Judy Duarte - Her Best Christmas Ever

After he’d finished creating a bit more illumination in the room, he turned to find that Connie had pulled the afghan closer, nearly to her chin, as though hiding behind it.

“There isn’t anything to be afraid of,” he said.

“I never have liked to be alone in a storm.”

“Hey.” He chuckled, trying to make light of it. “You’re not alone. You’ve got me.”

For the first time this evening, she smiled. The warmth in her eyes made her appear even prettier than before.

When he’d first been introduced to her, he’d been told her last name was Montoya. He’d assumed she’d had Latino blood, like him. Yet she was fairer than he was.

“You ought to smile more often,” he said. But he didn’t see any reason to tell her why.

“There hasn’t been much to be happy about in the past year or so.”

He waited for her to explain, but she didn’t, and he was torn between letting the subject die and trying to revive it. But without the television or radio to distract him, all he could think about was the pregnant woman sitting next to him.

“Are you unhappy about having a baby?” he finally asked.

She caressed the basketball-size mound of her belly. “The timing certainly could have been better. But it’s not her fault.”

“Her?”

“I’m having a little girl.” Connie smiled again, which gave him a sense of relief. “At least, that’s what Dr. Bramblett said during my ultrasound.”

Gregwasn’t often reminded of thewoman who’d given birth to him. She’d died the day hewas born, and he’d never had the chance to meet her. But his tia, his aunt, had told him howhis mother used to sing to him while he was inside her womb. How determined she’d been to provide him with a happy home and a future.

Eventually, he’d been blessed with the things his mother had wanted for him, but she’d never lived to see it or to be a part of it. And that made him sad—sad for her because she would never know how hard he’d tried to make her proud.

Did Connie think about her baby like that? Did she have hopes and plans for her child’s future? Had the baby become real to her?

Somehow, the answer seemed to matter more than it should.

“What are you going to name your daughter?” he asked.

“I’m leaning toward Amanda. But I suppose I’ll have to see what she looks like. Something else, like Megan or Tricia, might be more fitting.”

That made sense, he supposed.

He had no idea what his mother would have named him, had she lived. His aunt had been the one to choose Gregorio, after the priest who’d delivered him.

Greg and Connie each fell into silence. Lost in their own thoughts, he supposed.

The candles cast a soft glow in the room, and the flames caressed the logs in the hearth. The crackling embers struck up an interesting harmony with the rain pounding on the window panes, creating an aura that would have been romantic if Connie hadn’t been expecting a baby.

“Will you be staying on at the ranch after she’s born?” he asked.

“I plan to. Brighton Valley seems like a good place to raise a family.”

“Maybe,” Greg said. “But I’d get cabin fever if I were stuck in a place like this for very long.”

“With your career, I guess it’s a good thing you like traveling.”

“Yes, I do. I suspect you’re a real homebody, though.”

“More so now than ever.” She tossed him another smile, and it touched a chord deep in his heart. “After the mess I got myself into, I’m looking forward to a quiet, peaceful life.”

“What mess was that?” Greg didn’t usually quiz people, so his knee-jerk curiosity surprised him. But he couldn’t helpwondering about Connie’s past, about what had brought her to the Rocking C.

She stroked her belly. “Let’s just say I didn’t plan on getting pregnant.”

“I take it that you and the father aren’t together anymore.” Greg watched her expression, trying to read into each twitch of the eye, each faint movement of her lips.

“Getting involved with that man was the biggest mistake I ever made,” she admitted.

“Does he know about the baby?”

“No. And he won’t ever know about her if I can help it.”

There was only one conclusion for him to make. “The guy must have been a real jerk.”

She fingered the crocheted edge of the afghan, then looked up at him. “He was mean and jealous whenever he drank. And toward the end, that seemed to be all he ever did.”

Greg had known his share of men like that. And while he thought about quizzing her further, he figured some memories were best left alone.

They made small talk for a while, nothing personal. And as the antique clock on the mantel gonged for the ninth time, Connie yawned.

“You know,” she said, struggling to balance the bulk of her girth as she got to her feet, “I’m winding down faster than that clock. I think I’d better go to bed.”

“All right. Sleep tight.” He watched her go, thinking that she didn’t look the least bit pregnant from behind.

But Connie didn’t get five steps away when she froze in her steps and looked down at the floor, where a puddle of water pooled at her feet.

As her gaze met Greg’s, she seemed to silently ask, “What should I do?”

And he’d be damned if he knew.

Connie stared down at the floor, as though she could blink her eyes and find that she’d only imagined that her water had broken.

But it had; her legs and slacks were wet with the warm fluid.

Of all days and nights for this to happen. She slid a glance at Greg, saw the shock plastered on his face, matching her own.

Fear gripped her throat. This couldn’t be happening. The backache that had been plaguing her all afternoon sharpened to the point of taking her breath way. Then it spread around her waist, slicing deep into her womb.

Greg was at her side in an instant, his arm slipping around her. “Are you okay?”

“I…I don’t know.” She leaned into him, needing his support until the pain subsided.

Was she experiencing her first contraction?

She must be.

Focus, she told herself, as she quickly tried to sort through the instructions her doctor had given her, as well as the information she’d gleaned from the book she’d read on what to expect during pregnancy and childbirth.

Finally, the pain eased completely, and she slowly straightened. “I’ve got to call Dr. Bramblett. She’ll know what to do.”

“Good idea.” Greg handed her his cell phone.

“And I guess I’d better clean up this mess,” she said.

“I’ll take care of that. You just call the doctor and sit down. If that happens again, you might collapse and hurt something.”

“I…” She nodded at the amniotic fluid on the floor. “Maybe you’d better get me something to sit on. I don’t want to ruin any of your mother’s chairs.”

She could have sworn she heard him swear under his breath as he dashed off to get what she’d requested.

When he left the room, she dialed the doctor’s number from memory. But instead of one of the familiar, friendly voices she expected to hear, a woman who worked for the answering service took the call.

“Dr. Bramblett is out of town,” the woman reported. “But Doc Graham is covering for her.”

That meant the older man would deliver her baby, and in a sense she was almost relieved. Doc Graham might be past retirement age, but he’d gained a tremendous amount of experience during his fifty-year practice.

When Doc’s voice finally sounded over the line, she said, “This is Connie Montoya, and my water just broke.”

“Where are you?” he asked. “Are you at the Rocking C?”