Look, Brock,” Mara said, “you made an offer, and I’m accepting it.”

  “Yeah…but nine this morning? I need to check on my—”

  “Look, either you marry me this morning or you don’t marry me at all. Which is it?”

  Brock studied the gray felt Stetson on his knee. “I’m in the habit of planning things out, Mara. What’s the status on the baby?”

  Her breath caught. “It’s…it’s not due for three weeks. I have to be out of my apartment by noon, so bring your pickup to town when you come. You can load my boxes and take them to your house.”

  Brock smoothed the brim of his hat as he listened to the emptiness on the other end of the line. Mara had been forced out of her apartment, and she must have lost the truck. Only this much loss, this much fear, had driven her to accept his offer. She must despise him more than he knew.

  “I’ll meet you at nine,” he said.

  As she hung up, he stood and settled his Stetson on his brow. He was going to marry Mara Rosemond, a woman who hated his guts. What a wonderful beginning.

  Mara could feel Brock’s eyes on her as she waddled down the sidewalk from the taxi to the courthouse. She knew she looked awful. The mirror in her apartment that morning had told her that the tight bun at the nape of her neck made her cheekbones stand out against the hollows of her eyes. She didn’t care. This was an arranged marriage, merely an agreement between two parties. It wasn’t anything like the blessed union she had shared with Todd.

  On her first wedding day, a long white gown and veil had spoken of Mara’s purity and innocence. Flowers, candles and a church altar had announced that the marriage was something special, a holy ritual dedicating the couple to the Lord. Today, Mara’s black coat—obviously not maternity wear—covered nothing more than her arms and back. Her blue dress clung to her swollen stomach, its hem sweeping up into a curve at her knees. A bulky purse over her arm took the place of a bouquet.

  “Did you bring the blood tests?” she asked Brock as she climbed the stairs.

  “Good morning to you, too, Mara.” He took off his hat, but she brushed past him into the warmth of the building. “Is Sherry coming?” he asked, matching his stride to hers.

  “She went to Albuquerque for the weekend.” She pushed open the door to the county clerk’s office and stepped inside. Brock handed over the blood test results and twenty-five dollars. He and Mara presented their driver’s licenses, signed a form and were told to wait.

  They sat on a long bench, and Mara glanced at her watch. Six minutes since the last contraction. She’d barely made it into the courthouse. She shut her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall just as the ache swept into her back. Hands inside her coat pockets, she squeezed their polyester linings.

  Lord, help me, she prayed silently. Please help me to make it through these next few minutes.

  “I reckon we’ll have a turkey and trimmings at the ranch tomorrow,” Brock said. “Pierre’s the best cook you ever saw. My dad brought him over from France years ago, and I kept him on even though I don’t eat enough to make him worth what I pay him.”

  Struggling to steady her breathing, Mara fought for control. Brock’s voice floated somewhere beside her. “One time I put everybody on a health kick, the whole staff. Pierre had himself one royal French hissy fit. So we’re back to eating his sauces and fresh butter every day.”

  Mara took a deep breath as the contraction began to slip away. She glanced at her watch. She had at most six minutes to get through this. “Now,” she croaked. “Let’s do it now, Brock.”

  At her tone, he slipped his arm around her waist and lifted her to her feet. She leaned into him, aware that the man felt as warm and sturdy as a big oak tree in the summertime as he led her into the office.

  As the clerk flipped through a book, she took off her glasses and studied the couple. “You are Mara Renee Waring Rosemond?”

  Mara nodded, fairly sure of her name. The familiar dull ache had begun edging across her abdomen. It had been five minutes since the last contraction. As she listened to the clerk, she allowed her eyes to slide from her rounded stomach to Brock’s flat one. The white cotton fabric of his shirt, clean and freshly ironed, smelled of starch. At his waist, a heavy silver buckle fastened a leather belt that held up a pair of black jeans.

  “Mara?” The woman’s voice barely penetrated.

  Mara lifted her head and nodded, a monumental effort. Her voice sounded hoarse and distant. “Yes, I will. I do…of course.”

  She knew Brock was studying her, unable to suppress the frown that crept around his mouth. He probably thought she’d gone bonkers—turning down his marriage offer, then agreeing to it. Telling him she hated him, then deciding she wanted to get married after all. Now here she was, still wearing Todd’s wedding ring, dressed more for a funeral than a wedding.

  “Yes,” he said firmly as the clerk finished with her questions. “I w
ill. I’ll do everything in my power to take care of Todd’s widow and baby.”

  His power, Mara thought. That was Brock Barnett, all right. Total faith in himself, none in God. She shouldn’t be doing this. No way.

  “Brock and Mara,” the clerk interrupted her recrimination, “I pronounce you husband and wife. Brock, you may kiss your bride.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I said, you may kiss your new wife.”

  “Wife…”

  Mara held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t. But that wasn’t Brock Barnett. He would kiss her whether she liked him or not, whether she was Todd’s widow or not. He slipped one arm around her shoulders and lowered his head.

  “Brock,” she gasped in a whisper. “We’ve got to get out of here right now. I’m about to have this baby.”

  Chapter Four

  Brock threw the pickup into gear and stomped on the gas. The truck spun out of the parking space and into the early-morning traffic. Mara curled into a ball on the seat.

  “Get me to the hospital,” she puffed, her face bright red. “Ohhh! Run the traffic lights if you have to, Brock. I mean it.”

  For the first time since he’d climbed down the cliff face after Todd had fallen to his death, Brock knew true fear. He glanced from side to side, pushed the gas pedal to the floor and sped through a busy intersection. Horns honked and tires screeched. “If Sherry’s in Albuquerque—” Brock raised his voice above the racket “—how’s she going to get here in time?”

  “Just drive!” Mara snarled. “I called her at eight this morning, and she promised to leave right away.”

  “Eight! Albuquerque’s a four-hour drive.” Growling in frustration, Brock floored the truck through a red light. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in labor?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “None of my b—” He cut himself off, gritting his teeth as he glanced at the woman beside him. Though it was a chilly morning, perspiration beaded her temples. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her mouth formed a tight white line. She had sprawled out on the seat, no belt around her middle, her legs spread and her feet propped on the floorboard.

  Alarmed, Brock grabbed her arm. “Put your legs together! You’re going to have the baby right here! What if it…falls out?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mara snapped. “I’m not pushing yet.”

  “Pushing? Don’t push, for crying out loud!”

  “It’s a stage. You can’t help it.”

  “Great! You should have told me, Mara. A person doesn’t get married when she’s in labor. And she doesn’t have a baby in a pickup. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things.”

  “Shut up, Brock!”

  “Here’s the hospital. I can see the sign.”

  “Go to the emergency entrance. Ohhh, no!” Mara curled into a ball again, and Brock could barely hear her moans through the fabric of her coat. Her bun had come apart like a haystack in a twister. Wispy strands of blond hair scattered across her shoulders as she jabbed at the air with both fists.

  “Hang on, Mara,” he advised, forcing calm into his voice.

  “Get…me…something for pain!”

  Brock threw open his door and lunged out of the pickup. He ran around the vehicle and practically yanked her door from its hinges. He lifted her against his chest. The emergency-room doors slid apart as he hurtled toward them like a fullback headed for the end zone. “It’s a baby!” he roared. “We’re having a baby!”

  Two nurses at the reception desk dropped their charts. One ran for a wheelchair, the other pressed an alarm and dashed toward Brock. In seconds, he and Mara were surrounded by nurses. Questions flowed.

  Brock tried his best with the answers as they bundled Mara into the wheelchair. “She’s preregistered. Mara Barnett. My wife.”

  “Rosemond!” she groaned. “I’m registered as Rosemond.”

  “We just got married,” he clarified.

  “Then you’ll have to start over.” The nurse grabbed his arm. “Go down that hall to the first window.”

  Brock’s boots pounded on the slick floor. He skidded to a stop and hammered on the window. “Mara Rosemond’s here!”

  The registration clerk nodded and turned to her file cabinet. Brock glanced down the hall in time to see orderlies wheel Mara along a corridor and out of sight. “What are they doing with her?” he demanded of the clerk.

  “Your wife will need to be prepped for delivery. Don’t worry, you’ll get there for the birth.”

  “No, you don’t understand. Sherry’s coming here to—”

  “Your insurance company?” the clerk cut in. In a daze, Brock rattled off what he knew. Before he could finish, the nurse appeared at his side again and ordered him to follow her right away.

  “Where are we going?” Brock hollered as he jogged down the hall.

  “Labor and delivery.” The nurse pulled him into an open elevator. “Mr. Barnett, your wife is dilated and in transition. You shouldn’t have waited this long. I’d advise you to monitor her more closely next time.”

  “Next time?”

  The nurse marched out of the elevator, Brock in tow. “Since we haven’t had time to fully assess the baby’s position and vital signs, we’re going to gown you, too, in case your wife needs an emergency caesarian section. Put these on.”

  She handed him a stack of blue paper clothing. Feeling uncharacteristically awkward, Brock jerked on the flimsy gown and tugged the cap over his hair. The nurse tied the mask to his face while a second nurse held the booties as he stepped into them.

  “Let me explain,” he tried. “There’s a woman named Sherry—”

  “Follow me, Mr. Barnett,” the nurse ordered.

  The doctor in the labor room looked as unrecognizable as Brock did. He was a pair of bright blue eyes, a pair of gloved hands and a voice that bespoke calm and confidence. “Your wife is doing beautifully.”

  “Not my doctor,” Mara moaned from the bed beside him.

  “Dr. Meacham has been notified, and he’s on his way.”

  Brock stared in dismay at Mara’s ashen face. She was lying on a gurney with a flimsy calico gown over her chest and thighs. A monitor showed the rise and fall of two lines of light. One tracked Mara’s contractions. And the other line, Brock realized, was the baby’s heartbeat.

  He reached for Mara’s hand. “Can you see that?” he asked, leaning near her ear.

  She turned her head, and a wan smile tilted her lips. “Oh, it’s so… Ohhh! Here comes another one!”

  Brock stiffened as Mara’s monitor line shot up at a steep angle. Her face went rigid; her fingers clenched his. A low moan started in the depths of her chest and grew louder as the contraction intensified.

  “Do something,” Brock commanded. “This woman is in agony here.”

  “Actually, she’s doing very well. Breathe, Mara,” the nurse said gently. “Not too fast. Slowly, slowly. That’s great! Mr. Barnett, you should be very proud of your wife.”

  Goose bumps skittered like spilled marbles down Brock’s spine. He was a husband. A married man. He looked down at Mara, whose silky blond hair spread across her white pillow. She smelled like talcum powder. While the nurse coached Mara to the end of the contraction, Brock tentatively stroked his hand over her abdomen. It was so hard, so firm and solid with undeniable life.

  He swallowed, pent-up and confused. In some strange way, the moment stirred a whirlwind of emotion in his chest. He wanted to be near Mara like this forever—wanted her to care about him and need him. He longed to protect her from pain. And he wanted to kiss her, an expression of tenderness and compassion. Maybe even desire. Why shouldn’t he kiss her? She was his bride, and he had every right.

  “Oh, Todd,” she moaned as tears slid from her eyes. She was gazing at the nurse. “I miss Todd. I loved him so much.”

  Brock grimaced. Mara was Todd’s wife. She could never forget that, and she wouldn’t let him forget it either.

  But how could they go on w
ith Todd’s memory tormenting both of them? Why hadn’t he thought that through more clearly beforehand? Still, in spite of another man’s rings on her finger, she was Brock’s wife now.

  At rest for the moment, she looked across at him. Through tears, her gray-green eyes studied him. Her lips were pale pink as he let his focus trail across them. So soft and pretty. He could hardly breathe.

  Yes, he wanted to kiss her. His bride.

  And then she sucked in a breath, clenched her teeth, turned bright red and let out a yelp.

  “Breathe, Mara,” the nurse urged. “Breathe through the contraction.”

  “Forget breathing,” Brock snapped. “Give her morphine.”

  The doctor looked up, his eyes narrowed. “We don’t give morphine for labor, Mr. Barnett. The birth is still several minutes away. Maybe you’d like to step out into the hall and try to calm down? There’s only one person in charge—and it’s not me or your wife. It’s certainly not you, so you’d better get used to that. From now on, the new boss in the Barnett family is this child.”

  As the contraction consumed her, Mara became nothing but the sum of constricting tissue around her midsection. She drifted above herself, staring at the suntanned fingers gripping her white hand and pressing Todd’s gold ring into her flesh. Whose hands were they? One so frail…and the other winding through it like an oak tree’s roots around a marble statue. She loved those two hands.

  But now someone was touching her shoulder, stroking her face. She couldn’t bear the sensation. “Don’t touch me!” she growled. “You…you…you…”

  The word became a part of her puffing. She stared at the man behind the blue mask. Who was he? She’d seen him before. Those deep brown eyes. She knew him…knew him well…didn’t like him.