by Judy Duarte
“My baby’s father didn’t want our child,” she offered without being asked, then shrugged and cast a smile that didn’t convince Mark that the guy’s rejection hadn’t done a number on her. “So I left town with the intent of settling down in the first place that felt like home to me.”
The lover who’d fathered her baby was a fool. But Mark kept the thought to himself. “And you just ended up here?”
“I stopped at a restaurant near Sacramento and chatted with a couple of tourists who’d come from Montana. They told me how quaint and charming Thunder Canyon was, and I decided to visit.”
“And then you decided to stay.” An easy assumption.
“That’s about the size of it.” She scooted her chair back and stood, her belly and the baby stretching between them.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back to work.”
“Shouldn’t you go upstairs and put your feet up or something?” He didn’t know why he was feeling so protective of her.
God knew he didn’t have any intention of getting involved with any local women, not to mention a pregnant one who was a good ten to fifteen years younger than he was. But that didn’t keep him from feeling sorry for her. After all, the father of her child wasn’t in the picture, and considering her job, money was obviously an issue.
She shouldn’t be working so hard this late in her pregnancy. Something could go wrong.
A momentary flash—lightning quick—thundered in his chest, reverberating in his mind and threatening to shake the memories free from their dark hiding place.
Kelly lying on the floor. The gray pallor of her death mask. The distended belly. The pool of blood.
Mark could tap dance around the truth all night. But he knew where the urge to protect the pretty waitress had come from.
His sister had been about Juliet’s age when she and her unborn son had died.
As Juliet slid the chair she’d been sitting in back to the table, obviously ending their chat and the short break she’d taken, he couldn’t keep quiet. “I hope you’re turning in your apron for the evening.”
“Dr. Hart told me to take it easy. And she suggested I stop work. But that’s not an option right now.”
“You need to take the doctor’s orders more seriously.” No one understood how something could go wrong better than Mark.
“I did take the doctor seriously. I took off two days from work, I’ve cut back my hours a bit and the other waitresses have tried to make my job easier.”
Before Mark could stop her, she made her way to another table, leaving him to ponder the easy banter, the subtle flirtation that went on despite her circumstances.
And the overwhelming urge to take care of a woman he hardly knew.
He took a drink of the bourbon. And then another. He hoped the alcohol would drown the memories Juliet’s pregnancy had invoked. But it didn’t seem likely.
The godawful guilt had reared its head, and it was too late to turn back the clock, to right a wrong he’d never forget.
Chapter Two
As was his custom, at least while in Thunder Canyon, Mark ended each day of interviews by downing a couple of drinks and having dinner at The Hitching Post.
He didn’t feel any better about the value of his work on this story or feel any closer to wrapping it up than he had on his first day back in town. For the most part, all he could come up with was human-interest type stuff.
Public opinion, it seemed, was split when it came to the gold rush and the influx of fortune hunters.
Some townspeople had gotten so excited by the fervor, they’d locked up their homes and drained their bank accounts in order to buy prospecting gear. Others—mostly business owners—were pleased by the increase in revenue the newcomers brought to town.
But then there were the vocal locals, those who hated the publicity and the swarm of strangers who’d turned the quaint little town topsy-turvy. Juliet, with her love of history, probably fell into that group.
Mark scanned the room and found her near the cash register, talking to her boss. Why didn’t Martha Tasker trade jobs and let the pregnant waitress sit on a stool while collecting payments and making change? It wouldn’t hurt the older woman to take orders and serve customers for the time being.
As Juliet walked away, she massaged the small of her back with both hands.
Damn. It grated on Mark to see her working so hard. And hurting.
But hey, he reminded himself. That really wasn’t any of his business. He ought to be relieved that she hadn’t waited on him this evening. That she hadn’t made any effort to stop by his table—in spite of the friendly conversation they’d shared last night.
Yet the fact that she hadn’t come by bothered him, too.
He missed her smile, her wit. Her company.
But then why wouldn’t he? Juliet was about the only person, place or thing in this town he found interesting or appealing.
And she hadn’t looked his way this evening.
Was she avoiding him? Had he been too intrusive last night? Offering his opinion and advice without being asked?
Maybe so, but that was just as well.
Last night, following their chat, he’d gone back to the Wander-On Inn and, when he’d finally dozed off, he’d slept like hell, tossing and turning all night long like a trout trapped in shallow water.
He glanced up from the trace of meat loaf and mashed potatoes on his plate and saw her coming his way.
Well, what do you know? Speak of the pretty devil who’d triggered his insomnia.
When she reached his table, she smiled. “Mary Sue had to go home because of a family emergency. So I’m going to be taking care of you from here on out.”
“You’re the one who should be cutting out early. And someone ought to be taking care of you.”
She arched, grimaced, then rubbed her lower back. “We’ve already talked about that.”
They had. And he hadn’t meant to get her all riled up. After all, it wasn’t his place to harp on her. And even if she appreciated his concern, he wouldn’t be around long enough to nurture a friendship. Besides, he damn sure didn’t need to get involved with a single mother and her child, especially when they lived in a town he’d been avoiding for twenty years.
“I’m sorry, Juliet. I’ll let it go.”
“Thanks.” She offered him an olive-branch smile. “I’m trying to take it easy, Mark. But I’ve got to keep working a little while longer.”
He nodded. She was concerned about finances, which was understandable. Once she gave birth and went back to work, the cost of a babysitter would probably put a crunch on her paycheck.
Maybe he ought to give her some money. Five hundred dollars might make life a bit easier for her. And then he could let it go. Ease off. Let her be.
“Can I get you some dessert?” she asked. “Buck made his blue-ribbon peach cobbler today. And everyone’s been raving about it.”
“Sure. I’ll take some.” Mark placed his napkin on the table and pushed aside his dinner plate. “Will you join me?”
“Maybe for a minute.” She glanced over her shoulder at Martha, who appeared preoccupied with sorting bills in the cash drawer. “I’ve had a nagging backache all afternoon.”
Mark couldn’t hold back a grumble. If he were a violent man, he’d slam a fist on the table in frustration. Was a backache normal for a woman in her condition? Or was it an indication that something was wrong? Something terribly wrong? Something that put her life and that of her baby at risk?
Like Kelly.
Damn the memory that wouldn’t let him alone.
No matter what he’d told himself, no matter what kind of truce he and the waitress had drawn, Mark couldn’t shake his concern. “I’m glad you’re going to take a break, but come on, Juliet. You really need to go home and put your feet up. Think about the baby.”
“I am.” Her eyes locked on his in rebuttal, although they appeared a bit glassy, like they were swimming in emotion an
d barely staying afloat. “I don’t have a family to fall back on. It’s just the baby and me. And I can’t help worrying about making ends meet, about keeping a roof over our heads once he or she gets here.”
“Yeah, well unless you want that baby to get here too soon, you’d better heed the doctor’s advice and quit work.”
“Tonight, when I clock out, I’ll ask for a couple of days off. Okay?” She lifted a delicate brow, as though cueing him to agree.
He merely blew out a sigh, giving in—so it appeared. He didn’t usually offer unsolicited advice. It wasn’t normally his style. But then again, he wasn’t reminded of Kelly that often. Of her unnecessary death.
Juliet seemed to accept his silence as acquiescence, which it was. But her weary smile didn’t take the edge off the exhaustion in her expression. Nor did it erase the dark circles he hadn’t noticed under her eyes last night.
“I’ll have two peach cobblers,” he said. “And a glass of milk.”
“I’d think the milk might curdle in your stomach with the bourbon you drank earlier.”
“The milk is for you.”
She nodded, then went after the dessert. When she returned, she took a seat. “How’s your story coming along?”
“What story? This assignment is a joke.” And it was, compared to the bigger stories he’d covered in the past. Important events that made him feel as though he’d reached the professional level he’d strived for, that level where one man—a reporter—could make a difference in people’s lives.
“You think the gold rush is a joke?” she asked.
“Writing a story about a bunch of loony-tune prospectors who’ve flocked to a possible gold rush in Thunder Canyon can’t even come close to a story about a major flood or fire.” He dug into the cobbler and scooped out a gooey bite. Hmmm. Not bad.
When he glanced up, he caught Juliet’s eye, her rapt attention.
“You’d rather write about disasters?” she asked. “Why such depressing news?”
“It touches hearts, confronts our deepest fears. Stirs up emotion.”
“We had a fight in here last Saturday night. There was plenty of emotion stirring then.” Her lips quirked into a grin, and he realized she was teasing him, trying to chip away at the cynical armor it had taken him years to build.
“A fight, huh? I’m sorry I missed the entertainment. But not to worry. I can go down to the E.R. at Thunder Canyon General and watch them stitch up the scalp of some idiot who tripped over a pickax and split his head open.”
“So this is small tomatoes for you.”
“Small potatoes,” he corrected, unwilling to reveal his disappointment, his frustration. His desire to make a difference, to help people—victims of disasters. And to better prepare people who hadn’t been stricken by major calamities yet. He shrugged. “I’ll get the job done.”
“You know,” she said, licking a dollop of peach cobbler from her fork. “There have been some gold nuggets found. So one of the prospectors could strike it rich.”
“Maybe. But I think the biggest story I’ve got is the hullabaloo about the ownership of the old mine.”
“I thought Caleb Douglas owned it. That his great-grandfather won it in a poker game with the Shady Lady.”
“That’s the legend that’s been circulating for years. People have just assumed that Caleb was the owner. But he hasn’t produced the deed.”
She furrowed her brow. “What about the county records?”
“They’re not available right now. Harvey Watson, the clerk who’s been transcribing all the old records into the new computer system, is on vacation.” Mark slowly shook his head. “Can you believe, in this day and age, that Thunder Canyon would be so far behind the times?”
“Like I told you before, I think this historical old town is quaint.”
He leaned back in his chair, watched the innocence dance in her eyes and smiled. “You must have some Amish in your genes.”
“Sorry, no Amish. Just a little Basque, a drop or two of French. But mostly, a healthy blend of proud Mexican and Old World Spanish.” She smiled and gave a little wink. “Maybe I was born in the wrong century.”
She was definitely unique. A novelty. And as far as he was concerned, her bloodlines were damn near perfect.
“So, who do you think owns the Queen of Hearts mine?” she asked. “You ought to have an idea. After all, you’re a local boy.”
Not that local. Mark hadn’t moved to Thunder Canyon until he was thirteen. And he was long gone five years later. “I think Caleb Douglas owns the property, and it’s just a matter of a misplaced deed and some backward record keeping in a land office. Anyway, that’s my guess.”
She took a sip of milk, and he watched the path of her swallow. She had a pretty neck. Regal and aristocratic. The kind of throat and neck a man liked to nuzzle.
When she lowered the glass, she wore a spot of white at the edge of her mouth. Unable to help himself, he reached out and snagged it with his thumb.
Her lips parted, and something—he sure as hell didn’t know what—passed between them. An awareness. An intimacy. Something he hadn’t bargained for.
“I…umm…I’m sorry. You had a little milk…” He pointed to her cheek.
Juliet swiped her fingers across her mouth, trying to remove any trace of milk that still lingered. Or maybe she was trying to prolong the stimulating warmth of Mark’s touch. The flutter of heat his thumb had provoked.
For goodness’ sake. She was acting like a schoolgirl with a crush on the substitute teacher, a handsome young man fresh out of college and thrown into a classroom of adolescents. Or on a guy who was way out of her league. And that was crazy.
With the healthy sense of pride Papa and Abuelita had instilled in her, there weren’t too many people—or men—Juliet would consider above her reach.
Of course, being nearly eight months pregnant certainly left her out of the running when it came to romance.
She glanced across the room, eager to break eye contact, or whatever was buzzing between her and Mark, and spotted Mrs. Tasker sitting in the swivel seat at the register. The older woman wore a frown that made the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced.
Were her ingrown nails giving her trouble again tonight? Or did she think Juliet had a crush on the handsome older man, that she was trying to strike up a relationship with a customer?
Maybe she was thinking Juliet ought to get back to work.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mark said. “Tell Attila the Hun to back off and let you have a decent break.”
He was right—not about Mrs. Tasker being a barbarian, but about Juliet needing to quit for today. This darn backache was getting to her. “I’ll take the rest of the night off, all right?”
“That’s better yet.” He caught her fingers in a gentle squeeze before releasing them. But the brief connection remained, humming between them as though he hadn’t let go.
She shook it off, blaming her hormones and the loneliness that seemed to haunt her at times, ever since her brother’s accident.
It had been two years, although time had eased the pain and dulled the shock, as Father Tomas had told her it would. But time hadn’t done a darn thing to ease the loneliness or to change the fact she didn’t have a family anymore.
She brushed a hand along the contour of her tummy, caressed the knot that sprung up on the left side. A little foot? A knee? A fist?
As she stood, the muscles of her back gripped hard, causing her to bend and grab the table for support.
“What’s the matter?” Mark jumped to his feet.
“I’m not sure.”
For a woman with bad feet, Mrs. Tasker was by her side in an instant. “Are you in labor?”
Juliet froze as the possibility momentarily hovered over her like the calm before the storm. “No, I don’t think so.” At least, she hoped not. It was still too early.
As the ache in her back continued, she closed her eyes. Dios, por favor. Don’t let it happen now. It’s
too soon.
“Are you having a contraction?” Mrs. Tasker asked, glancing at her wristwatch, as though she meant to start timing the pains.
“It’s just a backache,” Juliet said, willing it to be true.
The older woman crossed her arms in an all-knowing fashion. “That’s how my labor started with Jimmy. All in my back.”
Juliet lifted her gaze, looked at Mark, expecting him to blurt out a gripe, a complaint, an I-told-you-so. But the only sign of his response was a tense jaw, a pale face.
“No need for us to take any chances,” Mrs. Tasker said. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“Don’t bother.” Mark reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet, withdrew a twenty-dollar bill and dropped it on the table. “I’ll take her to the hospital.”
Juliet began to object, to tell him to finish his dessert. But he slipped an arm around her and led her to the front door.
Mark followed White Water Drive to Thunder Canyon General, then veered toward the separate emergency entrance. He stopped under the covered portico, close to the automatic glass doors, and threw the car into park. “Wait here.”
Leaving Juliet in the idling car, he dashed inside past a security guard, his heart pounding as though he had a personal stake in this—and he sure as hell didn’t.
But Mark knew firsthand how things could go wrong during labor. And he wasn’t going to leave Juliet, who didn’t have anyone to depend on, to fend for herself. Neither was he going to let her ignore any symptoms that might be serious.
He spotted a nurse behind the reception desk. “I need help. Now. I’ve got a woman in my car who may be in premature labor.”
The nurse grabbed a wheelchair and followed him outside. But rather than take Juliet right to a room, she stopped at the reception desk.
“Can’t this wait?” Mark asked, growing more agitated by the second. He wanted to hand over Juliet to a qualified professional, then get the heck out of here.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse responded. “This will only take a minute.”
She was wrong. But while the customary paperwork was filled out, Mark managed to not pitch a fit about the amount of time it took.