Double Duty For The Cowboy. Brenda Harlen
Twelve
It had been a fairly quiet week in Haven, and Connor Neal was grateful that trend seemed to be continuing on this Friday night of the last long weekend of summer. Sometimes the presence of law enforcement was enough to deter trouble, so the deputy had parked his patrol car in front of Diggers’ Bar & Grill and strolled along Main Street.
There was a crowd gathered outside Mann’s Theater, moviegoers waiting for the early show to let out so they could find their seats for the late viewing. Construction workers were sawing and hammering inside The Stagecoach Inn, preparing the old building for its grand reopening early in the New Year. Half a dozen vehicles were parked by The Trading Post; several people lingered over coffee and conversation at The Daily Grind.
He waved at Glenn Davis, as the owner of the hardware store locked up, then resumed his journey. Making his way back toward Diggers’, he heard the unmistakable sound of retching. Apparently, patrol tonight was going to include chauffeur service for at least one inebriated resident, which was preferable to letting a drunk navigate the streets. He only hoped that whoever would be getting into the backseat of his car for the ride home had thoroughly emptied their stomach first.
He followed the sound around to the side of the building, where he discovered a nicely shaped derriere in a short navy skirt, beneath the hem of which stretched long, shapely legs. He felt a familiar tug low in his belly that immediately identified the owner of those sexy legs—it was the same reaction he had whenever he was in close proximity to Regan Channing.
She braced a hand on the brick and slowly straightened up, and he could see that she wore a tailored shirt in a lighter shade of blue with the skirt, and her long blond hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. She turned around then, and her eyes—an intriguing mix of green and gray—widened with surprise.
Her face was pale and drawn, her cheekbones sharply defined, her lips full and perfectly shaped. It didn’t seem to matter that she’d been throwing up in the bushes, Regan Channing was still—to Connor’s mind—the prettiest girl in all of Haven, Nevada.
She pulled a tissue out of her handbag and wiped her mouth.
He gave her a moment to compose herself before he said, “Are you okay?”
“No.” She shook her head, those gorgeous eyes filling with tears. “But thanks for asking.”
He waited a beat, but apparently she didn’t intend to say anything more on the subject. He took the initiative again. “Can I give you a ride home?”
“No need,” she said. “I’ve got my car.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t think you should be driving.”
“I’m feeling a lot better now—really,” she told him.
“I’m glad,” he said. “But I can’t let you get behind the wheel in your condition.”
“My condition?” she echoed, visibly shaken by his remark. “How do you know—” she cut herself off, shaking her head again. “You don’t know. You think I’ve been drinking.”
“It’s the usual reason for someone throwing up outside the town’s favorite watering hole,” he noted.
Regan nodded, acknowledging the validity of his point. “But I’m not drunk... I’m pregnant.”
Six and a half months later
Regan shifted carefully in the bed.
She felt as if every muscle in her body had been stretched and strained, but maybe that was normal after twenty-two hours of labor had finally resulted in the birth of her twin baby girls. Despite her aches, the new mom felt a smile tug at her lips when she looked at the bassinet beside her hospital bed and saw Piper and Poppy snuggled close together, as they’d been in her womb.
The nurse had advocated for “cobedding,” suggesting that it might help the newborns sleep better and longer. Regan didn’t know if the close proximity was responsible for their slumber now or if they were just exhausted from the whole birthing ordeal, but she was grateful that they were sleeping soundly.
And they weren’t the only ones, she realized, when she saw a familiar figure slumped in a chair in the corner. “Connor?”
He was immediately awake, leaning forward to ask, “What do you need?”
She just shook her head. “What time is it?”
He glanced at his watch. “A few minutes after eleven.”
Which meant that she’d been out for less than two hours. Still, she felt a little better now than when she’d closed her eyes. Not exactly rested and refreshed, but better.
Her husband hadn’t left her side for a moment during her labor, which made her wonder, “Why are you still here?”
Thick, dark brows rose over warm brown eyes. “Where did you think I’d be?”
“Home,” she suggested. “Where you could get some real sleep in a real bed.”
He shrugged, his broad shoulders straining the seams of the Columbia Law sweatshirt—a Christmas gift from his brother—that he’d tugged over his head when she’d awakened him to say that her water had broken. “I didn’t want to leave you.”
Her throat tightened with emotion and she silently cursed the hormones that had kept her strapped into an emotional roller coaster for the past eight months. Since that long ago night when she’d first told Connor about her pregnancy, he’d been there for her, every step of the way. He’d held her hand at the first prenatal appointment—where they’d both been shocked to learn that she was going to have twins; he’d coached her through every contraction as she worked to bring their babies into the world; he’d even cut the umbilical cords—an act that somehow bonded them even more closely than the platinum bands they’d exchanged six months earlier.
“I think you couldn’t stand to let the girls out of your sight,” she teased now.
“That might be true, too.” He covered her hand with his, squeezing gently. “Because they’re every bit as beautiful as their mama.”
She lifted her other hand to brush her hair away from her face. “I’d be afraid to even look in a mirror right now,” she confided, all too aware that she hadn’t washed her hair or even showered after sweating through the arduous