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After the housekeeper departed, Santiago handed Belle what looked like a cocktail from the tray. At her dubious look, he explained, “Sweet tea.”
Oh, her favorite. She practically snatched it from him. Drinking deeply, she sighed in pleasure at the ice-cold, sweetened, nonalcoholic beverage. Wiping her mouth, she sank back happily into the cushions of the sofa. “There are a few things about you that aren’t horrible.”
“Like sweet tea?”
“You’re not totally a monster.”
“You’re welcome.”
Gulping down the rest of the drink, she held the empty glass out hopefully.
His lips quirked as he turned back to the tray. Refilling her glass with the ceramic pitcher, he poured one for himself. “By the way, if you’re formulating a plot to run away, you should know the nearest highway is thirty miles.”
“I’m not planning to run away.”
He straightened. “You’re not?”
“Why would I? You’re my baby’s father. We have to figure it out. For her sake.”
He stared at her. His handsome face seemed tense. He held out a plate. “Cookie?”
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“Thank you.” Chocolate chip, warm from the oven. As she bit into it, the butter and sugar and chocolate were like a burst on her tongue. She sighed with pleasure, then, feeling his gaze on her, looked up, pretending to scowl. “If you’re trying to ply me with delicious food and drink to convince me to marry you, it won’t work. However,” she added hopefully, “you’re free to keep trying.”
But he just looked at her, his handsome face strained. He started to say something, then abruptly changed his mind. “Excuse me, I have to go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“I’ll have Mrs. Carlson show you the bedroom. As you said,” he gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “it’s been a crazy week. Rest, if you like. I’ll see you for dinner. Eight o’clock.”
He left without another word.
Now what was that all about? Although she wasn’t going to complain, since at least he’d left the tray. Taking another cookie from the plate, Belle looked out at the leafy green trees moving softly in an unseen breeze, dappled with golden afternoon light. He’d gone to all that trouble to drag her to his ranch, and now, instead of threatening her into marriage or trying to boss her around, he’d just fed her sweet tea and home-baked cookies, then left her to relax?
But then, people had continually surprised her in life, starting with her own family. Belle couldn’t remember her father, who’d died when she was a baby. She’d grown up in that house on the edge of the sagebrush prairie with a stepfather, two younger half brothers and her sad-eyed mother, who tried unsuccessfully to shield her children from both her sorrow and her terminal illness. Belle’s stepfather, a wiry, laconic welder, never showed much interest in any of the children. He worked long hours then spent his evenings smoking cigarettes, drinking his nightly six-pack and yelling at his wife.
But when Belle was twelve, her mother died, and everything changed. Her stepfather started yelling at her instead, threatening to kick her out of the house, “Because you’re none of mine.”
So she’d anxiously tried to earn her keep by taking care of the young boys, by cooking and cleaning. By always being cheerful and smiling. By making sure she was never any trouble to anyone.
A week after Belle graduated from high school, her stepfather died suddenly of a brain aneurysm. Ray was thirteen, Joe just eleven. There were no other relatives, no life insurance and almost no savings. Rather than let her little brothers be turned over to foster care, Belle gave up a college scholarship to stay in Bluebell and work as a waitress to support them, raising them until they were grown.
It hadn’t been easy. As teenagers, her orphaned brothers had gotten into fights at school, and Ray had briefly gotten into drugs. Those years had been filled with slammed doors, yells of “I hate you!” and her homemade dinners thrown to the floor.
Barely more than a teenager herself, Belle had struggled to get through it. Heartsick, exhausted and alone, she’d dreamed about falling in love with a man who was handsome and kind. A man who would take care of her.
Then, at twenty-one, she had. And it had nearly destroyed her.
“Miss Langtry?” The plump, gray-haired housekeeper appeared in the doorway with her ever-present smile. “If you’re done, I can show you to your room.”
Glancing at the empty tray, Belle said dryly, “I guess I’m done.”
Pushing herself up from the sofa—a simple act that was getting harder by the day as her belly expanded—she followed the housekeeper down the hall of the ranch house. They turned down another hallway, then Mrs. Carlson pushed open a door. “Here’s your bedroom, miss.”
The room was enormous, with a tall ceiling, a walk-in closet and an en suite bathroom. This, too, had a wall of windows overlooking the river. But that wasn’t the bedroom’s most notable characteristic.
Belle stared at the enormous bed.
