Adams, you had better be home,” she muttered as she hauled herself out from behind the wheel at last.
Standing on shaky legs, she began the endless trek through the deepening snow, cursing and clutching her stomach as she bent over with yet another ragged pain. The wind-whipped snow stung her cheeks and mingled with tears. The already deepening drifts made walking treacherous and slow.
“A little farther,” she encouraged herself. Three steps. Four. One foot onto the wide sweep of a porch. Then the other. She had made it! She paused and sucked in a deep breath, then looked around her.
The desolate air about the place had only intensified as she’d drawn closer. There was no wreath of evergreens on the front door, no welcoming light shining on the porch or from any of the rooms that she could detect. For the first time, she allowed a panicky thought. What if she had made it this far, only to find herself still alone? What if Luke had packed his bags and flown away for the holidays?
“Please, God, let someone be here,” she prayed as she hit the doorbell again and again, listening to the chime echo through the house. She pounded on the glass, shouted, then punched the doorbell again.
She heard a distant crash, a loud oath, then another crash. Apparently Luke was home, she thought dryly, as she began another insistent round of doorbell ringing.
“For cripe’s sakes, hold your horses, dammit!”
A light switch was thrown and the porch was illuminated in a warm yellow glow. Finally, just as another contraction ripped through Jessie, the door was flung open.
She was briefly aware of the thunderstruck expression on Luke’s face and his disheveled state, only marginally aware of the overpowering scent of alcohol.
And then, after a murmured greeting she doubted made a lick of sense, she collapsed into the arms of the man who’d killed her husband.
“What in blazes…?”
Luke folded his arms around the bundled-up form who’d just pitched forward. Blinking hard in an attempt to get his eyes to focus, he zeroed in on a face that had once been burned into his brain, a face he’d cursed himself for cherishing when he had no right at all. He’d seen that precious face only minutes ago in the sweetest dream he’d ever had. For an instant he wondered if he was still dreaming.
No, he could feel her shape, crushed against his chest. He drank in the sight of her. Her long, black hair was tucked up in a stocking cap. Her cheeks, normally pale as cream, had been tinted a too-bright pink by the cold. Her blue eyes were shadowed with what might have been pain, but there was no mistaking his sister-in-law.
“Jessie,” he whispered, worriedly taking in the lines of strain on her forehead, the trickle of sweat that was likely to turn to ice if he didn’t get her out of the freezing night in a hurry.
When in hell had it turned so bitter? he wondered, shivering himself. There hadn’t been a snowflake in sight when he’d sent Consuela off. Now he couldn’t see a patch of uncovered ground anywhere. Couldn’t see much of anything beyond the porch, for that matter.
More important than any of that, what was his sister-in-law doing here of all places? Was she ill? Feverish? She would have had to be practically delusional or desperate to turn up on his doorstep.
He scooped her up, rocking back on his heels with the unexpected weight of her, startled that the little slip of a thing he’d remembered was bulging out of her coat. She moaned and clutched at her belly, shuddering against him.
She’s going to have a baby, he realized at last, finally catching on to what would have been obvious to anyone who was not in an alcohol-altered state of mind. No one in the family had told him that. Not that he’d done more than exchange pleasantries with any of them in months. And Jessie would have been the last person they would have mentioned. Everyone walked on eggshells around him when it came to anything having to do with his late brother. If only they had known, if only they had realized that his guilt was compounded because he’d fallen for Erik’s wife, they would never have spoken to him at all.
“You’re going to have a baby,” he announced in an awestruck tone.
Bright blue eyes, dulled by pain, snapped open. “You always were quick, Lucas,” Jessie said tartly. “Do you suppose you could get me to a bed and find Consuela before I deliver right here in the foyer?”
“You’re going to have a baby now?” he demanded incredulously, as the immediacy of the problem sank in. He would have dropped her if she hadn’t been clinging to his neck with the grip of a championship arm wrestler.
“That would be my best guess,” she agreed.
Luke was so stunned—so damned drunk—he couldn’t seem to come to any rational decision. If Jessie had realized his condition, she would have headed for the barn and relied on one of the horses for help. He had a mare who was probably more adept at deliveries than he was at this precise moment. His old goat, Chester, was pretty savvy, too. Jessie would have been in better hands with them, than she likely was with him.
“Lucas?” Her voice was low and sweet as honey. “Could you please…”
He sighed just listening to her. The sweetest little voice in all of Texas.
“Get me into a bed!”
The shout accomplished what nothing else had. He began to move. He staggered ever so slightly, but he got her into the closest bedroom, his, and settled her in the middle of sheets still rumpled from the previous night. And several nights before that, as near as he could recall. He’d ordered Consuela to stay the hell out of his bedroom after he’d found little packets of some sweet-smelling stuff in his sock drawer.
He stood gazing down at Jessie, rhapsodizing to himself about her presence in his bed, marveling at the size of that belly, awestruck by the fact that she was going to have a baby here and now.
“Luke,” she said in a raspy voice that was edged with tension. “I’m going to need a little help here.”
“Help?” he repeated blankly.
“My clothes.”
“Oh.” He blinked rapidly as he watched her trying to struggle out of her coat. Awkwardly, she shrugged it off one shoulder, then the other. When she started to fumble with the buttons on her blouse, his throat worked and his pulse zoomed into the stratosphere.
“Lucas!”
The shout got his attention. “Oh, yeah. Right,” he said and tried to help with the buttons.
For a man who’d undressed any number of women in his time, he was suddenly all thumbs. In fact, getting Jessie out of her clothes—the simple cotton blouse, the oddly made jeans, the lacy bra and panties—was an act of torture no man should have to endure. Trying to be helpful, she wriggled and squirmed in a way that brought his fingers into contact with warm, smooth skin far too frequently. Trying to look everywhere except at her wasn’t helping him with the task either. Every glimpse of bare flesh made his knees go weak.
The second she was stripped bare, he muffled a groan, averted
