Jingle-Bell Baby. Линда Гуднайт

the vehicle.

      Dax bent down to peer through the driver’s side window. His gut lurched. The occupant was either a guy with really long hair or he was a woman. A real curse drifted through his head. He savored the word like chocolate pie. Women were a lot of trouble.

      “Hey, lady.” He tapped a knuckle on the glass while tugging the door handle with the opposite hand. “Do you need help?”

      The woman was slumped forward, her head on the steering wheel. She was breathing, but her shoulders rose and fell rapidly as if in distress. Dax exhaled a gusty breath. Crying women were the second-worst kind.

      Suddenly, the object of his concern arched back against the cloth seat. A cry ripped from her throat, scary enough to make him jump.

      The sound shot adrenaline through Dax’s veins. He yanked at the door. It was stuck. Strong from years of wrangling five-hundred-pound bovines, he yanked again, harder. The door gave way, digging up dead grass and dirt as it opened.

      He reached in, touched the slender shoulder. “Miss. Miss, where are you hurt?”

      She turned a narrow, haggard face in his direction. Her eyes were wide with fear. Dark blond hair stuck to a sweaty forehead and cheeks.

      “My baby,” she managed, the sound more groan than words.

      “Baby?” Dax glanced quickly into the backseat, but saw no sign of a child.

      The woman squirmed, her hands moving downward to her waist.

      And that’s when Dax knew. The woman with the wide, doe eyes and the teenager’s face was in labor.

      All the expletives he knew rushed to his tongue. Somehow he held them back, useless as they were to anyone but him.

      “Talk to me, miss. How long have you been in labor?”

      “The baby’s coming.”

      The implication froze him solid. “Now?”

      She managed a nod and then slid sideways in the seat, lying back against the opposite door. Her body rocked forward. She fought against it, battling the wave of pain he could see on her young face. Nature was taking its course.

      Oh boy.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

      Sorry for what? Going into labor? Having a baby? The latter set his stomach churning even harder. He knew about that kind of woman.

      But he had no time to ponder the past or the woman’s cryptic statement. His brain shifted into warp speed. He had a dilemma here. A real dilemma. A strange young woman was having a baby in a car on his property and he was the only human being around to help.

      Great. Just great.

      “We need to get you to a hospital.”

      Her eyes glazed over and she made that deep groaning sound again. His pulse ricocheted off his rib cage. He’d heard this particular moan before from cows and mares. The woman was right. They were out of time.

      “All right, miss, take it easy,” he said, as much to calm his own nerves as hers. “Everything will be okay.”

      She nodded again, her huge eyes locked on his face, clinging to his words, trusting him, a total stranger. Dax got the weirdest feeling in his chest.

      “How far along are you? I mean, is it time for the baby?”

      “Two weeks away.”

      Close enough to know this was the real deal. Dang. Dang. Dang.

      “How long have you been in labor?” he asked again.

      Her body answered for her. Dax was smart enough to know that contractions this close could only mean one thing. Birth was imminent.

      Think, Dax, think. What did he need? What could he do, other than wait for the inevitable?

      “I’ll be right back,” he said past a tongue gone dry as an August day.

      She managed to lever up, almost heaving toward him. “No! Don’t leave. Please. Please.”

      Her pleading voice ebbed away on the wing of pain, but not before the sound hit Dax in the solar plexus. What kind of jerk did she take him for?

      Guilt pinched him. Okay, so he’d resented the interruption to his afternoon. He’d wanted to drive right past. The point was he hadn’t. He might be a jerk, but he wasn’t a complete slimeball. Most of the time.

      He touched her foot, hoping to reassure her. She was barefoot. A pair of fancy-looking silver shoes, complete with a perky bow, rested on the floor. He had the silliest thought that her feet were pretty. Slim and elegant like one of those ballet dancers.

      What the devil was she doing out here alone?

      “I need some things from my truck,” he said. “It’s right behind us. Not far at all. I’ll only be a minute.”

      He loped to his Ford and dug out any—and everything he could find in the cab that might be of some use. There wasn’t much, but he had an old blanket and plenty of water. A rancher could never be certain when he might be ten miles from the house and need water or a blanket. At least he could wash his hands and wrap the baby when it arrived. A bright-red bandanna on the floorboard caught his eye. Gavin had left it behind. Though the cloth was likely none too clean, he grabbed it anyway and drenched the soft cotton with water.

      Back at the car, he leaned in to wipe the wet bandanna over the woman’s damp forehead.

      “It’s me again,” he said and then felt stupid for saying it. Who else would it be? The Seventh Cavalry?

      The little mama made a small humming noise he took for gratitude. She must have been in between a contraction because her eyes were closed and her expression less tense.

      As he straightened, he caught a whiff of some sweet-scented flower. Imagine, smelling like flowers at a time like this. She looked like a nightmare, but she smelled good.

      He wondered one final time if he could toss her in the truck and get to the hospital in Saddleback in time.

      Just as the thought flitted across his mind, her eyes flew open, distressed. “Oh, no. It’s coming again.”

      She grabbed for his hand and squeezed with a grip that would have taken down a sumo wrestler.

      “Easy now. Easy,” he said, talking to her the way he would a first-time mare. What else could he do? He was no doctor.

      All right, Coleman, he said to himself. You’ve delivered plenty of calves and foals. A baby can’t be much different.

      If he believed that he would have gone into the delivery room when Gavin was born.

      “You’re doing great. Long, deep breaths. Work with the pain, not against it.” He didn’t know where the advice was coming from, but she seemed to do better when he was talking. “Attagirl. You’re doing good.”

      The contraction subsided and she dropped her head back again. Dax shared her relief. This babydelivering business was hard work. His back ached from bending over the seat and his pulse pounded so hard against his eardrums, he thought he heard tomtoms.

      Having long since tossed his hat aside, Dax wiped a sleeve across his forehead. Even with a cool breeze floating through the open door, he was sweating like a pig. But then, so was the little mama.

      Drenched in sweat, her hair a wet wad around her face, she reminded Dax of a drowned kitten. Pitiful-looking little thing. Somebody, somewhere was going to be real upset that she was out here alone on the Texas plains having a baby.

      He wondered about the baby’s father. About her family. She was young. Though her age was hard to discern at the moment, to an over-the-hill thirtysomething like him she looked like a kid. She needed her family at a time like this, not some broken-down old cowboy with a bad attitude, who wanted to be anywhere but here.

      She