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Dax frowned, slowing his steps to assess the situation. Maybe the guy was drunk. Or maybe he was a criminal fixing to bushwhack an unsuspecting rancher. Dax considered going for the wolf rifle resting behind the seat of his truck but fought off the temptation. At six foot one and a hundred and eighty pounds, he could hold his own. Besides, he’d watched the car weave and wobble for a couple of miles. His gut told him something was amiss, either with the driver or the car. Maybe the guy was sick or something.
The car had been moving too slowly for any kind of serious injury so the accident was a by-product of another problem, not the cause. There had been no real impact other than the scraping entanglement with wire and the now-toppled fence posts.
“Blast it,” he said again. No matter how tired he was, he’d have to get this fence back up in a hurry or risk having heifers all over the road by morning.
Slapping his Stetson down tight, Dax strode down the slight incline and across the narrow expanse of calf-high weeds toward the blue car. Other than a cloud of dust circling the tires and fenders, there was an eerie stillness around the vehicle.
Dax bent down to peer through the driver’s side window. His gut lurched. The occupant was either a guy with really long hair or he was a woman. A real curse drifted through his head. He savored the word like chocolate pie. Women were a lot of trouble.
“Hey, lady.” He tapped a knuckle on the glass while tugging the door handle with the opposite hand. “Do you need help?”
The woman was slumped forward, her head on the steering wheel. She was breathing, but her shoulders rose and fell rapidly as if in distress. Dax exhaled a gusty breath. Crying women were the second-worst kind.
Suddenly, the object of his concern arched back against the cloth seat. A cry ripped from her throat, scary enough to make him jump.
The sound shot adrenaline through Dax’s veins. He yanked at the door. It was stuck. Strong from years of wrangling five-hundred-pound bovines, he yanked again, harder. The door gave way, digging up dead grass and dirt as it opened.
He reached in, touched the slender shoulder. “Miss. Miss, where are you hurt?”
She turned a narrow, haggard face in his direction. Her eyes were wide with fear. Dark blond hair stuck to a sweaty forehead and cheeks.
“My baby,” she managed, the sound more groan than words.
“Baby?” Dax glanced quickly into the backseat, but saw no sign of a child.
The woman squirmed, her hands moving downward to her waist.
And that’s when Dax knew. The woman with the wide, doe eyes and the teenager’s face was in labor.
All the expletives he knew rushed to his tongue. Somehow he held them back, useless as they were to anyone but him.
“Talk to me, miss. How long have you been in labor?”
“The baby’s coming.”
The implication froze him solid. “Now?”
She managed a nod and then slid sideways in the seat, lying back against the opposite door. Her body rocked forward. She fought against it, battling the wave of pain he could see on her young face. Nature was taking its course.
Oh boy.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for what? Going into labor? Having a baby? The latter set his stomach churning even harder. He knew about that kind of woman.
But he had no time to ponder the past or the woman’s cryptic statement. His brain shifted into warp speed. He had a dilemma here. A real dilemma. A strange young woman was having a baby in a car on his property and he was the only human being around to help.
Great. Just great.
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
Her eyes glazed over and she made that deep groaning sound again. His pulse ricocheted off his rib cage. He’d heard this particular moan before from cows and mares. The woman was right. They were out of time.
“All right, miss, take it easy,” he said, as much to calm his own nerves as hers. “Everything will be okay.”
She nodded again, her huge eyes locked on his face, clinging to his words, trusting him, a total stranger. Dax got the weirdest feeling in his chest.
“How far along are you? I mean, is it time for the baby?”
“Two weeks away.”
Close enough to know this was the real deal. Dang. Dang. Dang.
“How long have you been in labor?” he asked again.
Her body answered for her. Dax was smart enough to know that contractions this close could only mean one thing. Birth was imminent.
Think, Dax, think. What did he need? What could he do, other than wait for the inevitable?
“I’ll be right back,” he said past a tongue gone dry as an August day.
She managed to lever up, almost heaving toward him. “No! Don’t leave. Please. Please.”
