Hawk's Way: Carter & Falcon: The Cowboy Takes A Wife

Carter sighed.

Desiree could see that he wanted to say no. He sought out her eyes, his lips pursed in displeasure. She decided to rescue him from her daughter’s clutches.

“It’s nearly bedtime, sweetheart. You’ll have to wait to show Mr. Prescott your room until some other time.” It was all she could do to keep her own displeasure at the cowboy’s surliness out of her voice.

“Are you going to be my daddy?”

“Nicole!”

Desiree was mortified at the question because she had, in fact, proposed to the man sitting across from her, and because she hadn’t realized Nicole was even aware that she was seeking a husband. The little girl’s next words made it clear that she had thought of the idea all on her own.

“My friend Shirley has a daddy, but I don’t. I asked Santa Claus for a daddy, but so far I haven’t got one. Are you the daddy I asked for?”

“No,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Oh. Well, it’s not Christmas yet,” Nicole said cheerfully. “Maybe Santa Claus will bring me a daddy.”

Desiree was chagrined at her daughter’s outspokenness. However, if she had anything to say about it, Nicole would get her wish, although Carter’s attitude toward Nicole was a matter that needed further exploration before their discussion of marriage continued.

Carter was pleased when they reached the Rimrock ranch house to discover it was just as he remembered it. The two-story frame structure had been built to last by people who cared. Someone had planted pines and spruce around the house, and with the drifting snow it was a scene worthy of a picture postcard.

“Follow the road around to the back,” Desiree said.

Carter didn’t volunteer to carry Nicole from the truck, and Desiree didn’t ask. But halfway to the door, and though it made his stomach clench, he took the little girl in his arms to relieve Desiree of a burden that was obviously too heavy for her.

To his surprise, when he reached for the doorknob, he discovered that Desiree had locked the back door. Most ranches, even in this day and age, were left open, a vestige of range hospitality from a time when homesteads had been few and far between.

“Afraid of the bogeyman?” he asked with a wry grin.

Desiree didn’t smile back. “I have to think of Nicole’s safety.” She stepped inside, turned on the light and held the door for him.

Carter immediately set the little girl down. His heart thudded painfully as he watched her race gleefully across the room, headed for the hall. She turned on the light and kept going. Carter could hear her running up the stairs.

“Make yourself comfortable while I put her to bed,” Desiree said, following Nicole down the hallway that led to the rest of the house. “We’ll talk as soon as I get her down. There’s coffee on the stove or brandy in the living room. Help yourself.” Then she was gone.

Carter hadn’t been in the house before, but he knew the moment he crossed the threshold that this was a home. A band tightened around his chest, making it hard to breathe. This was what he had been seeking. There was warmth and comfort here, not only for the body, but also for the soul.

The kitchen was cluttered, but clean. There were crayon drawings taped to the refrigerator, and a crock full of wooden spoons and a stack of cookbooks sat on an oak chest in the corner. The red-and-white linoleum floor was worn down to black in front of the sink, and the wooden round-leg table and ladderback chairs were scarred antiques. An old-fashioned tin coffeepot sat on the stove. Carter decided he would rather have the brandy.

He followed where Desiree had gone, down a hallway, past a formal dining room, to a combination office and parlor, where a stone fireplace took up one wall and a large rolltop desk took up most of another. A picture window took up the third wall. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and Carter took the poker and stirred the ashes before adding another log.

A spruce Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated with handmade ornaments. Above the fireplace, a set of longhorn steer horns a good six feet from tip to tip had been mounted.

Carter looked longingly at an old sofa and chairs that invited him to sit down. He heard a whoosh from the vents as the furnace engaged. As he surveyed the room, he realized that the aged quality he had admired so much in the furniture was as much the result of poverty as posterity. Certainly there were heirlooms here. But there was a shabbiness to the furnishings that could only be the result of limited funds.

Carter felt sick to his stomach. Maybe Desiree Parrish knew more about him than he had thought. Maybe she had come after him because she knew he had the money to restore this ranch to its former glory. He had been married once for his money. It wasn’t an experience he intended to repeat.

He spied the wet bar where he found the brandy and glasses. “Would you like me to pour one for you?” he called up the stairs.

“Please. I’ll join you in a moment,” Desiree called down to him.

Desiree took a deep breath and let it out. She had another chance to persuade Carter Prescott that he should marry her. She had to do everything in her power to convince him that she—and the Rimrock—were a bargain he couldn’t refuse.

She leaned over and kissed Nicole good night. “Sleep tight, sweetheart.” She left a small night-light burning. Not for Nicole. It was Desiree who feared the dark. She had made it a habit to leave a light so she could check on her daughter without the rush of terror that always caught her unaware when she entered a dark room.

Desiree closed her daughter’s bedroom door behind her and hurried across the hall to her own room. She slipped out of her coat, which she hadn’t even realized she was still wearing. But she had turned the heat down before she’d left for church to conserve energy, and it took time for the furnace to take the frost out of the air.

She crossed to the old oak dresser with the gold-framed mirror above it and checked her appearance. This was a heaven-sent second opportunity, and she wanted to look her best. It had become a habit to sit at an angle before the dresser, so only the good side of her face was reflected back to her. She forced herself to face forward, to see what Carter Prescott would see.

There was no way to disguise the scar. It was a white slash that ran from chin to temple on her right side. Plastic surgery would have corrected it, but she didn’t have the money for what would be purely cosmetic work. She put another layer of mascara on her lashes and freshened her lipstick. And she let her hair down. It was the one vanity she had left. It spread like rich brown silk across her shoulders and down to her waist.

She smoothed her black knit dress across a body that was curved in all the right places, but which she knew had brought her husband no pleasure. Desiree forced her thoughts away from the sadness that threatened to overwhelm her whenever she looked at herself in a mirror. She had to focus on the future, not the past. This was her last chance to make a good impression on Carter Prescott. She couldn’t afford to waste it.

But it took all her courage to open the bedroom door and walk down the stairs.

Carter controlled the impulse to gasp as Desiree entered the parlor. It was the first time he had seen her when she wasn’t shrouded in that moth-eaten coat. She moved with grace, her body slim and supple. Her dress hugged her body, revealing curves that most women would have died for. His groin tightened with desire.

He thought maybe his hands could almost span her waist. There wasn’t much bosom, but more than a handful was a waste. His blood quickened at the thought that if she were his wife, he would have the right to hold her, to touch her, to seek out the secrets of her body and make them his.

He wasn’t aware he was avoiding her face until he finally looked at it. His eyes dropped immediately to the brandy in his hands. He forced himself to look again, but focused on her eyes. They were a rich, warm brown, with long lashes and finely arched brows. It was clear she had once been a very beautiful woman. Once, but no more. The scar ran through her mouth on one side, twisting it down slightly.

“Did you pour a brandy for me?” she asked.

Carter realized he was staring and flushed. He welcomed the excuse to turn away, and shook his head slightly, aware he ought to do a better job of hiding his feelings. She had to look at that scar every day. The least he could do was face her without showing the pity he felt. He turned back to her with the drink in his hand and realized she had turned herself in profile, so he only saw the good side of her face. Desire stabbed him again.

He wondered if she had done it on purpose or whether it was an unconscious device she used to protect herself when she was with other people. At any rate, he was grateful for the respite that allowed him to speak to her without having to guard his expression.

Desiree took the drink from him. “Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable?” She gestured to a chair near the fire and sat down across from him on the sofa so he saw only her good side. “I never gave you a chance earlier this evening to respond to my proposal.”

“I was glad for the time to think about what you had to say.” Carter took a sip of his brandy.

“And?” Desiree held her breath, determined to wait for his answer. Her nerves got the better of her. She couldn’t help making one last pitch. “You can see the house is comfortable.” She forced a smile. “And I’m a good cook.”

“Tell me again why you want to get married,” he said in a quiet voice.

Desiree debated the wisdom of telling Carter the real reason she needed a husband. She had always believed honesty was the best policy. When she opened her mouth to speak, what came out was, “I’ve been on my own for six years. Nicole needs a father. I…the winters are long when you’re alone. And I could use a partner to help me do the heavy work on the ranch.

“As you’ve seen for yourself, my face makes it impossible for me to attract a husband in the conventional way. I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

“Why me?”

“Your grandmother speaks highly of you.” She smiled. “And I haven’t forgotten how you saved Boots.”

“Boots?”

“My cat.”

He rubbed his thigh and grimaced. “Right.”