At one-thirty Megan called Pat.
A familiar male voice answered the phone. “Dr. Hunter’s office. Dr. Hunter speaking.”
“Pat? What on earth are you doing answering your own phone?”
“Megan? Did you get the car?”
“Yes. It’s a great car, but—”
“It gets thirty miles to the gallon and has intermittent windshield wipers.”
“I know, but—”
“It has front-wheel drive and radials.”
“But—”
“Is red okay?”
“Pat! I can’t keep this car!”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, how are you paying for it? I know you can’t afford car payments.” A thought flashed through her mind. “Patrick Hunter, where’s your receptionist?”
“Listen, Megan, I’d love to chat, but this is runny-nose season, and I have a waiting room filled with sniffling kids.”
“I don’t want to be obligated to you for this car.”
“You’re not obligated. I was the one obligated. I wrecked your car, and I felt obligated to replace it. Besides, it’s easier for me this way. I’m not constantly worrying about your driving that old maroon piece of junk.”
“You worried about me?”
There was a moment of silence, and when Pat spoke it was in a low, intimate voice.
“Of course I worried about you. I care about you.”
She sighed. “In fact, you care about me so much that you’re thinking about thinking about marrying me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t do me any favors,” she said and hung up.
Chapter 11
On a Sunday afternoon Megan was perched on a high stool inside the wigmaker’s shop, and peering out at a quickly darkening Williamsburg. When the weather was cooperative she checked tickets outdoors, standing just to the side of the shop entrance, but today the temperature had plummeted, forcing her to move indoors.
The sky was lead gray, and a few snowflakes drifted past the window. Candles had been lit to dispel the gloom in the shop, but their cozy glow did little to brighten Megan’s mood. She hadn’t seen Pat or spoken to him in six days. It seemed like six years.
Snow swirled against the glass panes and dusted the porch railing, isolating Megan from the rest of the world. Sounds were muffled, and visibility was limited to a few feet. Under other circumstances this would have been a time for her to play, but she didn’t feel playful that day. She was relieved when it was five o’clock, and she could go home before road conditions became dangerous.
She said good-bye to the wigmaker and wrapped her black woolen cape tightly around herself, pulling the hood over her head. She’d parked in the lot on Francis Street, just a short distance away, but she was chilled to the bone by the time she reached her car.
Snow clung to her eyebrows and melted off the tip of her nose. She stamped her shoes and attempted to shake the snow from her cape before sliding behind the wheel.
The little red car purred to life, and for the first time in six days she was truly thankful Pat had insisted she keep the car. They’d agreed it would be a loan. He had reduced his receptionist’s hours until after Christmas, when, Megan hoped, she would make enough money from her pottery to take over the car payments.
She slowly drove through the back streets, observing the newly hung eighteenth-century Christmas decorations. Red velvet bows and evergreen sprays adorned many of the private residences. Traditional Williamsburg wreaths of laurel, trimmed with fresh apples, pineapples, pine cones, and peanuts hung on doors. By next week the town would be alive with the spirit of Christmas, bracing itself for the onslaught of holiday tourists. Megan didn’t want to think about it. Christmas was a family time, and she no longer had a family. She had a mother and father, of course, but they were far away.
She grimly stared at the back-street houses and wondered what activity was taking place behind the wreaths and bows. Windows glowed golden through the curtain of snow, and smoke curled from old brick chimneys. It was easy to imagine the laughter of children as they hunted for boots and scarves and begged their parents to get sleds down from summer hiding places in the garage.
She purposely avoided passing by Pat’s house and Tilly Coogan’s apartment. She couldn’t bear the thought of being on the outside, looking in. She couldn’t bear the pain of not belonging.
She carefully traveled the country road, becoming more tense as the snow deepened, grateful for the new tires and front-wheel drive, which held the car on the slick surface. She briefly closed her eyes in silent thanks when her driveway appeared. Be it ever so lonely, she thought, it was still good to be home.
She locked the car and went straight to the barn, cautiously opening the paddock door for the horse. When she’d first moved to the farm she’d tried to make friends with the animal, but it had been aloof, disdaining her clucking noises and ignoring offered apples. When its owner had appeared recently on Megan’s doorstep at seven one Saturday morning, looking for a weekend horse sitter, Megan had jumped at the chance.
It wasn’t the prettiest horse she had ever seen, nor the most charismatic, but it intrigued her all the same. And besides, she needed the money. Two scoops of grain, a slice of hay, and let it come inside for the night. Those were the instructions. Very simple.
It was a nice horse, Megan told herself as it obediently plodded toward its stall. It had soft brown eyes and a glossy black coat. It was just that horses were so big, and this particular horse seemed bigger than most, with a huge belly, large, clomping hooves, and enormous teeth. She gave it grain and hay and filled its water bucket with fresh water.
“Nice horse,” she told it timidly, giving it a good-night pat on the forehead.
Once inside her house Megan retreated to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of hot chocolate and a ham sandwich and sat at the round wood table, sketching new designs and planning formulas for new glazes for her pots.
Outside the wind howled under the eaves, and snow pinged against frosted windowpanes. When a particularly ferocious gust of wind buffeted the old house, Megan looked up in surprise. It was eleven-thirty by the cuckoo clock on the kitchen wall.
The barn door blew open with a slam, and she scowled at the thought of going outdoors. She had to check on the horse, she reminded herself firmly. She had to make sure it was warm enough.
This was silly, she thought as she trudged through the snow. She wouldn’t know a cold horse if she saw one, and if it was cold, she wouldn’t know what to do about it. She switched the barn lights on and was greeted by a low whinny that caused all the little hairs to stand up on her neck.
The horse was moving about its large box stall, restless and agitated. It rolled its eyes at Megan, showing the whites, and gave another whinny from deep in its throat. Its belly bulged awkwardly hanging heavy.
“Holy smoke,” Megan whispered. The horse looked deranged. Probably from carrying that bloated stomach around. It looked as if it had eaten a small cow.
“Listen,” she said to the horse, “don’t worry about it. I’ll get a vet. He’ll know what to do. Probably you just need some Pepto Bismol. About two gallons of it.”
She copied the vet’s number from the barn wall, ran back to the kitchen, dialed the number, and waited. No answer. Great. The horse was dying at eleven-thirty on a Sunday night in the middle of a raging blizzard. Her chances of finding a vet were about as good as her chances of flying to Tokyo without a plane.
Stay calm, she told herself. If you can’t get a vet, then call a doctor! That was insane. What doctor would come out on a night like this to look at a hyper horse? Pat.
Half an hour later Pat slowly drove his car into a ditch at the entrance to Megan’s driveway. He crawled through the passenger side window, catapulted himself off the tilted chassis into a waist-high snowbank, and quickly ran through his entire repertoire of expletives.
He was wading through the storm of the century, in the middle of the nigh
t, to examine a horse. He’d have liked to think it was a ruse Megan had constructed to bring them together, but he knew better. Not even Megan could think up something as dumb as this. A horse, for crying out loud. He didn’t know anything about horses.
He’d been in a black mood for six days, and slogging through knee-high snow wasn’t doing much to improve his disposition. He missed Megan, dammit. He missed her every second of every minute of every day. And he was furious with himself for missing her. He should have known better than to fall in love with a stubborn redhead. When Megan did something, she did it all the way. A hundred and three percent. She was…overwhelming.
He opened the barn door, and was happy for the warmth he found there. Megan had dragged her space heater into the building. She’d also draped a full-size feather quilt over the obese horse and tied it on with baling twine. She was standing beside the stall, wringing her hands, and he smiled in spite of himself. She was singing nursery rhymes, trying to calm the crazy horse.
“Looks like you’re taking good care of my patient,” he said softly.
She whirled around to face him. “I don’t know what to do for it!” she cried. “I tried calling the owner and the vet but no one answered. I don’t know anything about horses.”
Pat looked at the horse. It seemed bigger than he’d remembered.
“So what’s wrong with it? Measles? Sore throat? Diaper rash? I hope it’s one of those, Megan. They’re my specialty.”
“Um, no. It’s none of those. It’s just acting weird.”
“You called me over here because the horse is acting weird?”
“I think it ate something awful. Its stomach is all distended.”
Pat cautiously approached the horse and untied the baling twine. “Nice horsey,” he said, sliding the quilt off. “Nice fat horsey. Looks like it ate a car.”
Suddenly the horse’s knees buckled and the animal rolled onto its side.
“Holy cow!” Pat said, jumping back. He cleared his throat and blushed. “Took me by surprise.”
“Oh, Pat, what’s wrong with it? I don’t know much about horses, but I know they’re supposed to be standing up. It’s not going to die, is it?”
He knelt beside the animal and ran his hand along the straining belly. “Honey, I’m afraid you called the wrong doctor. This horse doesn’t need a pediatrician. It needs an obstetrician.”
“You mean it’s having a baby? Can it do it by itself?”
“Lord, I hope so.”
After ten minutes Pat felt the mare’s belly again and shook his head. “I don’t know much about this, but I don’t think she’s progressing the way she should. Keep her calm. I’ll be right back.”
Within minutes he’d returned, carrying a sheet and a plastic bag. “Let’s get the sheet under her as best we can. Tie her tail up in the plastic bag so it’s out of my way.”
He took off his jacket, sweater, and shirt and knelt behind the horse. “I’m scrubbed up to my armpits. Let’s hope once I get my hand in there, I can get it back out!”
“Good heavens, you mean you’re going to…um, examine her?”
“This would be a good time to sing one of those nursery rhymes. I’d rather she wasn’t thinking about what I’m doing down here.”
“Okay, horse,” Megan said cheerfully. “We’re all going to work together to have a baby now. Are you listening?”
“It’s the legs,” Pat said. “I don’t think she can deliver in this position. I can see a nose and a hoof, but the second leg is stuck. I have to ease it up beside the first one.”
The horse was grunting like mad, and Megan was nervous. “Are you sure you can do that?” she asked.
“Megan, I’ve delivered a bunch of human babies, a litter of kittens when I was ten, and I’ve read All Things Great and Small. That’s the extent of my veterinary knowledge. I’m not sure of anything, but I’m going to try.”
A minute later he sat back on his heels and grinned. “I did it! A few good contractions, and it should slide right out.”
Minutes later the wobbly newborn was standing next to its mother, who licked at its wet body.
Megan’s cheeks were soaked with tears. “It’s a miracle,” she said with a gasp, choked with emotion. “I’ve never seen a birth. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
Pat examined the mare, and pronounced her sound. Then he collapsed against the side of the stall to watch his newest patient.
“Tired?” Megan asked.
“Naw, not me. That was a piece of cake. You have any other animals you want me to deliver? A cow? Maybe an elephant?”
She sat beside him, her face glowing with love and pride. “You were wonderful.”
“You were, too. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“We’re a team.”
His gaze held hers. They were a team, he thought. In every sense of the word. And he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why the thought of marriage had frightened him.
The foal stood on spindly legs and nuzzled at its mother’s belly, searching for its first meal. It took a step forward and stumbled. It righted itself, wagged its tail, and succeeded in its search.
“It’s a beautiful baby,” Megan said proudly.
Pat grinned. He’d heard that tone of voice before, and he strongly suspected Megan would want to adopt the horse. Well, hell, if that was what she wanted…How hard could it be to adopt a horse? Probably they should get legally married first. Wouldn’t want an illegitimate horse, he thought, feeling lighthearted and foolish.
He wanted to reach out to Megan, to untie her braids and snuggle next to her in the hay, but he needed to get clean first. “I’m afraid I’m not such a neat obstetrician,” he said, ineffectually wiping his hands on a towel. “Can I use your shower?”
Megan swallowed. Patrick Hunter in her shower. Naked. What a lovely thought. If she played her cards right, she could probably get him into her bed. What the heck? she thought. He was already firmly implanted in her heart.
Yup, she was ready to dangle, to hang in there, to fight for her man. No more pouting over hurt feelings and old insecurities. She was going to convince Pat that marriage would be wonderful. Any man who could deliver a horse could live through marriage, she decided.
“Of course you can use my shower. You go ahead, and I’ll close up the barn.”
She shoveled out the soiled bedding and spread a clean layer of fresh sawdust over the stall floor. She left the lights on, knowing they’d be checking on the horses throughout the night, closed the barn door, secured the latch, and winced as wind-driven snow pelted her face and stung her eyes.
She found Pat sitting in her bed, sipping brandy, covers precariously draped across his bare hips. His hair was damp from his shower, and his smile reminded her of the Big Bad Wolf.
“I didn’t have a thing to wear,” he explained.
“Hmmm,” she said, stealing a taste of brandy. “There’s always my bathrobe.”
“No way. Last time I wore your bathrobe I got punched in the nose.”
She eased onto the bed and leaned over him. “It’s such a cute nose, too,” she said and kissed the tip of it.
He loosened a braid. “Was that a pretend kiss?”
“Nope. No more pretending.”
“So, this is the real thing now, huh?” he asked, looking very serious.
“Yup.”
He pulled her onto his lap. “Good. I love the real thing.” His gaze softened. “And I love you.”
Megan felt the breath catch in her throat. “What?”
“I love you,” he said, feeling like the Grinch, whose heart had grown three sizes on Christmas Day.
She gave a huge sigh of satisfaction. “I love you too.”
“Now that we love each other, I suppose it would be okay if I spent the night here.”
“It’ll cost ya,” she said.
His breathing grew heavy as he stared at her mouth. It was a lovely pink rosebud mouth. Soft and kissable. “What’s the pr
ice?”
She suggestively whispered an erotic payment. Then she licked her lips and mentioned an alternative, feeling smugly satisfied at the hint of movement under the blanket.
“Megan Murphy, shame on you. That’s very naughty.”
She turned the cover back. “Don’t you want to pay my price?” she asked, all innocence.
“I suppose I’ll have to, but only if you’ll marry me. I have my reputation to think of. I have morals and principles.”
“I wouldn’t want to besmirch your reputation. And I certainly wouldn’t want to trample on your morals and principles.”
He unbuttoned her flannel shirt. “In case you’re wondering, that was a proposal. A very serious, very binding proposal.”
She drew back and looked at him. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”
“Would a Christmas wedding be too soon?”
“A Christmas wedding would be too late. I intend to consummate this union immediately. And now, Megan Murphy-Hunter, I’m going to follow your erotically imaginative suggestions and deliver payment in full!”
About the Author
Bestselling author JANET EVANOVICH is the winner of the New Jersey Romance Writers Golden Leaf Award and multiple Romantic Times awards, including Lifetime Achievement. She is also a long-standing member of RWA.
“Romance novels are birthday cake and life is often peanut butter and jelly. I think everyone should have lots of delicious romance novels lying around for those times when the peanut butter of life gets stuck to the roof of your mouth.”
Janet Evanovich, 1988
Visit Janet Evanovich’s website at
www.evanovich.com, or write her at
P.O. Box 5487, Hanover, NH 03755.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Books by Janet Evanovich
Metro Girl
Smitten
Manhunt
Back to the Bedroom
Love Overboard