He stepped to her so quickly she didn’t have a chance to react.
His arm encircled her waist. He pulled her to him, his mouth dropping to hers.
The kiss took her even more by surprise. It was filled with passion and yearning and possession.
And when it ended, he pulled back to look in her eyes. “Please give me a second chance.”
She could do nothing more than nod, her heart a thunder in her chest as he slipped her hand into his large one and they walked across the street like that. She knew the others would be watching from the store-front window, speculating, but she didn’t care. His kiss had warmed her all over and his hand felt so good, warm, lightly calloused, strong.
He drove her out to his ranch, touching her cheek or her hand or her arm occasionally on the way as if afraid she might bolt.
BJ Daniels wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and author of thirty-seven published short stories. That first book, Odd Man Out, received a 4½ star review from Romantic Times BOOKreviews and went on to be nominated for Best Intrigue for that year. Since then she has won numerous awards, including a career achievement award for romantic suspense and numerous nominations and awards for best book.
Daniels lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and two springer spaniels, Spot and Jem. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards, camps, boats and plays tennis. Daniels is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Thriller Writers, Kiss of Death and Romance Writers of America.
To contact her, write to: BJ Daniels, PO Box 1173, Malta, MT 59538, USA or e-mail her at bjdaniels@mtintouch. net. Check out her web page at www.bjdaniels.com.
Second Chance
Cowboy
by
BJ Daniels
MILLS & BOON
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Many thanks to my good friend Lynn Kinnaman for not
only encouraging me to write this book, but for giving
me the ending and making us both cry.
Chapter One
Friday, 2:43 p.m.
Charlotte Evans was already late for her doctor’s appointment when she looked up and saw a silver SUV blocking the narrow road into town.
The hood of the SUV was up. No sign of the driver.
“Great,” Charlotte muttered as she braked to a stop. She should have taken the main road. But, as was her habit, she preferred taking the shortcut into town even though it was more rugged. Normally it was faster. Less chance of getting behind a tractor or a doddering old farmer in a beatup pickup or cowboys moving a herd of cattle.
She considered turning around. But the barrow pits on both sides of the road were deep and muddy from last night’s rain, the road too narrow and steep here above the creek—and, in her condition, an insane idea. There were enough crazy people in her family as it was.
She waited for a moment, motor running. It was one of those hot July days, the Montana sky wide and blue, only a few clouds dotting the horizon. She had her window down, since her old car didn’t have air-conditioning. The hot summer air was making her sweat. She hated to sweat.
Still no sign of the driver. She beeped her horn.
A hand waved a hello from under the hood.
“Terrific,” Charlotte said under her breath and shut off her engine. How long was this going to take?
It was hard enough living so far from town, let alone getting herself behind the wheel eight months pregnant.
She really didn’t need this. To make matters worse, on the way to Whitehorse she’d started having contractions.
It would be just her luck to have this baby beside the road. Somehow that might be fitting, she thought. She just hoped the driver of the SUV knew how to deliver a baby.
Opening her car door, she maneuvered her ungainly belly from behind the steering wheel and got out. She told herself she would never have gotten pregnant if she’d known even half of the things that were going to happen to her body. If only.
Slamming her car door, she waddled toward the SUV, cursing under her breath.
A head appeared as the driver leaned out from the front of the car. “Sorry, didn’t hear you drive up,” the female driver called. “Had my head stuck under the hood.” The head disappeared again.
Charlotte wondered how things could get worse. She just hoped this woman knew what she was doing under there.
At least if the driver had been a man, there might be a chance he could get the car moved out of the way so she could get to town.
She stopped for a moment as another contraction took her breath away. She remembered her doctor saying something about false labor. She hoped that was what this was. Maybe she should have read even one of the books her mother kept buying her about labor and delivery, Lamaze, breast feeding and child rearing.
The last book really was a kick, since her mother had done such a bang-up job with her three, Charlotte thought uncharitably. Actually, being pregnant had made her wonder how her mother had gone through it three times much less raised three kids alone.
As Charlotte waddled the rest of the way up to the front of the SUV, she saw that the woman was teetering on the bumper as she leaned under the hood to work on the engine—wearing a pair of latex gloves, of all things.
“It just quit running,” the woman said, looking up. She was at least fifteen years older than Charlotte, with brown hair and eyes and a look of privilege about her. Charlotte
