Not Quite Married

“There’s no ‘probably’ involved here. You’re not going in tomorrow.”

“We’ll find out about that tomorrow. The decision will be made between me and my doctor.”

“You passed out, Clara. You’ve let yourself get dehydrated.” He cast a baleful look at the bag of clear fluid hanging next to the bed and still connected to the back of her hand. “You need rest. And I’m going to see that you get what you need.”

“Tell me, Dalton. Just when did you become the boss of me?”

He didn’t even have the grace to take a little time to think about it, but shot right back with “This morning. You remember this morning, when you fainted in my arms? That was when I realized that someone has to take care of you or you’re just going to keep on pushing yourself until you do real damage to yourself or the baby.”

Was there even a smidge of truth in any of that? Well, okay. Maybe a little. A very, very little.

And what did he mean, take care of her? He made it sound as if she had become some ongoing project. Surely he wouldn’t be hanging around for that long. He would have to go home to Denver and his banking empire at some point—like in the next hour or two.

Wouldn’t he?

He was glaring at her. She glared right back at him and said with admirable composure, “Here’s a hint. Your attitude needs some serious adjusting, because as of now, I’m not finding being around you the least bit restful.”

He actually blinked. And then he allowed gruffly, “You’re right. I’m upsetting you. I apologize. Will you please put the phone away and settle down?”

The thing was, he looked so sincere in his pompous sort of way. And even if she didn’t want to let herself start to depend on him, she couldn’t help appreciating that he was doing everything he could to look after her.

It was way too little too late. But that was almost as much her fault as his. She’d jumped to conclusions and thought he was married. He’d hired a detective and found out she was getting married. And neither of them had bothered to clear up the misunderstandings until months and months had passed.

Now he’d started to look worried. “I do apologize,” he said again. “I mean that.”

She gave in and muttered, “Apology accepted.” And then put up her forefinger. “One more call. And then I’ll lie back and relax. Promise.”

He shook his head, looking all stuffy and put-upon—but then he shrugged.

She went with the shrug and autodialed Rory, told her about fainting at the café and being stuck in the hospital for observation overnight. After Rory finished saying all the right things about how she was there if Clara needed her and please to take it easy, Clara told her about the really hideously ugly hospital gown she was wearing.

Rory knew right away what she wanted. “I’ll go by the house, get whatever you need and bring it right over there.” Rory had a key to the house, just as Clara had a key to Rory and Walker’s place at the ranch. “You’re at General, right?”

“I’m at General, yes. And here we have yet another reason why you’re my favorite cousin in the whole world. You know what I want without my even having to tell you.”

“Back at you. Let me get a pencil...”

Clara told Rory what to get and Rory wrote it down.

And then Rory said, “I’ll be there. An hour, max.”

They said goodbye. Clara set the phone on the rolling hospital bed table thingy and felt better about everything.

Dalton was watching her, wearing a softer expression than usual, an expression that reminded her of the Dalton she’d known on the island. Which made her feel somehow a little less good about things. Where had that Dalton gone?

He asked, “Was that the cousin who’s a princess, the one who’d planned to live in Colorado someday?”

Had she told him about Rory? “Yes, and now she does live here in Colorado—and how did you know that?”

“You told me on the island.”

“I did? But we didn’t talk about our real lives...” Sadness wrapped around her heart—a glowing kind of sadness. It had been a beautiful two weeks.

A smile twitched at one corner of his way-too-sexy mouth. “We had an agreement not to talk about our real lives, but you didn’t keep it.”

“No,” she admitted. “I guess I didn’t.”

“You were careful about the basics. You never mentioned Justice Creek or that you own a café. But you talked about your family and your friends. All those random things you told me made it a lot easier for that private investigator I hired to find you.”

“You were more careful than I was.” At his nod, she went on. “I had your name, that you lived in Denver and that you were divorced. Luckily, you’re a big shot, so it wasn’t that hard to find you myself once I put my mind to it.”

“To find me and then decide I was remarried and not bother to get in touch with me until three weeks ago.”

“The important thing is, I did get in touch with you.”

“Finally.”

She looked at him dead-on. “Do you really want to go there right now, while I’m resting?”

Those blue eyes were on her, so focused, so determined. “No. You’re right. I don’t.”

She shoved at her ponytail, which had sagged rather sadly and would be coming completely undone any minute now. “May I have my purse, please?” He got right up and brought it to her. “Thank you.” He sat down again. She foraged around in the central compartment until she found her brush. And then she redid the ponytail, brushing it up and into her fist, then twisting the elastic back into place. “There. Much better.”

He got up again and put the purse back in the locker. He was just shutting the metal door when the baby kicked her a good one.

“Ouch!”

He turned, fast, looking freaked. “Clara! What?”

She laughed and rubbed the spot. “It’s just the baby. She’s a kicker.”

He came to her side. “She?”

She started to grab his hand and put it where he’d feel the next one—and then hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, a little embarrassed.

Which was silly. She’d let complete strangers touch her tummy. Yeah, okay, the guy had done a number on her heart. But he was the father. And he was trying. She nodded, pushed the covers out of the way, took his hand and put it on the side swell of her stomach. The baby promptly kicked her again. She winced. “There. Feel it?”

“I do.” He had that look, a look of wonder, of awe. It made her almost start to love him a little again, in spite of everything—scratch that. Like. It made her like him a little. Those blue eyes were shining. “By God, I feel it. I do.”

She laughed again and held his hand as he pressed his big, warm palm to the side of her belly. Another kick. She chuckled. And Dalton made a low, marveling sound. His hand felt so strong, long fingers spread, against the side of her belly.

And then her gaze went to his. They just stared at each other. With zero animosity. Only shared delight.

He asked, “A girl, you said?”

“Yes. I had an ultrasound.”

“A girl,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard anything more miraculous in his life. “I never thought...”