Unwrap Me Daddy

by Natasha Spencer

  And, even though a mail order bride, didn’t she have the right to expect as much consideration and loyalthy from her husband as she was giving him?

  Surprisingly, he had aimed a kiss at her cheek before he set off on this latest junket. More to the point, he had hugged Sophie, told her to behave herself, and to make sure she took that dog into the back yard, not the front. A final wink and he was gone.

  “Well,” said Caroline, somewhat breathlessly. The man had that effect—it was like trying to make one’s way through the eye of a hurricane.

  “Uh-huh. He’s always in a hurry, isn’t he?” She got down from the table, and her breakfast of a chocolate chip waffle, to play with Jasper. “But I gots my dog, now. And I gots you, Carrie. So I don’t miss Daddy so much.”

  Oh, telling phrase! Caroline’s heart ached for the child. How lonely her childhood must have been, relegated always to the back corner of her father’s exceedingly busy life. And how simply she had accepted Caroline’s presence, as Daddy’s new wife and her own new mother.

  But at least, she thought, with some measure of pride, Sophie was neglected no more. Even a stepmother—a caring, concerned stepmother—could fill the empty spots.

  The puppy was a baby. Always hungry. Always energetic, racing in ecstasy with Sophie one minute, despite his injured paw, only to collapse in utter abandon the next. Outside, while Caroline sat on the terrace lounge working desultorily at her laptop, Sophie played with Jasper, fed him, watched him while he slept, and played some more. He had spent the night in Sophie’s room, with, happily, no accidents. (Caroline had given herself the task of carrying him out the back door at two hour intervals.)

  Having decided that she must take a firmer hand on the reins of the household, from ordering supplies to checking about the laundry to looking into some summer activities for Sophie, she was studying some online menus to find some easier, lighter fare when she was interrupted.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Taggart?”

  Caroline looked up, frowning against the bright sunshine. Next time she came out here, she’d wear some sunglasses. Or the ball cap that Ben made fun of. “Yes? Oh, it’s Maria, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”

  “Esperanza and me, we were wondering—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, we were not sure…and I said I would ask the Señora, did you want a meal in the dining room tonight?”

  “No, let’s not go to all the trouble. There’s only the two of us, anyway, and…” She stopped, curious. “But why are you coming to me, Maria? Even if you’re the one who normally does our serving, I would expect Mrs. Wyeth to take that responsibility.”

  The girl, for she was barely more than that, with her thick shining black hair and vivid coloring, was all but wringing her hands. “Mrs. Wyeth, ma’am, she is—enfermo…sick. She is sick.”

  “Sick? Is it serious?”

  “Me, I am not for sure, Mrs. Taggart. When I knocked on her door this morning, she only told me to go away, she was not well.”

  Caroline stood up. “Okay, Maria. I’ll go check on her. Thanks.”

  Mrs. Wyeth was not sick. She was sulking.

  As the Ten Buck’s full-time employee, the housekeeper was given a suite of her own, along with her salary. It was a very nice suite, in a private wing jutting off to the side of the main house, set up, according to the floor plan, with spacious bath, personal terrace, sitting room and bedroom, and a small kitchenette.

  “Mrs. Wyeth,” called Caroline, after knocking on the door. “Mrs. Wyeth, I understand you’re feeling unwell. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Silence. Then a mumble.

  “Mrs. Wyeth. I really need to check on you. If you’re ill, I have to come in.”

  Another mumble. Something that sounded like “Bugger off.”

  She tried turning the door knob. Locked. As she had expected.

  All right. Caroline had come prepared; no flies on her. A master key undid the lock, the latch clicked, and in she walked.

  To find Mrs. Wyeth fully dressed, taking her leisure on a chaise longue, sipping some dark liquid from a glass filled with ice cubes and flipping through the pages of a magazine. She looked up at Caroline’s entrance with a glare like thrown daggers.

  “This is my own private room. What are you doin’, comin’ in here without my permission?”

  “I was told you were ill,” said Caroline, just as coldly. She could play lady of the manor, very well, since it seemed to be expected of her. “You didn’t answer; I wanted to make sure there would be no need for an ambulance.”

  “I’m takin’ a sick day.”

  “So I shouldn’t get you to the hospital for immediate care?”

  “I’m takin’ a sick day,” the cook repeated, as if Caroline had not heard the first flat statement.

  “Yes, so I understand. Which I would have no problem with, Mrs. Wyeth, if you would but inform me, in advance, so we can plan our schedule.”

  “The schedule,” mocked Mrs. Wyeth. “Always the schedule.”

  “Yes, it’s done in all the best houses. Well, I’ll leave you to your sick day. Do you suppose you might be needing one tomorrow, as well?”

  She cocked her head on one side, considering. “I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know.”

  “You just do that. On a timely basis, if you please.”

  Resisting the impulse to slam the door, instead of shutting it carefully behind her, Caroline stalked down the hall to the main house. In the kitchen she found Maria; Esperanza was busy folding towels in the laundry room adjoining.

  “Well, girls, nothing major. Mrs. Wyeth is only throwing a hissy fit.”

  The maids, clad in neat grey uniforms, looked at each other, then back at Caroline. “Pardon, Señora?”

  “Yes, she’s a little pissed off for some reason. So we’ll leave her alone to wallow in it.”

  Again that exchange of glances. “Pardon. Wallow?”

  “Meanwhile, don’t bother about lunch. Or dinner.” Caroline grinned at the two of them, literally rubbing her hands together with glee. “I’ll fix Sophie soup and a sandwich shortly. And I do believe we’ll head into town later, see what trouble we can get into. It’s about time we eat at a fast food restaurant and have something fattening and greasy. I swear, that child has been positively deprived.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As it turned out, she and Sophie were escorted into Marigold by a gentleman of the old school: Tom Sinclair.

  They were out for a very brief walk—brief, because Jasper needed some growth and stamina to him before attempting distance—and excitedly discussing plans for the trip to town, when Tom came upon them.

  “Well, now, the two prettiest ladies on the ranch,” was his amiable greeting. “And my two absolute favorite. How’s the pup doin’?”

  “If we wear him out enough, he sleeps for fifteen minutes at a time, doesn’t he, Carrie?”

  “That does seem to work. Although I think Tom might have been inquiring about his state of health.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Sophie peered down at the energetic animal, who was leaping, mock-growling, and attempting play with every step. “Well, he still gots that big blue band-aid on his paw. But he’s eatin’ real good, and he ain’t got any more fleas, and we’re s’posed to take him back to see Dr. Morgan in a week.”

  “And what are we going to look for in town today, Sophie?”

  “We’re gonna get him a bed, Tom,” answered the happy little girl. “And maybe some more toys. And plenty of food.”

  “I’d say that’s a fine idea. You goin’ alone?”

  “We were planning on it. And having dinner there, too. Unless—” Caroline paused, smiling at the cowpuncher. “Unless you’d like to accompany us.”

  Tom grinned with pleasure. “Haven’t had so fetchin’ an offer in a long time. How soon you plannin’ to leave?”

  Arrangements were made quickly and easily. Tom would change and clean up, then bring the ranch truck around to the front door.
Meanwhile, Sophie would leave Jasper in the kitchen, to the tender care of Maria, for the few hours they would be gone. Caroline would collect her purse, with credit cards and cash. All were looking forward to the outing.

  To some extent. Impatient as she was for the simple pleasure of a shopping expedition and supper, Sophie was worried about her dog.

  “You sure Maria knows what to do?” she fretted for the umpteenth time. “You sure she can take care of Jasper?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be just fine, Sophie,” soothed Caroline. “We won’t be gone very long. And your puppy will probably sleep anyway. You really tired him out today.” And yourself as well. But she merely thought the words, instead of saying them aloud.

  Marigold, a town of ten thousand or so, proved to have everything they were looking for. A large ranching and farming supply store had just the size bed that was needed for Jasper, and Tom carried the bag of dry and the carton of canned dog food Caroline purchased out to the truck bed. It was Sophie who chose the rope tuggie and the set of fluorescent green tennis balls as must-haves for her puppy, who surely must be missing her like crazy.

  From there the girls left Tom to do some more browsing amongst saddles and leather goods, while they perused the goodies offered at a nearby toy emporium. Several coloring books, a 48 count box of watercolor brushes, and a Barbie Cinderella Princess doll later, they rejoined their escort for a short walk to the Cattleman’s Bar and Grill.

  “It’s pretty casual,” warned Tom, as they stepped inside the iconic batwing doors. “Noisy. And peanut shells on the floor. But the food is damn good, and it’s reasonable.”

  Caroline tried not to show her surprise. She assumed that she, as the one extending the invitation to dinner, and of—yes, it must be admitted—unlimited deep pockets, would be paying. But there she erred. No old-fashioned cowboy, with innate good manners toward all womenfolk, would ever allow such a thing.

  “Want some fries, Sophie? And maybe a burger?” asked Caroline, as she scanned the menu.

  “Uh-huh. And a great big ole apple dumpling, with ice cream.”

  Music was thumping away loudly, not so much in the background as to drown out most attempts at conversation. After the third time that Tom, across the table, leaned forward and yelled, “Huh?” in response to her question, she gave up and they merely smiled at each other.

  It was a pleasure to look at him, anyway, in between responding to Sophie’s concerns. He had changed into a powder blue long-sleeved shirt that did nice things for his coloring and dark navy form-fitting jeans that probably hadn’t even been through the laundry yet. Tom Sinclair was a true man’s man by appearance, and just plain sweet-tempered and considerate to boot; and Caroline was proud to keep him company.

  They had finished their meal—Tom a giant slab of meat, cooked half-raw, and a baked potato; Caroline a much lighter pasta dish, with cornbread—and were enjoying coffee as an aftermath, when Tom suddenly asked her to dance.

  “Oh. Well.” The music had changed from the raucous twangety-twang-twang to something softer and more mellow. She glanced over at Sophie in her bench seat, who, as promised, was working away at her dessert. “But what about—”

  “Darlin’, she’ll be fine. The dance floor ain’t but five feet away.”

  For her trip to the big city, she had changed into a white cotton sweater, a flowing skirt in her favorite purple and teal, and cute little sandals. Now, she was glad she had done so. It had never seemed appropriate to her for a woman to dance in jeans, no matter how many might consider her to be wrong.

  She allowed him to draw her into his arms, to hold her firmly yet carefully as they sashayed around in an easy two-step. Tall, with the spare Westerner’s frame that allowed no extra pounds to settle upon it, Tom’s black and silver hair gave him a look of maturity, and his blue eyes seemed to see into her soul.

  “You’re settlin’ in okay,” he commented.

  She sighed. “I’m relieved you think so. But I’m sure I’ve just scratched the surface with Sophie. We’re bound to have a blowup one of these days, when we don’t get along at all. And I’ll wonder if I’m doing anything right.”

  He twirled her, and brought her in again. Closer to his chest. “Sure nuff. But that’s just people, learnin’ to live together. You’ve been good for her already, Carrie, and that was the main reason Ben married you.”

  “Yeeess...” It was the main reason; no one could dispute that. But she felt a little depressed hearing said it right out in public.

  “It’s made all the difference in the world t’ Ben, knowin’ he could go on his travels, managin’ and addin’ to his empire, without havin’ to worry who was takin’ care of her.”

  “He didn’t do such a good job of filling me in, right at the beginning,” she said tartly. “It was sink or swim. I wasn’t sure how I was to handle a little girl.”

  “Well, you took the bit b’tween your teeth and you went off a-runnin’ with it.” She felt, rather than saw, his comfortable smile. “And she’s accepted you, completely. I’d say Ben got the best of the bargain, in a good mother for his child.”

  “Not so much. He paid my enormous pile of bills.”

  He peered down at her, with those eyes that saw so much. “And you’re kinda worried about it, aren’tcha? It’ll work out, honey. Don’t you doubt it for a minute. Things’ll work out just fine.”

  “Tom—”

  Another twirl, and she felt the strength in his arms and chest. “Think I dunno what’s goin’ on?”

  Caroline felt oddly shamefaced. “You mean—it’s that obvious?”

  “Well, not to most people. But it is to me. Carrie, looks t’ me like our little punkin has just about wore herself out. Whaddya say we get her on home t’ bed?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Caroline was a light sleeper.

  It could be a curse, as when something vitally important must be taken care early the next morning, but every small sound kept her from getting the rest she needed: the rattle of the wind at a pleated shade; a neighbor’s dog, barking; the sudden eruption into music of a car driving past.

  It could also be a blessing. Perhaps for the care of a child, needing comfort in the dark hours. Or, currently, for the necessary carrying outside of a whimpering puppy with a small bladder.

  She was between that stage of full unconsciousness and semi-stupor, trying to rouse fully awake in case that soft strange sound was something requiring her attention.

  Clouds were drifting across the face of a sullen man-in-the-moon, and the night sky was just light enough to send shadows dancing across the wooden floor. The luminescent numbers on her bedside clock read 2:14. AM, of course, although in her condition the question might rightfully be raised.

  It was three days after her expedition with Tom to the shopping mecca of Marigold, and someone was in her bedroom.

  Although she came suddenly, fully, sharply awake, she did not move but lay, wide-eyed, her heart thumping wildly in the darkness, waiting for the inevitable. Wasn’t that always the case of the movie heroine—she was attacked and left dying, covered with gore, in her own bed?

  The first alert had been a very faint turn of her door knob.

  The second was a click of the latch

  The third was a creak of one particular floorboard.

  And then a heavy body eased onto the bed.

  Rearing up in absolute terror, Caroline opened her mouth to scream. But couldn’t. Because a hard hand instantly covered her mouth and blocked the scream. She chose to fight instead, struggling for release and gasping for breath.

  “Caroline!” hissed the body. “For God’s sake, stop it. You’ll wake the house.”

  Scrambling to reach the bedside lamp, she flicked the switch and both occupant and intruder blinked like owls in the sudden light.

  “Ben!” She wanted to screech her outrage, waking the house or not. “Damn you, Benjamin Taggart. You scared me almost to death! I could kill you!”

  Her heart was pounding
like a kettledrum gone berserk, and she had to climb down from the plane she was on to even try matching his level of imperturbability.

  He had the nerve to chuckle. “I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t whack me with a meat cleaver.”

  Caroline fell back upon her piled-up pillows and gradually began to calm down. It was then she realized he was near-naked, having arrived in only a pair of jockey shorts, and he was clearly in a state of readiness for whatever he had planned.

  “What are you doing back at this hour?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “Huh. Y’ know, some wives would be happy to see their husbands home safely. Would be giving them a welcome with open—uh—arms…” He leered at her.

  She was still cross at having her sleep interrupted and her liver almost destroyed by fright. “Yes, yes, of course I’m happy to see—wait a minute! How did you get into my room when I’ve been locking the door every night?” she pounced, feeling suddenly like Mrs. Wyeth and her so-called invasion of privacy.

  Grinning, he raised his hand to show her. In the muted light from the bedside lamp, his master key twinkled as it swung slowly back and forth from its silver chain.

  “Why, you rat! You double-dealing, swamp-running, cherry-picking rat! You enormous—”

  Again she was silenced. But not by a hand this time. By his mouth. He rolled over on top of her, crushing her body beneath his weight, and took his sweet time with a lengthy, mind-blowing kiss that simply sucked her into pure pleasure and held her. Succumbing, as she always did, Caroline savored the taste of his lips conforming to hers and the feel of his tongue playing with her own.

  With a moan, she plunged upward, desperate to connect and end the misery of loneliness she hadn’t even realized was there. She wanted to sob with impatience for the bliss that would be waiting, wanted to cry out with frustration, “Get on with it!”

  “Sssshh,” he urged softly. His hands were already pushing her nightgown aside, so that he could reach all the important parts. “Easy there, girl. We’ve got the rest of the night ahead of us. I’ve had you six ways from Sunday, Carrie; and I’ve had you rough. Tonight I’m gonna have you slow and seductive.”