by Mindy Neff
The Cowboy is a Daddy
Mindy Neff
Contents
The Cowboy Is a Daddy
First baby of the New Year . . . delivered by a cowboy!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Texas Sweethearts
Also by Mindy Neff
About Mindy
The Cowboy Is a Daddy
Copyright © 2016 Mindy Neff
www.mindyneff.com
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission.
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ISBN 978-0-9911141-2-2
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Publisher’s Note: All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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Editor: Denise Zaza
Book Cover Design:
Judy Bullard—www.customebookcovers.com
First baby of the New Year . . . delivered by a cowboy!
When Wyoming cowboy Brice DeWitt hired a housekeeper-cook sight unseen for his Flying D Ranch, he expected a sturdy, mature woman—not a petite, pregnant, applicant who was about to deliver on his doorstep.
Madison Carlyle needed his protection—and his name. But an isolated Wyoming ranch in the middle of winter was no place for a new mother and child. If he let them stay, he risked his heart. But if he sent them away, would he miss his best chance at having the one thing he’d always wanted? A family?
A Romantic Times Top Pick and W.I.S.H. award recipient for outstanding hero. “…A true delight and Mindy Neff makes it work on every level.” --Romantic Times 4 ½ GOLD Medal.
“….Mindy Neff gives us a hero to die for . . . and a story chock full of touching scenes that will wrap around your heart. Brilliant . . . a marriage of convenience with a fresh new twist!” --WCRG on AOL Reviewer Board.
1
They called him “BAD” DeWitt. And it wasn’t just his initials that had earned him the reputation in four counties of Wyoming.
For a while, after his wife had left, Brice had gone out of his way to raise hell. He’d drunk too much, caroused more than he cared to remember and earned himself a healthy amount of respect over the use of his fists—not to mention the dent in his checkbook over paying for busted-up bar furniture.
Well, those days were behind him now; time had a way of healing wounds.
Or so he thought. An uneasy feeling nagged at him tonight, a sense of expectancy shimmering in the crisp night air that slid in through the partially opened window. He stood in the middle of the living room, trying to shake the prickling sensation, listening to the familiar sounds of the ranch. A coyote bayed in the distance, disturbing the horses. From the barn, Samson nickered then settled down. The low of cows carried across the prairie, and Brice wondered if he should get the twelve-gauge and ride out to check on the herd, just to make sure some hungry critter wasn’t eyeing his heifers as a midnight snack.
He made it as far as the window, barely noticing the near-freezing wind that whistled through the slight opening at the bottom. It was below ten degrees out, but that didn’t matter to Brice. He always left at least one of the windows or doors cracked, a habit he’d developed after being trapped in a well as a kid—the very day his mom had run off, making his dark, prisonlike terror a lasting nightmare because nobody had been around to look for him.
He shook away the memory.
Behind him, the TV, via state-of-the-art satellite dish, belted out sounds of revelers on one of the traditional New Year’s Eve broadcasts.
Brice looked at the clock. It was one hour to midnight. One hour to the beginning of the new year.
And here he stood, alone in his living room, with only the sound of television partyers—strangers—to keep him company, telling himself that he was not lonely.
Hell, the guys had asked him to come down to the bunkhouse to ring in the new year, but he’d declined. There was even a message on the machine from Janie Perkins inviting him to drive to the city.
But he just hadn’t been in the mood to socialize. Rubbing the back of his neck, he glanced again at the Waltham mantel clock, wondering what the new year would bring.
Hopefully a housekeeper and cook. Moe had threatened to quit three times in the past week, usually after Brice had burned the flapjacks or forgotten to start the coffee. Oh, he knew how to cook, it’s just that it had been a while since he’d had to do it and he was rusty.
And he flat-out didn’t have the time. As it was, he’d been burning the candle at both ends ever since his housekeeper, Lavina, had gone off to care for her daughter and grandkids, leaving him with a three-thousand-square-foot ranch house to clean and eight hardworking cowboys to feed.
And since then only one woman had answered his ad for the housekeeper-cook position—a woman by the name of Madison Carlyle. He hoped she wasn’t so old that she couldn’t handle the heavy duties.
On the other hand he hoped she would just show up. He’d expected her two days ago and had lost precious hours hanging around waiting.
He couldn’t keep sending Moe out to ride ramrod in search of stray cattle or to keep the troughs from icing over. Moe was getting too old for these cold-weather conditions, even though the stubborn cuss wouldn’t admit that his rheumatism was darned near crippling him.
The revelers on the television were starting to annoy Brice. A man could only take so much screaming and yelling and happiness, especially a man who was used to and appreciated silence. But just as he headed across the room to shut off the program, the doorbell pealed.
Ah, hell. Surely Janie hadn’t made the two-hour drive from the city just because he hadn’t returned her phone call. He liked Janie well enough, but there was something missing between them. Besides, Janie Perkins was a city girl through and through, and Brice had learned his lesson well in that regard.
Steer clear.
Prepared to be polite but firm, he pulled open the door, a cold gust of wind sucking out the heat. The woman who stood shivering on the porch was tiny—all bundled up in a fancy coat with some fussy fur around the hooded collar.
Definitely a city gal and definitely not Janie.
For a minute all he could do was stare, feeling as though he’d been kicked in the gut by an angry mustang. Her face was china-doll smooth and glowing with good health. She wasn’t beautiful, but there was something about those clear blue eyes that nearly knocked him senseless.
“Your car break down?” he asked when he finally found his voice. With only eight families living along a fifty mile stretch of road, strangers happening by wasn’t a common occurrence. Then he glanced down at the oversize, cloth suitcase at her feet, its handle still extended, its wheels resting drunkenly half on and half off the top porch step.
“As a matter of fact it did,” she said in a rush. She tucked a strand of golden hair back into her fur-lined hood. “First, I got lost—I didn’t think that was possible with all this flat land—then, when I gained my bearings, the car quit on me. I’m Madison Carlyle, by the way, the new housekeeper.” She shivered and pulled her inadequate coat more tightly around her. “Is your father home?”
He felt his hairl
ine shift in surprise. “He died about five years back.”
“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry. I’d expected someone older. Are you Mr. DeWitt, then?”
“Brice.” He still felt poleaxed and couldn’t stop himself from staring. She had a light, musical voice that made his blood sing. The fact that she assumed he was young played right into his battered male ego. Sometimes he felt more like eighty-two rather than thirty-two.
“Well, thank goodness I’ve got the right ranch. I stopped in a little town about forty-five minutes back, and a gentleman at the filling station gave me directions.”
‘‘That was probably Leonard. He’s the town mechanic. Didn’t you ask him about your car?”
“There wasn’t any need. It was running fine then. The darn thing only decided to act up a mile or so back.” She rubbed the small of her back and gave him a tentative smile. “I know it’s an ungodly hour to show up for work, but...can I come in?”
“Sorry.” Hell, DeWitt, your manners stink. He grabbed her suitcase, then stepped back as she entered and shut the door behind her. “Here, let me take your coat.”
She tightened her hold on the furry lapels. “I’m a little cold at the moment.”
He frowned at the hesitation and evasion. “And so’s your coat. You’ll warm up faster by the fire.”
Something in her soft blue eyes telegraphed reluctance—or guilt? But at last she sighed and released her death grip on the thin, wool material. Removing her gloves, she slipped the oversize coat buttons through their loops.
If he’d been staring before—and admiring—now his eyes went even wider when he finally registered what he was actually seeing. Beneath her fuzzy red smock, her belly was the size of a watermelon.
At a total loss for words, Brice realized that his one and only applicant—whom he’d hired sight unseen—was pregnant as all get-out.
Ah, hell. True, she wasn’t elderly as he’d feared, but she was definitely pregnant. And aside from her condition, she was no bigger than a minute. He needed somebody who could cook for his ranch hands and see to the house. With the weather threatening to turn nasty, the last thing he needed was worries over being snowed in with a woman in labor. He already had enough on his plate, thank you very much.
But he couldn’t toss her back out the door at eleven o’clock at night. And it was too dark to check out her vehicle tonight.
She massaged her back and held his gaze, those eyes of hers hinting at vulnerability—yet her stubborn chin jutted out as though inviting him to find fault. He had an idea this little lady would give as good as she got.
Still, his words wouldn’t be silenced. “Seems you forgot to mention something on your application.” He glanced at her belly, then for some dang reason, felt shy at doing so. “You also didn’t mention there being a Mr. Carlyle.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Just a baby Carlyle.” Divorced? he wondered. He gazed at her finger, didn’t see a ring.
“Look, Mr. DeWitt—”
“Brice.”
“Brice, then. I need a job. And I assure you, I can—” Her eyes widened and her breath hitched on a gasp as she doubled over. “Oooh.”
Forgetting about absentee husbands and wedding rings, Brice dropped her coat right there in the entry hall and hovered, his heart slamming against his ribs in a surge of adrenaline brought on by pure masculine panic.
“What?” He didn’t mean to shout. “What’s wrong?”
“Um...” She took a deep breath, her cheeks darkening with a flush. “I think my water just broke.”
“Your...?” He glanced down, saw the dampness on her stretch pants, saw the moisture on the floor. “Holy cow!” His gaze lifted from her bulging stomach to the indignant frown lines created by her tightly drawn blond brows. “Er, not you! I wasn’t calling you...I meant...ah, hell.” He felt totally out of control. Damn it, he was out of control. And the fool woman was actually smiling at him. A little trembly, but a smile nonetheless.
“I’m fine—I think,” she said.
“Not according to that puddle of water at your feet.” His words broke off as she moaned and bent double again. “Oh, man, tell me what to do.” He hovered some more, but she waved him back, breathing deeply.
After less than a minute she straightened. “That was a rough one.”
“Is it done?”
She nodded.
Thank you, God. “Okay, uh, maybe you better sit down somewhere. Anywhere. I’ll call...” Who, damn it? “Well, you sit. I’ll call.” Somebody! At the moment not a soul came to mind. Man, he was a mess. Heck of a New Year’s Eve. He was so flustered that in spite of his ridiculous command for her to sit, he swooped her into his arms and carried her to the sofa.
“No! I’ll ruin your furniture.”
“Right now I don’t care squat about the furniture.” But he changed directions and headed toward the bedroom. Women in labor were supposed to be in a bed, weren’t they?
“I’m sorry to be such a nuisance. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m not due for another three weeks.”
That gave him a little hope, yet the eerie sense of expectancy he’d felt earlier returned full force. “So maybe this isn’t the real thing?”
“That’s what I told myself this morning.”
He came to an abrupt halt just inside his bedroom and nearly dropped her. “This morning!”
“Being in pain doesn’t make me deaf,” she admonished.
He made an effort to stay calm. “If you were in labor this morning, why did you keep driving?”
“I thought it was just Braxton Hicks contractions.”
“Braxton...”
“False labor.”
“Could it still be?”
She shook her head, her silky blond hair tickling his chin. “'Fraid not. How close is the nearest hospital?”
“Two hours.”
She groaned.
“My sentiments exactly.” Balancing her with one arm and the support of his knee, he yanked the covers back on the king-size bed and eased her down on the mattress. “Stay put. I’ll call the doc and get some advice.”
“I don’t think I could go anywhere if I tried,” she mumbled, a hint of amusement and false bravery in her voice.
But he was already hurrying out of the room. He knew plenty about pulling breech calves that wouldn’t drop on their own, and he’d sat up many a night with a mare in labor, but a human baby—and delivering it— was totally out of his experience. And if he wasn’t mistaken, just such a creature was going to be born this evening.
Snatching up the phone, he stabbed out Doc Adams’s number, nearly jerking the old black phone off the hall table as he paced—and prayed.
A woman answered, and for some reason that made Brice feel calmer. “Nancy? This is Brice DeWitt over at the Flying D. Is Doc in?”
“Of course, Brice. Hold on just a moment and I’ll get him for you.”
Not only was Nancy Doc’s wife, she was the only nurse in the county. He probably should have just saved some time and asked her what to do, but he was so rattled he wasn’t thinking straight.
“Brice?” Doc’s voice boomed. “Happy Almost-New Year, son.”
“Same goes, Doc. Listen, I’ve got this lady here and her water broke—”
“Shouldn’t you be calling Simmons?”
“No. The lady’s a lady—I mean a woman. I don’t need a vet, I need a doctor. She’s having a baby.”
“I see. Well, just calm down and give me the details.”
How was he supposed to be calm when a tiny woman with soul-deep blue eyes was having a baby in his bedroom? “Like I know the details,” he snapped, then reined in his agitation. “All I know is she’s in pain and her water broke.”
Doc wasn’t even fazed by Brice’s lapse into rudeness. “How far apart are the contractions.”
“I don’t—” He looked at the clock. She hadn’t been here more than ten minutes, maybe less. Man alive, it felt like a lifetime. “Not far. Pretty much on top
of one another.”
“Hmm. Not a good sign.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear. What’re the chances of me getting her to the hospital?”
“Hard to say without me examining her, but with the iffy weather I wouldn’t advise it. I’ll come on out and have a look. Could take me a while with this fog rolling in, but I’ll get there. In the meantime, remind her to do deep breathing, to focus. Nancy swears by that method. And if worse comes to worst, you’ve got enough experience with the animals to handle the situation. Check for signs of the head crowning and if it comes to that, use your instincts and let Mother Nature take her course.”
Any calm Brice had been feeling vanished. ‘‘Check for... Oh, man, hurry.” He hung up, hesitated, then called the vet just to be on the safe side. He’d get on his knees and beg if need be. Hell, he’d pay triple the emergency rate if somebody, anybody, would just get out here and take this problem off his hands.
He was not delivering a baby!
And he wasn’t gonna look for... Sweat beaded his upper lip. He couldn’t even bring himself to finish the thought.
By the time he got back to his bedroom, Madison Carlyle was sitting on the side of the bed, clutching the pine bedpost, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
His insides turned to mush. Tears unmanned him, made him feel like a big, lumbering fool.
He squatted in front of her, brushed the hair back from her face. Her eyes were unfocused and glazed with pain.
“Another one?” he asked, softly this time.
She nodded. ‘‘It’s getting worse.”
