The Midwife's Secret. Kate Bridges

      “Why did you leave me standing at your door that night?”

      His voice was husky at her ear, his breath warm at her neck. “You know the night I mean.”

      Her chest tightened beneath his scrutiny. She moved over to the medicine bag lying beside her on the grass, hastening to tidy her bottles. “Now I know you’re feeling better,” she said, trying to sound casual. “But next time I’ll give you laudanum instead of morphine.”

      He reached out and touched the back of her hair, weaving his fingers between the black strands and her spine, sending waves of pleasure tumbling across her skin. “Why did you flee? Don’t you want to answer the question?”

      “No,” she whispered, completely still beneath his stroke.

      “Then how about this one—if you were going to run away, why did you tempt me? Why, Amanda, did you bother to kiss me back?”

      Praise for KATE BRIDGES’s book

      The Doctor’s Homecoming

      “Dual romances, disarming characters and a lush landscape make first-time author Bridges’s late-19th-century romance a delightful read.”

      —Publishers Weekly

      “The great Montana setting and high Western action combine for a top-notch romantic ending.”

      —Romantic Times

      “Kate Bridges has penned an entertaining, heartwarming story that will live in your heart long after you turn the last page.”

      —Romance Reviews Today (romrevtoday.com)

      Luke’s Runaway Bride

      “Bridges is comfortable in her western setting, and her characters’ humorous sparring makes this boisterous mix of romance and skullduggery an engrossing read.”

      —Publishers Weekly

      The Midwife’s Secret

      Kate Bridges

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Dedicated to all the loving mothers I met while working in the Neonatal Intensive care. My heart goes out to each of you.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Epilogue

      Author’s Note

      Chapter One

      May 1888, Town of Banff

       Rocky Mountains Park, District of Alberta

      It had been eighteen long months since she’d felt aware of a man’s gaze.

      The man she was here to meet, Tom Murdock, stalked into the sawmill at precisely ten-fifteen and slammed the papers he was carrying onto the corner desk. With a groan of frustration, he glanced up through the cloud of sawdust to the back, noticed Amanda Ryan walking toward him, and caught and held her eye.

      A sprinkle of nerves took root in her stomach. Raindrops trickled down her bonnet. Horses clomped in the mud outside.

      “That’s him, that’s the boss,” said the thin Scotsman leading her, but Amanda had already deduced it from Murdock’s confident glare.

      With a quick, sharp breath, he released her from his scrutiny and shouted orders to his men, straining to be heard above the buzzing band saw and clatter of boards. Dressed as if he’d just come from outdoors, he tossed away his cowboy hat, yanked off his long leather duster, then shook the rain from its massive sleeves. He wore miner’s pants, indigo Levi’s with orange stitching that melted into muscular thighs, and black pointed boots with shiny silver toes. Of strapping height, with powerful hands and a dark profile, he looked more like a leader of a cattle drive than mill owner and log builder. He radiated masculinity. And anger. And she’d come at a bad time.

      “Right this way, ma’am.” Dressed in baggy overalls, the Scotsman squeezed between two worktables and ignored the other men’s inquisitive glances. “Watch your head.”

      Amanda veered beneath the water pails hoisted from the ceiling—a first line of defense in case of fire. The scent of pine and sawdust tickled her nostrils. Ignoring her queasy stomach, she pressed her oilskin slicker to her green twill skirt and wove from the side door from where she’d entered, to the front where Tom Murdock stood. Who could be upset here, surrounded by the beauty of ice-capped mountains, springtime air and acres of trees? And where was his partner, Mr. Finnigan? The older, stockier man she’d met in Calgary town, eighty miles east, who’d smiled readily and invited her to come? Should she leave and come back later?

      “Watch your step over that log.”

      Passing over it, she smiled gently at the bearded, friendly faces. Many of these men had wives and children. Some of their wives had yet to become mothers, and hopefully Amanda would grow to be their friend, even deliver their babies.

      Of course she shouldn’t leave. She’d come a long way to hire Tom Murdock, and a long way to build her dream. Just because he was in a surly mood didn’t mean she had to be.

      While the sun broke through the clouds, streaming through the high windows, highlighting his black hair and clean-shaven jaw, a big, wet, white husky dog barreled around his desk.

      “Wolf,” he shouted, pointing to the door. “Get out of here. You’re soaking wet.”

      His laced, black leather vest fell open, revealing a row of shiny buttons down a crisp blue shirt. His rigid face softened into handsome planes and deep dimples. He was a pleasure to look at, but that’s not why she’d come. Good looks were not something you could respect, like being a hard worker, or a good husband, or a kind man.

      The Scotsman leading her stepped aside. “Tom, this lady says she wants to speak to you. Mrs. Amanda Ryan.”

      Mr. Murdock regarded her for a moment. Heat emanated from his muscular body, as well as the scent of shaving lotion. A current of curiosity passed between them.

      Amanda peeled off her worn leather gloves, tugging a bit harder over the finger with the hole, and held out her hand. Tilting her face at him, she sent him an exploratory smile. “How do you do, Mr. Murdock?”

      Her knitted scarf dipped around her throat. Green. His eyes were green, but he didn’t smile back.

      “Mrs. Ryan. Call me Tom.” As he nodded, a strand of black hair slid down his forehead. Leaning closer with extended palm, he glanced down at her ringless fingers.

      Self-conscious, she gulped. She’d finally removed it six months ago and could no longer hide behind it when a man looked her up and down. But, selling her ring had funded a dozen bottles of medicinal tonics, one crate of silk sutures and a brand-spanking-new fetal stethoscope.

      When his long, calloused