Montana Dreaming: Their Unexpected Family / Cabin Fever / Million-Dollar Makeover. Judy Duarte
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years later. “I think Caleb Douglas owns the property, and it’s just a matter of a misplaced deed and some backward record keeping in a land office. Anyway, that’s my guess.”
She took a sip of milk, and he watched the path of her swallow. She had a pretty neck. Regal and aristocratic. The kind of throat and neck a man liked to nuzzle.
When she lowered the glass, she wore a spot of white at the edge of her mouth. Unable to help himself, he reached out and snagged it with his thumb.
Her lips parted, and something—he sure as hell didn’t know what—passed between them. An awareness. An intimacy. Something he hadn’t bargained for.
“I…umm…I’m sorry. You had a little milk…” He pointed to her cheek.
Juliet swiped her fingers across her mouth, trying to remove any trace of milk that still lingered. Or maybe she was trying to prolong the stimulating warmth of Mark’s touch. The flutter of heat his thumb had provoked.
For goodness’ sake. She was acting like a schoolgirl with a crush on the substitute teacher, a handsome young man fresh out of college and thrown into a classroom of adolescents. Or on a guy who was way out of her league. And that was crazy.
With the healthy sense of pride Papa and Abuelita had instilled in her, there weren’t too many people—or men—Juliet would consider above her reach.
Of course, being nearly eight months pregnant certainly left her out of the running when it came to romance.
She glanced across the room, eager to break eye contact, or whatever was buzzing between her and Mark, and spotted Mrs. Tasker sitting in the swivel seat at the register. The older woman wore a frown that made the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced.
Were her ingrown nails giving her trouble again tonight? Or did she think Juliet had a crush on the handsome older man, that she was trying to strike up a relationship with a customer?
Maybe she was thinking Juliet ought to get back to work.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mark said. “Tell Attila the Hun to back off and let you have a decent break.”
He was right—not about Mrs. Tasker being a barbarian, but about Juliet needing to quit for today. This darn backache was getting to her. “I’ll take the rest of the night off, all right?”
“That’s better yet.” He caught her fingers in a gentle squeeze before releasing them. But the brief connection remained, humming between them as though he hadn’t let go.
She shook it off, blaming her hormones and the loneliness that seemed to haunt her at times, ever since her brother’s accident.
It had been two years, although time had eased the pain and dulled the shock, as Father Tomas had told her it would. But time hadn’t done a darn thing to ease the loneliness or to change the fact she didn’t have a family anymore.
She brushed a hand along the contour of her tummy, caressed the knot that sprung up on the left side. A little foot? A knee? A fist?
As she stood, the muscles of her back gripped hard, causing her to bend and grab the table for support.
“What’s the matter?” Mark jumped to his feet.
“I’m not sure.”
For a woman with bad feet, Mrs. Tasker was by her side in an instant. “Are you in labor?”
Juliet froze as the possibility momentarily hovered over her like the calm before the storm. “No, I don’t think so.” At least, she hoped not. It was still too early.
As the ache in her back continued, she closed her eyes. Dios, por favor. Don’t let it happen now. It’s too soon.
“Are you having a contraction?” Mrs. Tasker asked, glancing at her wristwatch, as though she meant to start timing the pains.
“It’s just a backache,” Juliet said, willing it to be true.
The older woman crossed her arms in an all-knowing fashion. “That’s how my labor started with Jimmy. All in my back.”
Juliet lifted her gaze, looked at Mark, expecting him to blurt out a gripe, a complaint, an I-told-you-so. But the only sign of his response was a tense jaw, a pale face.
“No need for us to take any chances,” Mrs. Tasker said. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“Don’t bother.” Mark reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet, withdrew a twenty-dollar bill and dropped it on the table. “I’ll take her to the hospital.”
Juliet began to object, to tell him to finish his dessert. But he slipped an arm around her and led her to the front door.
Mark followed White Water Drive to Thunder Canyon General, then veered toward the separate emergency entrance. He stopped under the covered portico, close to the automatic glass doors, and threw the car into park. “Wait here.”
Leaving Juliet in the idling car, he dashed inside past a security guard, his heart pounding as though he had a personal stake in this—and he sure as hell didn’t.
But Mark knew firsthand how things could go wrong during labor. And he wasn’t going to leave Juliet, who didn’t have anyone to depend on, to fend for herself. Neither was he going to let her ignore any symptoms that might be serious.
He spotted a nurse behind the reception desk. “I need help. Now. I’ve got a woman in my car who may be in premature labor.”
The nurse grabbed a wheelchair and followed him outside. But rather than take Juliet right to a room, she stopped at the reception desk.
“Can’t this wait?” Mark asked, growing more agitated by the second. He wanted to hand over Juliet to a qualified professional, then get the heck out of here.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse responded. “This will only take a minute.”
She was wrong. But while the customary paperwork was filled out, Mark managed to not pitch a fit about the amount of time it took.
Finally, Juliet was given a temporary bed in the E.R. Her only privacy was a blue-and-white striped curtain that didn’t reach the floor.
Before long, she’d had her temperature and blood pressure taken—all within normal range.
Mark really ought to loosen up. Normal was a good thing, right?
“Did you notify your physician that you were coming in?” the nurse asked Juliet.
“I didn’t have time to think about it.” Juliet glanced at Mark and blew out a sigh. “Can you tell Dr. Emerson that I’m here?”
The nurse, a matronly blonde, placed a hand on Juliet’s shoulder. “Dr. Emerson had a heart attack last night and is in ICU.”
Juliet gasped.
“But don’t you worry,” the nurse said. “We have a top-notch resident obstetrician who will take good care of you.”
“Dr. Hart?” Juliet asked.
The nurse smiled. “That’s right.”
“I saw her on Sunday afternoon. I’d had a fainting spell. And you’re right. I felt very comfortable with her.”
“Good,” the nurse said. “I’ll give Dr. Hart a call and see whether she’d like us to examine you down here or send you to maternity on the second floor.”
Juliet uttered an okay. She might be comfortable with the resident obstetrician, but Mark could see the worry in her eyes. The anxiety in her face.
“In the meantime,” the nurse said, pointing to a chair beside the bed. “Why don’t you have a seat, Dad?”
Dad? She had that all wrong. But before Mark could explain, Juliet did it for him. “This is my friend, Mark Anderson. He’s not the baby’s father.”