Her Best Christmas Ever. Judy DuarteЧитать онлайн книгу.
to Mama anyway, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do that. Her mother—Dinah Rawlings of daytime television fame—had a conservative audience and wouldn’t appreciate the bad publicity right now, even if Connie’s days of rebellion were over.
Besides, ever since her father’s death, it seemed that their mother/daughter relationship had been steadily deteriorating. Now it was more of a facade than anything.
In part, Connie blamed her mother’s obsession with work and those stupid television ratings for the rift. But she knew it went much deeper than that. She’d never been able to compete with her older sister.
Yet even if she and her mom got along great, she was afraid Ross might be able to find her through her mother. And Connie couldn’t let him do that.
Nor could she risk letting him learn they’d conceived a baby during their tumultuous time together. Ross had lost his temper more than once, making Connie the victim of domestic violence.
What might he do to a child?
The evening, as awkward as it promised to be, stretched before them like a bungee cord pulled to its limit, ready to bounce or snap at any moment. So Greg turned on the television, which seemed to help. At least, the men’s action flick he’d settled on had made the time pass. If Connie didn’t like the movie he’d chosen, she didn’t mention it.
But just before eight, when the villain was about to get his comeuppance, the power went out, causing the television to shut down with a whoosh and the house to go dark.
The only light came from the fireplace, which was still going strong.
“Uh-oh.” Connie’s voice bore the hint of a tremble.
“Don’t worry.” Greg pushed himself out of the leather recliner on which he’d been sitting and stood. Then he made his way to the hearth, where he took the candles from a grouping on the mantel and stooped to hold the wicks—one at a time—near the flame until they lit. When he was finished, he placed the candles throughout the room.
He wondered if Granny still kept the flashlights in the mudroom. Probably. He would just have to carry a candle with him when he went to look.
After he’d finished creating a bit more illumination in the room, he turned to find that Connie had pulled the afghan closer, nearly to her chin, as though hiding behind it.
“There isn’t anything to be afraid of,” he said.
“I never have liked to be alone in a storm.”
“Hey.” He chuckled, trying to make light of it. “You’re not alone. You’ve got me.”
For the first time this evening, she smiled. The warmth in her eyes made her appear even prettier than before.
When he’d first been introduced to her, he’d been told her last name was Montoya. He’d assumed she’d had Latino blood, like him. Yet she was fairer than he was.
“You ought to smile more often,” he said. But he didn’t see any reason to tell her why.
“There hasn’t been much to be happy about in the past year or so.”
He waited for her to explain, but she didn’t, and he was torn between letting the subject die and trying to revive it. But without the television or radio to distract him, all he could think about was the pregnant woman sitting next to him.
“Are you unhappy about having a baby?” he finally asked.
She caressed the basketball-size mound of her belly. “The timing certainly could have been better. But it’s not her fault.”
“Her?”
“I’m having a little girl.” Connie smiled again, which gave him a sense of relief. “At least, that’s what Dr. Bramblett said during my ultrasound.”
Gregwasn’t often reminded of thewoman who’d given birth to him. She’d died the day hewas born, and he’d never had the chance to meet her. But his tia, his aunt, had told him howhis mother used to sing to him while he was inside her womb. How determined she’d been to provide him with a happy home and a future.
Eventually, he’d been blessed with the things his mother had wanted for him, but she’d never lived to see it or to be a part of it. And that made him sad—sad for her because she would never know how hard he’d tried to make her proud.
Did Connie think about her baby like that? Did she have hopes and plans for her child’s future? Had the baby become real to her?
Somehow, the answer seemed to matter more than it should.
“What are you going to name your daughter?” he asked.
“I’m leaning toward Amanda. But I suppose I’ll have to see what she looks like. Something else, like Megan or Tricia, might be more fitting.”
That made sense, he supposed.
He had no idea what his mother would have named him, had she lived. His aunt had been the one to choose Gregorio, after the priest who’d delivered him.
Greg and Connie each fell into silence. Lost in their own thoughts, he supposed.
The candles cast a soft glow in the room, and the flames caressed the logs in the hearth. The crackling embers struck up an interesting harmony with the rain pounding on the window panes, creating an aura that would have been romantic if Connie hadn’t been expecting a baby.
“Will you be staying on at the ranch after she’s born?” he asked.
“I plan to. Brighton Valley seems like a good place to raise a family.”
“Maybe,” Greg said. “But I’d get cabin fever if I were stuck in a place like this for very long.”
“With your career, I guess it’s a good thing you like traveling.”
“Yes, I do. I suspect you’re a real homebody, though.”
“More so now than ever.” She tossed him another smile, and it touched a chord deep in his heart. “After the mess I got myself into, I’m looking forward to a quiet, peaceful life.”
“What mess was that?” Greg didn’t usually quiz people, so his knee-jerk curiosity surprised him. But he couldn’t helpwondering about Connie’s past, about what had brought her to the Rocking C.
She stroked her belly. “Let’s just say I didn’t plan on getting pregnant.”
“I take it that you and the father aren’t together anymore.” Greg watched her expression, trying to read into each twitch of the eye, each faint movement of her lips.
“Getting involved with that man was the biggest mistake I ever made,” she admitted.
“Does he know about the baby?”
“No. And he won’t ever know about her if I can help it.”
There was only one conclusion for him to make. “The guy must have been a real jerk.”
She fingered the crocheted edge of the afghan, then looked up at him. “He was mean and jealous whenever he drank. And toward the end, that seemed to be all he ever did.”
Greg had known his share of men like that. And while he thought about quizzing her further, he figured some memories were best left alone.
They made small talk for a while, nothing personal. And as the antique clock on the mantel gonged for the ninth time, Connie yawned.
“You know,” she said, struggling to balance the bulk of her girth as she got to her feet, “I’m winding down faster than that clock. I think I’d better go to bed.”
“All right. Sleep tight.” He watched her go, thinking that she didn’t look the least bit pregnant from behind.
But Connie didn’t get five steps away when she froze in her steps and looked down at the floor,