by Fiona Brand
Rachel suppressed a pang of alarm. Dr. Dalziel went on to outline the various conditions that had led to her mother's death, reassuring her that the toxaemia was the least of them and not an uncommon problem. When he'd finished, Rachel asked the only question that mattered. "What happens if the condition progresses?"
"We put you in hospital for bed rest and observation. If your condition deteriorates, we'll operate and take the baby out early."
* * *
Rachel barely noticed the short walk to the supermarket. The day was warm with the increasing heat of spring. She hardly noticed that, either. Her hand strayed to her stomach—her baby was so unutterably precious to her that the thought of not being able to carry him or her to term was devastating.
She'd already decided not to tell Cullen. The chances were her condition wouldn't progress, and Cullen was under enough strain without having to worry about possible pregnancy complications.
Collecting a trolley, she began walking blankly down the aisles. She was halfway around the supermarket before it registered that she hadn't put anything in the trolley. Muttering beneath her breath, she pulled out the list she'd made at home and backtracked. She was reaching for the milk when she became aware that she was not only being followed, but talked about in sneering tones.
"I beg your pardon," she said politely to the rough youth who appeared to be the leader of the three boys following her. "Would you like to repeat those words?"
He did.
Rachel picked up a small milk carton, ripped it open and dumped the contents down the young punk's front.
"Hey!" he yelped. "Did you see that? She just poured milk on me!"
Rachel heard Cullen's measured tread a split second before she felt his warmth at her back. Anger dissolved in the heady strength of his presence, and she gave in to the need to move back into the shelter of his body.
His hands settled around her upper arms, fingers moving with a subtly caressing stroke that was as sensual as it was protective. But his words when he spoke to the dripping youth were soft and edged with menace. "And I thought you were just wet behind the ears."
The youth backed up, his pale, stubbled features going even paler. "Didn't mean anything, man. Just joking."
"Don't apologise to me. Apologise to my wife. She's the one you just insulted."
"S-sorry, Mrs. Logan. I'm really sorry."
Cullen's hands slipped from her arms in slow, lingering sweeps that left her bare skin tingling. He stepped around the puddle of milk, cutting off the youth's escape route. A box of tissues was conveniently placed near the meat chiller; he gestured toward it. "Clean up the mess you made."
The boy swallowed, took a wad of tissues and began hurriedly blotting the milk. The puddle wasn't that big; most of it had soaked into his greasy clothing.
The supermarket manager, a thin woman in her fifties, hurried down the aisle to see what was going on.
Cullen didn't take his gaze off the youth. "You want these boys in your store, Mrs. Fields?"
"Not unless they're actually planning on buying something," she said drily.
Cullen directed a flat, hard stare at the shuffling group. "You heard the lady. If you're buying you can stay, if not…"
They shifted restlessly, then backed off, muttering. Cullen nodded curtly at the store owner.
"Mr. Logan," she said, just as he was about to turn away. "Thank you."
Cullen's expression didn't change, but Rachel sensed his surprise. "It was no problem," he said quietly, and then added, "I hear your husband died a couple of years back. I was sorry to hear that. Archie was a good man. If you need any help dealing with these sorts of situations, don't hesitate to ask."
Stacey Fields flushed pink with pleasure. The sudden relaxation of her features made her look at least ten years younger. "Thank you, Mr. Logan, I might take you up on that offer. Those boys have been plaguing me for months, shoplifting and harassing people. Dan Holt tries to help, but he's so busy, and we haven't been quick enough to catch them red-handed with anything."
Rachel held up the empty milk carton. "I'm afraid I was the one who made the mess. You can add this to our bill."
"Not in this life," Stacey Fields said briskly, relieving her of the empty box. "If a little spilt milk is all it takes to pull those boys into line, consider it on the house."
When they were finished shopping, Cullen insisted on carrying all the groceries. As they left the supermarket and began walking across the car park toward the truck, Rachel noticed the group of boys huddled in a tight knot. One of them turned to stare; then a movement over by Cullen's truck caught her attention. It was only a flicker, and she couldn't be sure, but the back of the man's head as he stood from a stooping position looked a little like Frank Trask's. The man disappeared behind a large delivery van.
Cullen had noticed him, too, but his attention was reclaimed almost immediately by the boys, who were now drifting across the car park in front of them, swaggering and talking loudly.
"Having some trouble?" Cole's voice enquired from directly behind them.
"Nothing we can't handle," Cullen replied, as Cole drew level.
Cole glanced at the departing boys, then back at Rachel. "You're looking … round," he said, giving her stomach the kind of respect an unexploded bomb commanded. "When's my little niece due?"
"Nephew," she retorted.
"Niece," Cullen contradicted.
Cole grinned. "Okay, when's my little relation due?"
"Any day now," Rachel muttered.
A glint of amusement eased Cullen's expression. "Eight weeks, give or take a day."
Cole frowned, then pierced Rachel with a look. "He looks too relaxed. Have you told him?"
Rachel glared back. Cole had been checking on her periodically, and he was especially fond of enquiring about her health. He didn't know about the toxaemia, but he'd been fussing for weeks now about the problems Rachel's mother had experienced before and during Rachel's birth. He also knew she hadn't discussed any of this with Cullen.
"If you don't tell him," Cole said mildly, "I will."
Rachel glared harder at her brother. "Tell him what?" she said in a meaningful voice, wishing he would shut up and go about his business. Of course he wouldn't. It had always amazed her how her family could conveniently cut her out of their lives but still reserve the right to interfere whenever they saw fit.
"That your mother had complications when she had you."
Rachel shot a glance at Cullen, then wished she hadn't. Any trace of amusement was gone. His jaw was firmly set, his mouth a straight line, and there was nothing cool about his eyes—they turned with a leashed intensity that made her drag in a breath.
"Your mother died," Cullen said softly.
"Yes, she did," Rachel said, thinking furiously. "But that was twenty-seven years ago, and her condition was severe. She also had a weak heart that no one knew about."
"Her condition?"
Rachel realised she'd given herself away. She shot Cole another irritated look. "My mother suffered from toxaemia when she was pregnant with me. The doctor thinks that because we're physiologically similar, I may be at risk." Her gaze dropped. She studied the bulging bags of groceries that Cullen was holding with sudden interest. "And, as it happens, I do have a mild case of toxaemia."
For an endless moment the whole town went quiet. The wind actually stopped blowing, the bland music that usually oozed from the supermarket sound system ground to a halt, and the drone of traffic, never a predominant sound in Riverbend, was noticeably absent. When Rachel finally looked up, both men were staring at her as if she'd just grown an extra head.
Predictably, Cole swore.
"What—in—hell—is—toxaemia?" Cullen asked in a low, taut voice.
Rachel studied the grocery bags again. She didn't want to tell Cullen, but she knew that if she didn't he would go to a library, or to Dr. Dalziel himself, and find out anyway. "It's got something to do with increased blood pressure and fluid retention
. If it gets bad enough it can mean a premature birth and … problems for the mother, as well. But that's not likely to happen. My blood and urine are being monitored. If there's a problem, it will show up early."
Cullen didn't reply for a long time. He looked so grim that Rachel expected him to explode right there in the car park. When he finally did speak, he didn't say a word about the toxaemia.
"Let's go home," he said, spun on his heel and strode toward the truck.
Cole was still standing beside her like a spare part.
"You shouldn't have told him," Rachel said, trying not to panic as she watched Cullen stow the groceries, certain that something was wrong. Something beyond what she'd just told Cullen.
Cole looked as impervious and unrepentant as usual. "You weren't going to. He needs to know."
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
The drive home was achieved in silence. Cullen's jaw was tight, and a telltale pulse flicked in the lean hollow of his cheek. Rachel still couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, something important.
Tyres crunched on gravel as Cullen parked near the house. He helped her down, his touch frustratingly brief and impersonal, then collected the bags of groceries. Rachel followed him into the kitchen and watched as he set the groceries on the table. Cullen didn't look at her or acknowledge her in any way.
"I always wondered what it was like to be invisible," she commented as he stacked frozen items in the freezer.
No response.
Cullen returned to the table for another bag of groceries and began unloading cans and dry goods into the pantry. His refusal to speak to her, to even acknowledge her presence, snapped something inside Rachel. She'd been so worried about the baby, so afraid, and he wouldn't so much as look at her. Hand shaking on a rush of temper, Rachel picked up a container of milk. It occurred to her that emptying two litres of milk on someone you were furious with would probably be a whole lot more satisfying than the miserable half litre she'd emptied on the punk in the supermarket. "Are you going to talk to me?" she asked in a cool, remarkably even voice.
Sleet grey eyes pinned her. Cullen's gaze shifted to the milk in her hand. She had finally gained his full attention.
"About what?" he drawled with all the sensitivity of a rock.
Rachel considered unscrewing the lid on the milk. "About whatever it is that's bugging you."
Now that she'd got it, his concentrated attention made her pulse hammer. There was a brooding quality to his regard, a glimpse of dark shifting currents and savage tensions she could only guess at.
He shrugged, an indolent movement of his shoulders that was subtly dangerous, as if energy were coiled tight inside him, waiting for his control to slip. "You weren't going to tell me."
It wasn't a question. Rachel placed the container of milk on the table and rubbed her still-shaking palm down the side seam of her leggings. "No."
"Did you know about your mother's medical history?"
"Not all of it."
He was silent for a beat, then said, "The hell of it is, it doesn't matter whether you were going to tell me or not. The fact still remains that by the very act of making you pregnant, I've put you in danger."
Rachel's eyes widened at the way Cullen had interpreted the hitch in her pregnancy. There it was again, the granite wall she kept running into. Cullen wouldn't budge an inch from his stubborn belief that he was dangerous. The sheer force of his will beat her every time, and imagining what it would be like to have all that intense, immovable focus trained on her, on making a life together as a family, only made the hurt cut deeper. The urge to lash out, to make him see that he was twisting events to fit his beliefs, and that in doing so he was hurting her, was too much.
"Don't take it so personally," she snapped. "It's true that you did get me pregnant. But I'd planned to have children anyway. I would have faced the same medical problems regardless of who fathered my child."
Cullen's eyes narrowed at her last statement, but his expression remained stonily impassive.
Rachel snatched up the milk and marched toward the fridge. Cullen watched with a trace of wariness as she put the container away, and she briefly entertained the milk-dumping fantasy again. "And as for you putting me in danger," she stated coolly, "I'm not in any, unless I ignore medical advice." Gently she closed the fridge, then placed herself squarely in front of Cullen. "Toxaemia is not uncommon. In the unlikely event that something does go wrong, the doctor's clinic is fifteen minutes away, the hospital, half an hour."
He moved his head impatiently. "Rachel—"
"Rachel, nothing," she interrupted, stepping forward, for once ignoring his keep-out signals, intent only on making her point. Her hand lifted in unconscious appeal and brushed his chest. She felt the hot sharp shock of the contact on her skin, the shudder that moved through him.
His hands shot out, clamping her upper arms, preventing her from getting any closer. He'd moved so fast that she was startled by his speed.
The breath left her lungs in a rush. "I hope I never get on the wrong side of any war you're fighting."
A dark humour surfaced, softening the hard intensity of his eyes. "The feeling's mutual." He shook his head again, but this time there was an intimacy to the gesture. "Baby, you scare the hell out of me with some of the risks you take. I'd never considered hair spray and milk as weapons. If you ever managed to lay your hands on anything with an edge, you'd be lethal."
Despite all her efforts, Rachel could feel herself responding to the rueful warmth in Cullen's voice, the heat radiating from his palms. It was painfully sweet to be held by him, in any capacity, but giving in to the delight of his touch only made her longing for intimacy more acute when he went back to avoiding her.
On cue, the amusement disappeared from his expression. "Not that you're going to be taking on any more gangs of young thugs. You were lucky they didn't hurt you."
"I think they were more interested in insulting me."
It was the wrong thing to say; it reminded Cullen of all the reasons why he shouldn't be touching her, teasing her. His hands tightened, then fell away.
"You haven't been sleeping well," he said abruptly.
Rachel blinked at the change of subject. She'd expected Cullen to go back to ignoring her, to shoving groceries away with the ruthless male efficiency with which he went about most tasks. "That's because the baby sits on my bladder all night. I have to keep making trips to the bathroom."
Cullen's expression darkened. "No wonder you're looking so damned tired."
The baby chose that moment to kick. Hard. Rachel gasped and rested her palm on the vigorous, undulating bulge moving across her tummy.
"What's wrong?" Cullen asked sharply.
"There's a foot at least as big as yours inside there, and I swear it's got a boot on it."
Before Cullen could rationalise that laying his hands on Rachel again would be a very bad move, and that if he had any sense at all he would get out of the kitchen—now—he'd slipped his hand beneath hers.
Rachel stiffened at his touch. Cullen took a moment to register her surprise; then the energetic jabbing against his palm transfixed him, wiping his mind clean of anything but the woman he was touching and the baby nestled inside her. He felt as if he'd been the one who was kicked. In the chest.
Their child. His and Rachel's.
"Two more months," he said thickly, still absorbed by the antics of the baby, the miracle unfolding within Rachel. "How much bigger can she get?"
"He," Rachel corrected tightly. "And a lot bigger. He's hardly started growing."
Cullen wasn't about to argue about the sex of the baby, but for some reason there was no question in his mind. There was a little lady in there. What really worried him was that the baby already looked about as big as Rachel's fine-boned body could handle. "And you're certain the doctor's okay with your progress?"
Rachel's hand fell away from his, and she moved restlessly beneath his touch. "What
is it with you and Cole?" she demanded. "I'm pregnant, but that doesn't mean my IQ's decreased. If I needed medical help, I'd get it."
Cullen's gaze lifted to Rachel's. With a sharp pang, he recognised her physical and mental withdrawal from him. Fury tightened every muscle in his body, and he had to steel himself against a purely instinctive desire to reach out and draw her into his arms. He had no right. He'd consciously refused to consider himself in the role of husband and father. He'd shut Rachel and the baby out, immersed himself in the brutally hard work of restoring the farm's roads, fences and drainage systems, in between times trying to second-guess Hayward and Trask. But somehow the feelings had sneaked up on him and ambushed him when he least expected it.
The thought of holding his child turned his legs to putty and his mind to mush. He suddenly knew what the term clucky meant, and why tough, hardened soldiers could literally spend hours staring at their kids' baby photos.
The ruckus beneath his palm subsided. Rachel stepped away from his touch. Again the instinctive need to have her close had Cullen tensing; then his own needs ceased to be important as Rachel sighed and began rubbing her back. Cullen frowned and forced himself to examine her critically, noted the translucent quality of her skin, the heaviness of her movements. Rachel looked more than tired; she was exhausted.
"You need to lie down—now," he said flatly.
Rachel glanced at him, eyes wide, dark, and Cullen felt as if he'd been slugged again. His chest tightened on a wave of self-condemnation. Damn, what was wrong with him? Despite the way she'd played down the toxaemia, she was worried sick, and he'd been too concerned with his own personal fears to pick up on it. Cullen cursed himself for being every kind of fool there was. Rachel didn't wear her emotions on the outside; like him, she contained them, keeping the things that hurt the most locked deep inside.