Hostage Midwife. Cassie Miles

The dry air tasted fresh. The skies glowed with a brighter shade of blue. She couldn’t think of why she’d ever moved. What was it again? Oh, yeah, the divorce.

      When she’d left her husband five years ago, she’d gone back to nursing school in Texas. Though she and her ex never discussed location, he had taken custody of Colorado. It made sense. In addition to being a lawyer, he was a representative to the state legislature. With his new wife and baby in tow, he’d recently started making political moves toward running for national office. She hadn’t contacted him but was sorely tempted to leave a phone message: “I’m ba-a-a-ack.”

      One of the women asked, “How did you meet Serena?”

      “We’ve known each other for years and years. By the way, she sends her best wishes for you all.” Serena Bellows, the local midwife, had called Kelly to fill in with her clients while she took a brief maternity leave. “I’m staying with her at the farm.”

      “With the llamas?”

      “And the goats and the chickens and the horses and the mules,” Kelly said with a grin. “And the children. I assisted with the birth of number four last week—a daughter who weighed in at nine pounds, three ounces. We used an underwater technique. Is anybody interested in that?”

      There was a chorus of “no.”

      “Any other questions?”

      A petite brunette with asymmetrical bangs said, “I love your blond highlights.”

      “Thanks.” Kelly smoothed her straight brown bob with the sunny streaks around her face.

      “I’m a stylist,” the brunette said. “My shop is named after me—Roxanne. If you decide to stick around in Valiant, I’d love to do your hair.”

      “I appreciate the offer, Roxanne.” Kelly transitioned from talking about herself, which was always a bit uncomfortable, to talking about her clients. “When’s your due date?”

      “Next week. March twenty-first, the first day of Aries, and I can’t wait. My belly gets in the way when I’m cutting hair, and I’ve been avoiding the chemicals used in perms and dyes.”

      A fresh-faced young woman whose name was, appropriately, Daisy piped up, “From what I heard, you aren’t even supposed to be in the same room with those chemicals.”

      “If you use gloves,” Kelly said, “you should be safe. It’s not recommended to color your hair when you’re pregnant, but the amount of dye absorbed through the scalp is negligible.”

      “The smell nauseates me,” Roxanne said. “Whenever anybody gets a perm, I have to leave the shop, go next door to the café and have a cup of coffee.”

      “Caffeine,” said Daisy with a shudder of horror. “That’s another no-no.”

      “Yeah, yeah,” said Roxanne. “I know I said coffee but I meant tea, herbal-freaking-tea. I can’t wait to have this baby so I can get back to my espresso.”

      “You might want to hold off after the birth,” Kelly advised. “When you’re breast-feeding, the caffeine goes through you to the baby. Trust me, the last thing you want is a wide-awake infant.”

      After a few more minutes’ discussion about the trials and tribulations of pregnancy, Kelly sensed that the men were growing restless. She switched the topic to teamwork and how they would be the coaches, helping their partners through childbirth. “We’ll start with massage. Gentlemen, lie facedown on the mats.”

      The glass door to the gym swung open, framing a very tall, broad-shouldered man in a tuxedo. At a glance, she could tell that this wasn’t a rental tux. His clothing was designer and definitely tailored to accommodate his height, which had to be at least six feet, four inches. His thick black hair was mussed, and he’d opened the collar on his pleated white shirt.

      “About time,” Lauren snapped.

      Kelly bounced upright on her bare feet and greeted him with her hand outstretched. “Pleased to meet you.”

      “Nick Spencer.” His giant paw engulfed her hand. “The pleasure is mine.”

      As if the tux wasn’t enough to jump-start her libido, his smile was pure charm. His blue eyes were rimmed with the kind of thick black lashes that a woman would kill for. Kelly shouldn’t be thinking what she was thinking. Nick Spencer was a married man.

      “You haven’t missed much,” she said. “Take off your shoes and lie down on the mat.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” His voice was a low rumble. “I guess you like to get right down to business.”

      His eye contact lasted a bit longer than necessary. If she hadn’t known better, Kelly might have thought he was flirting with her. With his blond Amazon wife sitting right there? Did this guy have a death wish?

      As she instructed the women in the class about how to massage their partners, she subtly used the men as dummies to illustrate the musculature of the back, spine and hips. When these women were in labor, it would be useful for them to specifically tell where it hurt.

      Another benefit to this part of the exercises was that the men loved the attention. In the teamwork approach to childbirth, it was important for them to feel included. Just as she was about to tell the couples to switch positions, a thin blonde woman in a strictly tailored pantsuit opened the door a crack and peeked inside.

      “Excuse me.” Her voice was thin and angry. “Nick, I need to speak with you. Now, Nick.”

      As he headed toward the exit, he leaned close to Kelly’s ear and whispered, “Keep going. I’ll be right back.”

      His warm breath on her neck sent a purely sensual shiver down her spine. With an inadvertent gasp, she fought to control the sensation. Nothing good could come from being attracted to a married man.

      The men were now massaging the women, and Kelly took Nick’s place to rub Lauren’s back. As soon as she touched the knotted muscles and tendons near the neck, Lauren winced and groaned. She was carrying a lot of tension—not a surprise, given the way her husband behaved.

      Through the glass doors leading from the gym, Kelly watched as he hugged the rigid-looking blonde. She quickly shoved him away. Though Kelly couldn’t hear what they were saying, the blonde seemed to be chastising him—glaring and shaking her finger in his face.

      “She’s the company accountant,” Lauren mumbled. “Marian Whitman has the reputation of being an ice princess—forty-two and never married. The only thing that arouses her is numbers.”

      Kelly didn’t see it that way. Marian’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyelashes fluttered as she looked up at Nick. Was this a personal conversation? Something strange was going on here.

      As the class moved into another position, Nick rushed back through the door. Passing Kelly, he leaned close again and said, “Did you miss me?”

      Okay, this was definite flirting, and she didn’t like it. For the duration of the class, she kept her distance from him, ignoring the way he moved and the sexy timbre of his voice when he asked questions. She hid behind a mask of professionalism, suppressed her smiles and avoided friendly banter with him.

      When the class was over and everyone else had left, Nick and Lauren approached her. “I’m really sorry I was late,” he said. “I had to attend a charity benefit.”

      “The Spencer Academic Awards,” Lauren said. “It’s a scholarship program for Colorado students going to Colorado colleges. Since the Spencers made their fortune during the Colorado gold rush, we feel like we should give something back.”

      “The Spencers were gold prospectors? That’s so interesting.”

      “Is it really?” Nick said drily.

      “Family histories fascinate me.” She tried not to look at him. “Especially when they deal with the Old West.”

      “It