The Pregnant Ms. Potter. Millie Criswell

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      Four years. Four years since Bethany’s death, since the death of their unborn child, and the pain still festered, as if it had only been yesterday.

      “I’m sorry, Pete,” Dr. Reynolds had told him when he’d entered the ER that rainy afternoon four years ago. “Bethany didn’t survive the crash.”

      “And the baby?”

      The old man had shaken his head, and there was pity in his eyes. “Both dead. I’m sorry, son.”

      Pete blamed himself for their deaths. If he hadn’t been arguing with Bethany over her new job at the radio station, if she hadn’t run off half-cocked during the middle of a severe thunderstorm…

      If, if, if. Too many ifs and not enough answers. None that would suffice anyway. His wife and child were gone.

      Though he took his fair share of responsibility for what had happened, he blamed Bethany more. She’d always been headstrong, bent on having her own way about working after they were married. She hadn’t been content to be “just a rancher’s wife” and had told him as much after they were married. She wanted to contribute, to make her mark in the world, to have it all.

      The futility of what had happened angered Pete. Waste always sickened him. And Bethany’s death had been a waste, and so totally unnecessary. He didn’t want to think about the loss his unborn child’s death had created.

      His son. His child who would never see his first sunrise, kiss a girl, play baseball, go fishing with his old man.

      His throat clogged, his chest ached, and he shook the painful thoughts away, though he knew they would return. They always did.

      “Give it up, Taggart. It’s over. Learn to live with it.”

      But it would never be over. Not for him.

      PETE WAS NOWHERE to be found when Maddy finally mustered the courage to descend from her upstairs hideaway to the kitchen. After her humiliating encounter with him, she wanted to hide forever. But she was starving. She wasn’t sure if Pete had had anything to eat, either, and so decided to take matters into her own hands and cook breakfast.

      She found eggs, cheese and bacon in the cooler on the back porch, as well as a carton of orange juice. “We’re saved, Rufus,” she told the shaggy dog asleep on the rug. He cocked an eye open at the sound of his name, then promptly resumed his snoring.

      Well, what could she expect? The dog had been living with Taggart and had no doubt picked up all his worst habits and lack of social skills.

      There was hot coffee in the pot on the stove, and she poured herself a cup before scrambling the eggs. Tossing a few slices of bacon into the cast-iron skillet she found in the drawer beneath the oven, she proceeded to make culinary magic.

      Maddy might not be good at reading a map or driving a car in a snowstorm, but she was an excellent cook. And she intended to prove that to the snotty, opinionated, woman-hating rancher.

      “Something sure smells good,” Pete said upon entering the kitchen fifteen minutes later, taking in the apron that had once belonged to his mother wrapped around Maddy Potter’s waist and smiling inwardly. It wasn’t quite as charming as the football jersey, but it was pretty darn cute. She’d changed back into her suit, minus the heels, and plus the woolen socks he’d loaned her.

      “I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten, so I decided to make us some breakfast,” she explained. “I hope you don’t mind.”

      “Don’t mind at all, as long as it’s edible.” Being a woman didn’t necessarily guarantee competency in the kitchen. Pete had learned that painful lesson shortly after he’d married. Bethany hadn’t been able to boil water without burning it. She’d learned eventually, but hadn’t enjoyed cooking, which resulted in her not being very good at it.

      “I assure you that I cook much better than I drive, Mr. Taggart.”

      He snorted. “Pete.”

      “Only if you call me Maddy.”

      Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he took a sip. “Guess I can do that.”

      “Were you out feeding the animals?”

      He shook his head. “Fed ’em at six. I was down in the basement trying to get the generator started. I’ve just about got it licked.”

      “Then we’ll have electricity, right?” Most people, herself included, took modern conveniences for granted, until they went without. At the moment she would have given a great deal to be able to use her hair dryer.

      Mr. Kenneth, her stylist back in New York, would have had a conniption if he’d seen Maddy’s hair fashioned in something as unchic as a ponytail. Once, when she had visited his salon with her hair pulled back, he’d rudely informed her that she looked like a horse’s behind. New York City stylists rarely minced words.

      “As long as the gas holds out. Don’t know how much is in there, and I can’t afford to siphon any out of the truck. We may need it for an emergency.”

      While she continued to cook, Pete set the table and poured the juice. “Haven’t done this for a while.”

      “Me, neither,” she admitted. “I usually just grab a bagel and cream cheese on my way to work. I rarely have time to cook anymore. And it seems silly to cook for one person anyway.”

      He tilted back on the chair’s hind legs. “So, you’re not married?”

      She shook her head. “No. Are you?”

      “Was.” And that was all he said, making her wonder what had happened to Mrs. Pete Taggart.

      Setting the bowl of scrambled eggs and platter of sizzling hickory-smoked bacon on the table, Maddy seated herself across from him. The domesticity of the situation didn’t escape her. “I’m grateful for your hospitality, Pete. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t happened along.”

      “Probably frozen to death would be my guess.” But he softened the words with a grin. “Always happy to help a lady in distress.” A pretty lady, he should have said, but knew he couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

      “I’m happy to do my fair share around here. I don’t want to be a burden. I can help with the chores, cook and clean. And I’ve got some money to help pay for the groceries, if you don’t mind taking a check. I didn’t bring much cash with me.”

      “Don’t need your money or your help with the animals, though I appreciate the offer. But if you want to cook, that’s fine with me. That’s one chore I hate doing.” Pete’s brother was fond of saying that his beef stew tasted worse than fresh horse droppings. And John ought to know since he was Sweetheart’s one and only vet.

      “I—” Suddenly Maddy placed her hand over her mouth, and all color drained from her face.

      “What’s wrong?” Pete’s eyes widened, then filled with concern at her pasty appearance. “Are you going to be sick or something?” He looked horrified at the prospect.

      Not daring to answer, she nodded, then raced for the bathroom, where she promptly gave up what she’d just eaten. While СКАЧАТЬ