The Rancher's Dream. Kathleen O'Brien
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this bedroom, one of the few completely renovated rooms in Grant’s comfortable ranch house, was cozy warm. She could see a peaceful spring dawn rising over the greening mountains through the window.
About half an hour ago, the rain had finally stopped—and Molly had woken up. Maybe the sudden silence was the problem. Maybe the deep drumming of water against the roof had provided a lullaby of white noise. Or, heck, maybe waking at 5:00 a.m. was normal for Molly. Crimson had never been intimate enough with Kevin to learn such things.
She’d never spent the night in this bedroom. Not until tonight.
She looked at the baby, who looked back, wide-eyed and curious.
What had she gotten herself into? Was it really just yesterday she’d been saying she needed to get the heck out of Silverdell? She should have listened to her gut. She should have gone straight to her car and...
As if Molly sensed Crimson’s distress, she frowned. She puckered up and inhaled, clearly prepared to wail.
“Shhh...no, no, we have to let Uncle Grant sleep.” Crimson patted the baby’s back, wondering what on earth to try next.
Clean diaper? Well, she wasn’t an idiot. She’d taken care of that first. She’d also offered a bottle of formula. Kevin had cleverly turned this guest bedroom into a self-contained baby-tending unit, with a small refrigerator on the dresser, and an electric bottle warmer conveniently situated on the end table.
After Molly had eaten, Crimson had patted her back until she burped. Serenading her softly, she’d walked her around the room.
And around. And around.
She’d been pacing a cramped circle through this small space for half an hour now. From the crib, down around the foot of the bed, over to the window, past the armoire and back to the bed. Every time, the minute Molly saw the crib, she started to fret, so Crimson would start the loop all over again.
But still Molly rode her shoulder with her head erect, her body tense, her feet kicking slightly. She was 100 percent wide-awake.
“Hush now, pumpkin. Hush.”
But Molly was clearly not in the mood to be hushed. Jiggling the baby with one arm, Crimson snatched up her long bathrobe with the other and made her way out the door, worming her arm into the sleeve awkwardly.
She still had only one arm in by the time she hit the staircase, and the robe dangled from her shoulder. Gingerly, she made her way down the beautiful Australian cypress treads, being careful not to trip on the untied belt, which dragged beside her like a snake.
The staircase seemed to fascinate Molly, who instantly went silent. She gripped the neck of Crimson’s nightshirt in one fist to steady herself and used her other hand to push upright so she could gaze at the big house with her liquid blue eyes.
She smacked her lips, and then she made a noise that sounded a lot like a kitten purring. Crimson had to chuckle. It was undoubtedly an expression of approval, as if saying that Crimson had been a little slow on the uptake, but she’d finally gotten it right.
“I hear you, girlfriend,” Crimson said, kissing the warm, silky head again as they made it to the bottom of the stairs. “A lady’s gotta have space. A lady’s gotta have a little excitement.”
“I’m not sure I can offer excitement this early in the morning,” Grant said, appearing suddenly from the shadows of the dining room, where it led into the kitchen. “Frankly, it took me half an hour to manage coffee. Want some?”
“Grant!” Crimson frowned. “What on earth are you doing awake?”
He couldn’t have slept more than two hours. If that. They’d decided not to leave Molly with Marianne, who had the restaurant to handle and needed rest. But by the time they’d picked up the baby, and stopped by Crimson’s apartment to grab a toothbrush and a change of clothes, and driven back to Grant’s place, it had been nearly 3:00 a.m.
“Did Molly wake you? I tried to keep her quiet, but—”
“No. I haven’t even been upstairs.” He turned and led the way into the kitchen, talking as he walked. “Too much to do.”
She watched him move away. He was limping more than he had last night. Shifting Molly to her other shoulder, she followed him into the kitchen.
“Tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll take care of it. You need to get off that foot, and you need sleep. You look awful.”
He turned, raising one eyebrow and giving her a small smile. “Gee. Thanks.”
She refused to smile back. He’d been born gorgeous, and he knew it, but she wasn’t kidding. He looked done in. His thick, brown hair fell onto his forehead in unkempt waves. Dark blue shadows sat like bruises below his heavy-lidded eyes. His skin, which ordinarily glowed, bronzed by the hours outside, looked oddly sallow. His full lips seemed to have thinned from pain.
“You look terrible,” she repeated.
“Oh, well.” Tilting his head, he let his gaze quickly scan her from head to toe. He brought his coffee mug up for a quick sip to hide his smile. “Obviously we can’t all be as splendid first thing in the morning as you are.”
Aw, crud. Belatedly, she remembered she hadn’t even run her fingers through her hair when she got up with the baby. Last year, she’d cut her hair in edgy, red-tipped spikes, and growing that stupid style out was an ordeal. If she didn’t slick it down, it stuck out all over like a sick peacock in molting season.
And then there was the sexless gray bathrobe, which still hung over one shoulder, half on, half off, and dragged on the ground behind her.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to find anyone down here,” she said brusquely. It annoyed her to realize she was embarrassed. What did she care how bad she looked? If he’d wanted eye candy, he should have stuck with Ginny, whose magic mascara probably never gave her raccoon eyes if she forgot to take it off.
She felt around behind her, blindly rooting for the other side of the robe so she could at least cover herself up. It was probably obvious she wasn’t wearing anything underneath this ugly cotton nightshirt.
With a small chuckle, Grant set down his coffee cup. Reaching his good hand around to help her, he lifted the terry cloth and guided the opening of the sleeve toward her fingers. When that was on, he tugged the robe up over her shoulders and tucked the edge under the other side, while she held Molly out of the way.
He grabbed the short end of the fuzzy belt and slid it through its loopholes to pull it even.
“You’ll have to tie it, I’m afraid.” He smiled. “I’m already discovering how many things I can’t do with one hand. Making a bow is one of them.”
“Thanks,” she said awkwardly. He was still holding the edge of the sash, and Crimson’s skin prickled with an odd awareness. When he’d brushed her breast, she’d felt it like a burn. She needed to remember not to come down half-dressed ever again. Clearly it made her way too sensitized and silly.
As if he understood, he dropped the sash and instead put his palm over the crown of the baby’s head and softly stroked the carroty hair.
“Hey, cutie,” he said. “You look sleepy, too. How about a nap, so Auntie Red can get a little more shut-eye?”
Molly seemed to love the touch of his big, gentle hand, and she clearly recognized the name “Auntie Red.” Kevin had given it to her when they first started dating.
The baby sank against Crimson’s shoulder with a contented chirp. She nuzzled her collarbone for a second or two, and then she shut her eyes and went instantly limp with sleep.
Grant smiled, and their gazes met over the baby’s head. Crimson shook her head slightly, a mute acknowledgment of the irony. She’d tried for an hour to accomplish what he’d been able to do with one touch.
“It’s a guy thing,” he whispered, but his eyes were teasing.