The Cowboy, The Baby And The Bride-To-Be

She stopped the car and checked Nicky. He was still sleeping soundly, his cheeks, thankfully, felt cooler to her now.

She looked down at the buildings below her. It wasn’t much, really. A small square of a house, a barn that looked newer and more distinguished than the house, and a few scattered outbuildings.

A cloud of dust drew her eyes beyond the outbuildings to a corral. She shielded her eyes against the sun.

“Oh, my,” she whispered.

A man stood dead center in that corral, while a beautiful black horse galloped around him, kicking and bucking.

Even from a distance she could see he was the quintessential cowboy. Whipcord lean in his dust-covered jeans, denim shirt, a big-brimmed white cowboy hat shading him from the sun. She liked the way he was standing, loose-limbed and calm in the middle of all that ruckus, radiating an easy strength.

And then he took off the hat and wiped a careless sleeve over a sweating brow.

Even from a distance his features seemed even and clean, pleasing to the eye.

Her heart somersaulted, and again she used an expression she had never used until today.

“Love at first sight.”

She blushed at her own silliness.

The man was a stranger, glimpsed from a distance. He did make a decidedly romantic figure, but obviously Montana had had a strange effect on her senses—heightened and honed them to a dangerous sharpness.

If she had an ounce of sense, she would get back in her car and go down the road the way she’d come.

But then if she had an ounce of sense, as Barry and her mother had already told her, she wouldn’t be here in the first place.

She’d made a commitment to deliver Nicky to his uncle, and she would carry it through until the end.

She got back in her car and pointed it right toward those buildings.

The dust behind the car must have told him she was coming. As she pulled up to the house, he was in the yard, if not waiting for her, at least done working the horse for a moment.

He was sitting on the edge of a water barrel in front of his house, one foot anchoring him on the ground, a dipper in his hand. His hat was on the stoop beside him. His hair was thick, the rich color of melted chocolate. He took a slow swallow of water, watching her over the edge of the dipper.

When she drew to a halt, he saluted her mildly, hung the dipper from a nail on the wall, retrieved his hat and, tugging it down over his brow, stood and came toward the car.

For a minute she was absolutely frozen where she was.

He had the lean grace of a cowboy as he moved toward her, one-hundred-percent man.

Not that Barry wasn’t one-hundred-percent man, but it was a different kind of percentage.

He was smiling, a warm smile that showed beautiful teeth and crinkles around his eyes.

Eyes a color she had seen only once before. Last night Just before the sun had gone down, the sky had turned the most incredible shade of blue. Indigo, really.

And he was smiling at her, hypnotizing her with incredible indigo eyes.

She stumbled out of the car.

“Ma’am,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.

She commanded herself to look way up at him, break the spell of those eyes, but she absolutely couldn’t. He was stunning.

She was suddenly aware how rumpled she must look after two days on the road. She wished she’d thought to comb her hair when she’d paused up there on the knoll—applied a little lipstick. And mascara. Eye shadow. Hair dye.

Anything so that it wasn’t plain-Jane Shayla Morrison standing there with the most spectacular man she had ever seen.

“Are you lost?” he asked, his eyes flicking from her to the car, resting for a moment, warmly, on the little bundle snoozing in the back seat.

She was lost all right, and she’d better pull out before she went any farther into the depths of those astounding eyes.

“I’ve brought you your nephew,” she blurted out.

Even before she registered the surprise in his features it occurred to her something was wrong. He should have been expecting her.

“His mother said you would be expecting me.” Her voice trembled. She’d come so far. How on earth could this be happening? She suddenly felt exhausted and confused.

Her mother and Barry had been right. What a harebrained thing to do. Now what was she going to do?

“You must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, ma’am. It’s easy enough to do in this country. I don’t have a nephew. One niece.”

His voice was slow and easy, deep and wonderful. How could he say a word as proper as ma‘am and make her feel as if he’d said something deliciously indecent? How could he say something that made her feel deliciously indecent and reassured at the same time?

He didn’t have a nephew, but it was just a wrong turn.

“Wrong turn,” she stammered. “Of course, you must be right. I must have—” she thought of the big sign over the front gate “—I must have found the wrong MacLeod. Is there another one?” She felt flustered as the amusement leaped in his eyes.

“Lots of MacLeods in this country. Which one are you looking for?”

Nicky suddenly let loose a holler from the backseat, like a cat with its toenail caught in the screen door.

“Turner,” she said, pivoting from him, bending into the car to release the belt on the car seat. “I’m looking for Turner MacLeod.”

She looked back. His jaw had dropped. It was a strong jaw, deeply shadowed.

“Well, that would be me, ma‘am, but I don’t—”

Nicky exploded from his seat and pushed by her. He ran straight for the big lean man who was eyeing them now with horrified fascination.

Nicky grabbed Turner MacLeod’s blue jeans in a tight chubby fist. His head dropped. He threw up on the man’s boots.

Shayla closed her eyes in mortification. Thousands of miles of open prairie, and Nicky had chosen the man’s boot? Barry would have been furious.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

Nicky was shrieking, still holding that leg.