The Rancher's Miracle Baby Read online

“It’s just blood, Razz,” she whispered amid the mare’s cries, studying the black clouds through the gaps in her spread fingers.

  A hard blow to the head. That was all. Something her father had doled out on a daily basis by the time she’d reached sixteen.

  A large shape shifted, moving above her and obscuring the dark clouds. Tammy lowered her palm and her gaze locked with a pair of stormy gray eyes.

  A man stared down at her, his broad shoulders and muscled girth blocking the wind. He had tanned skin and black hair sprinkled with silver. The striking mix as deep and rich as the storm overhead.

  His big hands reached for her.

  “My horse needs help,” she rasped, scrambling back.

  His piercing gaze cut to the trailer as Razz’s kicks and desperate cries strengthened. He swung around, gripped the bent latch and wrestled the gate open. A moment later, Razz burst out of the trailer with disoriented jerks.

  “Get,” he shouted, smacking the horse’s rear.

  Razz leaped and took off, galloping out of sight.

  “Come on.” He yanked Tammy to her feet, tucked her tight to his side and ran across the front lawn toward the house.

  Tammy pumped her legs hard, keeping up with his powerful stride and ignoring the nausea roiling in her gut.

  The massive surge of wind grew stronger at their backs, and their boots slipped repeatedly on the slick grass. They stumbled up the front steps to the door and fell to the porch floor as the vicious growl of the tornado drew closer.

  This is it.

  Tammy squeezed her eyes shut, the concrete pressing hard against her cheek and disjointed thoughts whipping through her mind.

  She wouldn’t make it to Jen’s wedding. Wouldn’t hug or kiss Jen’s children one day. And would never get the chance to have babies of her own. It would remain the foolish dream it’d always been. The kind that belonged to a woman who’d never been able to trust a man with her body or her heart. Unrealistic and unattainable.

  “Keep moving.” The man’s brawny arm tightened around her back as he forced his way to his knees.

  Tammy looked up, her eyes freezing on his face. The strong jaw, aquiline nose and sculpted mouth belonged to a stranger. But at least she wasn’t alone.

  The thought was oddly comforting, and when she spoke, her voice remained steady despite the horrifying possibility she acknowledged.

  “We’re not going to make it.”

  * * *

  THE HELL THEY WEREN’T.

  Alex Weston balled his hand into a fist, pressed it to the porch floor and shoved to his haunches. He steadied himself against the strong surge of wind, then reached down and pulled the woman up with him.

  She was soft—and strong. The slight curves of her biceps were firm underneath the pads of his fingers, and she’d matched his pace as they’d sprinted to the house. But she was slender and light. So light, each gust of wind threatened to steal her from his grasp.

  “Keep moving,” he growled, ignoring the panicked flare of her green eyes and forging ahead.

  Alex shoved her forward and pressed her against the wall of the house. He jerked the front door open and helped her inside, but before he could follow, the wind caught it, ripping it wide-open to the side and yanking him around with it. The sharp edges of brick cut into his back.

  Wet grass and dirt sprayed his face, and he spat against it, struggling to maintain control of the door and his panic. He squinted against the bite of wind and peered across the front lawn. The tornado barreled across the driveway toward the house, sucking up the wooden posts of the fence and spitting them out. The wood sliced through the air with shrill whistles, scattering in all directions and stabbing into the ground. Each jagged plank a deadly missile.

  His eyes shot to the open field, which was bare and vulnerable in the path of the twister. He’d just released the horses from their stalls when the woman had driven up. The stable walls were sturdy but no match for the violent storm the weather forecasters had warned against. He’d hoped the horses would have a better chance of surviving if they were free to run. But he had no idea if it’d been the right decision. Was no longer even sure if he would survive the massive twister.

  “Hurry.”

  It was a breathless sound, almost stolen by the wind. The door jerked in his grasp as the woman leaned farther outside, pulling hard on the edge of it.

  A high-pitched screech filled the air, and a piece of metal slammed into one of the columns lining the front porch. Adrenaline spiked in his veins, pounding through his blood and burning his muscles. He renewed his grip on the door, and they yanked together, succeeding in wrenching the door closed as they staggered inside.

  “This way.” Alex grabbed her elbow and darted through the living room, pulling her past the kitchen and down a narrow hallway in the center of the house.

  A wry scoff escaped him. His first guest in nine years—other than the Kents living across the road—and he was manhandling her to the floor.

  She dropped to her knees, and Alex covered her, tucking her bent form tight to his middle and cupping his hands over the top of her head. They pressed closer to the wall as the violent sounds increased in intensity, filling the dark stillness enfolding them. It was impossible to see anything. But the sounds...

  God help him—the sounds.

  Glass shattered, objects thudded and the savage roar of the wind obliterated the silence. The house groaned, and the air hissed and whistled in all directions.

  Alex’s muscles locked, the skin on the back of his neck and forearms prickling. His blood froze into blocks of ice, and his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would shatter.

  The damned thing sounded as though it was ripping the house apart. Would rip them apart.

  Bursts of panicked laughter moved through his chest. This was not how he’d planned to spend his Sunday evening. He’d expected a long day of work on his ranch, a whiskey and an evening spent alone. That was the way it’d been for nine years, since the day his ex-wife left. The way he wanted it. He preferred solitude and predictability.

  But there was nothing as unpredictable as the weather. Except for a woman.

  “It’ll pass.” The woman’s strained words reached his ears briefly, then faded beneath the ferocious sounds passing overhead. “It’ll pass.”

  Hell if he knew what it was. For some reason, he got the impression she wasn’t even speaking to him. That she was simply voicing her thoughts out loud. But something in her tone and the warm, solid feel of her beneath him, breathing and surviving, made the violent shudders racking his body stop. It melted the blocks of ice in his veins, relieving the chill on his skin.

  He curled closer, ducked down amid the thundering clang of debris around them and pressed his cheek to the top of the woman’s head. Her damp hair clung to the stubble on his jaw, and the musty smell of rain filled his nostrils. Each of her rapid breaths lifted her back tighter against his chest, and the sticky heat of blood from the wound on her temple clung to the pads of his fingers.

  “Yeah,” he said, his lips brushing her ear as he did his best to shelter her. “It’ll pass.”

  Gradually, the pounding onslaught of debris against the house ceased. The violent winds eased to a swift rush, and the deafening roar faded into the distance. Light trickled down the hallway, and the air around them stilled. The worst of it couldn’t have lasted more than forty seconds. But it had felt like an eternity.

  “Is it over?”

  Alex blinked hard against the dust lingering in the air and lifted his head, focusing on the weak light emanating from the other room. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat and sat upright, untangling his fingers from the long, wet strands of her hair. “I think so.”

  She slipped from beneath him, slumped back against the wall and released a heavy breath. “Thank you.”
r />   Her green eyes, bright and beautiful, traveled slowly over his face. His skin warmed beneath her scrutiny, his attention straying to the way her soaked T-shirt and jeans clung to her lush curves and long legs.

  He shifted uncomfortably and redirected his thoughts to her age. She looked young. Very young. If he had to guess, he’d say midtwenties...if that. But he’d never been good at pinning someone’s age. Just like no one had ever been good at guessing his.

  The dash of premature gray he’d inherited made him look older than his thirty-five years. And, hell, to be honest, he felt as old as he probably looked nowadays.

  She smiled slightly. “That’s pitiful, isn’t it?” She shook her head, her low laugh humorless. “A cheap, two-word phrase in exchange for saving my life.”

  A thin stream of blood flowed from her temple over her flushed cheek, then settled in the corner of her mouth. The tip of her tongue peeked out to touch it, and she frowned.

  “Here.” Alex tugged a rag from his back pocket and reached for the wound on her head. “It’s—”

  Her hand shot out and clamped tight around his wrist, halting his movements. “What’re you doing?”

  He stilled, then lowered his free hand slowly to the floor. Damn, she was strong. Stronger than he’d initially thought. Even though his wrist was too thick for her fingers to wrap around, she maintained control over it. And the panic in her eyes was more than just residual effects from the tornado.

  “You’re cut.” He nodded toward her wound, softening his tone and waiting beneath her hard stare. “You can use this to stop the bleeding.”

  Her hold on his wrist eased, and her face flooded with color. “Th-thank you.”

  She took the rag from him and pressed it to her head, wincing at the initial contact, then drew her knees tightly to her chest. He studied her for a moment and touched his other palm to the floor, noting the way she kept eyeing his hands.

  “I’m sorry that rag’s not clean,” he said. “I get pretty sweaty outside during the day.” He remained still. “I’m Alex. Alex Weston.”

  “Tammy Jenkins.” She held the rag up briefly. “And thank you again. For everything.”

  “You’ve thanked me enough.” Cringing at the gruff sound of his voice, he stood slowly and stepped back, his boots crunching over shards of glass. “We better get outside. I need to check the damage to the house before I can be sure it’s safe to be in here.”

  “The house across the road,” she said softly, peering up at him. “Did someone live there?”

  “Did someone live...” His heart stalled. Dean Kent, his best friend and business partner, lived there. Along with his wife, Gloria, and their eleven-month-old son. “Why? What’d you see?”

  “I think it hit that house, too,” she said, dodging his eyes and shoving to her feet. “I can’t be sure how bad, but it looked like...”

  Her voice faded as his boots pounded across the floor, over the porch and down the front steps. The heavy humidity clogged his nose and mouth, making it difficult to breathe, and the frantic sprint made his lungs ache. He jumped over several small piles of debris, registering wood planks, buckets and tree limbs.

  He stopped at a twisted pile of metal and absorbed the damage around him. Trees were down everywhere. Some were split in half, the remaining jagged halves stabbing into the air. His stable was in shambles, but, thankfully, the main house seemed somewhat sturdy.

  It appeared as though the twister had only sideswiped his house. But Tammy’s tone had suggested Dean’s house had been hit head-on.

  Alex darted toward his truck, but the massive tree lying over the tailgate would take time to move. Precious time he didn’t have.

  Tammy, breathless, jogged up behind him. “Alex—”

  “Do you have your keys?”

  She patted her front pocket absently, her wide eyes focused over his left shoulder. “Yes. But they won’t do you any good.”

  He spun and stifled a curse at the sight of her truck and trailer overturned in the mud. Though the worst of the storm had passed, dark clouds still cloaked the sky, and several large drops of rain hit his cheeks and forehead. Another storm approached.

  Alex gripped a thick tree limb and hefted himself over the trunk, scrambling over broken branches and shards of glass. He ran as fast as his legs would allow, his boots pounding into puddles of water and mud splashing up his jeans.

  A power line was down and crisscrossed the road in a snakelike pattern. He jerked to a halt and stiffened at the sound of feet sloshing over wet ground behind him.

  “Wait.” He threw out his arm and glanced over his shoulder.

  Tammy skittered to a stop, her boots slipping over the mud. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as she surveyed the downed power line.

  Alex stood still, each heavy thump of his heart marking the seconds ticking by. To hell with it. Dean and Gloria were on the other side. He stepped carefully over each curve of the tangled line until he reached the opposite side of the road.

  To his surprise, Tammy followed, her boots taking the same path as his. He waited for her to reach him safely, then they ran the rest of the way to Dean’s house.

  “Dear God...” His voice left him, and his frantic steps slowed.

  There was no longer a two-story house. Just a foundation filled with fragmented brick walls, massive piles of wood, shredded insulation and broken glass. There were no movements and no voices. Only the distant rumble of thunder and random plop of raindrops striking the wreckage filled the silence.

  “Dean?” Alex winced. His shaky voice barely rose above the rasp of the wind. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Dean!”

  No answer. He took a hesitant step forward, then another until he reached the highest pile of rubble, visually sifting through splintered doors, broken window frames and loose bricks. Dread seeped into his veins and weakened his limbs. He began walking the perimeter, struggling to stay upright and fighting the urge to collapse on the wet ground.

  Maybe they weren’t home. He nodded and kept moving. They might have driven the twenty miles to town to get groceries and could still be there. He rounded what used to be the back of the house and scanned the heaps.

  That was what it was—they weren’t home. Thank God.

  “They weren’t here,” he called out, turning and starting back toward Tammy. “They—”

  He froze. The toe of a purple shoe stuck out beneath a toppled, broken brick wall.

  Those dang shoes of yours are gonna blind me one day, Gloria.

  Alex began to shake. How many times had he heard Dean tease his wife about her purple shoes? The bright ones she liked to run in every morning after they’d fed and turned out the horses?

  It’s not my shoes that are blinding you, baby, she would chide Dean. It’s my beauty.

  “Gloria?” Alex hit his knees and touched the laces with trembling fingers. He could still hear her laugh in his head. Joyful and energetic. “Gloria.”

  There was no answer. He gripped the edge of the bricks and heaved, barely registering Tammy dropping to his side and lifting with him. They wrestled with the weight of the brick wall, and he counted off, directing Tammy to shove with him in tandem until they managed to shift it. Huge chunks crumbled away, and the largest section broke off to the side, revealing Dean and Gloria underneath.

  Lifeless.

  “No.” Alex shook his head, tuning out Tammy’s soft sobs. “This is the wrong one. This is the wrong damned house.” He shot to his feet, choked back the bile rising in his throat, then threw his head back to shout up at the dark sky. “You got the wrong one, you son of a bitch!”

  The storm should’ve taken his house. It was an empty shell. A pathetic structure that would never shelter children or a married couple—his infertility had seen to the former and his ex-wife had ensured the latte
r. He wasn’t a father or a husband. Hell, he wasn’t even a man in the real sense of the word. And there was no bright future to look forward to in his life.

  “It should’ve been me, you bastard,” he yelled, his voice hoarse and his throat raw.

  Not Gloria. Not Dean. And not...Brody. His stomach heaved. Not that beautiful boy who’d just learned to walk. The son Dean had been so proud of and whom Gloria had smothered with affection.

  “Alex?”

  He doubled over, clamping a hand over his mouth and trying not to gag.

  Tammy moved closer to his side. “I hear something, Alex.”

  He glanced up. Tears marred her smooth cheeks, mingling with the dirt and rain on her face. “They’re gone,” he choked. “There’s no one.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Listen.”

  Alex heard it then. A faint cry, no louder than a weak whisper, swept by his ear on a surge of wind. He couldn’t tell if it was an animal or a human. If it was a final cry of death or a declaration of life. All he knew as he scanned the wreckage in front of him was that he was terrified of what he might find.

  Chapter Two

  Tammy tilted her head and strained to pinpoint the soft cries escaping the demolished house in front of her. They were muffled and seemed to emanate from a stack of rubble next to...

  She stifled a sob, tore her eyes from the couple lying in front of her and pointed at a high pile of debris. “There,” she said.

  For a moment, she didn’t think Alex would move. He remained doubled over beside her, silent and still. But when a fresh round of cries rang out from the rubble, he shot upright, scrambled toward the towering mass in the center of the demolished home and began heaving jagged two-by-fours out of the way.

  The broad muscles of his back strained the thin, wet material of his T-shirt as he flung the debris away. He jerked to a stop when he reached a ragged portion of a wall—the only one left standing. A battered door dangled from its hinges and barely covered an opening.

  Tammy stepped to his side, hope welling within her chest. Other than a hole having been punched through the upper corner, the door looked relatively untouched. Just like the plastic hanger sitting on the ground in front of it. And the healthy cry of a child reverberated within.