The Cattleman's Special Delivery. Barbara Hannay
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am I, believe me.’ She wondered if she ever would have made it, stumbling down this long, rough track in the rain on her own.
‘Do you know if the baby’s a boy or a girl?’
She supposed Reece was trying to take her mind off Alan.
‘No,’ she confessed. ‘I didn’t ask. I told the doctors I didn’t want to know. I wanted a surprise.’
The sad truth was, she hadn’t wanted Alan to know. He would have been so cocky and possessive if the baby was a boy, and at the time she’d still been undecided about whether she should stay with him.
And now … Oh, God, she felt another stab of guilt as she remembered how terribly pale and still Alan had been.
Was there a chance she’d panicked and overreacted? Maybe he was going to be OK. She was feeling so dazed, so sideswiped by the sudden onset of pain coming right on top of the accident.
Ahead of her now, through the rain, she could see a homestead at last. It was a typically North Queensland, timber dwelling, and ever so welcoming tonight with the golden glow of lights on the veranda. As they drew up at the front steps she saw two striped canvas squatter’s chairs and a row of pegs holding battered Akubras and coats.
A stooped, elderly man appeared, squinting out at them like a short-sighted, bow-legged gnome.
In a blink, Reece was out of the truck and at Jess’s door.
‘I’m OK, thanks. Really, you don’t have to lift me down.’
Once again he ignored her. ‘Don’t want you falling. I’ve got you.’ He lifted her easily, and set her down lightly.
‘Who you got there, son?’
‘There’s been an accident,’ Reece told the old man. ‘And this young lady needs to lie down. I’m going to put her in my room.’
‘One of your fancy tarts, is she?’
Reece ignored this. ‘Can you bring us some towels, Dad?’ he asked instead.
With a strong arm around Jess, he steered her up a short flight of steps, and across the wooden veranda boards, not to the main front doorway, but to white-framed French doors. The rain hammered on the tin roof as Reece opened the doors and flicked on a light to reveal a large bed with an old-fashioned, blue chenille spread.
‘Lean against the bedpost if you need to,’ he said. ‘I’ll get rid of this bedspread.’
‘You don’t—’ Jess’s words were cut off as yet another contraction arrived.
Surely they weren’t supposed to be so close together? She had no choice but to hang on to the bedpost and cope as best she could.
By the time the pain had eased, Reece had lit bedside lamps and turned the main light off, as well as pulling back the bedcovers. Now he was at her side, ready to help her out of the coat, just as his father arrived in the doorway, bearing towels.
The old man stared at her belly.
‘This is Jess Cassidy, Dad.’
‘Did you get her into trouble?’
Jess admired Reece’s self-restraint as he simply shook his head and said, ‘I told you. There was an accident out on the main road.’
‘Looks like she’s about to drop.’
‘Yes, Jess is in labour,’ Reece said firmly as he took the towels. ‘It would be helpful if you could fetch the Flying Doctors’ medical chest. It’s at the back of the pantry.’
The old man seemed reluctant to leave, but his son made a shooing gesture and, finally, he hobbled away.
Reece turned to Jess. ‘You need to get out of these wet clothes.’
She was wearing a loose top over maternity trousers and, yes, they were wet, but the rest of her clothes were in a suitcase in the back of the car. ‘I don’t have anything else to change into.’
‘You can wear one of my shirts.’ Already he was opening a wardrobe, slipping a pale blue cotton shirt from a hanger. It looked almost big enough to serve as a nightgown.
His dark eyes were warm as he held it out to her. ‘Can you manage?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ She would have to manage. She certainly didn’t want a handsome stranger helping her to undress, thank you very much. She knew very well that it would be a bachelor’s worst nightmare to help a strange woman in an advanced state of pregnancy out of her clothes.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said to make sure he understood. But the words were no sooner out than she felt as if the bottom half of her were being wrenched away from her with massive force. She only just had time to grab to the bedpost before her knees gave way.
‘Oh, God!’ Seized by an overwhelming urge to bear down, she slumped against the post and clung for dear life. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she moaned. ‘I think the baby’s coming!’
And then her waters broke.
CHAPTER TWO
THE baby couldn’t be coming already.
Reece stared at Jess in dismay. If she’d looked scared before, she now looked terrified, and he couldn’t blame her. He was terrified too. This was way outside his experience. Weren’t first babies supposed to take hours and hours to arrive?
He’d been confident that his job was to keep Jess comfortable until the Flying Doctor or the ambulance arrived—assuming that at least one of them could make it in this weather.
The poor girl.
Reece remembered her husband slumped over the steering wheel. If ever Jess Cassidy had needed her husband’s support it was now.
‘How can I stop this?’ she moaned.
You can’t, he wanted to tell her, and he wished he weren’t so clueless. He’d only delivered calves—mostly with a rope tied around the calf’s hoof and his boot planted squarely on the mother’s hindquarter to gain leverage. That sure as hell wasn’t going to work here.
‘Maybe, if you lie down there’ll be less pressure,’ he suggested.
‘That makes sense. I’ll try anything.’
In this light, she looked little more than a girl, with her slender, pale limbs and long, dark hair hanging in limp, damp strands. Her thickly lashed eyes were green or grey—he couldn’t be sure of their exact colour—and her nose was fine and slim, in contrast with the pink roundness of her soft mouth. In her wet, bedraggled clothes, she looked frail and helpless.
A wayside waif. In desperate need of his help.
He’d never felt more inadequate.
‘You’ll have to get out of these wet clothes,’ he suggested.
This time Jess seemed ready to submit to his assistance and Reece held his breath as he helped her out of her shirt. It wasn’t the first time he’d undressed a woman, although most of the women in his experience were very adept at slipping out of their gear.
This time was so very different, and he had to perform the delicate task with the dispassionate detachment of a medical practitioner.
Not so easy when Jess’s skin was moon pale and smooth as sifted flour and when her body was lush and ripe with the fullness of her pregnancy. She was lovely. Earthy. Madonna-like. With an unexpected fragile beauty that could catch a man totally unprepared.
He was aware of her distress, however, and he worked quickly as, between them, they eased her maternity slacks down. He rubbed her back and legs dry with a fresh towel while she took care of her front. Then he squeezed moisture from her hair and rubbed at it with the towel.
Her bra was wet too, and he undid it gently, conscious that her full,