by Cindy Gerard
That's why she'd driven out to the site of the James boys' current project on this snowy December afternoon and was in the process of marching across the construction site looking for Clay.
The sun was hidden behind a heavy quilt of snow-laden clouds. Huge, fluffy flakes drifted like lace pinwheels, promising to add another inch or two to the pristine layer of white by nightfall. Tugging the collar of her wool jacket tighter around her neck, Maddie picked her way around piles of lumber and walked toward the pickup truck she recognized as Clay's.
When she saw him, her footsteps slowed. Her heart, on the other hand, picked up several beats. She'd held a picture in her mind of how he'd looked the day they'd parted ways in September. His dark hair had fallen rakishly over his forehead, his poor battered eye had been narrowed against the setting sun, his shoulders were broad and squared with impatience to be rid of her.
She'd thought she was prepared to see him again after that day almost three months ago. She'd thought a lot of things. She'd never thought she'd be standing here in the snow looking at him—glad for the moment that he was unaware of her presence—and thinking about how lucky her baby was to have drawn from a gene pool that produced such stunning beauty.
And, oh, was he beautiful. She ached from wanting to touch him again, to be touched by him. To go to him, have him enfold her in his arms and welcome the news she was about to share.
But she didn't, and he wouldn't. So she just studied him in profile as he stood by the truck, one booted foot hooked on the running board, an elbow propped on the rail of the truck bed. He spoke into a cell phone, calmly and systematically relaying instructions to a crew member who was evidently working at a different site.
"That should do it," he said, then tipped back his head and laughed in response to something the other person said. "Okay, bud. I'll catch you later."
He disconnected and tucked the palm-size phone into the breast pocket of his quilted flannel vest. Then, as if he sensed someone was watching him, he froze for an almost indiscernible moment before turning slowly toward her.
She couldn't help it. She looked for a sign—any sign—that he might be glad to see her. That he'd missed her. That he, too, had lain awake at night, wanting her, needing her. But the soft smile that had lingered from his phone conversation melted to the equivalent of leery curiosity before transitioning to an outright scowl.
So much for fantasy. And so much for hope.
"Maddie," he said, his voice not sounding exactly harsh, but distant enough that she wrapped her coat protectively over her tummy. "What are you doing way out here?"
Oh, boy. Did she have an answer for that one. Why, I came to change your life forever, seemed the most concise way to explain her presence, but she couldn't quite muster the courage to blurt it out.
"How's it going, Clay?" she said instead, playing for time, stalling the inevitable.
"Fine," he said, his brows lowering over blue eyes gone dark with a wary suspicion. "And you? How are things with you?"
"Fine," she said on a heavy sigh. "Just … fine."
He stared at her for a moment longer, propped a hand on his hip and absently rubbed a spot over his left eye. "Something I can do for you, Maddie?"
This was it. She swallowed back the lump of apprehension and gave it a shot. "Actually—"
The tinny ring of his cell phone cut her off.
"Sorry." He fished out the phone and punched the connection. "Clay here."
With her heart still stalled somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, she practiced some deep breathing exercises to settle herself down, then jumped at the sound of his voice.
"You can't be serious," he shouted into the phone. "No, no … I'm not blaming you. Damn," he muttered after a moment, then shook his head. "We've got to have those struts. Don't let him leave. Just stall him until I get there." He flicked his wrist, checked his watch. "Give me ten minutes." Even as he disconnected, he was sprinting around the cab and climbing inside.
"Sorry, Maddie," he called as he turned the ignition and slammed into gear. "I'll give you a call later, okay?"
Then he was off, pealing out of the lot before she could decide if she felt relieved, irritated or just plain adrift.
"Reprieves aren't all they're cracked up to be," she mumbled as she tracked back to her car and made the return trip to her gallery.
She felt kind of like she was all dressed up with no place to go. And she hadn't dressed up for nothing. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much pride was invested, before the day was over, Clayton James was going to know he was going to be a father. And then he was going to find out the rules according to Maddie Brannigan.
* * *
Agnes Crawford was clearly curious but patient when Maddie called the James Construction Company's main office for the second time that day to ask where she could find Clay.
With the address in hand, Maddie drove to yet another job site. As he had been earlier, Clay was a combination of frowning suspicion and guarded curiosity. And just like the last time, he got called away before she could spit out her statement, lay down her rules and leave him to figure out that she didn't intend to infringe on his life.
By three o'clock that afternoon, she'd reached her limit. And as far as she was concerned, he'd lost two opportunities. Since he was so darn good at dealing with crises over the phone, she figured one more wouldn't hurt.
"This's Clay," he answered on the second ring, sounding brisk and busy and not at all pleased at being bothered again.
She could hear the unmistakable sound of traffic in the background and knew she'd caught him on the road.
"It's Maddie," she said and let that little bit of news settle.
Judging by the tone of his voice, it didn't settle all that well. "Look," he said, forcing patience and what sounded like a reluctant form of contrition. "I'm really sorry I had to run out on you today."
"Twice," she reminded him because she just couldn't help herself.
"Yeah. Right. Twice. So I'm sorry twice. Can you just tell me what's on your mind? Is there a problem with the gallery, or what?"
"Or what," she said, took a breath, then took the plunge. "I'm pregnant. You're the father. I figured you should know. See ya."
When she hung up, her hands were shaking, her heart was pounding, and she'd turned as hot as the fire in her kiln.
For a moment all she could do was sit there. Then she made herself get up. She walked on wobbly legs to the bathroom then lost her lunch while the phone rang and rang and rang in the background.
* * *
Half an hour later she'd washed her face and drunk some herbal tea to settle her tummy. She was waiting on a customer when the gallery door burst open and one very large, very angry man stomped in.
"I damn near rear-ended a Toyota!"
Maddie's customer, a matronly woman wearing suede boots and high hair, turned from the piece of Raku she was considering as a Christmas gift for her niece. "I have a Toyota!" she cried and rushed toward the front window. "Tell me you didn't hit my Toyota!"
"You've got some nerve, hotshot!" Clay barked, ignoring the frazzled woman. Fists balled at his sides, his face red with cold and rage, he lurked in the midst of delicate pottery and fragile artwork looking for all the world like the proverbial bull in a china closet.
"I have a customer," Maddie hissed, keeping her voice low in the hopes of settling him down.
"I don't give a damn about your customer."
"But my Toyota!" the woman shrieked, lending another level of anxiety to a tension strung as tight as the fit of his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders.
"Lady," Clay snapped as he spared the woman an impatient glance, raised his finger, then changed his mind. Stalking over to her, he firmly but politely took her arm and walked her directly to the door.
"We're closed," he growled and ushered her outside.
"Well, I never," she huffed as he slammed the door in her face, flipped the lock and turned around the Closed sign.
"What on earth do you think you're doing?" Maddie fumed, marching to the door and reaching for the lock.
"Leave it."
Telling herself she'd gone toe-to-toe with Clayton James too many times in her life to back down at this late date, she bristled right back at him. "You can't just waltz in here, scare off my customers and then close up my shop."
"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a whole lot bigger than you, so I can do anything I damn well please," he roared, towering over her with a sneer so menacing she started backing away.
"And right now," he continued, dogging her every step of the way, "it would please me to wring your scrawny, little neck. How could you do that to me? How could you announce over the phone while I'm cruising down the highway at seventy miles per hour that we're going to have a baby and then hang up on me?"
She'd seen him angry before. But never like this. Never this pulse-pounding, eye-twitching, heat-radiating, ready - to - tear - something - apart - with - his - bare - hands rage that exploded from him like a rocket from a launch pad.
She wasn't easily intimidated though. She wasn't easily cowed. To make sure he understood that she would not be bullied, she did the one thing that neither of them expected.
She drew a fortifying breath, touched a hand to her tummy—and threw up all over his boots.
* * *
It was a first, but he'd actually made a woman sick at the sight of him. And he was a little sick himself for the way he'd barged into her shop and bullied her.
There wasn't a name she could call him that Clay hadn't already called himself. He was an ogre. He was a bully. An insensitive, mean-spirited, bumbling fool.
But she hadn't called him a single one. For the first time in her life, this particular woman hadn't said a word.
Clay looked down with concern at Maddie's limp form. She'd been as light as a snowflake, as fragile as a piece of her pottery when he'd picked her up, carried her to her loft apartment and laid her down on her bed.
That had been a half hour ago. Since then, he'd pressed cold, wet compresses to her forehead, brought her soda crackers and tea. He'd cleaned up his boots and cleaned up her gallery floor. Through it all, the worst he'd had to endure was his worry and her silence.
As he sat at her side on the edge of the bed, he'd never felt so penitent in his life for what he'd put her through. Not just today—although that was bad enough—but for however long she'd known about the baby and had been dealing with it by herself.
Not that he hadn't done some suffering of his own the past few months. He'd been in the equivalent of hell since he'd left her in September. A day hadn't gone by that he hadn't wanted to go to her and tell her that he loved her, and beg her to take him on any terms she could dream up. A night hadn't passed when he hadn't ached to have her in his bed, in his arms, sighing his name in that breathless, shivery way that made him feel like no one or nothing mattered but him. He wanted to feel that way again.
And he was going to—just as soon as he convinced her he was part of her life. And, he would, by God, be a big part of it from now on.
Keeping his distance had almost killed him. Well, from now on, distance wasn't going to be a factor in their relationship.
She may not love him, but that was tough. Even bullheaded women could be persuaded to change their minds. He was going to do everything in his power to make sure she had not only a change of mind but a change of heart. And he was going to start right now.
"Are you feeling better?" He placed a fresh compress on her forehead.
She let out a heavy breath. "You can quit hovering. I've made it this far. I don't need a nursemaid this late in the game."
Sympathy and guilt curled into a small, tight knot in his gut. "You've been sick a lot?"
She lifted a shoulder. "Goes with the territory. Besides—I'm pretty much over it."
"Yeah, I can see that," he muttered, feeling responsible and more determined by the moment that they were going to work this out.
It would help if she would look at him. The stubborn little gypsy just stared at the ceiling.
"Is everything okay? With the baby, I mean? With you?"
"Fine," she assured him wearily and slung a forearm over her eyes. "Everything's fine."
It was the strangest thing, this way he felt. Proprietary yet PO'd. Guilt jockeyed with joy. Pride wrestled with pain. And love—love hovered somewhere near hope.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked softly.
"I believe I just did."
"Sooner," he said, drawing on a newfound store of patience. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
She didn't have an answer for that, but he figured he did and he figured he'd just set her straight right now.
"We're in this together, Maddie."
Finally she looked at him. And finally, he understood.
"Did you really think I'd let you deal with this alone?"
Well, there it is, Maddie thought. The offer. The sacrifice. The noble James integrity strutting front and center to save the day. As much as she loved this man, she would not let him take her on as a charity case.
"I'm not asking for your help," she said as emphatically as her bruised heart would allow. "And I'm not expecting you to change your life. I just thought you had a right to know."
Her proclamation of independence was harder to voice than she'd expected.
He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "You're not expecting me to change my life."
"That's right." She didn't want to think that he was feeling relief right now, but she figured he probably was. And while that knowledge cut deep and twisted, she made herself find the words to convince him she didn't want him in her life. "I want this baby, Clay. Its conception was an accident, and I'm sorry it involved you. But I'm not sorry about the baby. I'll always be grateful to you for your part in it, but I don't need or expect your help or participation."
He gave her a hard, unreadable stare. "I see. So I was just a convenient donor in all this, is that it?"
His anger was justifiable. She accepted that. What was hard to accept was how rapidly it escalated.
"How convenient for you that I was so accommodating. Well, guess what? You may not have any expectations, but I sure as hell do."
She eased up to her elbows as he bolted off the bed and paced to the other side of the room. He looked big and crowded and a little like a caged lion. Probably just how he feels, she thought, and barely avoided flinching when he rounded on her.
"You know, I may not have had as much time as you have to get used to this, and I sure as the world haven't had the chance to invest much thought in how it's going to impact my life. But I do know one thing—that baby is as much mine as it is yours and it's not going to grow up without a father."
She'd expected this obligatory response even as she'd hoped for something more. Something like, I love you, I love the idea of having a baby with you. She was still feeling the stinging absence of either when his next words rocked her back to the moment.
"You've got to the end of the day to pick a date, hotshot."
"A date?" she parroted, a frisson of unease shivering down her spine as she watched him stalk toward the door.
"A wedding date," he clarified, stopping with one broad palm cupping the doorjamb. "Just make sure we get this done before Christmas."
"Get it done?" she repeated, as her own anger joined the fray and trotted right alongside of disbelief. "In the first place we're not talking about cooking a turkey here. In the second, I'm not marrying you."
"Before Christmas," he repeated with no room for fudging. "You set the date or I will."
And then he left. Without a backward glance. Without a word of love. Without a reason for her to believe he felt anything but obligation.
* * *
Chapter 11
« ^
"For the last time, I'm not marrying anybody. And if I was, it wouldn't be you!" The connection was broken with a decisive crash.
"H
mm," Garrett said, as he listened, along with Clay, to the last message Maddie had left on Clay's answering machine. "It would seem you've got a problem."
"She's the one with the problem," Clay said, trying to camouflage a little self-pity with surliness. It had been three days since he'd found out about the baby and told Maddie to set a date. Since then he'd let the entire family in on the news and the impending wedding. "You'd think she'd be relieved that I told her I'd marry her."
Garrett stroked his jaw and eased a hip onto the corner of Clay's desk. "Told her? You mean, you didn't ask her?"
Clay shifted his shoulders, uncomfortable suddenly under Garrett's scrutiny. "Under the circumstances, it didn't seem necessary."
"Necessary," Garrett mused. "And I don't suppose you thought it was necessary to tell her you loved her, either."
Clay pressed a finger to a spot above his left eye, absently rubbed. "Love really doesn't have much to do with this," he hedged.
"Oh boy. Now I've heard it all. You're so in love with the woman you can't think straight." He held a hand in the air to stall Clay's objection. "Don't even try to deny it. You haven't been the same since Jesse and I collected the two of you from the cabin in the fall."
"I never have settled with you over that," Clay reminded his brother, thinking that now might be as good a time as any to shut Garrett up with a fist to his jaw.
"You don't really think you're fooling anyone do you?" Garrett went on, ignoring the dark look in Clay's eyes. "Anyone but Maddie, that is, and you've really done a number there. A woman is won with declarations of love not ultimatums. Think about it," he added on the way out the door. "And then do something about it."
Clay thought about it all right. He thought until his head hurt. And then he thought some more. It was in the middle of the night when those thoughts came together in a cohesive unit.
Finally it became as plain as the gold buckles on Jesse's rodeo belts. He'd just been too blinded by his own love to see it. That little gypsy loved him. Of course she loved him.