Judith Bowen

by The Man from Blue River

  She stared at him for a long time. “I don’t want to have a baby anymore,” she burst out. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

  Fraser couldn’t believe his ears. And he hated himself for the relief he felt, for the crazy surge of joy. Surely to God she didn’t mean it…

  “I’ve thought it over, and I—” She bit her lip, which Fraser suddenly realized was trembling, and he wanted to step forward and take her in his arms. “I guess I didn’t realize just how much you hated the idea, really hated it, until I saw you with Verna and Patrick’s baby. At Christmas.”

  She took a deep breath, and he saw how hard this was, how painful she found it. He cursed himself silently for the relief he felt at the sacrifice of her dream. A dream, she’d told him, that meant everything to her. A dream that was why she’d become tangled up in this backward, mixed-up, crazy marriage in the first place.

  “Look, I don’t think you should be too hasty about this, Martha,” he began lamely, hating himself for the lie. “Heck, I’ve had a chance to get used to the idea over the past while and—”

  “That’s not true,” she broke in fiercely. “I saw you that day. I saw how much it hurt you to touch that baby, little Betsy, and I—I just thought I’d die if I thought for a minute you might feel the same way about our baby, if we had one. And I decided, well, considering my age and all and the fact that I feel like Anne and Daisy are nearly my daughters now, my family—”

  He moved toward her and caught her in his arms. “Martha.” Her body felt so good against his. That she would do this for him! He wanted to touch her and kiss her and carry her upstairs to their bed and make sweet love to her all night long. He didn’t want to hear her words, or the pain behind them. He didn’t want to think that he’d traded his pain for hers. “You don’t have to do this. I swear to God you don’t.” He paused. How could he say that? How could he stand here and lie to her? What kind of an excuse for a man was he?

  “Yes, I do, Fraser,” she said. “I’ve made up my mind. And as soon as I can get an appointment with the doctor, I’m going to go into Pine Ridge and take care of…of birth control or whatever.”

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. He leaned over and covered her mouth with his. He didn’t love her, but he could treat her the way a fine caring woman deserved to be treated. He could do his best to make her life here happy, make the rest of her dreams come true.

  He felt her arms tighten around his neck and felt her relax in his arms as she kissed him back. Her mouth tasted so clean and sweet and good. How he’d missed her! He felt his body stir and relished the tiny moan she made deep in her throat when he rocked gently against her hips. He held her tight against him, savoring the feel of her body. Her small breasts—were they fuller, lusher than he’d remembered?—pressed softly against the thin cotton of his shirt. He wanted to rip his clothes off, rip hers off, take her right here on the kitchen floor, the way he’d wanted to one other time. So long ago. When she’d accused him of not knowing what was in his own heart.

  Perhaps she’d been right. Perhaps if she’d never confronted him, he would never have found the courage to do the right thing by Brenda’s girls. Then he’d have been a lonely man in a lonely house tonight, instead of a man for whom suddenly everything seemed to be going right. But at what price? he thought with a stab of guilt.

  Martha pulled back. “Fraser—”

  “I’ve missed you, Martha,” he muttered, tasting the soft skin of her throat. “I’ve missed you so much.” Instead of that lonely man he’d been, he was a new husband, about to take his wife up to the privacy of their bedroom. About to do all the things a man longed to do with his wife.

  “We can’t…we can’t do this,” she whispered. Her face was pink.

  “Do what, Martha?” He couldn’t resist teasing her.

  “You know, make love.”

  “Why not?” He nibbled at an earlobe, his blood surging at her shiver of response.

  “Because, well—Fraser!” She pushed at his chest and he allowed her to look up at him. “We can’t take any chances, now that I’ve made up my mind.”

  “I see.” He smiled. “I think I could rustle up something in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. For now.”

  “Oh!” She blushed again as she caught his meaning. Her eyes shone as he lifted her in his arms.

  “Any more objections?” He grinned down into her flustered face.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and reached up to kiss him on the side of his jaw. He growled his response and she laughed. “I can’t think of a single one.”

  THIS WASN’T LOVE. But it was enough. In fact, it was all he wanted anymore. At his age, at his time in life.

  To touch her and watch her eyes darken. To strip the clothing from her body, piece by piece, to kiss and taste every inch of her skin. To be barely able to restrain himself as she did the same, as she pulled off his shirt, as she unbuckled his belt. To put his hand on her breast boldly, to draw the soft flesh into his mouth and to feel her tense beneath him as the pleasure of it shot through her body.

  Pleasure he brought her.

  To hear her gasp and whisper his name and to sink deeper, deeper into her body. To feel her welcome him, draw him ever closer. To have her cling to him and cry out as he brought her the same endless boundless pleasure she brought him. To feel the greatness of his sheer physical power over her, tempered by the richness of his feelings, his need to give her everything it was possible to give. Physically.

  That was enough.

  And to feel his body tense, then arch to find—always, unerringly—the kind of exquisite agonizing release he’d never felt with any woman before. Ever. That was his secret.

  And to know that she chose to be here with him this way, freely, that he need never be alone again.

  It was enough.

  IT SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN this easy, Martha thought, impatiently flipping the pages of an old People magazine in the doctor’s office three days later. The decision felt right—when she clamped down on the terrible dismay that occasionally welled up when she thought of never having a child of her own. Not now.

  But then she’d think of the man she’d married and how badly she wanted this marriage to work. She thought of the fire she’d seen in his eyes when he’d met them at the airport, and the joy she felt when he touched her, when they made love. She remembered how she’d noticed the moment she’d walked into their bedroom that the silver-framed photograph of Charlotte was gone from the place where it had always stood. Hope had leapt in her heart.

  She loved him more than she’d ever thought possible—and she knew she’d done the right thing. No matter how much it hurt now, in the end, it was the right decision.

  This way, they had a chance. The other way…well, perhaps eventually Fraser’s pain would prove too much. When the bloom wore off their physical relationship—if it ever did—perhaps he’d resent her or, worse, their child. She had Anne and Daisy, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. Her children of the heart. Her ready-made family. And she’d had two weeks already to get used to the idea that she’d never give birth herself.

  “Mrs. McKenna?”

  Martha stood.

  “The doctor will see you now.”

  The doctor was a woman in her fifties, with a friendly smile and iron gray hair. She was matter-offact about Martha’s request and asked her a few straightforward questions about her medical background and family situation.

  “You’ve discussed it with your husband?”

  “Oh, yes,” Martha said. “We’ve decided to, uh—” somehow, despite everything, she couldn’t bear to state the utter finality of her decision “—wait a while. We’ve only been married a couple of months.”

  “I see. There’s your age to consider, of course.” The doctor raised one eyebrow.

  “Yes, I know,” Martha blurted. Wasn’t that what had gotten her into this in the first place, the fact that she was thirty-five and had no time to waste? “We know we can’t afford
to put it off too long,” she added. Not exactly true, but did it matter?

  “Okay. When did you have your last period?”

  My God. Martha thought back—when had she had her last period? She might have known the doctor would ask. “Gosh,” she said nervously, smiling. “This is so dumb. I can’t really remember, but I don’t think it was that long ago…”

  “Maybe we’d better do a test before we get you set up with anything.”

  “Fine,” Martha readily agreed. She’d always been careless at keeping track of her dates—there wasn’t much point to it most of the time, was there? And she was quite sure she’d had some sort of period just after Christmas. She mentioned it to the doctor.

  “Well, you’re probably right. But it wouldn’t hurt just to make sure.”

  Martha had a few nervous moments while she waited after providing the doctor with a sample. But it was crazy to worry. Mentally she ticked off some of the other symptoms of pregnancy. Besides missing a period, what were they?

  The doctor came back into the room and Martha automatically stood.

  “Sit down, Mrs. McKenna,” the doctor said cheerfully, patting her arm.

  “Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PREGNANT!

  Martha practically fell off her chair. “But…but what about…?”

  “The period you thought you had? It’s quite common. Many women have a little monthly spotting throughout their entire pregnancies.” The doctor paused and gave her a serious look. “Is this unwelcome news, Mrs. McKenna?”

  “Unwelcome?” Martha felt dazed. As though she’d been on a roller coaster that had suddenly stopped dead at the top of the track. Any minute now, the world would swoop out from beneath her again. “No. No,” she repeated, her voice embarrassingly weepy. “It’s wonderful news!”

  “Good,” the doctor said bluntly. “Now, let’s check your blood pressure and get you undressed so we can do a proper examination.”

  An hour later, after a stop for coffee, which Martha felt she needed desperately but which she changed at the last moment to some rather insipid herbal tea, figuring it was better for the baby, she was on her way back to Westbank Ranch.

  The baby! She had a tiny precious baby growing inside her, Fraser’s baby, this very minute, this very second.

  My God, what was she going to tell him? He’d think she’d known all along. But she hadn’t, she swore to God she hadn’t. How could she have known that the tiredness she’d been feeling, the sensitive breasts, were early symptoms of pregnancy? She’d never been pregnant before. Dr. Pictou thought she was about six weeks along. That would mean she’d conceived shortly after their marriage. Maybe even that first time, the night Fraser had come back from Utah and come to her bed in the middle of the night. The night he’d apologized for his rotten behavior on their so-called honeymoon and sworn he’d make it up to her. Martha felt her cheeks warm as she remembered.

  He’d made it up to her all right. He’d given her a baby. Martha’s fingers gripped the steering wheel even tighter. One minute she wanted to stop the Bronco and dance around in the snow, shouting her joy to the crows in the frozen treetops; the next she wanted to pull off the highway and burst into tears.

  Dear God in heaven, what was Fraser going to say?

  SHE FOUND HIM in the barn. He’d been helping Tom and one of the hands nail together the hinged wooden panels they used for portable lambing pens. Fraser had told her that a few lambs would arrive as early as midFebruary, although most were born in March and April.

  He watched her walk toward the area where they were working. Her heart banged in her chest. He looked so tall, so handsome. This man was the father of her baby. She hoped her face wouldn’t give her away.

  “Fraser?”

  He stepped toward the railing. Did he guess? His eyes were narrowed, his face serious. But no more serious than usual.

  “Problem?”

  She licked her lips. “I need to speak to you. Privately.”

  His eyes flared briefly, then he looked away and set down the hammer he carried, calmly balancing it on the top rail of the pen. “Sure.”

  “Where’s Daisy?” Anne, she knew, was still in school.

  “She’s playing down by the east door with the kittens. She’s…” His voice trailed off. “Martha. Is something wrong?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes; didn’t dare. “No, nothing’s wrong. But I need to talk to you.”

  “I’ll tell Tom.” He gestured toward the back of the barn. “Why don’t you go and say hello to Mercredi? I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  Martha hurried down the wide aisle that separated two rows of box stalls. The mare greeted her with a friendly nicker. Usually, Martha remembered to bring a carrot or a piece of apple when she came to the barn. Mercredi nuzzled her pockets.

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” Martha said, shocked to realize how shaky her voice was. “Nothing today.” She stroked the animal’s glossy neck and suddenly found herself on the verge of tears. Stop this, she said to herself fiercely. Stop this sniveling, for Pete’s sake.

  “Martha.” Fraser opened the door of the stall and walked inside. “What happened? You okay? What did the doctor say?” His eyes raked her face.

  Martha stared up at him. “She said I was pregnant.” She bit her lip to stop the trembling. He’d gone pale under his tan, and his eyes…Dear God, she never wanted to see his eyes look like that again.

  “I’m going to have a baby, Fraser,” she repeated weakly. He still said nothing. Why didn’t he say something?

  Finally, after a silence that seemed to last an eternity, he spoke. “How far along?”

  “About six weeks, the doctor thought.”

  “Six weeks,” he repeated heavily.

  Suddenly he slammed his fist into the wall of the stall. Martha screamed. The mare half reared and snorted, her nostrils distended, her eyes glowing eerily in the dim light.

  He hit the side of the stall again and swore violently. Then he went to the mare and ran his hand down her neck and withers and muttered to her in a low tone, calming her. His back was to Martha.

  “Fraser.” She stepped closer to him, needing to touch him. She could feel the pain and anger oozing from his body. Before she could touch him, he whirled.

  He lunged forward and grabbed her arm so hard it hurt, right through her jacket. “You should be happy,” he bit out, eyes blazing.

  “I am.” She lifted her chin. Why shouldn’t she be? And he knew she wanted a baby; had always wanted a baby.

  “Why did you tell me you’d changed your mind the other day? All that song and dance about being too old, about having the girls for a family. You must have known—”

  “I had changed my mind. I didn’t know I was pregnant. I had no idea. It was a total shock to me.”

  He laughed, a curt derisive laugh, and let go of her arm. “Sure. There’s usually a sign or two that goes along with the condition, sweetheart.”

  “You probably know more about it than me!” she snapped, not caring how much she hurt him. “I’ve never been pregnant before.”

  She’d hurt him all right; his face was ashen. Martha bitterly regretted her outburst. Of course this was a terrible shock to him. It had been a shock to her, but at least a welcome shock. Still, he must have known it was a possibility. A good possibility, considering how often they’d made love.

  “I’m sorry, Fraser,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know you don’t—” she could hardly bring herself to say it “—want this baby.”

  He moved closer and grabbed her again, this time by the shoulders. “You’re right. I don’t want this baby.” His eyes, black as midnight, devoured her. She couldn’t have looked away if her life had depended on it. “But there is something I do want.” His voice made her shiver. “You!”

  He clamped his mouth on hers so hard she tasted blood. She pushed at his chest, but it was like iron, and so was his grip on her should
ers. He lowered one arm to her waist and hauled her roughly against him. He smelled of hard work and the barn. He hadn’t shaved this morning and his beard scraped her skin. She twisted and clawed at his shirt, pummeled the broad width of his back with her fist, what she could reach. It was no use; he was far stronger than she. She was angry, but she wasn’t afraid.

  Then he shifted and she was up against the roughhewn boards of the stall, his body hard on hers, his mouth seeking, punishing. Somehow she understood that he had to do this—that she was the enemy. That the life she carried inside her, a life he’d had as much to do with creating as she had, had robbed him of something he’d never thought he would ever have to lose again.

  She didn’t know what it was; she didn’t know what made him the way he was deep down where it counted. Perhaps she’d never know. She didn’t care. She only knew she loved him. She only knew that they had to get beyond this. That if they didn’t, they were doomed.

  Fraser’s hands tore at her clothing and she shuddered. She heard his faint curse as he stumbled, tried to maintain his balance with her in his arms, then fell. She landed on him heavily and he rolled her over, pinning her beneath him. Then he was on her and her head was pressed into the straw and she discovered she was kissing him back. Her hands, which had fought him, now twined around his neck and her body arched into his.

  They were in a heap on the soft straw along one side of the box stall. She could barely breathe. Fraser’s mouth was hungry on hers, probing, demanding. With one hand he opened her jacket and swept her blouse aside—she heard buttons rip—to expose one breast to the cold winter air. He abandoned her mouth then to move to her breast, his mouth hot and hungry.

  “My God, Fraser,” she gasped. Her face was wet with tears she hadn’t realized had spilled over. She pushed at him weakly. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

  He didn’t answer; simply covered her mouth with his again, as much to shut her up, she was sure, as to kiss her. He’d managed to slide one hand under the waistband of her jeans, and she felt his callused palm against her bare skin, his searching fingers, felt him pull her against him, so that she could feel his unmistakable arousal.