by JoAnn Ross
“Well, there is one.” Dorothy shook her head. “But it’s not for you.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that.”
Dorothy’s expression was definitely less than encouraging. “The night cocktail waitress in the saloon eloped on New Year’s Day with a ski bum who got stranded in town when Fletch closed the highway. Since he turned out to be the millionaire owner of a computer software company, I doubt if she’ll be asking for her old job back anytime soon. The day girls have both been taking turns doing double shifts, but it’s starting to wear on them.”
“I’ll take it,” Shiloh said without hesitation.
“You sure you want to do this?” Fletch asked, entering into the conversation for the first time.
Shiloh nodded. “Absolutely.”
Mother and son exchanged a quick look. Then Dorothy shrugged. “The job’s yours.” She named a salary just above minimum wage. “And you may as well keep the suite.”
“What if the governor shows up?”
“He had his chance and he blew it. So, the way I see it, he’s flat out of luck. When can you start?”
“How about tonight?”
Dorothy immediately agreed. After Shiloh had gone upstairs, she turned to her son and held out her hand.
Cursing good-naturedly, he dug into his pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and placed it in her outstretched palm. “How did you know she’d be back?”
“Never bet against a sure thing, darling. Anyone with eyes could see that Matt was a goner the minute he walked into the Silver Nugget. And she was lit up from the inside like a Christmas tree.” She folded the bill and stuck it in her pocket. “Feelings that strong don’t go away when the sun comes up.”
Discretion—she was, after all, his mom—kept Fletch from arguing that point. But as he went out to resume patrolling the lonely stretch of highway, he thought back on how Matt had so uncharacteristically thrown caution to the wind, and how ever since Shiloh left town, his longtime, normally good-natured pal had been acting as angry as a grizzly who’d gotten his paw caught in a bear trap. Fletch decided that in this case, Mother just might know best.
CHAPTER SIX
Matt was in his study, staring into the fireplace, trying to absorb Shiloh’s bombshell, when his doorbell rang.
The minute he saw Fletch standing on his porch, fear shot up his spine. “What’s wrong?” He immediately pictured Shiloh’s sporty red Mustang overturned in some snowbank.
“Not a thing. I just got off shift and was thinking about having a beer down at the Silver Nugget. Thought you might want to join me.”
Matt didn’t hesitate. “Let me get my jacket.”
Although he wasn’t about to admit it, the possibility of seeing Shiloh again was the reason he’d taken Fletch up on his invitation. And, just as he’d hoped, she was the first person he saw when he walked into the Silver Nugget Saloon. Of course it would have been impossible to miss her, dressed the way she was.
The red-and-black satin dress, styled like an old-fashioned dance-hall costume, was cut low enough in the front to make a leg man reconsider his choice. Not that her legs, encased in black fishnet stockings, weren’t damn fine, too. She didn’t look like any expectant mother Matt had ever seen.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
No one in Paradise had ever heard Dr. Matt roar like that. The bar suddenly went quiet. Even the band stopped playing.
Shiloh had known Matt would find out about her decision to stay in Paradise. But she’d been hoping to break the news to him tomorrow. In her own way. Refusing to let him see how his disapproval stung, she managed to keep her head high as she walked across the room with a tray of margaritas, handed out the drinks to the party of four with a feigned smile that didn’t waver even a little bit, made change and returned to the bar.
“I’m talking to you, Shiloh.”
“Really?” She placed the empty tray on the bar, gave the bartender the money for the drinks and slipped the hefty tip into the pocket of her full skirt. “Sounds to me as if you’re yelling, Dr. McCandless.”
“I asked what you think you’re doing.”
“I’m working.” They’d definitely garnered everyone’s attention. Heads began to swivel between them, like spectators at a tennis match.
“Here?”
He made it sound as if she’d taken a job in a brothel. She glared at him. “Surely you don’t have anything against good, honest work?”
“Of course not. But this isn’t any kind of job for a pregnant woman.”
Shiloh would have thought it impossible for the room to get any quieter. She was wrong.
She felt the color flood into her face and watched as the same scarlet flush rose from Matt’s collar. Obviously, this was not something he’d planned to blurt out in public. They stood there, on opposite sides of the room, looking at each other, while everyone else looked at them.
Dorothy was the first to break the suspended silence. “Shiloh,” she said mildly, “why don’t you take a little break? I can handle things here.”
Shiloh gave her a look of heartfelt gratitude. “Thanks, Dorothy. I promise I won’t be long.”
“Take as much time as you like, honey.” She turned toward the band. “I’m not paying you guys to stand around and gawk at the help.”
As the band resumed playing, Shiloh walked past Matt and out of the saloon. Cursing beneath his breath, he followed.
Neither of them saw Dorothy pause beside one of the tables. “You gotta put out that cigarette, Floyd Jenkins.” She plucked the Marlboro from between his lips and ground it out in an ashtray shaped like a cowboy boot. “This is a nonsmoking establishment.”
“Since when?” the grizzled seventy-year-old rancher challenged.
“Since I hired a pregnant cocktail waitress. Everyone knows smoke’s bad for the baby.” She put both hands on her ample hips. “You got any problem with that?”
His eyes, accentuated by deep lines earned from a lifetime of working out in the elements, turned as hard as agates as he stared back for a long moment. Then he caved in. “Guess not,” he muttered.
“Glad to hear that,” Dorothy said robustly, clapping him on the shoulder. “And for being so agreeable, the next beer’s on the house.”
* * *
“You realize, of course,” Matt said with what he thought was extraordinary patience, “that this is ridiculous.”
Shiloh hated his attitude. “What is? Me working here? Or you telling half the town that I’m having a baby?”
He dragged his hand down his face. “I’m sorry about that.”
“You should be. I was hoping to have a chance to fit in before everyone found out that Paradise’s newest citizen is a woman of loose morals.”
“No one would think that.”
“Oh, no?” They were in her suite, but the mood was definitely a great deal different than the last time they’d been together in this room. “Have a lot of unmarried mothers in town, do you?”
“More than you’d think. And a lot more than I’d like.”
“Well, now there’s another.” She crossed her legs with a swish of scarlet crinoline. “And I’m afraid your sterling reputation just got a bit tarnished, as well.”
“I’m not worried about my reputation. I’m worried about you.”
“That isn’t necessary. I’m healthy as a horse.”
“And stubborn as a mule,” he muttered.
“As a doctor, you, of all people, should know that pregnancy is a perfectly natural condition. There’s nothing wrong with me working. Besides, what would you have me do, sit home for the next seven and a half months and knit booties?”
He knew he was being out of line. But some basic protective instinct had clicked in, making him want to wrap her in cotton batting until her baby—their baby, he reminded himself with a renewed sense of shock and wonder—was born.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider doing just that?”
“Sorry. I d
on’t know how to knit.”
He gave up on that argument, planning to come back to it when he’d had time to gather more ammunition. “Why here?” he asked.
She shrugged her bare shoulders. Her fragrant flesh looked like porcelain. Matt remembered it being a great deal warmer.
“Why not? As you pointed out, I can’t sign on for another movie right now. And I like Paradise.”
Like a wild animal catching the scent of a trap, Matt narrowed his eyes. “You’re not thinking of marriage—”
“Of course I’m not,” she said quickly. A bit too quickly, he feared.
Damn. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. But he felt he owed it to her to lay his cards on the table. “That’s good. Because as great as things were between us, sex isn’t a firm foundation for marriage.”
Personally, Shiloh thought it wasn’t such a bad start, but understanding what he meant, and appreciating what he was trying to do, she opted not to argue.
“I didn’t come here expecting a proposal, Matt. I came because I thought you deserved to know that you were going to be a father. And, to be perfectly honest, because I could use a little financial help. Although I’ve always made enough to support myself in a fairly comfortable life-style, I’m definitely not in Sandra Bullock’s or Nicole Kidman’s tax bracket.
“After the baby’s born, I’ll return to Hollywood and go back to work. But for now, the idea of spending the next few months in Paradise, away from the Hollywood gossip mill and tabloid reporters, is enormously appealing.”
Matt had forgotten about the publicity angle. The idea of having his personal life played out on the front pages of tabloids in supermarkets all over the country was horrifying.
“When you put it that way, it makes sense.”
He tried telling himself maintaining his privacy was the only reason he found her decision to stay so appealing. That and the fact that this way he’d be able to look out for her. Make sure she was taking her vitamins, getting her rest, having regular prenatal checkups…
That thought brought another to mind. “We’ll need to get you a doctor.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“It’d be better if it were someone not so close to the situation.”
“Oh.” Shiloh was momentarily disappointed, then decided that it was probably for the best. Those ugly paper gowns were unflattering enough, even if a woman didn’t look like the Goodyear blimp.
“There’s a good obstetrician in Aspen,” he said. “Susan Lucas. I think you’ll like her.”
“Fine.” That settled, she stood up. “Well, now that we’ve had our little chat, I’d better get back to work.”
“Do you have to?” He wasn’t ready to let her go yet.
“Dorothy was nice enough to give me this job. Along with this suite. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of her.”
Matt gave her a long look, different from the ones she remembered that fateful night. This time, instead of looking at her, Shiloh felt as if he was looking into her.
“No,” he said finally. “I guess that wouldn’t really be right.”
They went downstairs together. When Shiloh returned to work, Matt found Fletch waiting for him.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
Fletch’s face revealed his regret. “I knew she’d come back to town. But I didn’t know about the baby, Matt. And I’m really sorry about springing her new job on you that way. As practical jokes go, this one definitely bombed.” His voice turned as sober as his expression. “Anything I can do?”
“Yeah,” Matt said, frowning as he realized how the neckline of that ridiculous costume drew attention to Shiloh’s breasts. Before, they’d been merely wondrous. Now, already more voluptuous from pregnancy, they could probably be declared a natural wonder. “You can hang around and drive me home after closing. Because I’m going to sit here, watch all those bozos looking down the front of the mother of my child’s dress, and get very, very drunk.”
* * *
Shortly after her arrival in Paradise, morning sickness hit with a vengeance, making Shiloh extremely grateful she had a night job. If she’d been required to move before noon, she never would have made it. She was staggering back to bed from the bathroom, when a knock sounded at her door.
“Come on in, Dorothy,” she managed to call out weakly. Matt had recently vanished, without explanation. Fletch’s mother, bless her heart, had taken Shiloh under her wing, delivering tea and dry toast the past five mornings in an attempt to ease Shiloh’s discomfort.
“It’s not Dorothy,” an all too familiar voice called back.
Remembering the gruesome sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror after she’d managed to brush her teeth with only minimum gagging, Shiloh wasn’t about to let Matt in. Vaguely, she wondered where he’d taken off to.
“Go away.”
“Not on a bet. Dorothy says you’ve been under the weather.”
“It’s only morning sickness. Surely you’ve heard of it, Dr. McCandless.”
“Sarcasm’s good. It shows spirit. Now, are you going to open this door or am I going to have to go downstairs and get the master key from Dorothy?”
Cursing beneath her breath, she flung open the door and nearly groaned as she viewed him standing there, looking like a movie cowboy hero in a shearling jacket, jeans and a black Stetson. He was holding a tray with her tea and toast, a covered bowl and a familiar box of crackers.
“I thought the good guys wore white hats,” she muttered.
He arched a brow. “Who says I’m one of the good guys?”
“Anyone who brings me saltines is one of the good guys.” She moved aside, letting him in.
He took a slow, judicious, medical perusal from the top of her head down to her bare feet. Her hair was piled precariously atop her head, and her toenails had been painted a brilliant scarlet. That was the good stuff. Unfortunately, the purplish shadows beneath her eyes had deepened since the last time he saw her, marring her delicate skin like bruises. And she was too pale. And beneath the oversize cotton nightshirt, she appeared to have lost about five pounds.
“You look like hell.”
She tossed her head, then wished she hadn’t as her aching head conspired with her stomach and sent it into a series of flip-flops. “If you’d been so complimentary on New Year’s Eve, I wouldn’t have danced with you, let alone let you come up to my room, so I’d look a lot better right now.”
“You want false flattery, go back to Hollywood. I was merely giving you my medical opinion.”
“You’re not my doctor,” she reminded him. “And instead of handing out opinions, how about giving me a couple of those crackers?”
He put the tray down on the table, opened the box, then the cellophane wrapper and took out a stack of the saltines. As she nibbled tentatively, he poured the tea. “Sugar?”
“Two. Make it three,” she decided on an afterthought.
“It’s a wonder you have any teeth left in your head,” he murmured as he tore open a third package.
“It helps settle my stomach.” She took the cup from him, holding it with both hands like a child. “Most of the time, anyway.”
He watched her sip the oversweetened brew, her expression suggesting it was some mythical nectar from the gods instead of ordinary Constant Comment. The faint bit of color remaining in her face faded, leaving her complexion the color of ashes. She shoved the cup into his hand and took off running.
“You know, this isn’t necessary,” he said, standing in the doorway of the bathroom watching her retch. Since she’d already thrown up, she was down to painful dry heaves.
“Could you please give me some privacy?” Her head was spinning like an out-of-control carousel. She leaned against the tile wall and closed her eyes.
She sure didn’t look like any sex goddess right now. She looked small and fragile. “I’m a doctor,” he reminded her as he ran some cool water into the sink. Squatting beside her, he ran a wet washcloth over her face. “I�
��ve seen a lot worse.” And because he wanted to see her smile again, he told her about the eggnog twins.
It worked. “Thank you,” she said in a soft little voice tinged with that unexpected shyness he’d caught glimpses of before.
“For what?”
“For making me laugh.” She sighed and dragged her hand through her hair, causing it to tumble over her shoulders. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed.”
Matt could. It was on New Year’s Day, sometime before the sun had come up, bringing with it that strained realization of what they’d done. He’d gotten the idea to try out new ways to drink the last of the then warm champagne, and when he’d tipped the bottle, dribbled it into her navel and began lapping it up, she giggled and wiggled beneath his mouth, and pretty soon they were tangling the sheets again, laughing and kissing and…
And making a child. As he thought back on that night, Matt experienced a sudden need for physical and emotional space. He stood up and carefully hung the cloth on the plastic ring beside the mirror. The sight of her sitting on the floor, her arms wrapped around her bent knees, brought a flood of renewed guilt and responsibility. Along with a faint stir of some emotion he couldn’t quite recognize.
Uncomfortable with the intimacy of the situation, he said, “I’ll wait for you in the living room.”
His tone was so distant he could have been talking to her from Kansas. Shiloh felt the sting of tears at the back of her lids and resolutely blinked them away.
“Thank you,” she said again. But she said it to his back, and he didn’t respond.
As she brushed her teeth again and changed into a pair of leggings and a scarlet sweater she hoped would add some much-needed color to her cheeks, Shiloh reminded herself that she was not some weak-kneed, marshmallow-spirited Camille. She was Shiloh Belle Beauregard, daughter of General Stonewall Jackson Beauregard and descendant of General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, victor of the first battle of Bull Run. The blood of generations of warriors ran in her blood. She could handle this pregnancy. And she could handle Dr. Matt McCandless.
