“Mrs. Rosemond,” Mara corrected her softly. “I’m married.”
“Oh, but I thought…you were going to…with him…”
“My husband died.”
“I’m so sorry. We have counseling services here, Mrs. Rosemond.”
“She doesn’t need counseling,” Brock cut in. “She needs a blood test.”
“I’m concerned about her mental and physical condition, sir.”
“She’s been through the mill, ma’am. What do you expect? Mara…” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Mara, are you okay?”
“I’m waiting for the next one.”
The lab technician caught her breath. “Contractions…she’s in labor!”
“No, I’m not,” Mara said calmly.
“Take her blood,” Brock bellowed. “I want to marry the woman before this baby gets here. Do it. Now.”
The technician tied Mara’s arm and flicked the tender skin inside her elbow. In a moment the needle stabbed into her vein. Mara squeezed her eyes shut. Here we go again. The place in her back began to knot.
“Done!” the technician muttered, removing the needle. “You may sit up now, Mrs. Rosemond…Barnett.”
Mara bit her lower lip. The contraction hammered through her pelvis. She reached out and found a hand. She squeezed, dug her fingers into flesh. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
“Mara, Mara!” The voice at her ear sent a trickle of calm down her spine. “Easy now, Mara.”
The hammering began to shrink into a gentle thud, the sound of her own heart. She could hear in snatches. “Eight months…widowed…fell off a cliff…marry me…blood…Barnett…”
Another voice. “When was the last?…stay with her…delivery…” A bright light flipped on overhead. “Mara, I’m going to examine you now…”
She gripped the fingers she held, felt cool lips on her forehead, her hair. The constriction crept from her stomach into her back, where it held on for a moment. Then it vanished.
“Mrs. Rosemond?” An image appeared in the space above her head. An old man with white eyebrows drifting off the sides of his face. “I’m Dr. Brasham. Delivered hundreds of babies. When was your last contraction?”
“The car,” she managed.
“In the car!” Brock Barnett’s face emerged, eyes flashing gold sparks.
“How long ago? Ten minutes, would you say?”
“Maybe…seven.”
The doctor frowned. “Any contractions before the one in the car?”
“It’s false labor…Braxton Hicks contractions. I’m taking ritodrine.”
The doctor regarded her for a minute, his eyebrows like angel’s wings. “I think perhaps…not this time. You’re dilated to three.”
“Three!” Her gasp brought her back to reality.
“Would you like to rest here at the clinic while I contact the hospital? I think you’re going to have a baby—you and your…fiancé.”
Chapter Two
Brock sat on a low stool beside the examining table, Mara’s fingers clenching his. The doctor and two nurses hovered around her, taking her temperature and blood pressure, asking questions, checking everything.
Mara Rosemond looked as beautiful as he remembered. Soft, straight blond hair spilled across the pillow. Set above high cheekbones, her gray-green eyes tilted up at the corners. Pale pink lips had always curved easily into a smile. She wasn’t smiling now.
Another contraction absorbed her, demanding all her energy and concentration. She squeezed his fingers, stopping the blood. Her teeth clenched and a sheen of perspiration appeared on her forehead.
Then, just as quickly as it had come, the contraction slipped away. Mara closed her eyes and drank down a deep breath. A strand of her hair draped over the table. Brock studied it, wondering at the natural curl that turned up the end of each yellow-gold thread. His gaze shifted to her stomach. Its canopy of white sheet rose like a mountain in winter. Surely the mound beneath it wasn’t all baby.
But it was. And that baby intended to be born.
As the certainty socked him full force, Brock’s hands went damp. He hadn’t planned this part. Holding the reins of control meant everything to him. Early in his life, he had learned the hard lesson that he couldn’t rely on anyone or anything. When his parents divorced, he was left on the ranch to be raised by his father. His mother moved away, and she rarely saw her son. Now she lived in Argentina with her third husband. Brock’s father had been too engrossed in the ups and downs of his oil business to pay much attention to his only son. On the senior Barnett’s death, Brock had inherited oil wells, stocks, a large bank account and the ranch. From that moment forward, he had seized his own destiny, taken charge of his future and mapped out his course for success.
Everything had gone according to plan until that day on the cliff with Todd. When his best friend had slipped and fallen, Brock’s life had come unraveled. And now he was doing everything in his power to weave it back together. He intended to fix it all—to repair not only the shreds of his world but Mara’s, too.
On learning of her pregnancy, he had mentally outlined everything. He would cover Mara’s health insurance premium until after the baby came, then he would register her and the child on his own policy.
The Bureau of Land Management didn’t like his plan to continue the operation of Todd’s restoration company. But the BLM had its hands full coordinating the needs of private land owners with state and federal agencies managing New Mexico’s seven historic forts. Protection and preservation was their priority. Restoration was a luxury made possible only through funding by private foundations. The cost of rebidding the job and hiring an out-of-state firm would be prohibitive.
Brock had covered all the bases, even in his own house. In recent days, his maids had aired out the west wing and put fresh linens on the beds. The French chef planned menus. Brock had bought a crib that now waited like an empty sentry box for pink fingers and tiny toes…a little rosebud mouth…a wisp of hair….
Blast it all! He hadn’t thought about the actual baby. This had been another project to tackle and put in order. But there lay Mara with her round stomach and her hand gripping his….
“Let’s get this woman to the hospital,” he commanded the doctor. “Get a move on here.”
Dr. Brasham laid a hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Babies are unpredictable, Mr. Barnett. Right now, Mara’s contractions are sporadic. True labor involves regular contractions that dilate the cervix. We’ll keep you here for a half hour, Mara, and if your labor continues, we’ll send you to the hospital to check in.”
She nodded as the doctor and nurses left the room. From across the room, Brock watched her place both hands on her abdomen and run them gently around the dome of her baby. The gold wedding band Todd had given her shone in the soft light.
Brock studied her carefully. He didn’t know the first thing about fatherhood or marriage. After his parents’ divorce, Brock grew up with horses for company and oil pumpjacks setting the rhythm of his life. Carpentry fascinated him. Even now he worked in his shop nearly every evening.
But you couldn’t call horses, books, adzes and lathes a family. You couldn’t call housekeepers and ranch hands a family. No, Brock didn’t have a clue how to be part of a family.
Well, Mara could take care of the baby herself, he decided. It was her baby, after all. Hers and Todd’s. Brock had nothing invested in the whole process except the responsibility to meet the child’s basic financial needs. That, he could do.
“I want to go home,” Mara said softly. “I’m tired.”
She turned her head to see Brock around the side of her stomach. He was leaning against the bunny-and-carrot-strewn wall, his brawny arms folded across his chest, his Stetson pushed down on his brow and his usual swarthy tan faded. Well, what do you know? The man was shaken up.
Good. Mr. Fearless Confidence deserved a little anxiety. Someone needed to teach Brock Barnett he didn’t run the world. Those broad, squared shoulders announced the man as a tou
gh, stubborn bull. Mara had to smile. Leave it to a tiny, fragile, unborn baby to throw the ol’bull off-kilter.
“Oh, Brock, when the doctor does that episiotomy,” she said, sprinkling a dose of concern into her sigh, “I don’t know how I’ll be able to endure the pain…the contractions…the pushing. The baby is already so big, I’m afraid the stitches will be awful. And if my water breaks before I can—”
“Your friend Sherry’ll get you through,” he spoke up. “She took the classes with you, right?”
“Classes can only do so much. I’ll be so stretched with the baby’s head pushing—”
“You’ll be fine. Sherry’ll be right beside you.”
“The doctor will take his scalpel and—”
“Excuse me a minute.” He bolted for the door. “Nurse?” he called. “Isn’t it about time you checked on…”
Brock’s voice faded as he headed down the hall, but Mara could hear him issuing commands. She smiled. Thank goodness that when the time came, she wouldn’t have to rely on Brock.
Mara had been right about the false labor. By noon that day the doctor had confirmed her suspicions, and Brock drove them back to her apartment. At the front door she ordered him to leave her alone, to refrain from calling Sherry and to forget his crazy idea of marriage.
Brock had regained his color, and with it his stubbornness. “You think over my offer before you turn me down, Mara. I never claimed to know about babies, but I do know how to keep a bank account in the black. I can keep you off welfare and give that kid of yours a future.”
“This baby is Todd’s, and she has a future.”
“Not the one I could provide. What would Todd want, Mara? You think about it.”
He did leave her alone, but Mara felt his presence. His offer was tempting with the reality of her situation so dim. The following week brought Mara a flood of bills, a notice that the checking account was overdrawn and a cost estimate from the hospital for labor, delivery and postpartum care.
She knew she could never give up her insurance. Even a normal birth was financially impossible. Then the credit card company wrote to warn her that legal action would be taken if she didn’t pay Todd’s bill in full immediately. A lawsuit! If she couldn’t afford to pay off the debt, how could she afford a lawyer?
Thursday evening, Sherry Stephens stopped by after her work at a downtown clothing boutique. The two young women had met in a Bible study class several years before, and they had formed an instant bond. Mara’s sober outlook helped keep Sherry’s spontaneity and wackiness grounded, while Sherry provided Mara with a strong dose of optimism and fun. Petite, with dark brown hair and a pert nose, she perched on the edge of Mara’s couch. Her sharp brown eyes missed nothing as Mara finally poured out the whole situation—her financial straits and Brock’s offer.
“What would Todd want?” Sherry posed the same question Brock had. “Mara, he would want Brock’s help for his wife and child. Todd put his own life in the hands of his best friend. Of course he would place his family there.”
“Oh, right. Brock Barnett can take care of everything.” Mara grabbed a tissue and stared at the pink wad through blurred eyes. “Sometimes I actually pick up the phone to accept his offer.”
“Maybe you should.”
“I can’t bear the thought of relying on that man.”
“Brock is a responsible person, Mara. He runs his ranch. He has lots of money. Let him help you.”
“He’s responsible, all right. He’s responsible for Todd’s death!”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“He asked Todd to go with him to Hueco Tanks, didn’t he? They were the only two climbers up there that evening, so they were responsible for each other’s safety. Todd fell, and Brock didn’t. Why on earth should I trust him with my child’s future?”
“But to go on welfare? Would Todd want that?”
“Of course he wouldn’t. I just don’t see any other way out.”
“Brock is a way out. He wants to take care of you, Mara.”
“He wants to buy his way out of his guilt.”
“So let him.”
“And be stuck with him as my husband for the rest of my life? Todd told me he didn’t think Brock was a Christian, and you know how I feel about that, Sherry. It’s important to me to follow the Bible’s teachings. We’re not supposed to be unequally yoked with an unbeliever. How can I blatantly disregard that?”
“Oh, Mara, you don’t expect this arrangement to last forever, do you? It’s for now, for the baby. You don’t have to have a religious ceremony. The marriage would be like a contract—without any emotional or physical union. Just an arrangement.”
Mara dabbed the tissue in the corner of her eye. All week her emotions had pulled her this way and that. She told herself she missed Todd, but in truth her husband seemed far away. His memory had been buried under stacks of bills, his voice stilled by ringing phones.
“A man like Brock Barnett,” Sherry continued, “is too attractive to live celibate the rest of his life. You know women are after him, Mara. Look at him! I mean…those eyes and that mouth. The shoulders. Some woman is going to snag him, and he’ll want to get married for real. You just make sure you get a prenuptial agreement so you’re legally able to take care of yourself and the baby in the years to come. Brock will use marriage to you to relieve his guilt, and you can use it to take care of your needs.”
“Both of us using each other? That’s a cheerful thought.”
“Get real, Mara. People negotiate marriages all over the world—dowries, bride prices, the whole thing. It’s just here in the States that we think love has to be a part of the picture. And as for the Bible, it’s full of arranged marriages. Abraham’s servant chose Rebekah for Isaac. Ruth’s mother-in-law fixed her up with Boaz. Only when emotional desire got in the way did people have real trouble. Look at David and Bathsheba or Samson and Delilah. The truth is, Mara, you’re a lot better off marrying someone because it makes sense. You and Brock and especially your baby all need this right now. So why not?”
“Because I despise Brock Barnett.”
“Then you shouldn’t have any qualms about tapping into his money.”
Mara shook her head. “You’re as crazy as he is, Sherry.”
“I’m looking out for your interests.” She paused for a moment. “They’re going to take your truck, you know. They’ll claim all your assets. You won’t even be able to stay in this apartment.”
“I know,” Mara whispered. “What about those Scriptures that say Christians are to take care of widows and orphans? How much more could I fit that picture? Surely our church would help me out.”
“For a while…in some areas. But church is basically a place of worship and teaching. Our church is big on evangelism, but it’s not a charity service. That’s the government’s job. Do you really want to be homeless, Mara? Do you want to live in a shelter? Do you want to have supper in a soup kitchen every day? Do you want your baby to grow up eating groceries bought with food stamps?”
“Well, Sherry, thanks for the uplifting talk.”
“Hey, what are friends for?” Sherry stood to go. As she picked up her purse, she regarded Mara. “Maybe I should keep my mouth shut, but you know me. You grew up in foster homes—paid for by the government. I know you don’t want to go back to that kind of welfare. So, do what you have to do to stay free.”
As Sherry walked to the door, Mara tossed her tissue into the trash basket. “If I marry Brock Barnett, I won’t be free,” she said softly. “I’ll be living on his welfare system…under his terms.”
“But he owes you, Mara. The state doesn’t.” Sherry opened the door. “Let me know what you decide. Meantime, I’ll be praying for you, girl.”
Brock shoved a log onto the fire and watched as sparks shot up into the stone chimney. The spicy scent of piñon smoke drifted into his cavernous living room. He took a deep breath. A wispy curl of ash danced out of the grate and pirouetted onto the black, gray and red
Navajo rug where he knelt. He let out his breath, brushed his palms on his thighs and hunkered into a more comfortable position.
Two weeks and Mara hadn’t called. The deal was off, and he should be glad. He wasn’t used to having people around, anyway. He studied the orange flames licking against the blackened wall of the firebox. Todd’s kid would grow up just fine without Brock Barnett around.
He stretched his legs out and eased down onto the old wool rug. Hands behind his head, he stared up at the vigas that crossed his ceiling. Yep, Mara was definitely gone. Oh, he might run into her some day. He’d catch a glimpse of blond hair. Then he’d see those gray-green eyes and pink lips. He’d know her right away. She’d be thin again, but not as angular. Motherhood would have made her a little rounder, softer, fuller.
Brock tried to shut out the picture. He’d been seeing Mara in his thoughts too often. She was Todd’s wife. She didn’t belong in his mind at all. Squeezing his eyes closed, he reminded himself that Mara was a mother, not some long-legged beauty. She wanted a warm teddy bear like Todd for a husband, not a tall, hard man with callused palms and sunburned lips.
“She probably didn’t give my offer a second thought,” Brock muttered as he stood, giving the logs in the fire a nudge with his boot. Well, so what? He had his own life to live.
Chapter Three
Mara rolled over in bed and squinted at the alarm clock. Six-thirty in the morning. Groaning, she groped for the covers. The bed was a mess, blankets on the floor, sheets pulled from the mattress.
She had been in labor all night. Braxton Hicks contractions again, she felt certain. Her water hadn’t broken, and the discomfort had come and gone at random intervals. Now her bones ached, her stomach rolled, her legs trembled. She had debated calling the hospital, but she knew there was no point.
Her hand brushed across the familiar cool rectangle of her paperback novel, and she picked it up with a sigh of relief. At least she could drift into some other world for a few minutes. The false labor had to be the result of the previous day’s stress. First her landlord terminated her lease. Then her insurance company phoned to give her two days to pay before they canceled her policy. The bank had already claimed the pickup, and she’d been forced to turn in her credit card and close her savings account.
Love's Haven Page 2
