Christine Rimmer - The M.D. She Had To Marry

Lacey wanted to touch him. The slight brushing of their fingers a moment before had whetted her appetite for the feel of him. Oh, to simply reach out and run her fingers through that shining dark hair, to trace his brows, to learn again the shape of his mouth.

Tenderness welled in her. He had traveled such a long way, and he wasn’t going to get what he came for—what he would say he wanted.

He said it then, as if he had plucked the words right out of her mind. “We have to do the right thing now.”

She clasped her hands beneath the hard swell of her belly. “Your idea of the right thing and mine are not the same, Logan.”

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Auralee Smith,

my mom, who’s already had

one or two dedicated to her.

But such a terrific mom should get

grateful dedications on a regular basis.

I love you, Mom.

Here’s to you…again.

came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been an actress, a sales clerk, a janitor, a model, a phone sales representative, a teacher, a waitress, a playwright and an office manager. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Those who know her best withhold comment when she makes such claims; they are grateful that she’s at last found steady work. Christine is grateful, too—not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oklahoma.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

On a sunny afternoon at the end of June, Lacey Bravo returned to the old homesteader’s cabin behind the horse pasture at the Rising Sun Ranch to find Dr. Logan Severance waiting for her.

She had known he would come. Still, the sight of him, there in the shade of the rough-shingled overhang that served as the cabin’s front porch, sent her pulse racing. Her palms on the steering wheel went clammy with sweat. She felt pulled in two directions at once. Her foolish heart urged her to rush into his arms. And something else, some contrary creature inside her, wanted only to spin her new SUV around and speed away, leaving nothing but a high trail of Wyoming dust in her wake.

Neither action was really an option. Throwing herself into his arms would only embarrass them both. And as for running, well, Lacey had done plenty of that before she was even out of her teens. Eventually, she’d given it up. It never solved anything.

With a weary sigh, Lacey pushed the door open and maneuvered herself out from behind the wheel and down to the ground. She shut the door. Then, with as much dignity as she could muster, given that lately she tended to waddle like a duck, she plodded to the rear of the vehicle to get the two bags of groceries she had picked up in town.

She barely got the back door up before Logan was at her side. “I’ll take those for you.”

Her initial reaction was to object, to lift her chin high and announce haughtily, “I can carry my own groceries, thank you.”

But she stifled the impulse. There would be dissension enough between them. There always had been. And now, with the baby coming, the opportunities for argument would no doubt be endless. Better to keep her mouth shut whenever possible.

His dark gaze swept over her. She wore a tent-like denim jumper, a pink T-shirt and blue canvas ballerina flats.

Ballerina. Hah. An image from an old Disney movie, of a hippo in ballet shoes and a tutu, flitted through her mind.

No, she was not at her best. And he looked great. Terrific. Fit and tanned, in khaki pants and a cream-colored polo shirt. He looked like a model on the cover of a Brooks Brothers catalog—and she looked like someone who’d eaten a beach ball for lunch. She knew she shouldn’t let that bother her. But it did.

“Hasn’t your doctor told you that at this point in your pregnancy, you shouldn’t be driving?”

She gritted her teeth and granted him the tiniest of shrugs.

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

Lacey exerted superhuman effort and did not roll her eyes. “Yes, Doctor. That is a ‘yes’.”

He made a low, exasperated sound. “Then what are you doing behind the wheel of a car?”

“I treasure my independence.”

The words may have sounded flippant, but Lacey did mean them. Doc Pruitt, who ran the clinic in the small nearby town of Medicine Creek, had been nagging her to avoid driving. And Tess, her cousin’s wife, who lived in the main ranch house not a half a mile away, would have been glad to take Lacey wherever she needed to go. But to Lacey, a car—and the possession of the keys to it—meant self-determination. Never would she willingly give that up.

Except, perhaps, for the love of this man.

But not to worry. Her independence was safe. Logan’s heart was otherwise engaged.

“Lacey,” he said, in the thoroughly superior tone that had always made her want to throw something at him. “There are times in life when independence has to take a back seat to necessity. It’s not good for you, or the baby, for you to—”

“Logan, can we at least get inside before you start telling me everything I’m doing wrong?”

He blinked. Maybe it actually occurred to him that he’d started criticizing her before he’d even bothered to say hello. Whatever. Without another word, he scooped her grocery bags into his big arms and turned toward the cabin. Lacey was left to shut the rear door and trudge along in his wake, across the bare dirt yard, past the dusty midnight-blue luxury car he had driven there and up the two rickety steps to the cabin’s front entrance. On the porch, he stood aside for her to open the door. Then she moved out of his way to let him go first.

They entered the main living area, which was small and dark and simply furnished. Lacey loved the cabin—had loved it on sight. Though the light was never good enough to paint by, the rough plank walls pleased her artist’s eye. And the layers of shadow were interesting, dark and intense in the corners, fading out to a pleasant dimness in the center of the room. Beyond the main room, there was a small sleeping nook in the northeast corner and a bathroom in a lean-to outside the back door.

Logan didn’t seem to share her admiration for her rustic surroundings. His dismissing glance flicked over the stained sink, the old iron daybed bolstered to double as a sofa, and the faded curtain that served as a door to the sleeping nook.

He dipped his head at the grocery bags. “Where do you want these?”

Lacey moved to clear a space on the old pine table, shifting a stack of books, a sketch pad, a box of pastels and some pencils to one of the four ladderback chairs. “Right here.” She pulled the chain on the bulb suspended over the table. The resulting wash of light was harsh, but functional.