A Baby in the Bunkhouse. Cathy Gillen Thacker

Chapter Two

      Jacey woke at dawn, her body aching the way it always did when she’d spent too long behind the wheel of a car, her stomach rumbling with hunger.

      She opened her eyes, and for a second as she looked around the rustically appointed room, she had trouble recalling where she was.

      Then she remembered the rain—which was still pounding torrentially on the roof overhead—the jagged slash of lightning across the dark night sky, thunder so loud it shook the ground beneath her. And a man in a black hat and a long yellow rain slicker coming to her rescue.

      Jacey closed her eyes against the image of that ruggedly handsome face and tall, muscular frame.

      She didn’t know what it was about Rafferty Evans. She’d seen plenty of men with soft, touchable brown hair and stunning blue eyes. Taken item by item, there’d been nothing all that remarkable about his straight nose and even features. So what if every inch of him had been unerringly masculine and he’d been six foot three inches of strength and confidence? Just because his shoulders and chest had looked broad enough to shelter her from even the fiercest storm was no reason to tingle all over just remembering the sight of him, or the gentle, deferential way he’d helped her out of her car.

      But she was. And that, Jacey decided, was not good.

      She had a Volvo station wagon that was still stuck in the mud. And a baby inside her needing nourishment.

      Padding barefoot to the private bathroom where she’d taken a warm shower the evening before, she slipped inside and began to dress in the long, pine-green maternity skirt and cream-colored sweater. Needing to feel a lot more put together than she had the evening before, she took the time to apply makeup and sweep her hair into a bouncy ponytail high on the back of her head.

      She slipped her feet back into a pair of soft brown leather stack-heeled shoes that were going to be woefully inadequate for the conditions and repacked her overnight case. Leaving it on the bed for the moment, she opened the door to the main cabin of the bunkhouse and stared at what she saw.

      Five genuine cowpunchers of varying sizes and ages, all staring at her. Waiting, it seemed. “Hi. I’m Jacey Lambert.” Awkwardly, she held out her hand.

      The beanpole-thin cowpoke who was nearly seven feet tall was first to clasp her hand. “Stretch.”

      Jacey could see why he was named that.

      “I’m Curly.” A mid-twentyish man with golden curls and bedroom eyes was second in line.

      Obviously, Jacey thought, as they clasped palms a bit too long, he was the self-proclaimed lady-killer of the bunch.

      “Everyone calls me Red,” said a third.

      The youngest cowhand couldn’t have been more than nineteen, Jacey figured, and had bright red hair and freckles.

      “I’m Hoss,” said a big fellow with a round belly and a receding hairline.

      So named because of his striking resemblance, Jacey figured, to a character on the old Bonanza television show that still played on cable in Texas.

      “And I’m Gabby,” said the last.

      Jacey estimated the forty-something man’s scraggly beard to be at least five days old, if not more.

      “We are so glad to see you,” Gabby continued, pumping Jacey’s hand enthusiastically.

      “Yeah, after what happened with Biscuits, we didn’t think we were going to get anyone else in here, but we’re starving.”

      “Actually,” Jacey said, not sure what they were talking about, “so am I.”

      “We, uh, know you just got here,” Stretch said, patting his concave belly, “but could you take mercy on us and cook us some breakfast?”

      Jacey blinked. “Right now?”

      “Yeah.” The group shrugged in consensus. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

      Jacey figured she had to repay the ranch’s hospitality somehow. “Sure.” She smiled. “I’d be glad to.”

      HOPING AGAINST WHAT he knew the situation likely to be, Rafferty nixed a visit to the bunkhouse—where their unexpected guest was likely still sleeping the morning away—and drove down to the river. Or as close as he could get to the low water crossing; the concrete bridge was now buried under several feet of fast-moving water. With the rain still pouring down there was no way it would recede. Not until the precipitation stopped, and even then, probably not for another twenty-four to thirty-six hours.

      Realizing what this meant, Rafferty stomped back to his pickup. En route back to the ranch he passed the red station wagon. It was still half off the berm of the lonely dead-end road that led to the ranch, its right wheels buried up past the hubcaps in the muddy ditch.

      Worse, it looked as if it was packed to the gills with everything from clothes to kitchenware to what appeared to be a baby stroller and infant car seat. They’d have an easier time getting the vehicle out of the mud if it weren’t so weighted down with belongings, but the thought of having to unpack all those belongings, only to repack them again made him scowl all the more.

      He and the men couldn’t start the fall roundup until the rain stopped.

      Knowing however there were some things that could be done—like getting that car out of the mud so their uninvited visitor could be out of their way as soon as possible—Rafferty drove toward the bunkhouse.

      He was pleased to see the lights on, the men up.

      Pausing only long enough to shake the water off his slicker, he strode on in, then stopped in his tracks. Stretch was setting the table. Curly was pouring coffee. Red, Gabby and Hoss were carrying platters of food. Steaming-hot, delicious-smelling, food. The likes of which they hadn’t been blessed with since he couldn’t remember when.

      In the middle of it all was Jacey Lambert.

      Impossibly, she looked even prettier than she had the night before, her cheeks all flushed—whether from the heat of the stove or the thoroughly smitten glances of the men all around her—he couldn’t tell.

      “Hey, boss,” Stretch said.

      “I’ll get you a plate.” Red rushed to comply.

      “Man, this stuff smells good.” Hoss moved to hold out a chair for Jacey at the head of the table.

      Flushing all the more, she murmured her thanks and slipped into the seat with as much grace as the baby bump on her slender frame would allow.

      Rafferty felt a stirring inside him. He pushed it away.

      “We didn’t think we were going to get someone to cook for us again until, well, heck, who knows when,” Curly said, helping himself to a generous serving of scrambled eggs laced with tortilla strips, peppers and cheddar cheese.

      Curly handed the bowl of migas to Jacey, while the others ladled fried potatoes, biscuits and cooked cinnamon apples onto their plates.

      Gabby paused long enough to say grace. Then the eating commenced in earnest.

      To Rafferty’s chagrin, the food was every bit as delicious as it looked, and then some. From his position at the opposite end of the table, he gazed curiously at Jacey. “You’re a chef by profession?”

      Her vibrant green eyes locked with his and she shook her head. “Property manager. Er…I was.” She lifted a staying hand, correcting, “I’m not now. Although I like to cook…”

      “I can see why,” Gabby interjected cheerfully. “You’re dang good at it.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Which is why we’re so glad you’re here,” Stretch added.

      Rafferty could tell by the relaxed smile on her face that Jacey Lambert had no idea what the