The Pregnant Ms. Potter. Millie Criswell

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      Chapter One

      Maddy Potter didn’t think her life could get any worse.

      Ha! What did she know? It wasn’t bad enough that she was eight weeks pregnant without a husband in sight—“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” Now she was stranded in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado, in the clutches of a snowstorm—a whiteout, the radio had called it—and her chances of reaching her sister’s house in Leadville seemed non-existent.

      “Don’t even think about driving in this storm, little lady,” the car rental agent had told her two hours before. “Get yourself a nice warm hotel room somewhere near the airport and ride it out. It’s the sensible thing to do.”

      “Of course, when have I ever been sensible?” Maddy asked herself. Surely not when she had allowed passion to override good judgment and had given in to David Lassiter’s persistent pursuit, engaging in unprotected sex for the first time in her life. Well, not exactly unprotected. They had used a condom, but the damn thing broke right in the middle of everything. Just her luck.

      Stupid wasn’t really a strong enough sentiment to sum up how she felt about her behavior. Asinine was probably a better word. Or how about insane? That fit nicely, too.

      Heaving a sigh, Maddy’s hand moved to her belly, and she felt the tiny life growing inside her—David’s child. But David Lassiter was her boss at Lassiter, Owens and Cumberland, the third largest advertising firm in New York City, not her boyfriend, and certainly not her fiancé. He’d made it clear that he wasn’t looking for any entanglements, including, and most especially, a wife.

      Not that she was anxious to get married, either.

      She’d been doing fine on her own. Wonderful, in fact! She didn’t need a man to complicate things, to view her as competition, or worse, the little woman.

      But she thought it only fair that the father of her child be informed of his impending fatherhood. When she’d confided to 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 СКАЧАТЬ