Baby Enchantment

by Pamela Browning

  “Excuse me, but would you happen to know where the ladies’ room is?” Brooke asked as he drew closer. Her complexion was distinctly green, and before he could answer, she blurted, “Never mind,” as she bolted toward a flap in the tent. He stared after her. He’d dealt with too many hangovers not to recognize the unmistakable signs of someone who was about to upchuck.

  Moodily, he pulled out one of the white chairs set up for the occasion and straddled it, knowing that this was not good manners but not caring, either. He was here and decked out in a suit and tie for only two reasons: Justine was his boss, and if she took it into her mind to throw a wedding for her younger brother, why, he was duty-bound to attend. And he genuinely liked Hank, though the two of them had little in common. He’d figured Hank would have been offended if he hadn’t come to the wedding.

  While he gulped a glass of champagne more rapidly than he should have, Cord scanned the crowd. The bride’s sister was gorgeous, but she was a six-foot-tall supermodel and intimidated him big-time. Their other sister was also beautiful, obviously married to the man who had accompanied her, and they had a child in tow. As for Justine, she was busy trying to pull off a wedding dinner with a chef who was temperamental, and she kept running in and out of the tent with a harried expression on her face. Cord figured he’d cut out before they served the pheasant under glass, or whatever.

  Without warning, the tent flap lifted and Brooke Hollister ducked in. She sank onto the chair beside him, shaky but composed.

  “Feeling better?”

  She shot him a sharp look out of the corners of her eyes.

  “No need to deny it. I recognize the signs of a hangover.”

  Her eyebrows raised. “Voice of experience?”

  “I’ve nursed a few in my time.” He paused, figuring that if he didn’t continue the conversation, she’d eventually get up and move away. But he felt guilty about the way he’d treated her so far, so he cleared his throat. “What I always do is drink lots of water. Seems to help.”

  She nodded. “I suppose it counteracts dehydration.”

  “Exactly.”

  She didn’t say anything more, and then a waiter walked by bearing a tray of champagne flutes.

  “Champagne?” Cord offered, copping another one. Brooke held out her hand to take a glass before quickly snatching it back.

  He nodded in approval. “Hair of the dog—it’s the worst thing you can do,” he told her. “Wait here. I’ll get you some water.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “No problem.” He got up and wended his way through the tables to the bar. When he returned, Brooke was checking her lipstick in a mirror.

  “Thanks,” she said as he handed her the water.

  He noticed that her eyes were large and bright, almost too big for her face. They were blue shading to lavender, an unusual shade, and deeply fringed by long dark eyelashes. The green in her complexion had faded to a creamy pallor, and her cheeks now showed a tinge of pink.

  Their hands brushed as she accepted the glass of water from him, and he thought he detected a shimmer of interest in those unusual blue eyes before it was quickly veiled. Several other guests found their way to the table, and in order to avoid having to make conversation with people who were out of his element, he figured that, since the band struck up a tune, he might as well ask Brooke to dance.

  “Not that I’m all that great a dancer, mind,” he warned her while she preceded him onto the minuscule dance floor.

  “Neither am I,” she confessed as he took her in his arms, liking the way she kept her distance. He was accustomed to making brief command appearances at the weekly Rancho Encantado square dances and having middle-aged guests get a mite overfamiliar.

  She was wearing a simple, belted dress, nothing fancy, in a becoming shade of aqua. He’d hoped she wouldn’t try to talk to him, but once they were dancing, she seemed to talk nonstop.

  “What does a ranch manager do?” was one of her questions.

  “Too damn much.”

  “That’s not exactly helpful,” she admonished.

  He angled away from her. “Helpful for what?”

  “For the article I’m writing.”

  “What article?”

  “About Rancho Encantado.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I should have guessed. Justine wouldn’t put a regular guest in a stable apartment.”

  “It’s very comfortable, except for intruders.”

  Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that she’d bring this up. “If I’d known you were nursing a hangover, I wouldn’t have made so much noise.”

  Of course, she realized. He thought she’d been sleeping it off this afternoon.

  He raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “There isn’t anyone to tell, and I’m a big girl.”

  The glance he spared her was appreciative and took in her breasts, barely visible above the scooped neckline of her dress. “I noticed.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Never mind.” He drew her closer.

  She pushed him away slightly. “How long have you been the ranch manager?”

  “Too damn long.”

  “All right, so you don’t want to tell me anything. Who else will talk to me?”

  “Most anyone, I reckon.”

  “I’ve hardly met anyone else.”

  “Is that my fault?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Maybe.” He sensed that she enjoyed sparring with him.

  “So what should I do? Stop dancing with you?”

  “If you like.”

  “I don’t.” He pulled her closer again. She smelled of exotic perfume, musky and sophisticated.

  She pushed him away for the second time. “You could let me know to be on the lookout for certain people. For instance, who is this Ananda, the yoga instructor? Do you see her here?”

  “Nope. She’s probably contorted herself into a pretzel out in the middle of the desert as she contemplates her belly button.”

  “Do you suppose that’s possible? Contorting into a pretzel shape while contemplating your navel?”

  Unexpectedly, he threw back his head and laughed. Several heads swiveled in their direction as he subsided into a long chuckle. “I think I’d rather contemplate yours,” he said.

  She flushed and bit her lip. “Don’t make suggestive suggestions,” she said. He suspected that she was about to laugh. The corners of her mouth twitched beguilingly, and the idea popped into his head that he wanted to kiss her.

  “I suggest that we duck out of this party and make our own fun,” he said.

  “I’m not sure what your definition of fun would be,” she said primly.

  “I’ll be happy to show you.”

  “You know, I would like to get some fresh air. It’s stuffy in here.”

  “I’m for that.” He stopped dancing and took her hand in his. It nestled there, and he fought an unfamiliar protective urge swelling up from somewhere. He held the tent flap for her and followed her into the cool night air without a backward glance.

  “Just a minute,” he said, dropping her hand. He tugged at his tie to loosen it and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

  “If you can do that, I can do this,” she said, unfastening her belt a notch. He considered this a good sign. Women didn’t usually loosen their clothing unless they were agreeable to removing parts of it.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “The nights are chillier in the desert than I expected at this time of year. I should have brought a wrap.”

  He removed his coat and slid it around her shoulders. “Better?”

  “You didn’t have to,” she said.

  “I wanted to.” He took pleasure in the familiarity that giving her his coat implied, and the hope flitted through his mind that when he got it back, it might smell of her perfume.

  They walked along the path, and he said, “Have you explored the ranch much?”

  “Not at all,” she repl
ied. She didn’t look up at him, and that was bad. Eye contact was a big part of a proper seduction, and he was determined that this was going to be a seduction, the more improper the better.

  “Why are you writing about Rancho Encantado, anyway?”

  “It’s an assignment,” she said.

  “Newspaper? Magazine?”

  “It’s for Fling. That’s a woman’s magazine published in L.A.”

  “I know what it is. And what it isn’t.”

  She appeared intrigued by this answer. “What isn’t it?”

  “You’ll be offended.” She was staring up at him, at his scar. He hated the scar on his chin, but it was part of him. A branding of sorts.

  “No, no. I won’t. I promise. I’m only a freelancer. I don’t own the magazine or take any responsibility for its content.”

  “My impression of Fling is that it’s junk-food reading. Lots of calories and no nutrition.”

  She laughed. “That’s very insightful.”

  He had never known a woman before who used words like insightful. “Thanks.”

  “Is that all you’re going to say?”

  He knotted his forehead and glanced in her direction. They were walking along the fence line, the stars bright above, the mountains to the east hiding the moon.

  “It’s enough. I don’t want to insult you.”

  “No insult. It happens that I agree with you. I can’t imagine your reading Fling to begin with.”

  He’d been introduced to the magazine in the doctor’s office after his accident. During his recuperation time, he’d devoured everything in print. Books, newspapers, magazines and, when his eyes tired, books on tape. He hadn’t been able to do much else at the time. Work wasn’t possible, and after breaking his back, he’d thought he could never ride a horse again. But he could, and he did.

  “Is it such a surprise that I read?”

  She considered this. “Of course not. I’ve always associated cowboys with more of an outdoor life, that’s all.”

  “What’s your favorite book?” he retorted.

  “It’s always the last one I’ve read,” she said. “What’s yours?”

  “I don’t have a favorite, but if I did, it would be about the history of the Old West.”

  “That would make you something of an authority on the subject, right?” she said as they approached the Big House. Once past it, they turned down the path that led to the stable.

  “Nope,” he said. Far behind them, they heard the band starting up again after a break. Somewhere, glass broke. He was glad they had left the reception.

  They walked on in silence, their footsteps crunching on rock.

  “So what else do you do in your spare time?” she asked after a while.

  “Just…things.” For some reason he would have liked to tell her about Jornada Ranch, but he sensed that this wasn’t the time or the place.

  “Things,” she repeated. He detected a note of annoyance.

  Eager to dispel it, he said in a low tone, “It’s not what you think.”

  She angled her head toward him. “What could that be?”

  Her scrutiny made him uncomfortable, but her skin looked soft and touchable. His fingers itched to touch it, and he wondered what she would do if he lifted his hand and traced a finger along her jaw. He clenched his hands, promising himself that there’d be time for that later.

  “You’ll hear rumors,” he said. “People talk.”

  “About you?”

  He shrugged. “If not me, someone else. Better me, I guess. I can take it.”

  “You’re a tough guy, huh?”

  “I’d say so.”

  They had reached the stable, and he said on a sudden inspiration, “Would you like to meet the horses?”

  “Sure,” she said. He wasn’t certain that she was really interested, but he led her on the rounds of the stalls: Tango, Stilts, Sebastian, Melba, Whip and his own horse, Tabasco.

  Brooke seemed taken with Stilts, a spirited chestnut gelding. “This is the one I want to ride,” she said.

  “You ride?”

  “I used to go to horse camp every year between the ages of eight and sixteen. Then my parents bought me a horse. They still have him. If I want to ride, do I need to reserve the horse or anything?” she asked.

  “There’s a sign-up sheet,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  He opened the tack-room door. “There’s the sheet,” he said, pointing to the clipboard hanging from a nail.

  She followed him into the tack room and positioned herself in a corner beside a wall hung with bridles and bits, looking small and waiflike under the dim light from the ceiling fixture. Someone so delicate seemed out of place in that room, with its smells of leather and horse and hay, seemed at odds with all the equipment pertaining to horses.

  “Of course, you’ll need to be checked out by me or one of the ranch hands to make sure you and the horse are suited.”

  “Stilts reminds me of my own horse, Dexter. He and I will get along fine,” she said. She somehow brushed against the bridles and set them to swinging. “I—I’d better be getting back to the apartment,” she said.

  He didn’t think she meant it. “Don’t do that,” he said softly, captivated by the shadows of her eyelashes on her cheeks. Slowly and seductively, his gaze slid down to where her breasts swelled against the fabric of her dress.

  “Cord,” she began, but he moved in closer and eased his hand up one of her arms.

  “Like I said, we don’t need to leave yet.”

  She stared at him, and it dawned on him that she hadn’t expected this. But perhaps she was only playing coy.

  “We have a long night ahead of us,” he said, keeping his voice low and casual. “We could shorten it considerably if we had something to do.”

  “Stop,” she said, her voice full of bewilderment. “I didn’t want—this.”

  Surprised, he let his hand fall away.

  “I’m sorry. I’m preoccupied, and I didn’t realize that you—” She broke off in midsentence, letting the words hang there. She seemed to pull herself together before suddenly pushing past him and out the door.

  “Brooke, wait,” he called, pivoting to follow her, but she was running past the stalls toward her apartment.

  “Brooke?”

  She stopped on the steps and rummaged in her purse. “I must have dropped my key,” she said. “I didn’t even notice.”

  He kept his distance, even though the door to his apartment was adjacent to hers. “Brooke, I hope you aren’t angry.”

  “I’m going to go look for my key along the path,” she said distractedly.

  “You can go into your place through mine. They do adjoin.”

  She glared at him. “If that’s your way of trying to get more friendly than I had in mind, forget it.” With a toss of her head, she marched out of the stable and between the row of eucalyptus trees toward the path that would lead her back the way they’d come.

  Cord stood staring after her, wishing she’d given him back his jacket before she’d taken off. This was his only suit, and he took good care of it. He would have taken good care of her, too, if she hadn’t gone as skittish as a pregnant cow.

  He waited for a few seconds, wondering whether to follow her, and quickly decided that it wouldn’t be a good idea. Anyway, he was hungry and ready for a snack. He let himself into his apartment. Suddenly, he remembered that he didn’t have access to a working refrigerator anymore. The damn thing had quit on him last week, and the repairman had lots of excuses about why he couldn’t show up, not the least of which was that Rancho Encantado was a fifty-mile drive from his place of business. No matter; Cord would be going on vacation next week. Maybe the fridge would be fixed by the time he got back, and maybe not.

  He settled into his favorite armchair to watch television while he waited to hear the opening and closing of the door to the neighboring apartment when Brooke returned. But she didn’t come back. After almost an hour, Cord began to be alarmed. I
f she’d really dropped the key on the path, her search shouldn’t have taken this long.

  In Cord’s estimation, Brooke Hollister was city smart, but she was alone here, out of her element. It occurred to him that perhaps he was responsible for Brooke after all. With a sigh, he went into his bedroom and changed into a pair of jeans and a shirt. Sometimes, a heifer took it into her head to ramble off. Often, she got herself into trouble. When that happened, he had to go round her up, and that was what he’d better do with Brooke Hollister. Round her up. Bring her in. Make sure she stayed safe even if he was the last person she wanted to find her.

  MEN! Brooke thought as she stormed back along the path toward the Big House. She’d believed that Cord was different, considering how helpful he’d been. She hadn’t thought he wanted to hit on her, and she’d let down her guard. With the reality of her pregnancy weighing heavily on her mind, she stupidly discounted the signals that he was coming on to her.

  As for that lost key, even though she kept a tiny flashlight on the ring with her car keys, it still took her longer than she’d expected to find it. Finally, there it was, a metallic gleam amid a clump of grass beside the path.

  She tucked the key into the outside pocket of her purse and kept walking along the path, thinking that she shouldn’t have left the wedding reception. She stopped near the Big House, trying to decide whether to go back to the reception. It was early, only nine o’clock. She could stay for an hour, mingle and keep her antennae out for information that she could use. It might be a good idea to eat something, too.

  The very thought made her stomach churn. She fumbled in her purse for the saltines that she’d started carrying with her at all times, since she’d read in a newspaper column that they were good for nausea.

  But she hadn’t brought them. She had transferred the necessities—lipstick, wallet, comb—into a much smaller clutch bag when she’d dressed for the wedding. The package of saltines wouldn’t fit.