Dixie Browning - Look What The Stork Brought In?

He had a hunch about this one, though. A strong feeling that he was finally closing in.

Then again, the feeling could be just the result of too many chili dogs. As for his headache, that was a result of too many hours behind the wheel. His knee was killing him—also the result of driving too long without a break.

On the other hand, it was usually at a time like this, when he was scraping the bottom of the barrel, that his luck suddenly took a turn for the better. Hell, he’d been flat on his back in a hospital bed when he’d thought of the one thing they’d overlooked in the Drayton case. Once he was back on his feet again, he’d been able to wrap things up. All three brothers were indicted and behind bars, and he’d earned himself another commendation to go with his early retirement papers.

Joe yawned again, then pulled onto the highway and turned right on the graveled state road. A mile or so farther, he turned off onto a rutted, weed-cluttered driveway. The house looked like a few million other old farmhouses. Four rooms up, four down, with a one-story shoot off the back. This one had flowers. Vine-covered trellises at each end of the porch and blooming beds underneath the windows. Crook or not, the lady had a way with plants.

He pulled up in front, set the parking brake and eased himself out of the cab, moving stiffly until he worked out a few kinks. Before he even reached the front door he had a feeling the house was empty, but he knocked anyway, because it was the polite thing to do.

Knocked twice and waited. And then his instincts kicked in. It was called situation awareness, and his was usually right on target when it came to sensing if a house was really empty or if somebody was in there hiding, ready to blow his head off.

This one was empty. He’d bet his best boots on it. Quietly he eased down off the porch and headed around back. With or without a badge, he wasn’t into breaking and entering, but if the back door just happened to be open...

And then he saw her and stopped dead in his tracks, staring over the chicken-wire fence. His first thought was that she was big. His second, that she was a genuine blond. No dark roots. His third, that she was in trouble, which was an indication of just how tired he was. Normally in a situation like this, he’d have taken her vitals by now, and might even be administering mouth-to-mouth.

She was lying flat on the ground—or as flat as possible under the circumstances—in some kind of a garden. Rows of growing stuff, mostly vegetables. Her knees were bent, there was a big floppy hat with a sunflower on the brim resting on one of them, and a pile of weeds beside her left elbow. Her face looked flushed to him, like she was either feverish or she’d been out in the sun too long.

Heatstroke? Possibly. The temperature was hovering around the century mark, with the humidity not far behind.

Her eyes were closed. Both her hands were resting on top of a belly so big it hiked her skirt halfway up her thighs.

As for the thighs, they were long, firm and tanned. Just for the record.

Long years of training kicked in before he could actually start drooling. Moving swiftly to her side, he let himself inside the fence, mentally skimming files of all the things that could go wrong with a woman who looked to be about twelve months pregnant. He was halfway down on his good knee, reaching for her pulse when she opened her eyes and smiled up at him.

It was the smile that froze him in a muscle-killing crouch. It was slow, sleepy and nowhere near as wary as it should have been, under the circumstances. “Do I know you?” she murmured.

“Are you all right?” He settled on his knees, ignoring the stiffness and the hard, rocky ground. The Ch’ien Lung vase had waited this long—it could wait a few minutes more.

“I’m not real sure.” Her voice was like her smile, sort of slow and sleepy. And sweet.

“You’re, ah...lying down?” In other words, why the devil are you lying down in the middle of the yard, in the middle of the morning?

“My back hurt. I was weeding, but it’s so hot. Who are you? If you’re selling something, I’m afraid I can’t buy. If you’ve come about my car, the garage already called. I’ll pick it up Monday, if that’s all right.”

“I’m not selling, and I don’t know anything about your car. If you’re Ms. Sophie Bayard, I’d like to—”

“Help me up, will you? I’m clumsy as an ox these days but if you can get me on my feet, I’ll go inside and pour us some iced tea. Lawsy, it’s hot, isn’t it? What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s Joe Dana. Ma’am, I’d like to—”

She grabbed the sunflower hat with one hand and held the other one up for him to take. Both hands were dirty. And ringless. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything. “Don’t hurt yourself, I weigh a ton,” she warned.

She was a big girl, all right. Big boned. He figured her for about five foot eight, a hundred-fifty, maybe one fifty-five, at the moment. She was carrying a lot of excess cargo. That denim tent she was wearing looked about ready to give up the ghost.

Joe glanced at the prominent breasts resting on her even more prominent belly and quickly looked away. Funny thing, he’d never before noticed just how female a pregnant woman looked.

He got her up off the ground with only a few minor twinges in his bad knee. Her skin had a nice smell. She was hot, dusty, and she’d been working in onions, but underneath all that she had a nice, soapy, womanly, herbal smell. Joe was a noticing man. Too many times his life had depended on just such subtle details.

For one brief moment she leaned against him, and he let himself be leaned on, but then he steadied her and stepped back. It didn’t pay to get too friendly with the enemy. It only got in the way of what he had to do, which no longer seemed as simple as it had back when he’d first picked up the lead.

“All right now? Not dizzy or anything, are you?”

“No, I’m just fine except for my back. It—” She reached back and rubbed down low, and then a startled look came over her face. Joe was watching her closely for any sign of—well, for any sign of anything. Guilt. Shame. Fear. She sure as hell wasn’t going to try to run from him, not in her condition.

His eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

“Warm. Wet. Oh, my mercy, something’s happened.” Her eyes got as round as marbles, and Joe noticed their color for the first time. They were gray with a hint of green. Like Spanish moss after a rain.

“You got a cramp? Where? Your leg? Your back?” Not your belly. Please, lady, not your belly. Don’t go into labor on me now...this I don’t need!

“I’ve wet my pants, and oh—! It’s still happening!”

He uttered a profanity under his breath. “Your water just broke. When are you due?”

“My water?”

“Yeah, your water. Don’t you know anything?”

“If you mean about having babies, I’ve never actually had one before, but I went to a few classes at the Y. And I’ve read all this stuff—you know, about what to expect and all, but—oh, lawsy, this is so embarrassing!”

“Tell me about it,” Joe muttered, and calmly went into action. “First thing we’re going to do is we’re going to get you inside.”

She moaned. He didn’t think she was actually hurting, just scared, but then, he’d never had a baby. How would he know?

“You can walk, can’t you? I can carry you if you think you’ll have trouble with the steps, but walking’s supposed to be good for a woman at a time like this.”

He hoped it was. If he had to carry her, they might both come to grief right here between the onions and the butter beans. Joe was a big man—six-two, a hundred eighty-seven. But he’d been horse-busted, gunshot and otherwise mistreated a few too many times in his thirty-eight-and-a-half years. No sense in pushing his luck.