Country Bride

by Debbie Macomber

  “Just think, in a few years our children will be reading your stories and attending school together. They’re bound to be the best of friends.”

  Before Kate could respond, the baby woke and they watched, delighted, as she sat up in the portable crib. When she saw her mother sitting next to Kate, she smiled, her dark eyes twinkling. She raised her chubby arms, reaching for Rorie.

  Rorie stood and lifted Katherine out of the crib, kissing the little girl’s cheeks. “I’d better get her home. Thanks so much for watching Katherine for me. I promised I’d pinch-hit for the new librarian if she ever needed me, and I didn’t think I could refuse her even though it was at the last minute.”

  “It wasn’t any problem, so don’t worry. And tell Mary she should visit her sister more often so I get the opportunity to babysit every once in a while.”

  “Call me later and let me know how you’re feeling.”

  Kate nodded.

  Ten minutes after Rorie and Katherine left, Luke drove up and parked behind the house. Standing on the porch, Kate waved to her husband.

  Luke joined her, placing an arm around what once had been a trim waist, and led the way into the kitchen. “You okay?” His gaze was tender.

  Kate wasn’t sure how to answer that. She was miserable. Excited. Frightened. Eager. So many emotions were coming at her, she didn’t know which one to mention first.

  “Kate?”

  “I feel fine.” There was no need to list her complaints, but all of a sudden she felt funny. She didn’t know any other way to describe it. As Rorie had said, there were a dozen different aches and pains the last few weeks of any pregnancy.

  Luke kissed her, his mouth soft. “Did you have a busy day with Katherine?”

  “She slept almost the entire time, but I think Rorie knew she would.” Leaning forward, Kate kissed her husband’s jaw. “I made some iced tea. Want some?”

  “Please.”

  When Kate reached inside the cupboard for a glass, a sharp pain split her side. She let out a cry.

  “Kate?”

  Clutching her swollen abdomen, Kate stared at Luke. “Oh, my goodness. I just felt a pain.”

  Luke paled. “You’re in labor?”

  Smiling, wide-eyed, she nodded slowly. “I must be. I didn’t expect them to start off so strong.”

  In an instant, Luke was across the kitchen beside her. “Now what?”

  “I think I should call the doctor.”

  “No.” Luke’s arm flew out as if that would halt the course of nature. “I’ll call. Stay there. Don’t move.”

  “But, Luke—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Kate, don’t argue with me now. We’re about to have a baby!”

  He said this as if it were a recent discovery. As he reached for the phone, she saw that he’d gone deathly pale. When he finished talking to the doctor, he gave her a panicked look, then announced that Doc Adams wanted them to go straight to the hospital. As soon as the words left his mouth, he shot to the bedroom, then returned with her suitcase. He halted abruptly when he saw she’d picked up the phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Dad and Dorothea. I promised I would.”

  “Kate, would you let me do the phoning?”

  “All right.” She handed him the receiver and started toward the bedroom to collect the rest of her things. If he thought that talking on the phone was too taxing for her, fine. She’d let him do it. The years had taught her that arguing with Luke was fruitless.

  “Kate,” he yelled. “Don’t wander off.”

  “Luke, I just want to get my things before we leave.” A pain began to work its way around her back and she paused, flattening her hands across her abdomen. She raised her head and smiled up at her husband. “Oh, Luke, the baby...”

  Luke dropped the receiver and rushed to her side. “Now?”

  “No.” She laughed and touched his face. “It’ll be hours yet. Oh! I just felt another pain—a bad one.”

  He swallowed hard and gripped both her hands in his own. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for nine months, but I swear to you, Kate, I’ve never been more frightened in my life.”

  “Don’t worry.” Her hands caressed his face and she kissed him, offering what reassurance she could.

  He exhaled noisily, then gave her a brisk little nod. Without warning, he lifted her in his arms, ignoring her protests, and carried her out the door to the truck. Once he’d settled her in the seat, he returned to the house for her bag.

  “Luke,” she called after him, “I really would like to talk to Dad and Dorothea.”

  “I’ll phone them from the hospital. No more arguing, Kate. I’m in charge here.”

  Only another sharp pain—and her regard for Luke’s feelings—kept her from breaking out in laughter.

  * * *

  Ten long hours later, Kate lay in the hospital bed, eyes closed in exhaustion. When she opened them, she discovered her father standing over her. Dorothea was next to him, looking as pleased and proud as Kate’s father. Devin took his daughter’s hand in his own and squeezed it gently. “How do you feel, little mother?”

  “Wonderful. Did they let you see him? Oh, Dad, he’s so beautiful!”

  Her father nodded. For a moment he seemed unable to speak. “Luke’s with Matthew now. He looks so big sitting in that rocking chair, holding his son.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Luke wear an expression quite like that before,” Dorothea murmured. “So tender and loving.”

  Devin concurred with a nod of his head. “When Luke came into the waiting room to tell us Matthew Devin had been born, there were tears in his eyes. I’ll tell you, Kate, that man loves you.”

  “I know, Dad, and I love him, too.”

  Devin patted her hand. “You go ahead and rest, Princess. Dorothea and I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  When Kate opened her eyes a second time, Luke was there. She held out her hand to him and smiled dreamily. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you for staying with me.”

  “Staying with you,” he echoed, his fingers brushing the tousled curls from her face. “Nothing on earth could have kept me away. I would’ve done anything to spare you that pain, Kate. Anything.” His voice was raw with the memory of those last hours.

  Her smile was one of comfort. “It only lasted a little while and we have a beautiful son to show for it.”

  “All these months when we’ve talked about the baby,” he said, his eyes glazed, “he seemed so unreal to me, and then you were in the delivery room and in so much agony. I felt so helpless. I wanted to help you and there was nothing I could do. Then Matthew was born and, Kate, I looked at him and I swear something happened to my heart. The love I felt for that baby, that tiny person, was so strong, so powerful, I could hardly breathe. I thought I was going to break down right there in front of everyone.”

  “Oh, Luke.”

  “There’s no way I could ever thank you for all you’ve given me, Kate Rivers.”

  “Yes, there is,” she said with a smile. “Just love me.”

  “I do,” he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. “And I always will.”

  * * * * *

  Woodrose Mountain

  Also available from RaeAnne Thayne

  and HQN Books

  Haven Point

  Evergreen Springs

  Redemption Bay

  Snow Angel Cove

  Hope’s Crossing

  Wild Iris Ridge

  Christmas in Snowflake Canyon

  Willowleaf Lane

  Currant Creek Valley

  Sweet Laurel Falls

  Woodrose Mountain

  Blackberry Summer

  To all the teachers, aides and physical, occupationa
l and speech therapists who have been such a valued part of our life, working tirelessly to help children reach beyond their abilities. Thank you!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  One

  On a warm summer evening, the homes and buildings of Hope’s Crossing nestled among the trees like brightly colored stones in a drawer—a brilliant lapis-lazuli roof here, a carnelian-painted garage here, the warm topaz of the old hospital bricks.

  Evaline Blanchard rested a hip against a massive granite rock, taking a moment to catch her breath on a flat area of the Woodrose Mountain trail winding through the pines above the town she had adopted as her own.

  From here, she could see the quaint old buildings, the colorful flower gardens in full bloom, Old Glory hanging everywhere. At nearly sunset on a Sunday, downtown was mostly quiet—though she could see a few cars parked in the lot of the historic Episcopalian church that had been the first brick structure in town, back when Hope’s Crossing was a hustling, bustling mining town with a dozen saloons. Probably a Sunday-evening prayer service, she guessed.

  Farther away, she could see more cars and a bustle of activity near Miners’ Park and she suddenly remembered a bluegrass band was performing on the outdoor stage there for the weekly concert-in-the-park series.

  Maybe she should have opted for an evening of music in the park instead of heading up into the mountains. She always enjoyed the concerts on a lovely summer night and the fun of sitting with her neighbors and friends, sharing good music and maybe a glass of wine and a boxed dinner from the café.

  No, this was the better choice. As much as she enjoyed outdoor concerts, after three days of dealing with customers nearly nonstop at the outdoor art fair she had just attended in Grand Junction, she had been desperate for a little quiet.

  Next to her, Jacques, her blond Labradoodle, stretched out on the dirt trail with a bored sort of air, tormenting a deerfly with the effrontery to buzz around his head.

  “You don’t have any patience when I have to stop to catch my breath, do you?”

  He finally took pity on the fly—sort of—and swallowed it, then grinned at her as if he had conquered some advanced Jedi Master skill. Mission accomplished, he lumbered to his big paws and looked at her expectantly, obviously eager for more exercise.

  She couldn’t blame him. He had been endlessly patient during three days of sitting in a booth. He deserved a good, hard run. Too bad her glutes and quads weren’t in the mood to cooperate.

  Finally she caught her breath and headed up again, keeping to a slow jog. Despite the muscle aches, more of her tension melted away with each step.

  She used to love running on the beach back in California, with the sea-soaked air in her face and the thud of her jogging shoes on the packed sand and the sheer, unadulterated magnificence of the Pacific always in view.

  No ocean in sight here. Only the towering pines and aspens, the understory of western thimbleberry and wild roses, and the occasional bright flash of a mountain bluebird darting through the bushes.

  She was content with no sound of gulls overhead. She still loved the ocean, without question, and at times yearned to be alone on a beach somewhere while the surf pounded the shore, but somehow this place had become home.

  Who would have expected that a born-and-bred California girl could find this sort of peace and belonging in a little tourist town nestled in the Rockies?

  She inhaled a deep, sage-scented breath, more tension easing out of her shoulders with every passing moment. It had been a hectic three days. This was her fourth outdoor arts-and-crafts fair of the season and she had one more scheduled before September. Her crazy idea to set up a booth at summer fairs across Colorado to sell her own wares and those of the other clients of String Fever—the bead store in Hope’s Crossing where she worked—had taken off beyond her wildest dreams.

  She was especially pleased, since all of the beaders participating had agreed to donate a portion of their proceeds to the Layla Parker memorial scholarship fund.

  Layla was the daughter of Evie’s good friend Maura McKnight-Parker and she had been killed in April in a tragic accident that had ripped apart the peace of Hope’s Crossing and shredded it into tiny pieces.

  Outdoor art-and-crafts fairs were exciting and dynamic, full of color and sound and people. But it was also hard work, especially when she worked by herself. Setting up the awning, arranging the beadwork displays, dealing with customers, running credit cards. All of it posed challenges.

  Over the weekend, she’d had to deal with two shoplifters and the inevitable paperwork that resulted. This Sunday-evening run was exactly what she needed.

  Finally tired, her muscles comfortably burning, she took the fork in the trail that headed back to town, her cross-trainers stirring up little clouds of dirt with every step. She’d forgotten her water bottle in her haste to get up on the cool trail after the drive and suddenly all she could think about was a long, cold drink of water.

  The return trip took her and Jacques down Sweet Laurel Road, past some of the small, wood-framed older houses that had been built when the town was raw and new. She saw Caroline Bybee out watering her gorgeous flowers, her wiry gray braids covered by a big, floppy straw hat. Evie waved to her but didn’t stop to talk.

  The air smelled of a summer evening, of grilling meat from a barbecue somewhere, onions being cooked in one house she passed, fresh-mown grass at another, all with the undertone of pine and sage from the surrounding mountains.

  By the time she turned at the top of steep Main Street and headed past the storefronts toward her little two-bedroom apartment above String Fever, she was hungry and tired and only wanted to put her feet up for a couple of hours with a good book and a cup of tea.

  String Fever was housed in a two-story brick building that once had been the town’s most notorious brothel, back in the days when this particular piece of Colorado was full of rowdy miners. She cut through an alley that opened onto the lovely little fenced garden behind the store, enjoying the sweet glow of the sunset on the weathered brick.

  Jacques gave one sharp bark when she reached the gate into the garden, barely big enough for some flowers, a patch of grass and a table and four chairs where the String Fever employees took breaks or the kids of Claire Bradford—soon to be Claire McKnight—could hang out and do homework when their mother was working.

  Evie really needed to think about moving into a bigger place where Jacques could have room to run. When she had moved into the apartment above the store, she’d never planned on having a dog, especially not a good-size one like Jacques. She had only intended to foster him for a few weeks as a favor to a friend who volunteered at the animal shelter, but Evie had fallen hard for the big, gentle dog with the incongruously charming poodle fur.

  “Hold on, you crazy dog. You’re probably as thirsty as I am. I can let you off your leash in a minute.”

  She pushed through the gate, then froze as Jacques instantly barked again at a figure sitting at one of the wrought-iron chairs. The shade of the umbrella obscured his features and her heart gave a well-conditioned little stutter at finding a strange man in her back garden.

  Back in L.A., she probably would have already had one finger on the nozzle of her pepper spray and one on the last “1” in 9-1-1 on her cell phone, just in case.

  Here in Hope’s Crossing, when a strange man showed up just before dark, she was definite
ly still cautious but not panicky. Yet.

  She peered through the beginnings of pearly twilight and suddenly recognized the man—and all her alarm bells started clanging even louder. She would much rather face a half dozen knife-wielding criminals out to do her harm than Brodie Thorne.

  “Evening,” he said and rose from the table, tall and lean and dark amid the spilling flowerpots set around the pocket garden.

  Jacques strained against the leash, something he didn’t normally do. As she wasn’t expecting it and hadn’t had time to wrap her fingers more tightly around it, the leash slipped through and Jacques used his newfound freedom to rush eagerly toward the strange man.

  The distance was short and she’d barely formed the words of the sit command before the dog reached Brodie. Given her experience with the annoying man, she braced for him to push the dog away with some rude comment about how she couldn’t keep her dog under any better control than her life, or something equally disdainful. Instead, he surprised her by scratching the dog between his Lab-shaped ears.

  She didn’t want him to be kind to dogs. It was a jarring note in an otherwise unpleasant personality.

  Her relationship with Brodie had gotten off to a rocky start from the moment she’d started an email friendship with his mother nearly three years ago on a beading loop, a friendship that had finally led Evie to Hope’s Crossing and String Fever, the store Katherine had opened several years ago and eventually sold to Claire Bradford.

  His mother had become a dear friend. She had offered unending support and love to Evie during a very dark time and Evie adored her. She owed Katherine so much. Being polite to her abrasive son was a small enough thing, especially since Brodie had troubles of his own right now.

  “Sorry. Have you been waiting long?” she asked after an awkward, jerky sort of pause.

  “Ten minutes or so. I was about to leave you a note when I heard you coming down the alley.”

  She didn’t feel at all prepared to talk to him, especially when she couldn’t focus on anything but her thirst. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t take my water bottle on my run and I desperately need a drink. Can you give me a minute?”