aching fiercely all day. She had seized the chance for some quiet in the empty house; with Macy Ward, the recreational therapist at Hopechest, away on her honeymoon with the sheriff’s brother, Fisher Yates, Hope chest was completely deserted—and peaceful—tonight.
She had dozed fitfully through the ache and awakened after an hour to the empty house. She had panicked, knowing now the reason her back had been aching so.
The baby.
When the first contraction ripped through her it caught her off guard and she screamed. The sound echoed off the walls of the deserted house, and she bit her lip in the effort to stop another cry.
As the pain ebbed, for a brief moment she allowed herself to hope it was only a false alarm. Surely she would not be so unlucky as to give birth at the worst possible moment, when she had no one here to help?
And why would this surprise you? she asked herself sternly. Your judgment in life has been so sterling thus far.
Slowly, she sat up, relieved when she was able to do so. Her water had broken, she couldn’t deny that, but perhaps the baby would wait at least until Jewel returned. She thought about calling the Bar None, but she was certain Jewel had mentioned that Clay Colton was out with his ex-wife.
It seemed like an odd thing to her; she could no more imagine going back to Alberto Cardenas than she could imagine stopping this baby from coming. Not now that she knew he was as bad as her father. But she knew not everyone was as unlucky—or unwise—as she was.
On that thought, a second contraction hit, shocking another cry out of her. This time she had the presence of mind to look at the clock; timing was important, was it not?
Tears brimmed in her eyes and she told herself it was the pain. She would not cower and whine, she simply would not. Determined, she tried to stand. If she could walk, perhaps she could stave this off until help arrived.
Her first steps convinced her of the folly of that notion. She made it to the chest of drawers a few feet away before another pain struck, sending her to her knees; she barely managed to cling to the heavy piece of furniture and keep from falling.
In the process she pulled over the small statue of a roadrunner Jewel had so kindly given her when she had arrived here. She had seen it in the library and exclaimed that it reminded her of home. Thinking that Ana was homesick, Jewel had offered the piece. Ana had accepted it, temporarily, thinking it would serve as a good reminder of all the reasons why she had left.
The statue shattered on the tile floor, having just missed the colorful rug in front of the chest. Ana barely had time to regret the miscue before another pain hit. She did not have to look at the clock to know it was too soon; the pains were too close together to pretend.
Her baby was coming.
She was alone.
She was going to have to do this herself. Somehow.
And she would, she told herself fiercely. She’d gotten her baby into this, it was up to her to handle it. She—
Her self-lecture broke off at a sound from the porch. For an instant she felt relieved until she realized she had not heard the ranch van pulling up the driveway, or heard the door open to the garage, which was next to her room.
It was not Jewel.
It was not anyone who had arrived openly by car. And while it was possible, even a frequent occurrence, that a visitor would arrive on horseback, she had not heard that either. And at this hour of night, that did not seem likely.
No answer she could come up with was good.
A tall shadow shot across the tile floor, hiding the gleam of the broken pieces of the statue. Ana choked back the scream that rose to her throat. She grabbed the largest, sharpest shard of the shattered roadrunner. It was not much, but it was all she had to protect herself and her baby.
As the shadow moved closer and she found herself staring up into the eyes of a tall, dark, menacing stranger, she thought she was going to have to defend the two of them.
Trouble, he’d expected.
A very pregnant woman, he hadn’t.
He’d done his homework on this place, this Hopechest Ranch. He’d been a little taken aback when he’d learned that the Hopechest Foundation that funded it was the pet project of Meredith Colton, who was his aunt. And potential first lady.
But he hadn’t heard even a rumor that the place helped illegals. He considered the woman’s obviously Hispanic appearance and wondered if she had run away from home. Everything he’d read had indicated the place was a home for troubled teens, not pregnant ones. Although maybe the two sometimes went hand in hand.
It occurred to him momentarily that he might well have been considered one of those teens not long ago. But he’d never thought of himself as “troubled,” just determined to have fun. There’d been too little fun in his life, and he’d been set on making up for that.
And then it hit him. Was he perhaps closer than he’d realized to his goal? Had he inadvertently stumbled onto yet another aspect of the investigation, something they didn’t even know?
Was this pregnant woman here not just to have her baby, but to get rid of it? Was it already bought and paid? She didn’t look or act the type, but what did he know about that? Perhaps her protective posture was to save her investment, not her child.
The woman on her knees doubled over, and he heard the moan she tried to hold back. She was dressed in some flowing cotton gown in a pure white that gleamed in the moonlight. She was clutching something in her hand, something that looked like a piece of broken pottery. Suddenly she straightened slightly and waved it at him with an unsteady hand.
“¡Salir de aqui!” she said, her voice slightly steadier than her hand.
As she told him to get out of here, he realized she had some idea of using that little shard as a weapon. He nearly laughed aloud, but she was so clearly frightened he quashed the urge.
“No tengas miedo,” he said, although he doubted that simply telling her not to be afraid would alleviate the problem. After all, from her point of view he’d turned up out of the dark, she was clearly alone, and in pain…
In labor.
Belatedly it hit him.
My God, she was having that baby now.
Even as he thought it she cried out again, hunching protectively over her swollen belly.
“Damn,” he muttered. “You’re going to have that thing right now, aren’t you?”
“That thing is a baby!” she snapped in perfect English.
He held up his hands at the sudden fierceness of her tone. “Sorry,” he said. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“It is coming, yes,” she said, and suddenly the fierceness vanished, replaced by an almost tangible fear. Ryder realized how young she was, even younger than he was. Twenty, maybe twenty-two?
“Now?”
He was more than a little scared
