The Pregnant Ms. Potter. Millie Criswell

David that she was pregnant, he hadn’t wasted any time in pulling out his checkbook and offering her a substantial amount of money for an abortion.

      “Unfeeling bastard!” she muttered, thinking back to the smug look on his face. If he hadn’t been such a jerk, threatening her with her job and making it clear that there was no room in his life for a child, she wouldn’t have run off like a frightened teenager two weeks before Christmas to seek comfort in the arms of the one person she knew she could count on: her older sister, Mary Beth.

      And it sure as heck hadn’t been sensible to drive through a snowstorm knowing how little experience she had operating a car in such conditions. She lived in New York City, for heaven’s sake! What did she know about driving? She took taxis and the subway when she needed to get somewhere; she didn’t even own a car.

      “Well, Maddy, you dolt! You’ve really gone and done it this time.” The snow was piled so thickly on the windshield that she couldn’t see a foot in front of her, let alone the surrounding countryside. She knew only that she’d taken Highway 24 from the airport in Colorado Springs—Denver’s Stapleton had been closed due to the storm—and an hour later had taken a wrong turn onto a secondary road, hit a patch of icy pavement and careened into a ditch when she’d foolishly applied the brakes too hard. One of the front wheels had come off and the car was listing to one side. It was not driveable and the rental people were not going to be pleased—if, in fact, she ever saw them or anyone again. At this point she had her doubts.

      “Okay, God, I need a little help here. It’s true, I screwed up, but now I need your help. This precious baby growing inside me shouldn’t be punished for my stupidity. I admit what I did was wrong, so give me a break.”

      Maddy glanced down at the red leather purse on the seat next to her—a Coach bag, the symbol of her success. She remembered how happy she’d been when she had finally earned enough money to buy it.

      Not that such things mattered now. Nothing mattered now except surviving.

      Reaching into her purse, she extracted her cellular phone, wondering if it still worked, praying it did. If she could reach her sister, Mary Beth’s husband, Lyle, could come fetch her. Lyle was smart and sensible—the salt-of-the-earth type. He’d know what to do.

      Grateful the phone’s battery appeared to be working, she punched in the Randolph’s number and hit send. It started ringing at once, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

      Her spurt of excitement was short-lived, however, for when the call was answered, it wasn’t Mary Beth or Lyle, but a female operator. “I’m sorry but your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and dial again.”

      She did, twelve different times. And twelve different times she got the same message. Then the phone conked out completely.

      Maddy wasn’t the type of woman who usually gave in to tears. She was the take-charge type, always in control of a situation, and a damn good advertising executive. Of course, she’d never been stranded in the middle of a blizzard with nothing to eat—her stomach grumbled, making it abundantly clear that it wanted to be fed; a useless cell phone—she tossed the offending object into the back seat; and a bladder that was full to bursting—she crossed her ankles and gritted her teeth.

      Then she started singing at the top of her lungs. Maddy always sang when she was nervous. She began with Silent Night, then moved on to Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and ended with a screeching chorus of O Holy Night that would have made a dog howl had there been one in the vicinity. But the festive songs hadn’t made her predicament any more bearable. If anything, they made it worse, for she realized she just might not make it until Christmas. And that made her mad.

      “Okay, God, you’ve had your laugh. Now, how about helping me out? I said I was sorry. I admitted to being stupid. What more do you want?”

      It was at that low point when she thought she would surely die of exposure—you couldn’t keep your engine idling or you’d die of carbon monoxide poisoning, she knew that much—when a light suddenly flashed through her windshield.

      The beam was muted because of the snow, but it appeared to be from headlights, truck headlights, if she wasn’t mistaken. The roar of the diesel engine was distinctive. She knew about diesel engines because she’d once designed an ad campaign for Ford Motor Company.

      “Hello!” a male voice called out, becoming clearer as her rescuer approached the vehicle. “Is anyone there?”

      Heart pounding, she banged on the driver’s side window. “Yes! I’m here! Please help me!” She tried to open the door, but the snow piled against it made that impossible.

      He banged twice on the roof, she thought to reassure her, for which she was grateful. “Hang on. I’m coming around the other side of the car. I’ll try to get the door open. Looks like you’ve busted an axel.” few moments later, and not without a great deal of cursing, he pried open the door.

      Maddy breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, God!” she mouthed, blinking back tears and scooting toward the man standing there. He was tall, blue eyed and covered with snow, and she’d never seen anything or anyone look so wonderful.

      PETE TAGGART SHOOK HIS HEAD as he helped the woman out of her vehicle. She had on high heels—high heels, for Pete’s sake!—a navy-blue suit with little gold buttons, and a raincoat that may have had a woolen liner in it, but he couldn’t be certain. Based on what he’d seen so far, he doubted it.

      City girl, he thought, curling his lip disdainfully.

      “You’ll never be able to walk in those shoes, ma’am. Put your arms around my neck, and I’ll carry you to the truck.”

      She shook her head. “That’s n-not ne-neces…cessary.” The woman’s teeth were chattering. “I c-can man-manage.”

      “Dammit! Of course, it’s necessary, or I wouldn’t have said so. Now quit being stubborn and do as I say, or we’re both going to freeze to death.”

      Since the snow was nearly up to her knees, she finally nodded and held out her arms. With ease, he lifted her, but it took a lot more concentration and muscle to maneuver his way back to the pickup. The snow had drifted several feet in some places, making the going slow and arduous.

      When they finally reached the three-quarter-ton truck, he lifted her onto the front bench seat, slammed the door shut and seated himself behind the wheel. “You’re lucky I came down this road this afternoon, or you’d probably have frozen to death. The road’s private and doesn’t get much in the way of traffic. And the way your car looks you won’t be driving it for awhile.”

      “Th-thank you,” she managed, holding her hands out to the heater vent. The hot air pricked her skin like needles as it thawed her hands. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I was on my way to my sister’s in Leadville, and I guess I took a wrong turn.”

      He whistled. “Leadville? You’re hell and gone from Leadville. You’re on Taggart land, ma’am. I’m Pete Taggart, owner of this cattle ranch.”

      The pride in his voice was unmistakable. She’d heard pride like that voiced by her own father many times before. She wasn’t impressed then, and she wasn’t now. “I don’t really know how I ended up here.”

      “It’s easy to lose your bearings during a whiteout. I’m just glad I was checking on my ornery bull, Henry, and had reason to come this far from the house.”

      She found it endearing that he named his animals. Maybe he wasn’t such a hard-ass after all. Maddy forced a smile, though her frozen face felt as if it would crack from the effort. “I’m Madeline Potter, but most people call me Maddy.”

      He kept his eyes riveted on the road in front of him as he talked. “Whatever possessed you to drive in weather like this? A person should have more sense than that. Of course, women don’t.”

      Maddy stiffened, unable to believe what she was hearing. “I beg your pardon?”

      “You heard me right. Most women don’t