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HIS UNEXPECTED CHRISTMAS SURPRISE...
A baby’s cry was the last thing former SEAL Gideon Snow expected to hear on an Arizona mountain trail. Nor was he prepared for the sight of the young mother suffering from memory loss. Gideon has plenty of reasons for avoiding people—and his painful past—but two fragile people now depend on him to survive. Can he just fall for the lovely Jane Doe?
Jane doesn’t deny the pull of the gruff-yet-sweet cowboy who saved her and her baby. He’s more than a cowboy hero—Gideon’s given them a chance at a new life and love. But Jane knows that any day, her memory might come back. And the woman Gideon is falling in love with might disappear forever...
“Christmas is right around the corner...”
“Though I’m not big on holidays, since this is Chip’s first one, let’s do it up right,” Gideon said. “While we’re in town, we’ll grab lights—”
“Can we make all the ornaments?”
“Why not? Just add what supplies you need to our list.”
Jane laughed. “That list of yours is going to rival Santa’s.”
“True.” He reached for her, hovering his hands midway between them.
Please touch me, hold me, her heart begged. More than she needed any random item on his list, she craved human contact—his contact. But was that wrong?
For all she knew, she could be married.
Did that make her an awful person?
Dear Reader,
Most of my books tackle at least one heavy issue, but Jane and Gideon’s story had so many that at times, while writing, I found my own pulse racing. Jane battles amnesia. One scene in particular tugged at my heartstrings—when she was in a department store, trying on clothes and didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her in the mirror.
Enter Gideon. As a Navy SEAL, his entire life centers around helping others in need. But when he loses his leg in battle, he also faces an identity crisis—made all the worse when his wife leaves him because she doesn’t want to be with a disabled man. Because of this, Gideon’s emotionally scarred, believing no woman will ever again want him.
I fear many disabled veterans experience this same sense of loss. Gideon is one of the lucky ones who has forged a new life as a horse whisperer, fulfilling his need to help by nurturing emotionally scarred horses. But once Jane becomes a fixture in his home, he finds himself once again longing to help people—more specifically, her and her son.
I hope you enjoy this heartfelt read. More important, if you or anyone you know is a disabled vet, I pray for you to find your life’s second chance.
Warmest wishes,
Laura Marie xoxo
The Cowboy SEAL’s Christmas Baby
Laura Marie Altom
www.millsandboon.co.uk
LAURA MARIE ALTOM is a bestselling and award-winning author who has penned nearly fifty books. After college (go, Hogs!), Laura Marie did a brief stint as an interior designer before becoming a stay-at-home mom to boy-girl twins and a bonus son. Always an avid romance reader, she knew it was time to try her hand at writing when she found herself replotting the afternoon soaps.
When not immersed in her next story, Laura plays video games, tackles Mount Laundry and, of course, reads romance!
Laura loves hearing from readers at either PO Box 2074, Tulsa, OK 74101, or by email, balipalm@aol.com.
Love winning fun stuff? Check out lauramariealtom.com.
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This story is dedicated to all disabled veterans who have lost their way. Please know you are loved and appreciated by me.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Extract
Copyright
Chapter One
Why was a baby crying?
Gaze narrowed, Gideon Snow hunched forward in his saddle. He tugged his cowboy hat’s brim lower against the driving sleet’s pinprick assault. At least twenty miles in on a sixty-mile trail through northern Arizona’s Asuaguih mountain range, on an early December day fit for neither man nor beast, the last thing he should be hearing was an infant’s wail. But there it was again.
Waaahuhah.
Had to be a fox.
No woman in her right mind would bring a baby out in this weather.
Jelly Bean, the pinto mare he’d been rehabilitating for a good twelve weeks, snorted. The cold had her exhalations wreathing her head in white.
“Good girl.” Gideon leaned forward, smoothing his hand along her left cheek. She’d been through a lot—trapped in a burning barn during a Nevada sandstorm. Her fourteen-year-old owner died trying to save her. The girl’s father had carried his lifeless daughter from the flames, then returned for the horse she loved. But the normally easygoing pinto charged into the heart of the storm. Three days after the girl’s funeral, Jelly Bean returned to what was left of the barn. It had taken six men to corral her into a trailer. Her coat had been ravaged by the storm. Her eyes filled with protective mucus.
It had taken Gideon a month of sweet talk to get near the poor creature, but once they’d turned the corner from strangers to friends, progress had been swift. Jelly Bean’s owner prayed to keep the horse in the family as a living tribute to Angela.
This trail ride was Jelly Bean’s final exam.
Gideon had waited for the ugliest conditions possible to push her to her limits. Tonight, he’d stop to make a campfire, and if she could once again handle being at a safe distance from flames, he’d know she was nearing the end of her stay with him.
Gideon would be sad to see her go.
Folks in this lonely corner of the world called him a horse whisperer, but at this point in his life, after all he’d been through, he figured it was the other way around. The horses helped him make sense of a life he no longer recognized as his own.
Was he angry? Hell, yes.
But that didn’t change anything, and it sure as hell wouldn’t bring back his wife or—
Waaaahhhuh!
Jelly Bean whinnied, turning her head toward the sound.
“What do you think, girl? Could there really be a baby out here, or is a crafty fox trying to get a piece of weekend action?”
Of course, the horse gave no answer.
The fact that Gideon had grown close enough to the mare that he’d halfway expected one told him it was high time he start talking to creatures other than horses. But since he still couldn’t stand being around people, maybe he should at least get a dog?
Another hundred yards down the steep, rocky trail, zigzagging around ponderosa pines and thick underbrush, landed Gideon in a clearing.
A blue dome-style tent flapped in the wind, and sure enough, from inside, there was no denying a baby’s panicked wail.
Pumped with adrenaline, Gideon dismounted, loosely looped Jelly Bean’s reins around the nearest pine trunk, then charged toward the infant. He ignored the mild discomfort in his left leg, but upon reaching the tent, he couldn’t ignore the blood. The way it snapped him back to a time he’d fought hard to forget.
Blood pooled on the tent’s floor.
It was everywhere.
And for a moment, red was all his eyes were capable of seeing. But then he forced his breathing to slow, shifting his gaze to the baby. The unconscious woman upon whose chest the infant shivered.
Holy shit...
Think, man...
For an instant, Gideon froze, taking it all in. The blood. The baby. The woman. The sleet’s clatter on the nylon tent.
But then he sprang into action, ducking inside the shelter to check the woman’s pulse. It was weak, but there.
Though getting a signal was a long shot, he unbuttoned his long duster coat and reached into his shirt pocket for his cell. As he’d assumed—zero bars.
He growled in frustration.
The contrast of the woman’s long dark hair against her ghost-white complexion made her appear nearer death than life. A nasty bruise marred her otherwise flawless forehead. In Iraq, he’d grown too familiar with this sort of grisly scene. To find it again here, on this mountain he turned to for security and peace, was unacceptable.
He refused to succumb to the dark memories filling his dreams. Instead, for this woman and her baby—for himself—he had to fight.
First things first.
Triage. The baby’s screams had grown frantic.
Gideon reached for the infant, who was half-covered by a sweatshirt. He lifted the newborn only to receive his next blow—the cord hadn’t yet been cut.
Lord...
No need to panic. Women had been having babies for hundreds of years before fancy birthing suites ever existed. He’d make a fire to sterilize his knife, then do the deed.
He fully covered the infant, then exited the tent.
The red pool had darkened to rust, telling him the woman was at least somewhat stable since there was no additional fresh bleeding.
With the weather worsening, Gideon moved Jelly Bean beneath the shelter of a mammoth pine.
He unlatched his saddlebags, hanging them over his shoulder to carry back to the tent. Inside were dry clothes, a few first aid basics and fire-starting materials. There was also plenty of food and water, but no baby formula or bottles.
Back outside, he found another towering pine that was out of the horse’s view, then assembled a small fire. His grandfather taught him the secret to making all-weather starting blocks that never failed to produce instant heat. Since the wood he’d dragged beneath the tree was wet, it took longer to catch, but soon enough crackling flames banished the cold.
For further insurance, he constructed a small lean-to made of sticks and pine boughs to put another layer of protection between his only heat source and the sleet.
The baby’s wails drove him at a furious pace.
When they stopped, the silence, save for the sleet’s clatter, came as a relief, but then terror struck. Had the infant died?
He charged into the tent, then froze.
The woman not only was awake, but held the infant to her breast.
* * *
SHE WAS BEYOND GROGGY.
Her eyes didn’t want to open, but a primal instinct told her that if only for a short while, she had to tend to her son. After assuring herself of his safety, she could sleep, but he came first. Would always come first.
His cries ripped at her heart.
Though she barely had strength to draw her next breath, she somehow knew he was hungry. She fumbled with her jogging suit’s zipper, and then raised the hems of her T-shirt and sports bra. Breast bared, she guided her baby to his first meal. Luck was with her when he greedily latched on.
Relief brought tears.
Eyes closed, she finally found the energy to wonder where she was. And why. How come she couldn’t remember anything other than the most basic of all urges to stay alive?
She licked her lips, desperate for water, when the tent flap that had been fluttering in the storm’s wind opened farther.
A giant of a man stepped in.
She screamed.
He kept coming.
He wore a black cowboy hat and boots and a long duster-style coat of the sort she’d only seen in old Westerns. Could he be a hallucination?
He held up his hands. “I’m here to help.”
Could she believe him? She didn’t know, and clutched her newborn closer. What was wrong with her? Why was her mind blank?
“Woman, you gave me a helluva scare. What landed you all the way out here? How’d you get that nasty bump to your head?”
So many questions. She had answers for none. “I—I don’t know.”
Brow furrowed, he knelt alongside her. “What do you mean you don’t know? What’s your name? Where’s your baby’s father? What kind of man lets the mother of his child go camping in this weather?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Fighting back tears, she shook her head. “D-do you have water?”
“Of course. Be right back.”
Sleet fell so hard on the flimsy tent that it was collecting on the sides, causing the nylon to bow. Moments later, when the cowboy stooped to enter, he punched at both sagging sides before unscrewing the lid on a gallon jug of water. He handed it to her, but then understanding dawned on his whisker-stubbled face when her arms proved too weak to leave her baby.
He got down next to her, holding the jug to her lips. In the process, the backs of his fingers touched her chin. For an instant, they warmed her cold skin. The sudden heat made her shiver.
She then grew hyperaware of the man’s size.
And the vulnerable position she and her newborn son were in.
How had she landed herself in this predicament? Nothing made sense. The man raised valid questions. Where was her baby’s father? Why did her mind feel numb?
She drank deeply of the cowboy’s gift.
The water might as well have been liquid ambrosia sliding down her throat. Never had anything tasted so good.
Eyes closed, she drank until feeling as if she couldn’t hold any more. The whole while, the man patiently knelt beside her, holding the heavy jug.
“Can’t recall ever seeing a woman drink that much,” he said. “Guessing you were dehydrated?”
“I’m sure.” She shivered.
Her baby unlatched and cried, kneading tiny fists against her right breast. Maternal instinct had her shifting him to her other side. When he drew milk, a hormonal flood raised a knot in her throat and had her eyes tearing.
What could have landed her in this situation? Why did her head feel like a blank sheet of paper?
“Since it’s not getting any warmer,” he said, “once you finish with—” the man gestured to her nursing baby “—you know, give me a holler and I’ll bring you a rag and pot of hot water. We need to get you both cleaned up, then cut the baby’s cord.”
“You know how?”
“Had some EMT training. Not much, but you’ve already tackled the worst. As soon as this weather clears and you feel able, we’ll get you to a hospital.”
She nodded. Something about his take-charge demeanor, the gentle yet confident note in his voice, eased her worry. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to deserve it, but by what could only be the grace of God, she and her baby were in capable hands.
* * *
“HOW ARE YOU DOING?” Gideon stroked Jelly Bean’s cheek.
For the past hour, he’d prepared pot after pot of melted sleet that he’d then delivered to the mystery woman—along with a T-shirt for her to use as a rag. While waiting for the latest batch to boil, Gideon tended to the horse.
“Bet you never thought we’d encounter a newborn and her momma, huh?”
The horse snorted, then stilled, closing her eyes while appreciating his affection.
“Damned if this doesn’t beat anything I’ve ever seen.” Gideon kept his voice a low murmur for only the horse to hear. Over the past months, he’d learned Jelly Bean calmed whenever he was speaking. Maybe her former young owner had been a chatterbox? Regardless, since he rarely had anyone around his place besides his nearest neighbor, Mrs. Gentry, it was good to have someone to talk to—even if that someone was a horse.
He continued stroking, combing her mane.
Did the mystery woman need help with her long hair?
The crown of her head was matted. Leaves and small twigs had caught in the longer sections.
“I’d have offered to brush it for her,” he said to the horse, “but that might be overstepping, you know? Although I’d be at a loss to come up with a more bizarre situation. Hope you’re up for a long, slow ride back to the cabin.”
Gideon figured once the weather improved, he’d get the woman and her baby settled on Jelly Bean. He had misgivings about entrusting the skittish mare with such precious cargo, but there was no other choice. Upon reaching his place—or, if he got a signal in the high mountain meadow—he’d call for help. “Until then,” he said to the horse, “we’re on our own.”
He removed Jelly Bean’s saddle and blanket, then brushed her down. Fed her a few handfuls of feed, then picked his way over the treacherous ground back to the fire.
Now that the woman and baby were as clean as could be expected, he could no longer put off cutting the infant’s cord.
After slicing three inches of nylon from each of his bootlaces, he chucked both pieces into the pot, along with his best bowie knife. This was hardly a sterile environment, but he’d do his best to ward off infection.
Smoke from the fire rolled out from under its shelter, filling the temporary camp with a sweet-smelling normalcy that couldn’t be further from the truth.
In all his time with the Navy SEALs, he’d never encountered anyone with amnesia. It was unsettling.
While the water came to a rolling boil, minutes ticked by.
He pretended to know what he was doing, but now that he’d tossed cordage and his knife into the pot, how did he get it all out while maintaining sterility?
The only logical conclusion was to let the water somewhat cool, pour some out to wash his hands, then pluck out the cord and knife. If he didn’t touch the blade, the procedure should be no big deal.
He put the heavy cast-iron lid on the pot to keep sleet from getting in, then used his coat sleeve for a hot mitt to heft the pot from the fire.
Gideon trudged back to the tent, and since he couldn’t exactly knock on a tent wall, he stood outside, clearing his throat. “You decent?”
“Almost.”
He glanced beyond the tent’s flap and caught flashes. Her creamy-skinned collarbone. Long dark hair swinging like a curtain over her cheeks before she swept it behind her ears. Her breasts’ pale underbellies.
She glanced up.
For a heartbeat, her piercing clover-green stare locked with his. Feeling part rescuer, part voyeur, he lowered his own gaze.
Sleet fell harder. Thunder rolled.
“You okay for me to cut the cord?” Gideon tugged his hat brim lower against the sleet’s assault.
“Please. Come in.” Her voice barely rose above nature’s racket. She’d cleaned herself and her baby, but the tent floor was still a mess. “I guess now’s as good a time as any since my son is sleepy from his meal.”
“Yeah.” My son. Gideon hadn’t even thought to ask. In another world, he’d longed for a son. Now he knew better. His time in the Navy had left him reactionary. Trapped in a crisis loop. He fixed impossible situations. A long time ago, broken people. Now, horses. Still a good thing, right? But according to his ex, his capacity to genuinely care? To give a shit? He’d left that ability in Iraq along with his—No.
Not going there today.
He stepped into the tent, then poured hot water over one hand, then the other, letting the runoff flow onto the already-wet floor.
“This should only take a sec.” He tried conveying a sense of calm that was a bald-faced lie considering the pounding of his heart.
Lightning cracked. Thunder boomed.
Sleet fell hard enough to make the tent’s ceiling appear as if it were writhing.
“This can’t be good,” the woman mumbled.
“Nope.” Gideon set down the pot to check on their sole means of transportation. Careful not to touch his freshly rinsed hands, he used his elbow to nudge the tent flap back to check on Jelly Bean.
“What are you looking for?” the woman asked.
“A horse. Or, in other words, our ride out of here.”
“Is he okay?” She gingerly sat up.
“Kind of hard to tell.”
“Why?”
“She’s gone...”
Chapter Two
“Sorry.” The man set the cast-iron pot alongside her, then headed back into the storm. “But I’ve got to find the horse. You’re too weak to walk out of here, and—”
“Go. I’m fine. No need to explain.” And there wasn’t. She might not be able to remember her name, but she knew enough to realize Mother Nature wasn’t doing them any favors. The faster the man found their ride, the better.
Once he’d gone, leaving her alone again with her panic, minutes seemed stretched into hours.
What if he was hurt, and she was on her own again? Instinct told her she was a strong woman. If she’d survived giving birth in a tent, she’d somehow make her way back to civilization. But it would sure be a whole lot easier with a friend—not that she and the cowboy could be called friends.
She didn’t even know his name.
But she wanted to.
She eyed the pot he’d set beside her and lifted the lid. Beneath a thin layer of water were two nylon strings and a mean-looking knife. Everything needed for her to cut her son’s cord herself. Once they were separated, she could bundle him, then help her new friend find his horse.
Her backpack was within reach, so she tugged it closer, taking a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer from the front pocket. How could she have known it was there, yet not know her name or who’d fathered her child?
None of this made sense.
Her runaway pulse made her breaths choppy.
Lightning stabbed the earth with enough force to make her jump. Where was the cowboy? He shouldn’t be out in this weather.
Operating with newfound urgency, she exposed her son’s tummy, then enough of her own abdomen as low as she could comfortably reach. She squirted hand sanitizer into her palms, rubbed them together, then tied one nylon string roughly two inches from her baby’s navel. She recalled reading about this procedure and knew there were no nerves in the cord, which is why cutting it didn’t hurt. Doctors clamped it to prevent bleeding. The string would serve essentially the same purpose. She made quick work of tying the second string as low as physically possible, then took the knife from the pot, careful to touch only the bone handle.
Drawing her lower lip into her mouth, she clamped down with her teeth, then made the first cut. The knife was sharp, easily cutting the cord. The second cut was completed as smoothly and while she might have expected to feel a certain melancholy, her current drive to save the stranger who had saved her overrode sentimentality.