A Fortune's Children's Christmas

by Lisa Jackson

  One

  “This storm is the worst to hit this part of the country in twenty years, and that’s goin’ some because we’ve had our share of bad ones. Power lines are down and roads are closed from Helena west, so stay home by the fire this Christmas Eve, pour yourself a cup of holiday cheer and keep listening to—” The DJ’s voice was lost over the crackle of static and a few faint notes of a country Christmas classic. Chase snapped the transistor radio off in disgust.

  Merry Christmas, he thought sarcastically as he pulled on his gloves and down jacket. The cabin was warm and seemed, for the most part, to be weather-proof. On one end of the small cottage, a wood stove threw out heat from the kitchen, while a fire crackled hungrily in the river-rock fireplace in the living area. Aside from the cracks in the log walls and a few missing shingles in the roof, his new home in the foothills of the Bitterroot Mountains was cozy enough. Kerosene lanterns burned on the mantel and he’d draped the antlers mounted over the door with pine bows and mistletoe, his one concession to the season.

  His dog, an old hound of no particular breed, whose once-black muzzle had grayed, lifted his head. “Let’s go, Rambo,” Chase ordered as he snagged his gloves from the screen in front of the fire. “We’d better feed the stock while we still can.”

  With a thump of his tail and a soft woof, the dog climbed to his arthritic legs.

  On the back porch Chase laced up heavy boots, plopped his hat onto his head, grabbed his shovel and headed to the barn. His barn if he could somehow turn a profit on this miserable Montana ranch in the next year. Rambo led the way as snow continued to fall relentlessly. Icy pellets driven by the wind stung Chase’s cheeks and drifted against the buildings. Chase was worried. Most of his best stock was penned in the barns and fields close to the house, but part of his herd was still unaccounted for, lost in the twenty thousand acres that climbed the surrounding hills and abutted the ranch where he’d grown up so long ago. Squinting, he glanced to the north, thinking he might see the neighboring ranch house through the heavy curtain of the blizzard. No way. He couldn’t see ten feet in front of him, much less a quarter of a mile.

  He plowed through the knee-deep snow to the barn. Icicles dangled from the eaves, and the old door mounted on rollers was nearly frozen shut.

  Inside, the cattle were restless, but Chase, with the aid of a battery-powered lantern, made short work of filling the mangers with hay and grain, then filling the water trough. Thankfully the pipes had been wrapped, and he’d let the water trickle relentlessly, flowing enough to keep the ice at bay.

  He trudged from the barn to the outdoor shelter—a huge roof on poles that provided some protection for part of his herd—then with Rambo on his heels, broke a path to the stables where the few horses were housed and the odors of grain, dust and horses greeted him. The horses shifted and snorted, their ears flicking in his direction, liquid eyes watching him curiously while he tossed hay into their mangers.

  As he scooped the last can of grain from the oat barrel, Rambo trotted to the door and gave off a soft woof. His old ears pricked up and he started whining and scratching at the door.

  “What the devil’s got into you?” Chase, pulling on his gloves, opened the door and stared into the coming night. He couldn’t see anything other than the continual snow. “It’s nothing—” But there was something that wasn’t right, something out of place—the muted, steady blare of an automobile horn. Squinting, he stared through the blizzard, but saw nothing. Still the horn blasted.

  “Great,” he growled. Just what he needed. His truck was four-wheel-drive, but the tires were bald, the transmission about shot and he doubted if he could make much headway in snow this deep. But a horse could. He turned, walked into the stables and saddled the largest gelding on the ranch. Part draft animal, the buckskin was strong and sure, not as quick as the quarter horses, but steady. “Come on, Ulysses,” Chase said, snagging a bridle from its nail on the wall, “it looks like you and I have work to do.” He flung a blanket and saddle over the beast’s broad back, then led Ulysses outside where the wind lashed. “You stay,” he ordered Rambo, but the dog ignored him and as Ulysses forged through the frigid powder, the old hound was at his heels, half jumping to keep up. All in all, it was a disaster.

  Still the horn blasted, sounding louder as Ulysses plunged along the lane to the main road. Chase knew where they were by the position of trees that lined the drive of this broken-down ranch. Kate Fortune hadn’t been kidding. It would take a miracle for him to turn the place around in a year.

  Ulysses snorted as the shape of a dark rig appeared in the otherwise white landscape. What kind of idiot had decided to go out Sunday driving in this mess, Chase wondered as he recognized the shape of a sports utility vehicle that had slid off the road and tipped into the ditch, mired deep to its axle.

  Snow covered the windows. He climbed off the horse and pounded on the car with a gloved fist. The horn stopped.

  “Is someone there?” A woman’s voice. It figured.

  “Yeah.” He yanked on the passenger door and it opened with a groan. The interior light flashed on, and he was staring at a woman of considerable bulk crammed behind the steering wheel.

  “Thank God,” she said, green eyes bright and grateful, cheeks rosy and lips thin with concern. “I was afraid, I mean…oh-h.” Closing her eyes, she grabbed hold of the steering wheel so hard her knuckles showed white, and despite the subfreezing temperature, sweat trickled down the side of her face. She let out her breath in a long stream. “Thank goodness Sarah is with me.”

  “Sarah?” Chase peered into the dark interior. As far as he could tell this woman was alone. There was a sack of groceries and an overnight bag but no other person. “Who’s Sarah and where is she?”

  “Here. At least she was.”

  “You’re the only one in the Jeep.”

  “But she was here. I think, no, I’m sure she’s my guardian angel.”

  “Oh, right,” he said sarcastically. The woman was obviously pulling his leg. Or hallucinating big-time.

  “She brought you to me.”

  Was she serious? No way. Unless she was a bona-fide nutcase. “Only if she laid on the horn.”

  “No—” the woman shook her head and even in the darkness, the strands showed a fiery red “—that was me.” Finely arched dark brows pulled together in confusion. “At least I thought so…” She was definitely disoriented.

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “But Sarah was here. With me.” The woman worried her lower lip as if concerned about her own state of mind. “I mean, I think so…oh, maybe not…”

  “You’d better get out of there—”

  She started breathing hard. Panting. As if she were about to—For the love of Pete, she was pregnant! And from the looks of it, about to deliver. His heart shut down, and memories as vivid as if they’d been yesterday flashed in painful technicolor through his mind. Emily, his wife, had once been the love of his life. His jaw grew so hard it ached.

  “Wait…just wait a minute….”

  Chase was jarred back to the present. Again the woman gripped the wheel, and Chase thought that if there was a damned guardian angel this would be as good a time as any for her to appear. The contractions were way too close together. “I’m sorry,” she finally said as the labor pain subsided. She wiped a shaking hand over her lips and tried to look brave. “I was on my way to the hospital, the baby’s decided to come a few weeks early, and the storm got worse and a deer bounded onto the road. I slammed on my brakes and then…I don’t remember—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get you out of here and back to the house.” He stared directly into her frightened eyes. “We’ll do what we have to do then.”

  “But—”

  “Look, lady, we don’t have much time, and if you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of the worst blizzard in years. I’ve brought more than my share of calves and lambs into this world, believe me, and so let’s get a m
ove on.” There wasn’t any time to argue. He helped her crawl across the passenger seat and saw her wince as she tried to stand.

  She sucked in her breath.

  “Trouble with your leg?”

  “My ankle. I must’ve twisted it. Oh, Lord.”

  “Let me help you onto Ulysses.”

  “I don’t know if I can ride—” As if she understood there was no other way back to the house, she cut off the rest of her words, set her jaw and with Chase’s help climbed into the saddle.

  “We’d better hurry,” she said, and he wondered how long she could straddle Ulysses’s broad back while in the middle of labor. Hunching his shoulders against the snow, he grabbed her suitcase, took the reins and walked ahead, plowing through the trail that the big horse had made.

  The woman cried out twice, clinging to the saddle horn in a death grip, her face turning as pale as the surrounding fields. Chase paused each time, waiting as the contraction passed and wondering what in the world he was going to do with her. He didn’t have much time to think, and when the ranch house came into view, he felt a mixture of relief and apprehension.

  “Come on,” he said, helping her off the gelding and carrying her through the back door. He didn’t bother to take off his boots or shake the snow from his jacket, but hauled her, protesting loudly, into his bedroom.

  “I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Looks like you don’t have much choice.”

  “But this is your room.”

  “Now it’s yours.” Without ceremony he placed her on the old four-poster he’d brought with him, the very bed he’d shared with Emily so many years ago, the bed where they’d conceived their own child, the last bed she’d slept in before—“I’ll be right back,” he promised, his voice gruff with emotion as he forced his thoughts of his wife far into the back of his mind where they belonged. “I’ve got to get the horse to the stables. Rambo will keep you company.” He pointed a gloved finger at the shivering, wet dog. “Stay,” he commanded and strode through doorway leaving Lesley alone in a strange bedroom, with an ancient hound, waiting for a man she didn’t know to help deliver her baby.

  “This is unbelievable,” Lesley muttered under her breath. The last thing she wanted, the very last, was to be dependent upon a man. Any man. Especially one she didn’t know, and yet she had no choice.

  Count your blessings, a voice inside her head reminded her. A few days ago no one lived here and if this would have happened then, what would have happened to you? To the baby? She touched her rounded abdomen and sighed. This wasn’t the way a woman was supposed to bring her first child into the world. A contraction began to grip her again and she closed her eyes, her fingers curling in the wool blanket that was the cover for the stranger’s bed. Pain shot through her and she bit down hard, then remembered her breathing exercises and began to focus on a spot on the far wall, a black-and-white portrait of a family of five mounted over a bare dresser. The contraction eased and she went limp.

  Who was the guy who’d found her? A member of the extensive Fortune family, she guessed as it was rumored around the coffee shops, churches and taverns of downtown Larkspur that Kate Fortune, matriarch of a vast, complicated and very wealthy family had ended up with the old Waterman place as payoff for some kind of debt. Speculation was that she would sell it and turn a tidy profit, but Lesley wasn’t so sure. The tall man who had rescued her had all the arrogance and “can-do” attitude that were rumored to be Fortune family traits. She couldn’t imagine where the rugged, taciturn cowboy fit into the world-wide conglomerate, where the children and grandchildren of Kate and her late husband, Ben, were anything from reed-thin models to pilots, authors to lawyers, chemists to ranchers. And there was something more to him, as well—a haunted look that he tried to hide.

  Another contraction was beginning to squeeze her in its painful grip, and for the next few seconds she closed her eyes and breathed in shallow gasps, unable to think about the Fortune family or her new neighbor.

  Life just wasn’t getting any easier, Chase decided. He gave the gelding an extra ration of oats and listened as the wind ripped through the thin walls of the stables. The seventy-year-old siding was giving way, knotholes and gaps between the boards allowing the frigid air to seep inside.

  Who was the woman who was lying in his bed? Where was her husband, the father of the baby about to enter the world? The last thing he needed in his life right now was another complication. The pregnant woman was that and so much more. He latched the door behind him and jogged through the snow to the back porch, where he kicked off his boots and hung his hat on a peg.

  Inside, he took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair that was near the fire, then he checked on the woman. She was settled into the bed, her coat and scarf on the floor, her red-brown hair damp and feathered around her head like a cloud on his pillow. His gut clenched for a minute. It had been a long time since there had been a female tucked under his blankets; no one since Emily. Her suitcase, now open to display folded clothes for a woman and infant, lay open on the bureau.

  An old ache tore at his heart when he thought of his own son, born healthy, or so they’d been told, only to die before his first birthday.

  “Hi,” the woman said weakly, and some of the ice around his heart cracked a bit. She looked so pale and drawn.

  “How’re ya doin’?” he asked.

  “Compared to what?” Her smile was weak, her eyes wary as he approached the bed.

  At least she had a sense of humor. “I’m Chase Fortune.”

  “I figured you were connected to Kate one way or another.” She smoothed the blanket over her stomach.

  “Her grandnephew.”

  “I’m Lesley Bastian.”

  Bastian, he thought. She was somehow related to the man who’d bought his father’s place.

  “I live next door. To the north.”

  The muscles in the back of his neck tightened. So she still lived in the old ranch house he’d called home when he was a kid. Well, that was great, just damned near perfect. He shifted from one foot to the other. Was she Aaron Bastian’s daughter? His much younger sister? Or…he felt a chill as cold as all of December invade his soul. She couldn’t be married to him. Aaron Bastian was much too old for her. Or was he?

  “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.

  Two

  Twenty 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 fac
e, 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.