A Fortune's Children's Christmas (3 page)

“I can’t call anyone to tell them you’re here,” he said. “The phone lines are down, and the electricity’s out.”

She nodded, then sucked in her breath. “I know.”

“You picked a helluva time to deliver.”

“I didn’t pick anything.”

“Does your husband have any idea where you are?”

“I don’t have a husband. Oh…oh, dear God…” She pierced him with those wide green eyes. “I think this is it. I can’t be sure…I, oh…this is my first.” She moaned, and Chase took hold of her hand. Her fingers were tiny and white against his, but she squeezed his hand hard enough that he thought she might crush his fingers.

When the contraction eased, he straightened and ignored the rush of emotion that ate at him. “Hang in here for a few minutes, okay? I’ll get some towels, warm water, antiseptic and a few other things. I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t argue and already looked spent.

Chase walked briskly to the bathroom and heard her moan again. The contractions were coming closer together. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and washed his hands in hot water. As he toweled off he caught a glimpse of himself in the steamy mirror. Hard gray eyes stared back at him from a face that was just beginning to show a few creases from too many hours in the sun and too many nights lying awake worrying. He started filling a plastic bucket with water. “You can do this,” he told his reflection. He didn’t have time to second-guess himself.

A new baby was on its way.

T
wenty minutes later, the baby, a red-faced girl with a shock of black hair, gave out a lusty cry of protest as she entered the world.

Chase, choked with emotions he didn’t want to face, remembered the hospital room where his son had been born and a team of doctors had assured him that the little boy was fine. They’d lied. They’d all lied.

But he couldn’t think about all that right now, and he did his best holding Lesley’s small, slippery infant, tied off the cord, then handed the little girl to her mother.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, surprised and disgusted at the lump in his throat.

“That she is.” Lesley’s voice was hoarse and her eyes shone with tears. She held the baby to her breast, stroking the wet hair. “That she is.”

Chase looked away for a second, and he clenched his hands so that they wouldn’t shake. Inside, his heart was racing, his head pounding, the old wounds fresh. He couldn’t stand to see Lesley holding her child in his bed, her back propped up by his pillows, the sight, sounds and smells of birth filling the small room. She was humming softly, the pain that had been so intense only minutes before seeming to have vanished. He
edged his way out of his bedroom and told himself he was just giving mother and baby time to bond or whatever they called it these days. It wasn’t because the scene reminded him of the hospital bed where Emily held their child for the first time.

“Get over it, Fortune,” he warned himself. In the bathroom he washed his hands, arms and face and gave himself a swift mental kick. Forget Emily and Ryan. They’re gone. End of story.

He passed by the open bedroom door as he walked to the kitchen. It was small, just a corner of a larger room, but he didn’t need much. He planned on living the rest of his life alone. Here. On these miserable acres. If he could turn this ranch around within the year.

But now he had to fix his unexpected company something to eat—Christmas Eve dinner. The irony of it caused his lips to curve into a bitter smile. He hadn’t shared Christmas with anyone for years. He’d decided the entire holiday season was vastly overrated.

Tonight he’d planned to eat one of those frozen meat pies that he would cook on the woodstove, and he hadn’t bothered buying a Christmas goose, turkey or even a ham. All he had was a frozen chicken that was thawing in his cooler. It would have to do. He stuck the bird into a pan with some potatoes, onions and carrots. A dash of salt and pepper, and he shoved the concoction into the oven of the woodstove. He had biscuits he’d baked yesterday morning that he could warm on top.

“It’ll be a damned feast,” he muttered to Rambo,
who had stationed himself on the braided rug under the table and stared up at Chase hoping for a scrap. “Later.” He donned hat, jacket, gloves and boots again, then carried in more firewood and stoked the fire. Satisfied that there was enough oak for the night, he checked on the stock one last time, trying to see through the storm and hoping that the last of the strays had made it back to the barn. But his count was off. Between twenty and thirty head of cattle were still unaccounted for. “Great,” he muttered as he walked back to the house. What a lousy way to start off his year of trying to pull these rocky acres into the black.

By the time he returned to the cabin, the aroma of roasting poultry mingled with the scents of burning wood and kerosene. He turned on the radio again, listened to a depressing weather report and, as a static-laden version of “O Come All Ye Faithful” filled the room with music, strode into the bedroom. Lesley was awake and had somehow managed, with the aid of sponge, towels and the bucket of warm water he’d left at the bed, to clean herself and the baby. Now the little girl was dressed in a white sleeper that was trimmed in red and green and looked a couple of sizes too large.

“Merry Christmas,” Lesley’s smile was infectious. He wondered if she was the prettiest woman he’d ever met with her silver-green eyes and teeth that overlapped just slightly.

“Merry Christmas,” he said gruffly.

“I’d like you to meet Angela.”

For a second he thought she was hallucinating again, but she cocked her head to indicate the sleeping baby.

“Angela? That’s what you named her?”

“Actually Angela Noel Chastina Bastian.” Lesley blushed a little. “Angela because of the angel…”

“I remember.”

“And Noel because it’s Christmas.”

“I figured as much.”

“And Chastina after you, because if you hadn’t come along when you did, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“No reason to think about it,” he said, dismissing the dangerous emotions that seemed to settle in the small room. He silently cautioned himself to be careful. This was, after all, a dramatic night, and whether they’d chosen to or not, he and Lesley had already handled the heady, exhilarating experience of Angela’s birth. “Maybe you should have named her after her father.”

Lesley’s smile disappeared slowly. Her face clouded and she looked away. “Aaron wouldn’t have appreciated the gesture.”

His gut clenched. So she was, or had been married to Aaron Bastian. The thought made him sick. But hadn’t she said she didn’t have a husband? Were they divorced? Had she ended up with the ranch?

Clearing her throat, she shifted the sleeping baby, who was snuggled against her breast. “Something smells good.”

“Does it?”

“Mmm.” When she turned back to him, her eyes held that special sparkle again, a lively brilliance that he was beginning to find fascinating.

“We can only hope.”

“Tell me about yourself,” she suggested. She tossed a lock of springy curls from her face, and he found the act sexy, though he didn’t know why. Didn’t want to think about it. “All I know is that you’re one of Kate’s great-nephews. That’s a pretty long list.”

He settled into the old rocker, propped his stockinged heel on the edge of the bed and warned himself to be careful. This woman, whether she knew it or not, was touching emotions he’d thought were long dead. For a second he considered telling her that he’d once lived on the spread that she now owned, that her ex-husband had bought the place for a song when Chase’s father had nearly run it to the ground, but she probably knew more than her share of what had happened. Besides, it was all ancient history. Water under the bridge. “The reason I’m here,” he said, “is because of a deal with Kate. To coin an overused phrase, she handed me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” He explained about Kate’s bargain, and Lesley listened while absently rubbing her daughter’s tiny back. His gut clenched, but he continued to tell her about the birthday bash where Kate approached him.

“One year isn’t much time to turn things around.” Her forehead creased with lines of concern.

“I wasn’t doin’ much of anything else. I’ve been a foreman for three ranches, one in Wyoming, another in Texas and the last in Western Washington. Now
I’m working for myself.” He didn’t add that owning his own place had been his lifelong dream, that ever since Zeke had lost the ranch next door, Chase had been determined to find another place, to stake his claim and make a home. Nor did he bring up that his dreams had died with the death of his son. “Now, maybe I should have a look at that ankle of yours.”

“It’s fine,” she protested, but he moved his foot out of the way and raised the blankets at the foot of the bed. “Really, Chase, you don’t have to—”

“Shh.” He shot Lesley a look that was both tender and tough, a glance that warned her to be still, and though it rankled her a bit—just who did he think he was bullying her around?—she was touched at his concern. His callused fingers gently probed the skin around her foot and the back of her leg, carefully examining—the act nearly sensual. But that was foolish. She barely knew the man. He was just being cautious.

He rotated her foot. A shaft of white-hot pain shot up her leg.

“Ouch.”

“That hurts?”

“Big-time.”

His eyebrows drew together and he rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Looks like you either sprained it or broke it.”

“No—”

“You’ll probably need X-rays.”

Lesley’s heart sank. “It’ll be fine,” she said, refusing to doubt her own words. She had to be healthy.
She was a single woman with a baby to take care of. She couldn’t be laid up. Wouldn’t.

“I’ll bring you a couple of aspirin.” He glanced at her for a second and her heart did a stupid little glitch. He was handsome in a rugged, harsh-featured sort of way. Tall, lean, with wide shoulders and slim hips, he wore faded, battle-scarred jeans, a pullover sweater and an expression that wavered between tender concern and irritated worry. His eyes were a steely gray and guarded secrets at which she could only guess. Lesley figured him to be a loner, a man who didn’t like too many intrusions in his life, a man who had his own extremely private demons to deal with.

He sauntered into the bathroom in stockinged feet and returned with a glass of water and bottle of over-the-counter pain relievers.

“I’ve got coffee warming on the stove…or…hot water if you want something else. I might have a tea bag or two, I’m not sure.”

“I’m fine,” she said around a yawn, and was surprised when he threw the covers back again and propped her foot with a pillow.

“Needs to be elevated, and I’ll get a bag of snow to help with the swelling.”

“You don’t have to go to any trouble.”

“Sure I do,” he said firmly, and left quickly only to return with an insulated rubber sack that felt ice-cold to her as he placed it upon her ankle. She sucked in her breath then let it out slowly. “It’ll help,” he assured her.

“If I don’t die of frostbite first,” she muttered, sur
prised at her cranky tone. It had been a long, hard day, and despite Chase Fortune’s best efforts, she didn’t like being told what to do. She ached all over.

One side of his mouth lifted in a manner she found disdainfully irritating as well as damnably sexy. “I’ll wake you for dinner.”

Dinner. It sounded and smelled like heaven, but she couldn’t just lie in the man’s bed, eat his food and expect him to take care of her and her newborn daughter. He was a neighbor, a stranger, a man she didn’t know and shouldn’t trust, one with his own set of problems. Besides which, she couldn’t impose upon him, couldn’t let herself become beholden to him in any way. And what the devil was she thinking, deciding that his smile was sexy? It must be the postpartum elation she was feeling, the exhilaration of holding her hours-old daughter close and knowing that the baby was healthy and safe.

“Listen, Chase. I have to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and Angela. I really don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you, but I can’t impose on you any longer. Really. I have to go home and—”

“No!”

He said it so sharply she jumped.

“I mean you can’t be serious,” he said, and all hint of a smile left his face. “You gave birth less than six hours ago and, if you haven’t noticed, there’s a blizzard raging. Your vehicle’s disabled. You’ve either sprained or broken your ankle. You don’t know how healthy your baby is. And, assuming you could get over to your place, which you can’t, there’s no elec
tricity or telephone service, so you wouldn’t be able to heat the house or communicate with anyone if you have a problem.”

“Are you done lecturing me?” she demanded, even though she knew he was right.

“For the moment.” His harsh expression softened a bit. “Until you come up with some other lamed-brained idea. Now, just take it easy. It looks like you and I are going to have to wait out this storm. Together.” He slid a glance at the sleeping baby. “Just the three of us.” His slate-colored eyes told her that he wasn’t any happier with the situation than she. “Yell if you need anything.” He turned on his heel and left, but his dog gave off a weary sigh and curled up near the bed, sad eyes on the light spilling through the open doorway as if he intended to guard the place.

Just the three of us.
The words had an odd ring to them. For the past six months Lesley had told herself she was alone and that’s the way she wanted things—a single woman making her way in a man’s world. She had been certain that even after the baby was born, she wouldn’t want another man in her life. No way. No how. One marriage was enough, thank you very much.

She felt her eyelids grown heavy and gave in to the sleep that might ease the throbbing in her ankle and the lingering pain deep inside from the birth. She wouldn’t impose on Chase Fortune too much, she thought, drifting off, but for now, she didn’t have any say in the matter. The best thing to do was trust in
him, accept his hospitality and eventually, when she was up and on her feet again, find a way to repay him.

When she awoke, there was music coming from the living room. Over the sounds of pots rattling, the fire crackling and Angela’s soft breathing, Lesley heard the fragmented strains of a Christmas carol.

“The first Noel, the angels did say…”

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered to her baby and let slumber overtake her as thoughts of her new child, guardian angels and a very tough-looking rancher filled her head.

“Waaaa!”

The cry started out as a whimper, but quickly rose to a lusty full-blown wail.

Chase was just pulling the chicken out of the oven, and he heard Lesley’s voice, muted and soft from sleep, as she talked to the infant who had one helluva set of lungs.

Within seconds the noise quieted, and Chase suspected that Lesley was feeding her daughter. Rather than interrupt, he cut up the chicken, placed the hot vegetables and meat on a platter and poured the gravy, if you could call it that, over the meat and potatoes.

By the time he carried a tray into the bedroom, Lesley was buttoning up her nightgown, but Chase caught a glimpse of one perfectly rounded breast. A dark, wet nipple peeked at him. He looked away quickly, but not before she met his gaze with her own, and for a heart-stopping second, he was lost.

“How’s—how’s she doing?” Chase asked as he set the tray on the nightstand near the bed.

“Fine, I think.” Lesley’s finely arched eyebrows drew together. “Near as I can tell. She eats well and sleeps all right and…has a decent voice on her.”