The Rancher's Miracle Baby. April Arrington
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twister. He’d just released the horses from their stalls when the woman had driven up. The stable walls were sturdy but no match for the violent storm the weather forecasters had warned against. He’d hoped the horses would have a better chance of surviving if they were free to run. But he had no idea if it’d been the right decision. Was no longer even sure if he would survive the massive twister.
“Hurry.”
It was a breathless sound, almost stolen by the wind. The door jerked in his grasp as the woman leaned farther outside, pulling hard on the edge of it.
A high-pitched screech filled the air, and a piece of metal slammed into one of the columns lining the front porch. Adrenaline spiked in his veins, pounding through his blood and burning his muscles. He renewed his grip on the door, and they yanked together, succeeding in wrenching the door closed as they staggered inside.
“This way.” Alex grabbed her elbow and darted through the living room, pulling her past the kitchen and down a narrow hallway in the center of the house.
A wry scoff escaped him. His first guest in nine years—other than the Kents living across the road—and he was manhandling her to the floor.
She dropped to her knees, and Alex covered her, tucking her bent form tight to his middle and cupping his hands over the top of her head. They pressed closer to the wall as the violent sounds increased in intensity, filling the dark stillness enfolding them. It was impossible to see anything. But the sounds...
God help him—the sounds.
Glass shattered, objects thudded and the savage roar of the wind obliterated the silence. The house groaned, and the air hissed and whistled in all directions.
Alex’s muscles locked, the skin on the back of his neck and forearms prickling. His blood froze into blocks of ice, and his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would shatter.
The damned thing sounded as though it was ripping the house apart. Would rip them apart.
Bursts of panicked laughter moved through his chest. This was not how he’d planned to spend his Sunday evening. He’d expected a long day of work on his ranch, a whiskey and an evening spent alone. That was the way it’d been for nine years, since the day his ex-wife left. The way he wanted it. He preferred solitude and predictability.
But there was nothing as unpredictable as the weather. Except for a woman.
“It’ll pass.” The woman’s strained words reached his ears briefly, then faded beneath the ferocious sounds passing overhead. “It’ll pass.”
Hell if he knew what it was. For some reason, he got the impression she wasn’t even speaking to him. That she was simply voicing her thoughts out loud. But something in her tone and the warm, solid feel of her beneath him, breathing and surviving, made the violent shudders racking his body stop. It melted the blocks of ice in his veins, relieving the chill on his skin.
He curled closer, ducked down amid the thundering clang of debris around them and pressed his cheek to the top of the woman’s head. Her damp hair clung to the stubble on his jaw, and the musty smell of rain filled his nostrils. Each of her rapid breaths lifted her back tighter against his chest, and the sticky heat of blood from the wound on her temple clung to the pads of his fingers.
“Yeah,” he said, his lips brushing her ear as he did his best to shelter her. “It’ll pass.”
Gradually, the pounding onslaught of debris against the house ceased. The violent winds eased to a swift rush, and the deafening roar faded into the distance. Light trickled down the hallway, and the air around them stilled. The worst of it couldn’t have lasted more than forty seconds. But it had felt like an eternity.
“Is it over?”
Alex blinked hard against the dust lingering in the air and lifted his head, focusing on the weak light emanating from the other room. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat and sat upright, untangling his fingers from the long, wet strands of her hair. “I think so.”
She slipped from beneath him, slumped back against the wall and released a heavy breath. “Thank you.”
Her green eyes, bright and beautiful, traveled slowly over his face. His skin warmed beneath her scrutiny, his attention straying to the way her soaked T-shirt and jeans clung to her lush curves and long legs.
He shifted uncomfortably and redirected his thoughts to her age. She looked young. Very young. If he had to guess, he’d say midtwenties...if that. But he’d never been good at pinning someone’s age. Just like no one had ever been good at guessing his.
The dash of premature gray he’d inherited made him look older than his thirty-five years. And, hell, to be honest, he felt as old as he probably looked nowadays.
She smiled slightly. “That’s pitiful, isn’t it?” She shook her head, her low laugh humorless. “A cheap, two-word phrase in exchange for saving my life.”
A thin stream of blood flowed from her temple over her flushed cheek, then settled in the corner of her mouth. The tip of her tongue peeked out to touch it, and she frowned.
“Here.” Alex tugged a rag from his back pocket and reached for the wound on her head. “It’s—”
Her hand shot out and clamped tight around his wrist, halting his movements. “What’re you doing?”
He stilled, then lowered his free hand slowly to the floor. Damn, she was strong. Stronger than he’d initially thought. Even though his wrist was too thick for her fingers to wrap around, she maintained control over it. And the panic in her eyes was more than just residual effects from the tornado.
“You’re cut.” He nodded toward her wound, softening his tone and waiting beneath her hard stare. “You can use this to stop the bleeding.”
Her hold on his wrist eased, and her face flooded with color. “Th-thank you.”
She took the rag from him and pressed it to her head, wincing at the initial contact, then drew her knees tightly to her chest. He studied her for a moment and touched his other palm to the floor, noting the way she kept eyeing his hands.
“I’m sorry that rag’s not clean,” he said. “I get pretty sweaty outside during the day.” He remained still. “I’m Alex. Alex Weston.”
“Tammy Jenkins.” She held the rag up briefly. “And thank you again. For everything.”
“You’ve thanked me enough.” Cringing at the gruff sound of his voice, he stood slowly and stepped back, his boots crunching over shards of glass. “We better get outside. I need to check the damage to the house before I can be sure it’s safe to be in here.”
“The house across the road,” she said softly, peering up at him. “Did someone live there?”
“Did someone live...” His heart stalled. Dean Kent, his best friend and business partner, lived there. Along with his wife, Gloria, and their eleven-month-old son. “Why? What’d you see?”
“I think it hit that house, too,” she said, dodging his eyes and shoving to her feet. “I can’t be sure how bad, but it looked like...”
Her voice faded as his boots pounded across the floor, over the porch and down the front steps. The heavy humidity clogged his nose and mouth, making it difficult to breathe, and the frantic sprint made his lungs ache. He jumped over several small piles of debris, registering wood planks, buckets and tree limbs.
He stopped at a twisted pile of metal and absorbed the damage around him. Trees were down everywhere. Some were split in half, the remaining jagged halves stabbing into the air. His stable was in shambles, but, thankfully, the main house seemed somewhat sturdy.
It appeared as though the twister had only sideswiped his house. But Tammy’s tone had suggested Dean’s house had been hit head-on.
Alex darted toward his truck, but the massive tree lying over the tailgate would take time to move. Precious time he didn’t have.