Falling for the Mom-to-Be

by Lynne Marshall

  “It’s been a long day,” Marta said, her palm skimming the length of his chest, taunting him without effort. “You’re welcome to join me in my bed…” Before he could open his mouth she lifted her hand. “Or think about my offer awhile longer.” Her serene smile indicated it wasn’t a test, that in some way she understood. “No pressure. Honestly. I’m good either way.”

  Still looking flushed, with her hair messed from his hands, she gave the hint of a smile, turned and left the room with her head held high. After taking the stairs quickly, she disappeared.

  Half in shock—he’d never had a woman be so blatant before—Leif drank the last drops in his glass and closed his eyes while it curled down his throat. Then he poured more.

  If he needed fortification to make love to a beautiful and vibrant woman like Marta, he still wasn’t ready. Sad but true.

  But he wanted to be ready; God, he wanted to be. He’d finally admitted it—well, she’d forced him to—but even that was progress.

  He finished off his glass, then climbed the stairs, his legs feeling like sandbags yet his mind whirling with desire and possibilities. At the top he glanced toward Marta’s room, his old bedroom. The final stumbling block between them. The thought of making love to her in there, where he and Ellen had shared the bed, mixed him up beyond belief. When he took her—and after her come-on just now he would, he was sure of that—it would be in his bed, in his room, under his conditions.

  Taking Marta up on one more of her offers—to think things over—he turned right instead of left and headed for the smaller guest room, his room. It was definitely time to quit being a guest in his own house; Marta’s suggestion had made that clear. His father used to say a man needed to be the king of his castle. Damn right.

  Whoever this woman was, pregnant or not, he wanted her…just for now. She’d promised, no strings. He could deal with that.

  That night, surprisingly, he went right to sleep, and whether or not fueled by whiskey, Ellen came to him in his dream. Healthy Ellen, not his wife from their last months together. She looked so real he wanted to touch her, but she stayed beyond his reach. Her beautiful smile nearly made him cry. Stop it, he could have sworn he heard her say. Quit waiting. Her form drifted closer, her face near enough to kiss, but he couldn’t make his head or hands move to touch her. Without uttering a sound she communicated with him. Live your life. I’m the one who died, not you. And then, long before he was ready to lose her again, she was gone.

  Leif woke up, raising to his elbows, searching the room as if expecting to find her hiding in the corners. His heart raced. Ellen. God he missed her.

  Slowly the words she’d said in the dream repeated in his mind. Stop it. Quit waiting. Live your life. I’m the one who died, not you.

  He lay back on his pillow and rubbed his forehead. Had she released him? He pinched his temples and thought. Or, after three years had he finally released himself? He’d mourned her long and with all of his heart. It was okay to move on, the dream seemed to say. Wasn’t that what Marta had said, too?

  He got out of bed and paced his room. The large fanlight window above the French doors let in a trickle of moonlight, intensifying the shadows. He was alive and Ellen was gone, yet he’d been living like a dead man, a ghost. Opening his house to Marta and her persistence had finally forced him to face it.

  He thought about the lady down the hall, so open and willing to share her affections, and how he’d shut her down. He hoped he hadn’t lost the chance to show her that blood actually ran through his veins. Tomorrow was another day, and it was filled with possibilities. Hell, what about tonight? Right now? The thought drilled a path right to his gut and put a smile on his face. He could carry her to his room and make love to her under the moonlight until morning.

  Heading for the bathroom to freshen up he heard loud moans quickly followed by a sharp, pain-filled groan.

  “Leif!” Marta called out, and he sprinted toward her room.

  Chapter Six

  Marta tossed and turned in bed with discomfort. The ache had started an hour ago, and it suddenly had escalated. At first she’d thought it was an emotional response to taking that risk with Leif and putting herself on the line. Again.

  The offer had drummed up memories of old arguments with her mother, too. How they’d fought over Marta’s carefree ways with men. Gabriella had tried every trick in the book to restrain her daughter, but that had only made Marta more determined to prove she didn’t need traditional marriage or commitment with men.

  The joke had been on her, though, because Lawrence had let her down. She’d promised to be a woman without strings when they’d started dating. He’d been married once already, with young-adult children ready to fly the nest; the last thing he wanted was another marriage…another child. She’d said she was fine with that. He’d offered travel, parties, hobnobbing with the important people in the art world. Everything a young artist could hope for. He’d given her all of that, then spoiled her by supporting her and her art.

  Her mother had accused her of being a kept woman, but Marta made excuses. No. He’s my benefactor. He believes in my talent.

  He pays your rent and you give him sex, her mother had shot back. Insulted by what she’d insinuated, Marta stormed out.

  They’d never ironed out their differences, had never said they were sorry, and Marta hadn’t spoken to her mother the last year of her life. Now she was dead. And Marta was pregnant. Lawrence didn’t want to marry her. And she’d just offered Leif a “no strings” fling.

  Would she ever learn?

  Would she ever honor her mother’s biggest wish for her?

  The answer hurt. God, it hurt to remember.

  The pain in her gut never settled down, either.

  Now a sharp pang cut through her side, making her cry out.

  “Leif!”

  Within seconds he came rushing into the room, flipping on the light, looking mortified. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.” She squinted at him through the harsh light.

  “Where do you hurt?”

  “Here.” She uncurled her body and moved her hand around her lower abdomen.

  His eyes went wide, and a shocked and concerned expression covered his face. “You need a doctor.” He rushed to the phone beside her bed and punched in some numbers. Having never been pregnant before, and to be honest, unnerved by the intensity of her pain, she didn’t protest.

  “Kent? Sorry to call so late, but it’s Marta. She’s doubled over in pain, and honestly, I’m worried for the baby.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and listened. “Thank you!”

  Leif hung up, immediately returned to Marta’s side and took her hand. “He’s on his way over.”

  Though Sedona had many small-town qualities, this selfless attitude seemed unique to Heartlandia. Did doctors even make house calls anymore? Evidently they did here.

  Having Leif beside her helped settle the nerves coiling through her. He’d verbalized her greatest fear—he was worried for the baby. So was she. She was just getting used to the life-changing circumstances, but she’d embraced the thought of becoming a mother. Wanted to be a good mother like hers had been.

  And the craziest part of all was, she wanted to go about it the same way her mother did, even if the cart had gotten before the horse.

  Was this a cruel joke from the universe? Dangling motherhood before her. Forcing her to admit she wanted a more traditional life, including marriage, only to yank it away from her?

  As if reading her mind, he gathered her close and held tight. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just hold me.” She snuggled in, feeling curiously safe and secure through the waves of pain.

  He gently rocked her, helping the gripping to back off a little. Then he kissed the top of her head. This from the hermit? Even in pain, she felt his tenderness.

  Earlier she’d been stunned when Leif had admitted he hadn’t backed away from her because of the pregnancy. She’d fibbed a
bout knowing otherwise, recalling how deeply his candid confession had struck that day at his mother’s memorial bench. But she’d held out, thinking the best thoughts, that he’d come around, see the light. Negativity wasn’t her style.

  Knowing his honest feelings—that the pregnancy wasn’t an issue for him—renewed her hope. He was a good, solid man worth knowing. Loving even? Who knew? Their circumstances were anything but ideal, and that worried her, but nevertheless, she’d only offered him “just for now.” What man in his right mind wouldn’t accept?

  In her world, that was the only way to truly get to know a man. Turns out old habits die hard. Sorry, Momma. I’m a work in progress.

  Not more than fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang, rousing the dogs who’d been hovering around the bed since sensing something was wrong.

  “It’s okay,” Leif said to quiet them as he took off down the stairs.

  Marta immediately missed his warmth and the comfort he gave. Even though she still hurt, his being there had made it bearable. Another wave of cramping built, and she curled back into a ball.

  Heavy footsteps soon ascended the stairs and Marta came face to face with Desi’s fiancé. Desi had said he looked like a Viking, and she hadn’t been lying. She’d even shown Marta a picture on the cell phone, but it hadn’t done him justice. Well over six feet tall with a build to match, the big man had nothing but concern on his kind face.

  He reached out to take her hand. “I’m Kent Larson. So tell me what’s going on.”

  *

  Leif left the room as the good doctor began his examination. He couldn’t help but recall the many times Kent had come to the house during Ellen’s final months. Remembering the pain and suffering she’d gone through made his skin crawl. How he’d felt helpless and angry and wished he could be the one dying, not his wife. God, he couldn’t go through these memories right now.

  How could he ever let himself care that much for anyone again? And if he couldn’t ever care that much for anyone, it wouldn’t be fair to get involved. That had been his mantra for the past three years. But earlier Marta had offered “just for now” and it had thrown him sideways. How could he even think these thoughts now? The woman was in pain. Possibly losing her baby. Now wasn’t the time to think about anything but her well-being.

  Damn it. Where Marta was concerned, he already was in over his head.

  He tried to talk himself down from the growing panic of the caring-losing cycle. This was a completely different situation from his wife’s. Marta was not dying from cancer. From his personal experience, he’d probably always overreact in situations like these. He worried about the baby and whether Marta would need to be admitted to the nearest hospital forty miles away. Would they need to call an ambulance? The memory of an ambulance coming to his door, taking his wife away, never to return home again, sent a shiver down his spine. Damn. Damn. Damn it all.

  He paced outside the room, then went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of herbal tea—the kind Marta had been drinking for weeks now, the kind that was supposed to have a calming effect—and paced some more.

  A few minutes later, he stared out the kitchen’s dark window but only saw his reflection in the glass. That freaked-out expression made him flinch as memory after memory haunted his thoughts. No, he couldn’t let himself be in that situation ever again.

  Kent called his name from the top of the staircase.

  “Yo! I’m coming.” He rushed up the stairs and took his first deep breath when he saw the relaxed expression on Kent’s face.

  “What we have here is a pregnant lady taken out by the current intestinal flu. I’ve seen no less than a dozen patients in the past two days with the exact same symptoms.”

  “The baby’s okay?”

  He nodded. “Did a thorough examination and everything checks out. The bad news is, there’s no shortcut or treatment for this flu. It’ll have to run its course for the next two to three days. The intestinal pain should subside within twelve hours, with lingering digestive symptoms after that. You know the drill. Keep her hydrated and call me if anything unusual develops.”

  Leif slapped Kent’s shoulder. “Thank you, man. What do I owe you?”

  “Your crew just painted my house for barely the price of the cans of paint. I say we’re even.”

  No point in arguing.

  “Thanks.” That was how the community had always worked, each person helping the other, and it went all the way back to the fisherman and native Chinook, just like the town monument depicted.

  “Any time.”

  Their respect being mutual, the men walked in silence down the stairs as Leif showed Kent out.

  Immediately back on task, Leif rushed the stairs and found Marta asleep, her face occasionally grimacing but otherwise looking peaceful. Rather than go back to bed, he turned the dimmer to night-light level, sat in the bedside chair and rested his shoeless feet on the corner of the mattress.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He grasped around in the shadows, found her forearm and squeezed. “You’re welcome.”

  Over the next couple of days Leif saw the worst of Marta, which wasn’t bad at all, and the best of himself. He’d stood guard outside the bathroom door whenever she’d made a mad dash or while she cleaned up. He’d fed her when she was too weak to lift her soup bowl. He’d memorized every freckle on her face and the thickness of her eyelashes when she slept, and he’d learned how to braid her hair. He’d been through this drill before, knew how to care for a sick woman—a dying woman.

  But Marta wasn’t dying. She was very much alive, and every day she looked and felt better, and that made all the difference in his attitude.

  “I can’t stand another day without a shower,” she said on Sunday, day three.

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Let’s?” She cast a questionable glance, sitting at the bedside, gingerly lowering her feet to the floor.

  Caring for her had given him a false sense of intimacy, but she’d cleared that right up. “I’ll be nearby if you need me,” he said.

  She tried to stand but her knees went wobbly. “Maybe I better take a bath instead.”

  “I’ll run the water. Wait here.”

  Back in a jiffy, the bath filling with warm water, he assisted her into the bathroom. Wearing loose pajamas covered in cartoon owls, she sat on the edge of the extralarge soaking tub and smiled. He’d even lit some scented candles to help her relax.

  She gazed up coyly. “You can go now.”

  He lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile. “If you say so.”

  She tossed a “seriously?” glance. “I say so.”

  With his smile stretching into a full-blown grin, Leif turned and left but hovered nearby, changing the sheets on her bed while she bathed.

  “Leif?” she called out after several minutes. “I need to wash my hair. Can you bring my shampoo?”

  He finished plumping the pillow and went to the bathroom door. “Knock, knock. Is it in there?”

  “Yes, in the shower.”

  To be polite he covered his eyes and walked past the tub toward the sink and on toward the shower stall, feeling his way along the walls. She laughed. “I’m covered.”

  Disappointed, he looked, hoping she really wasn’t, but found she’d added bubbles to the tub and had put the washcloth across her chest. A beautiful sight, her hair piled high on her head and her dark eyes striking the perfect balance of bashful yet sexy.

  “I’m a great hair washer,” he said, sadness striking like an electric jolt with the quick memory of the two of them in the tub washing his wife’s hair before it had started falling out.

  Marta picked up on the brief mood change, but instead of letting the moment pass, she surprised him. “I could use your help.”

  He knelt beside the tub and turned on the water, letting it trickle over his fingers until it warmed. She turned away from him and sat, shifting through the water so her head was closer to the handheld shower sprayer, afford
ing him a glance at her back. She stayed sitting with her back to him, and he ran the water over her hair. After adding shampoo he lathered it up, careful not to get soap in her eyes, loving the feel of his fingers entangled in the suds and hair. She arched her neck, and he rinsed, glancing over her shoulder and taking in all her femininity, down to the curve of her throat and the top of her breasts. Through the waning bubbles he could see the heart-shaped swell of her hips and bottom where she sat, the intimacy nearly undoing him.

  When he was done he wrapped her hair snugly in a towel, handed her a second bath towel, activated the drain and left her to dry in privacy. Walking out the door while wanting to see her standing and fully naked proved to be one of the hardest things he’d done in the past three years.

  He wanted her, and things would never be the same between them.

  Seeing her, touching her, caring for her had cracked through the last of his armor, gripping his heart and forcing him to feel again. Closing the bathroom door, Leif realized there was no going back, and he was incapable of doing “just for now.” He was crazy about Marta, wanted only the best for her, and if she was just looking for a fling, he had a big surprise for her.

  *

  By the fourth day, Monday, Marta felt 90 percent better physically, but one thought plagued her conscience. She’d become completely dependent on Leif—he housed her, fed her, even took care of her when she was sick—and she’d promised she’d never be in that position again. She’d learned the hard way with Lawrence. Yet she felt grateful for everything Leif had done for her during her bout with the flu. She cringed thinking there was almost nothing she could hide from him now.

  What a crazy relationship they’d forged in seven short weeks.

  In her postflu weakness, she worried about jumping from one failed relationship into another superficial one. From one rich and powerful man to another…one who also signed her paycheck. Leif had made it quite clear that the city council couldn’t afford her, and he’d stepped in to get the mural painted. It was a legacy he wanted to leave for his family as well as himself, she knew it. In this regard, he was just as much her benefactor as Lawrence had been.