“I would, but I’m cold. I can’t sleep without my faux mink throw.”
“So you’re wanting me to uncuff you long enough to go get it?”
“Yes, please.”
He sighed. Ran his palm over the day and night’s stubble on his jaw. “Tell you what, you want that ratty old thing that bad, I’ll be happy to walk outside with you to get it from my trunk.”
“But I’m tired and my ankles are swollen.”
“Me, too—on both counts.” He stood, yanked her arm sideways to allow himself the range of motion needed to jerk the spread off the extra bed, then the blanket. After lying down beside her, then covering them both, he growled, “Night.”
“I’m supposed to just lay here flat like this? I don’t have enough pillows, and when my head isn’t high enough, I always wake with heartburn.”
“Here,” he said, yanking his own pillow out from under his head to awkwardly ram it under hers.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
After a few moments’ blessed silence, Beau was finally nodding off when she sighed.
Instantly, he was awake. “What?”
“I’ll never be able to sleep like this. If only I could—”
“Roll over.”
“What?”
“If I have to tell you again, I’ll roll you myself.”
She rolled, his arm flailed up at an awkward as hell angle, and because above all he was a gentlemen, not about to have this very pregnant woman accuse him of not having gotten adequate rest on his watch, he somehow managed to fall asleep.
Staying asleep was a whole other matter.
“Quit,” he mumbled when something kept rubbing his wrist.
“Huh?”
“Whatever you’re doing, knock it off.”
“I’m just laying here, trying to—”
“That! That little movement right there suspiciously close to Chinese water torture.”
“That?” She giggled. “That’s the baby, silly. She’s a night owl. Watch…” She flicked on the wall-mounted lamp on her side of the bed, then rolled onto her back and flung off the blanket. “Just keep your eyes on my belly, and—there! Did you see that?”
“Damn, that was pretty cool. Will he do it again?”
“She. And probably. Just keep watching.”
He or she did do it again—and again.
Watching that all-too-familiar show did something to Beau. As did seeing the wisp of a smile curving the corners of Gracie’s lips. She was proud of this baby—and she had a right to be. As he’d thought many times with Ingrid, having something that big moving around in your gut didn’t look all that comfortable.
“Does it hurt?” he asked with the next alienlike rise in her stomach.
“Not at all,” she said. “More like tickles.”
Well, that was good news.
“I hope this turns out right for you,” he said.
“Me, too.”
He made the mistake of meeting her big, blue stare, shimmering with unshed tears. A mysterious something in his own gut told him this time, her emotion was the real deal. And he hated that he was the one making her cry.
In the vast majority of his experiences with women, usually it turned out the other way around. Them making him cry. Not that he’d actually boo hooed—just that he’d felt miserable enough that if he’d been of the crying persuasion, the night Ingrid dumped him for that stodgy partner of hers would’ve been a legitimate tear-worthy occasion.
It turned out the child she’d carried for the past seven months, the child he’d been celebrating as his own for the past seven months, wasn’t really his, but her partner’s.
After that, how many times had he wished life’s tables could be turned? That he could be the one causing angst in a relationship? But now, even though this could hardly be called a romantic circumstance, he didn’t like the thought of Gracie for real crying one little bit.
A duo of tears slid down her left cheek. Purely on reflex, he brushed them away.
“You’re not going to let me go, are you?”
Lips pressed tight, he shook his head.
“That sucks,” she said. “But I guess you’re just doing your job.”
“Trying,” he said. “But if it’s any consolation, I’m not enjoying this any more than you.” In fact, being forced up against her like this, her lush curves spread before him like a veritable smorgasbord of womanhood, his assignment was growing harder by the second—quite literally. As best he could, he shifted his fly, trying his damnedest to ignore the canyon of heat scorching his legs, chest and shoulder where their bodies touched.
“Good,” she said, casting him a sarcastic smile much more indicative of the woman who’d locked him in a storage closet. Thank God. If she’d maintained her softer side, he’d have been in real trouble.
“Ready for some sleep?” she asked.
Yeah. Oh, hell yeah.
She turned off the light, pulled the blanket back up over her. He braced himself for her roll, and sure enough, there it was. With his arm back up at an awkward angle, his other elbow digging into his ribs, Beau closed his eyes and sighed, telling himself he’d slept in worse places at far worse angles.
Finally, finally, he’d drifted off to dreamland when—
“Marshal Beau?”
“Yes?”
The light switched on. “I really have to go to the bathroom.”
“I’M NOT LEAVING MY CAR,” Gracie said. Around ten the next morning the two of them stood in a chilly drizzle just outside her cabin.
She breathed deeply of fresh-washed, conifer-scented air, vowing today would be a great day. A normal day. Marshal Beau couldn’t keep her cuffed forever. All she had to do was sit tight and plan another escape and she’d soon be back on her way.
Marshal Beau pulled the cabin’s door shut. Gave her that look she was beginning to know and love. The one that said he was counting to ten in his head in a futile attempt to keep from strangling her. She knew the look because for the vast majority of the time they’d been together, she’d been doing the same with him.
“Ms. Sherwood, I’ve
