Pregnant and Incognito

by Pamela Browning

  The falconer was movie-star handsome, but then, she was accustomed to thinking in show-business terms. She tried to appraise him with a little more restraint, but the thing was, there wasn’t anything ordinary about the way he looked. There was something dangerous about him and something held in reserve, as if he didn’t like to reveal too much of himself. He was spectacularly built, intensely masculine and gave the impression of powerful strength. Yet there was a grace about him, a way of movement so lithe and fluid that she could well imagine how he would move in bed.

  In bed! Shaken, she forced herself to look out the window at the clouds scudding in the distance. Roiling and dark they were, tumultuous to their depths, just like her reeling emotions. What was wrong with her? What was it about this man that engendered a wildness in her, a pounding of her heart, a rush of the wind in her ears? She’d better stop it right this minute. She couldn’t afford to let her imagination run away with her.

  He steered the truck up a winding, bumpy road into the hills, wending his way around small boulders and branches that had been blown out of the underbrush by the wind. After turning right at a fork in the road, he pulled up in front of a small house built of weathered stone and turned off the engine.

  He jerked his head toward the front door. “Here we are. You might as well go inside while I take care of Demelza.”

  “But where—”

  “I’ll put her in the mews behind the house. That’s where I keep my hawks.”

  “That’s terrible. Keeping them cooped up like that, I mean.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Go in and wash off that wound with water from the sink. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  She slid out of the car as he went around back and removed the bird. She watched for a moment, wondering why he thought it was okay for a wild bird to be kept captive.

  “Go on in,” he said again, sounding as if he were losing patience, so Dana went to the door of the house and pushed at it until it opened.

  The hinge was rusty and gave out a long groan. Inside, she found herself in one big room overhung by a loft. At first she thought the place was sparsely furnished, but as her eyes adjusted to the dim light within, she realized that the house wasn’t lacking in comforts at all. The impression of sparseness came from the fact that everything was very simple—wood furniture with clean lines, and not a lot of it; a massive stone fireplace with a mantel that appeared hand hewn; a patterned Navajo rug covering only part of the polished wood floor; windows hung with panels of natural linen slung over whitewashed poles; a fur robe draped over the couch. And books, lots of them, ranged on low shelves around the room.

  A small low-ceilinged kitchen was tucked under the loft, and Dana went and turned on the water. There was a window above the sink, and through it she could see large wooden enclosures connected by a screened passageway. That’s where Conn kept the birds, then. He must be inside one of the cages because she couldn’t see him.

  She ran water over her hand, wincing at the pain. A jagged bolt of lightning rent the sky outside, followed by a crash of thunder that rattled the windows in their panes, and, frightened, she jumped back from the faucet. Without any warning, Connor McTavish blasted in through the back door. A swift wind blew in with him, but he slammed the door on it. Then he took two long strides until he was standing in front of her.

  “Let’s see,” he said. It was a command, not a suggestion. Dana held out her hand.

  His fingers probed carefully. “You’ll live,” he said.

  “I never—”

  He brushed away her words as if they were so many pesky gnats. “I’ve been bitten before. I know it hurts like hell.” He reached into a cabinet behind her, his shoulder brushing hers. She scrunched herself against the counter.

  “This will sting,” he said. He sprayed something cold and antiseptic on her cut, and unbidden tears welled in her eyes. “Sorry,” he said, more gently now.

  She blinked the tears away, but one slid down her cheek. She swiped at it with her other hand.

  He reached for a paper towel. “Use this,” he said. Dana dabbed at her cheek, feeling stupid. But the truth was that ever since she’d been pregnant, her emotions had gone haywire. It didn’t help that this man smelled of pine, clean and woodsy and muskily male. It also didn’t help that he radiated sex: it was in his every gesture, it permeated the air when he was in the room.

  She was pregnant. She wasn’t supposed to notice such things.

  But she did.

  While she was thinking this over, he broke open a large Band-Aid and yanked off the protective strips. Then he applied it to her hand, smoothing it carefully.

  Another rumble of thunder followed a slash of lightning from the direction of the creek, and as the clouds settled in, the light from the windows faded perceptibly.

  “Guess I’d better turn on some lights in here,” he said. He went into the living area and switched on a lamp, which lent a mellow glow to the stone walls and smooth pine floor.

  He gestured at the couch. “Won’t you sit down?”

  Overly conscious of her bulk, she moved out of the kitchen area and went to a window. “Mr. McTavish, maybe you could take me home before it rains.”

  “Call me Conn. And it’s raining already.”

  He was right; large round drops were spattering against the ground outside, scattering wet pockmarks in the dust.

  “I—um, I feel as if I’m in the way.”

  “Don’t. We’re neighbors. Ever since I heard around town that someone had moved in, I’ve been meaning to come over and see who’s living in the old Cantrell place. I didn’t expect it would be a woman, and a pregnant one at that.”

  She ignored most of this. She loved being pregnant, but at the moment she wished he’d stop reminding her of the fact.

  “Did you know my father?” she asked, in order to make conversation about something else. Dana sat on the edge of the couch, watching Conn as he knelt by the fireplace and held a match to the dry grass that served as tinder.

  “No, I wasn’t in residence when he came here on fishing vacations. But Cougar Creek is a small town. I gather that Homer Cantrell was generally well liked.”

  “He was. The cabin has been vacant since he died.” The tinder caught, and the fire spread to the kindling. A glow illuminated Connor McTavish’s face, softening the cragginess of his features. “How long has that been?”

  “Ten years now.”

  “No one mentioned that old Homer had a daughter.”

  “I never came here with him. This was Dad’s retreat. No women allowed.” She smiled at the memory. In fact, though she and her father had been close, she had seldom set eyes on the property, and when she’d arrived a couple of months ago she’d been aghast at the condition of the place. It had taken almost all this time to make the place livable.

  The burning logs filled the room with the pungent odor of woodsmoke. The crackle of the flames seemed to make it unnecessary to talk, which was fine with Dana. She didn’t know what to say to this man who seemed so self-assured, and she was sure she was being a nuisance.

  He stood in front of the fireplace, facing away from her. After a few minutes, he turned and went to a stereo system in one corner, where he inserted a CD of Native American flute music. Then he sat down in a huge easy chair. He pulled a wooden bowl of nuts across the small table beside it and cracked one open. He offered it to her, but she shook her head.

  Again lightning flashed across the sky outside, thunder following almost immediately. The flute music took on an eerie sound, like a wolf howl heard from a long distance away. Dana wondered why he had chosen such music; it seemed to bespeak a lonely heart.

  “That lightning was close,” he said.

  Dana unclenched her fists and tried to relax. She wasn’t afraid of lightning, but she didn’t like it much, either.

  “Tell you what—I’ll get you a glass of iced tea. Or a beer, if you’d like.”

  “Tea will be fine.”


  “Oh—that’s right. I suppose you’re not drinking alcoholic beverages.” He gazed pointedly at her rounded stomach.

  Dana extended her flattened hands protectively over the baby. “Not for the duration,” she said.

  He spared her a sharp nod, then went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of cold tea. A second trip to the refrigerator produced a tall bottle of dark beer, which he tilted upward to drink. Dana watched the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed and discovered that her hands were damp. She wiped them surreptitiously on her jeans and thought about what a fool she was; she had not reacted this way to any male member of the species in years, if ever. She ought to be immune to men by this time and in her condition.

  “So,” he said. “You’re here for a couple of weeks?”

  “More than that,” she said reluctantly. She was so accustomed to secrecy that it made her uncomfortable to reveal anything about herself, even though she was sure that this man had no idea who she was.

  “And living alone?”

  She bit her lip. “Yes.”

  He cocked a dark eyebrow. “I suppose you know that the nearest hospital is eighty miles away as the eagle flies.”

  “I’m aware of that, yes.” Her eyes met his with resolve, letting him know, she hoped, that she wasn’t stupid. She had everything planned: she’d stay at her father’s fishing cabin until a week or so before the baby was due, then drive to Flagstaff, the nearest large city, where she would stay in a small apartment hotel and give birth to the baby in a hospital there. Then—but there was time to decide about the future when the future was here. And that wasn’t now.

  “You’ve made provisions for emergency care if the need arises?”

  “Well,” she said, not sure how to answer that. Her pregnancy had proceeded normally so far. She had no indication that it was going to be otherwise.

  “You need to think about it,” he said sharply and, she thought, with disapproval.

  She stood abruptly, then walked to a window. Outside the cottonwood trees were thrashing in the wind, and it was darker than ever.

  “I’ve thought about it,” she said. She didn’t want to have this conversation. She hated it when anyone implied she was incompetent. She didn’t need anyone, least of all Connor McTavish, telling her what to do. She knew what was best for her and the baby. They would be fine, just fine.

  Conn stood, too, and came up close behind her. Too close. His male scent disturbed her, made her feel edgy. She whirled and stalked to the middle of the room.

  He stood regarding her, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she felt a sudden chill despite the warmth from the fire.

  “Look, I don’t want to be too inquisitive, but women who are about to bear children usually don’t take up solitary residence in the wilderness.”

  “I’m here to have a vacation. And to think about some things. This seemed like a good place to do it, that’s all.” She knew she sounded defensive, but this man was altogether too incisive and annoying. It was disorienting to be on the receiving end of an interview; in her profession she was usually the one asking questions.

  “Hmm,” he said. He took another sip of beer. “I take it there’s no man in the picture?”

  She drew her dignity around her, although it was quickly fraying. “If you will forgive me for not answering that question, I’ll forgive you for asking,” she said.

  Conn ran an impatient hand through his hair. “I see.”

  “I doubt it. Guys usually don’t.”

  He set his beer down on the table and walked to where she stood. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “I don’t know who put that chip on your shoulder, but I’ll tell you this—I am not trying to knock it off.”

  She lifted her chin and stared up at him defiantly. “I didn’t ask you for your help or advice.”

  “No-o-o, you didn’t. You merely hiked out of nowhere and were foolhardy enough to pick up an injured bird of prey. Which is why I’m not likely to trust your judgment in any other matter.”

  If there were anywhere she could possibly have gone, Dana would have marched out of the cabin and into the storm. If she could have been swallowed up by the folds of the blue-shaded mountains in the distance, she would have. But none of that would have done anything to convince this man of her good judgment. So she only glared at him.

  He stared back. And then, incredibly, he started to laugh. He laughed long and loud, huge peals of mirth that rang against the beamed ceiling. She felt her ears growing hot with embarrassment—or was it some other emotion? She wasn’t sure.

  “What exactly is so funny?” she said through gritted teeth.

  “I think I’ve ruffled your feathers. You look exactly like an irascible prairie falcon that I used to have. When she got mad at me, she’d fluff herself all up and try to stare me down. Like you’re doing.”

  “I didn’t come here to get insulted,” she said stiffly.

  “And that’s not why I brought you here,” he said, sobering.

  Something happened in that moment—perhaps it was a retreat, but then again, maybe it was a stand-off. Dana sat down on the couch again, catching her breath sharply as she felt the baby settle against her spine.

  He noticed, of course. “Is anything wrong? Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. “I felt the baby, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” He seemed perplexed and at a loss for words. She wondered if most men felt that way when confronted with a pregnant woman who talked about the way it felt to be in that condition.

  Not that she ever had much of a chance to discuss her pregnancy with anyone. She’d talked earnestly with her doctor about what she was going through, and she’d chatted informally with his nurse, but she didn’t have any friends who even knew about her pregnancy. Regret stabbed through her, and for a moment she missed the people she’d left behind—gossipy Raymond and Tricia and Noelle, her best friend, especially.

  “I suppose this isn’t any of my business, but do you feel the baby move often?”

  She tilted her head to one side. The unexpectedness of the question had set her off guard, but she wanted to answer it. She wanted to talk about this to someone, to anyone. Even to Connor McTavish.

  “The baby has regular waking and sleeping cycles,” she said. “I think it’s just like a regular baby. I mean, one that’s already born.”

  Connor looked startled. “I didn’t know they did that. I’ve never known a pregnant woman, at least not one that I talked to about it.”

  Dana’s spine was hurting, and without thinking, she stuffed one of the couch pillows behind her back.

  “Why’d you do that?” Connor asked sharply.

  She looked at him. The answer seemed so obvious. “My back hurts,” she said.

  “It’s not because of the kestrel, is it? Bending over or something, to pick her up? Because if it is—”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” she hastened to reassure him, and then, because she couldn’t help it, she smiled.

  He subsided, then tossed her another one of those sharp looks. “You’d tell the truth, wouldn’t you?”

  Had he already marked her as someone with a secret? The thought agitated her. “Of course I’d tell the truth,” she said stoutly and, she hoped, convincingly.

  Again, a sharp look. She wasn’t sure he believed her, but he gave her one of those curt little nods. At that point she chided herself for being paranoid. There was absolutely no reason to believe that anyone she met in the Arizona boondocks could figure out who she was, and as far as the press was concerned, they’d never find her. Not here. Not for a while, anyway, and if things worked out as she had planned, she would not be discovered before the baby was born.

  It was time for a change in subject.

  “You said you’re a master falconer. What does that mean?”

  “I took a course. I have a license. That’s it in a nutshell.”

  “Falconers need a license?”

  “T
he government says so if you want to own a hawk.”

  She hadn’t known that. “And this course—what kind of course?”

  “In falconry. It’s the only one in the United States. My friend who used to own this house was the teacher.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Steve’s in a hospital in San Diego where his daughter lives. He won’t be coming back here.” For a moment, he looked sad.

  “I’m sorry,” Dana said.

  “So am I.”

  Dana wanted to know more about the birds, but she didn’t think Conn would welcome any more questions. It struck her that maybe he was a lot like her—hiding.

  “I still don’t like the looks of this storm,” he said, going to the window and pulling aside the drapery. “I think you’d better stay a while longer.”

  “I can’t. I mean, I don’t want to impose.”

  “Of course you can.” He went to the refrigerator and opened it. “I have the remains of a meat loaf, and I can throw together a salad.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Well, I do. I’m not taking you home in this weather. If you want to be useful, you could get plates out of the cupboard over there and silverware out of the drawer.”

  Figuring that it would be useless to object, she did as she was told, seething all the while. Meanwhile, Conn heated the meat loaf and gravy in the microwave and dug in the back of the refrigerator until he found a bowl of mashed potatoes. “These will heat up just fine,” he said.

  “Are you always so bossy?” she blurted.

  He spared her a mild look. “When I know best,” he said.

  “Which is all the time?”

  He grinned, and those marvelous eyes, so golden in their depths, twinkled. “Give me a break. Do I really come across as a know-it-all?” He dug croutons out of the back of the refrigerator and set them on the counter.

  “Yes,” Dana said. “It’s not becoming.” She pulled the head of lettuce toward her and began to cut it into the salad bowl.