Winning the Widow's Heart. Sherri Shackelford

her stomach. Her gun weaved a dangerous path in the air. Fearful of a wild shot, Jack extended his arm toward her.

       “Don’t touch me!”

       He searched her panic-ridden features for any sign of injury. “Where are you hurt?”

       “Nowhere.” She warned him back with a wave of her gun. “So get out.”

       His instincts flared. She was obviously in pain, not to mention she’d been screaming loud enough to wake a hibernating grizzly moments before, yet she still refused help. Was she trying to warn him? Had the outlaws set a trap?

       Jerking his thumb, he indicated a door on the far side of the room. “Is he in there?” he asked, his voice hushed. “Where’s Bud Shaw?”

       “No one here by that name,” she gasped. “Now get out. I don’t want any trouble.”

       Liquid splashed onto the wood plank flooring at her feet. Her face paled, and her eyes grew as large as twin harvest moons. Frigid air swept through the broken door.

       The truth hit Jack like a mule kick. She wasn’t plump, she was pregnant. Very pregnant. He hadn’t stumbled into Bud’s hideout—he’d barged into a peaceful homestead. The lady of the house was understandably spooked, and about to give birth at any moment.

       He didn’t need a sawbones to tell him the woman’s bag of waters had just broken. Jack raised his eyes heavenward and offered up a quick prayer for guidance.

       “Lady, you got a heap o’ trouble,” he said at last, “but I ain’t part of it.”

       She staggered to the left, the weapon still clutched in her hand.

       With a quick sidestep, he dodged the business end of the barrel. “Ma’am,” he spoke, keeping his voice quiet and soothing, “I’m holstering my weapon.”

       She aimed her gun dead center at his chest.

       Anxiety rose like bile in his throat. Nothing was more unpredictable than a frightened civilian with a firearm. Not to mention she was unsteady on her feet and in obvious pain. The sooner he disarmed her, the better.

       His decision made, he crept forward, his arms spread wide to display his empty hands. “Where’s your husband? Has he gone to fetch help?”

       She glanced away, as if considering her answer.

       His stomach clenched. “You’re alone here, aren’t you?”

       Her full, rose-colored lips pursed into a thin line. She shook her head in denial.

       Annoyed by her refusal to look him in the eye, Jack grunted. He could guess the meaning of those loaded pauses and hesitant answers.

       His sharp gaze surveyed the room once more. An enormous cast-iron stove dominated the space to his right. A single pine table and four crude chairs filled the corner behind the woman, a side cupboard and a pie safe flanked the open kitchen area. No masculine boots rested on the rag rug. No overcoat hung on the sturdy hooks beside the door. Ten years as a Texas Ranger had given him a heap of insight into people.

       Everybody lied, just not for the same reasons.

       He assumed his most charming smile to put her at ease. “I’m Jack Elder, and I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve been tracking a gang of bank robbers through Kansas. You haven’t been robbing any banks, have you?”

       She scowled at his joke, then another pain racked her body. She doubled over, pressing her free hand beneath the shelf of her belly.

       Taking advantage of the distraction, Jack caught her around the forearm. Her startled gaze flew to his face. Though her wild, frightened eyes pierced his rigid control, he held firm. Careful to keep his touch gentle, he pried the Colt loose from her trembling fingers, swiftly releasing the hammer with a seasoned flick of his thumb.

       She narrowed her eyes. “Are you really a Texas Ranger?”

       Jack stepped away, hardening his heart against her suffering. Emotions clouded judgment—and poor judgment got people killed.

       After hooking his finger into the gun’s trigger guard, he flipped back the collar of his jacket to reveal the silver star he’d carved from a Spanish coin. Uncertainty flitted across her face, followed by reluctant acceptance of the tarnished evidence of his profession.

       “Ranger or not,” she said. “You have no right to be here.”

       Habits honed from years on the trail had heightened his senses. The woman had a curious lilt to her voice, the barest hint of an accent in the way she spoke. She wasn’t from around these parts, but then again, who was?

       He let his coat fall back into place. “Ma’am, you need to lie down. That baby is fixing to come.”

       “No,” she cried, stumbling away. “It’s not time. I checked the calendar. It’s too soon.”

       “I don’t think your baby is on the same schedule.”

       “But I can’t have the baby now. I’m not ready.”

       Jack heaved an inward sigh. Marvelous. She was delusional and in labor. He definitely hadn’t planned for this. She appeared oblivious to the telling mess at her feet, to the growing chill in the cabin, to—well—to everything. As if ignoring the situation might somehow make it all go away—make him go away.

       He shifted his weight, considering his options. Best not to push her too hard. Mother Nature would deliver the full realization of her circumstances soon enough.

       She mumbled something beneath her breath and vigorously shook her head. “No, it’s definitely too soon. I have everything planned out for the last week in November.”

       Another glance at her rounded belly heightened his trepidation. A little nudge in the right direction never hurt. “You look plenty ready to me.”

       Her expression turned icy. “And what do you mean by that?”

       “Well…” he stalled. “You’re, you…”

       A flush crept up his neck. While there was no polite way to indicate the most obvious symptom of her condition, she was a little too far along in the birthing process for his peace of mind. Wherever her husband had gone, it didn’t appear the man would be returning home anytime soon. Without another person to watch over the woman, Jack’s options were limited. Unless he took control of the situation and found a reasonable way to extract himself, they were both in a mess of trouble.

       “Do elaborate,” she demanded. “I’m what?”

       Suddenly hot, he slid the top button of his wool coat free. He’d just come from Cimarron Springs, and it was forty-five minutes to town for the doctor. Leaving the woman alone that long was out of the question. Grateful for the breeze from the busted door, Jack released the second button. Surely someone was watching out for the woman? Even in this desolate land a person was never truly alone. She must have friends or family in the area.

       A teeth-chattering shiver rattled her body, buckling her defensive posture. She wrapped her arms protectively around her distended stomach. “This is my home, and I want you to leave.”

       “You and me both.”

       He’d rather face an angry rattler than a fragile woman any day. But the sight of her pale face tugged at his conscience. Of course he’d do the right thing. He always did the right thing, especially when it came to women and children.

       That code of honor had been ingrained in him since his youth. “I can’t go until I know you’re settled.”

       Conscious of the dropping temperature and her growing discomfort, he backed his way to the broken door, his attention riveted on the woman. Snow swirled around his ankles, dusting the cabin floor with white flakes.

       Her gaze skittered to the gun in his holster. “You’re trespassing on my property.” She tightened her arms over her rounded belly, highlighting the swell.