A COWBOY'S PROMISE Read online

  Of course he hadn't been. Joanna had come and stayed with him. Or Chase had. Or one of the Cavanaughs. Patrick, who was fifteen now, and James, just turned thirteen, had even done their share of nursemaiding.

  And then Gaby had come.

  He remembered her sitting by his bed while he slept and, at other times, talking quietly, worriedly, with Chase and Joanna when they'd thought he couldn't hear. She'd been devoted on more than a business level, though Charlie had never asked for that.

  Once, early in their professional relationship, in her straightforward way, Gaby had asked if he might someday be interested in more than that. In his own straightforward way, Charlie had said no. He knew she didn't mean an affair. Gaby was a marriage-minded woman. He had told her he wasn't ever getting married, that he would never care about any woman that way or that much.

  She had taken him at his word. He wondered what she was thinking now, but he didn't wonder enough to ask.

  He felt her hand squeeze his fingers.

  "I'll look, Charlie," she said. "I'll be back to let you know what I find out."

  Two days later, when he came in from physical therapy, Gaby was waiting for him.

  "She's from rural Elmer, Montana," Gaby said without preamble. "That's in the Shields Valley. Daughter of Walter Blasingame, owner of the Rafter WB Ranch, acreage unreportable because apparently it's bad form to inquire." Gaby rolled her eyes. "She is presently nurse-midwife at a practice in Livingston. The nearest airport is Bozeman. If you want a place to stay, Brenna McCall has a cabin about half a mile from Blasingame's land."

  Charlie just leaned on his crutches and stared.

  Gaby smiled brightly and shrugged. "Anything else?"

  "How did you do that?" He was shaking his head, amazed, his heart quickening in his chest. "She's there? In Montana? In Livingston?"

  "Living with her father, Brenna says."

  "You talked to Brenna about her?" It was one thing to bare his soul to Gaby. He didn't want the whole damn world knowing his business!

  "I did not spill your guts," Gaby said indignantly. "I checked the Internet for Blasingames in Montana. When I found out where they were, I started checking each one. When it turned out that one of them lived near Brenna, it seemed foolish not to check. I know Brenna. I hung a show for her in my gallery last year. You know her. She does those fantastic watercolor, pen-and-ink cowboys?"

  Charlie nodded vaguely. He didn't remember. He didn't care. He could only think about Cait. Gaby had found Cait!

  "Thanks."

  "You're welcome. You are not haring off, though," Gaby said firmly. "This time before you take off anywhere, you are going to be fit."

  Charlie grinned. The world was brighter. Cait was in Montana. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say."

  "That's it, Milly! Oh, good. Oh, yes. That's right. Push. Keep going. Push, push, push!" Cait positioned herself to help ease the arrival of this new little person into the world. She could see lots of dark hair and a furrowed brow and then an entire fierce little face. She always loved this part, being there to witness the emergence of new life, to share in the first moments when a tiny new human being came into the world.

  Milly Callahan, her fingers strangling those of her husband, Cash, was doing great. They were both doing great. "Just one more now," Cait said. "Whenever you're ready."

  And moments later a blinking, black-haired baby boy entered the world.

  "He's here!" Milly wept, her chin wavering, tears leaking down her cheeks and rolling into her ears.

  "Ohmigod," Cash said, tears and joy mingling on his face. "Ohmigod. I've got a son! Can you believe it? God, Mil', look at him! He is so beautiful!"

  They all were—scrawny, red and wet, there was nothing as beautiful as a newborn child. Cait, too, could have just sat and stared at him for hours, marveling at the miracle of life. But she had work to do, so it wasn't until all the afterbirth business was taken care of, the baby checked over and Milly, too, that she allowed herself a moment to savor the glow of the family before her.

  The child, now named Cash James after his father and henceforth to be called C.J., was swaddled in a blue blanket and nestling in Milly's arms as he did his best to figure out this nursing stuff.

  As he rooted and snuffled, Milly's gaze flicked worriedly between her son and Cait. "Am I doing this right?"

  "You're doing fine," Cait assured her. "Here." She reached down and, cradling C.J.'s head, helped ease him to a slightly different angle so he could find the nipple.

  "Ouch," Milly exclaimed as her son finally glommed on.

  "Hey," Cash said with gruff tenderness to the baby, "you're not supposed to hurt your mom." He was sitting next to her on the edge of the bed, and he brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. "He already did hurt you," he said, the memories of Milly's labor obviously still fresh in his mind.

  "He was worth it," Milly said fervently. She stroked the baby's soft cheek.

  "They're always worth it," Cait said softly as she stood back and watched the new little family group.

  She never delivered a baby that she didn't feel a pang of envy for what the parents had and she didn't.

  She would, she assured herself. She was young enough yet. Twenty-nine wasn't that old. And both she and Steve wanted children.

  Steve Carmichael. Her fiancé. The man she had been waiting for all her life.

  They wanted the same things, she and Steve: home, family, children.

  Three, she'd said, though Steve wasn't sure about that.

  "How on earth will we have time for them?" he asked. "We can't even find time to get married."

  He had a point. Steve was a cardiologist, presently practicing in Bozeman, but coming to Livingston two afternoons a week. In August he was taking a new job at a teaching hospital in Denver. Now he spent one week a month there getting established, making the transition.

  Cait had demands on her time, as well. She was a nurse-midwife who not only worked with two physicians, but delivered babies, like C.J., on her own. She taught childbirth classes one night a week. And since her father's heart attack had brought her home late last summer, she'd been in charge of running the family ranch.

  She'd expected her father to be back at it by now, but his recovery had been slower than anticipated. Always a vital, active man, Walt Blasingame now sat and stared out the window for hours. He had no energy, no enthusiasm. Cait tried to encourage him, run the ranch, and do her job. And, even though she'd hired a foreman this spring, she still didn't have much time for thinking about a wedding.

  "Never mind," Steve said. "We'll get to it. I can always come back from Denver for a wedding. What matters is that we've found each other."

  Amen to that, Cait thought. At last she had found the right man to marry.

  Steve was solid, dependable, committed. He wanted exactly what she wanted—a refreshing change from the man she'd first set her heart on.

  She barely spared him a thought anymore. Since she'd met Steve she had settled, relaxed, got her bearings once more. At last she felt as if her feet were on emotionally steady ground.

  If there was a silver lining to the cloud that had been her father's heart attack, it was her coming home and finding Steve.

  He thought so, too. "We're perfect together. We understand each other."

  Only another medical professional could appreciate the emergencies, the unforeseen events that complicated life on a weekly and sometimes almost daily basis. Steve called and canceled dates because of someone's heart attack. She called and canceled dates because of someone's birth.

  When they could, they enjoyed the time they had.

  And when they finally had a family, Cait knew they would make things work.

  She wouldn't have the ranch to worry about then. Either her father would be back running things or her brother, Wes, would finally decide it was time to come home and do it, or—and she didn't like to think about this—the Rafter WB would be sold.

  It wouldn't matter to her, she told herself. She'
d be in Denver, anyway.

  But the ranch was so much a part of her that she couldn't imagine it not being there to come home to.

  It always had been.

  She'd gone all over the world in the past seven years. She'd started at a prenatal clinic in Mexico. She had ended up staying to work as a nurse through one of the most devastating earthquakes to hit the region. After that, going back to Livingston to work had seemed almost a cop-out. There were so many other people and places who urgently needed medical aid.

  If she, footloose and fancy-free, couldn't help out, who would?

  So she'd spent the next seven years going from one disaster to another. Not just natural disasters, either. Some of them were man-made. Wars, to put it bluntly. Someone had to help. It might as well be her.

  But in the back of her mind she'd always carried the ranch with her. She'd taken it out and talked about it, shared it with others, given them a taste of her home.

  Once she'd dreamed about bringing them home.

  One man.

  One child.

  She wouldn't let herself think about the man anymore.

  She still thought about the child.

  Resi.

  The thought of the little orphaned girl who had wormed her way into Cait's heart made her throat tighten and an ache begin behind her eyes.

  "Stop it!" she told herself sharply aloud. It wasn't productive, thinking about Resi. It wasn't even smart. There was nothing to be sad about. Everything had turned out for the best. Everything!

  Cait had stopped counting the times she had assured herself of that.

  The memories came back when she was tired, when she was vulnerable, when she saw families like the Callahans and knew how fortunate they were.

  Now she finished washing up, dragged a brush through her hair and grabbed her tote bag. It was nine-thirty. She'd put in a full day before delivering C.J., and she still had to drive thirty odd miles and check with Gus Holt, the foreman, about how things were going at the ranch. But first she was going to see how the new family was doing.

  The baby was sleeping in Milly's arms. Milly herself was dozing. Cash was sitting in the armchair by the bed, a stunned but blissful expression on his face. When Cait came into the room he looked up and grinned.

  "I can't hardly catch my breath," he said, then gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I've seen calves born before. I know my birds an' bees. But that was a miracle tonight." He shook his head in amazement.

  "It always is." Cait went over to the bed, and Milly opened her eyes to smile up at her. "You doing all right?"

  Milly nodded. "Fine. Just fine." Her voice was a whisper. She brushed a gentle finger over C.J.'s soft hair. "Isn't he something?"

  "He's something," Cait agreed. "Can I do anything else for you before I leave?"

  Milly shook her head. "You've already done everything."

  "Well, give me a call if you need anything. I'll be in tomorrow morning to check on you. The doctor will be by, too, just to check things out. You rest now. The nurse can put C.J. in the isolette for you." She nodded toward the one that had been wheeled into the room so C.J. and his mother wouldn't be separated. "You look like you could use some sleep, too," she said to Cash, who was still smiling his dazed, delighted grin.

  "Go home and go to sleep now," Milly said to him.

  Cash looked as if he was going to protest, but he didn't. "Yes, ma'am," he said. Then he bent down and dropped a light kiss on his son's head and another deeper more intense one on his wife's mouth. "God, Mil', I do love you," he said.

  Cait, watching them, felt another stab of envy and swallowed the lump in her throat.

  Someday, she promised herself, as she led the way and Cash followed her out, that would be her in the birthing suite. And it would be Steve kissing her and telling her he loved her and looking at her like that, with his heart in his eyes.

  She and Cash walked toward the lobby together. When they reached it, he put his arm around her and gave her a hard hug. "God, Cait, I don't know how to thank you. I am the happiest, luckiest guy in the world."

  Cait smiled. "Tonight, Cash," she said, "I'd have to agree with you. Just remember it a week from now when he's crying at 2:00 a.m."

  He grinned and crossed his heart. "I promise."

  They started toward the door when Joyce O'Meara, the receptionist, called, "Cait?"

  "Go on," she said to Cash. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Right. G'night. Thank you." He sketched her a quick salute, gave her a wink and sauntered out into the night.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  Joyce nodded toward the shadowy waiting room. "There's someone waiting to see you."

  Please God, not someone in labor, Cait thought wearily. Smiling, she turned—and felt the bottom fall out of her world.

  A lean dark man had hauled himself awkwardly out of a chair and stepped out of the shadows. The light fell on his blue-black hair and sharp, handsome, weather-beaten face.

  "Charlie?"

  Oh, God, no.

  But it was. Charlie Seeks Elk in the flesh, right here, big as life, smiling that beautiful lopsided smile of his. "Hello, Cait."

  * * *

  Two

  « ^ »

  He didn't know what to say.

  He'd driven all the way from California, had rehearsed his greeting at least a thousand times. And now, when he finally came face-to-face with her, the words stuck in his throat.

  He just wanted to reach out to her, to put his arms around her and hang on. No one in his entire life had ever looked so good.

  And so shocked.

  And not exactly thrilled.

  Charlie could read visuals better than most. It was, after all, what he did for a living. And he could read this visual with no problem at all.

  Cait wasn't glad to see him. She looked, in fact, gut-punched.

  She wetted her lips, but she didn't smile. She said his name again. "Charlie." Her fingers, one hand free, one hand clutching a tote bag, balled into fists.

  He felt the first flicker of true apprehension since he'd fought his way back from eternity all those months ago. And he tried again. "I don't suppose you'd believe I was just in the neighborhood?"

  "I don't suppose I would," she said coolly. She didn't look gut-punched now. The color in her cheeks, which had drained briefly, was coming back. She looked flushed and fit and absolutely wonderful.

  "I wasn't," he said. "I came to see you."

  The balled fist opened, and Cait tucked one hand into her pocket. The other strangled the handle of the tote. "I can't imagine why."

  He didn't suppose she could. He took a deep breath and it was his turn to wet suddenly parched lips. He could feel a pulsing throb in his still-healing leg. It wasn't as steady as he would have wished. He wasn't as steady.

  He rubbed a hand against taut muscles at the back of his neck. "Could we … go somewhere and talk?"

  "What could we possibly have to say to each other?"

  It was going to be harder than he thought. He shouldn't have been surprised, after all. And really, he wasn't. He hadn't been expecting a miracle. He'd had no illusions that she would take one look and throw her arms around him. He wasn't exactly the prodigal son.

  He was the man who had left her without a word, had walked out in the middle of the night and had never come back—until now.

  "I have some things to say," he said slowly and more steadily than he felt, "even if you don't. I wish you'd listen."

  "Why should I?"

  He looked straight at her. "I don't know."

  Something flickered in her stubborn, unblinking gaze. Some tiny movement seemed to make her hesitate. She bit down on her lip and glanced around.

  The receptionist was listening avidly and with no pretense about it. Charlie didn't care.

  Obviously Cait did. One look at the woman's eager expression and Cait's lips pressed into a tight line. "Fine," she said curtly. "You can talk. There's a fast-food place not far from here. We can meet th
ere for a cup of coffee."

  She turned on her heel and headed for the door.

  For a split second Charlie just watched her, drank in the sight of her—even the stiff, unyielding back of her. Then he strode after her, trying not to limp, aware of the receptionist's curious gaze.

  Cait was waiting outside, keys in her hand. "You do have a car?" She barely looked back at him as she spoke.

  He nodded. "Over there."

  She didn't even glance where he had pointed. "That's my truck." She indicated an older full-size red Ford. "Follow me." She turned and started briskly away.

  "Cait!"

  She turned. "What?" Truck keys tapped impatiently against her thigh,

  "I need—" He broke off. He couldn't explain. There were no explanations. Just need. A need that had been roiling desperately inside him since he'd looked around his eternity and discovered she wasn't there.

  "What?" she said irritably.

  He shouldn't. It was probably only going to make things worse. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't stop himself.

  "Need this," he finished, and closed the gap between them, wrapped his arms around her and laid his lips on hers.

  He was kissing Cait. Hungrily. Desperately. Like a drowning man opening to the gasp of air before he's swept away. He was holding Cait. He was knowing once more what it was like to have her in his arms, to wrap them around her, to fit her body to his, to mold them into one.

  But her body wasn't fitting. It wasn't molding. She stood rigid and unbending, her arms stiff at her sides, her lips tightly shut.

  Oh, hell. Oh, hell. Oh, hell.

  And then, just as he was about to give up, he felt something—a softening, a warming—a kindling that was happening in spite of her determination that it should not. He could feel it.

  And he thought, Yes!

  And he dared to believe at last that things would be all right. She still cared. She loved him. She would take him back.

  And then, abruptly, Cait pulled away from him. Her eyes were fierce and angry and brimming with pain.

  "Ah, Cait," he said, still heartened in spite of the pain he saw there, certain he could heal it with the right words. "I didn't mean to hurt you."