Montana Dreaming: Their Unexpected Family / Cabin Fever / Million-Dollar Makeover

He shook his head. “No way. Climbing stairs isn’t a good idea. It’s too strenuous.”

“I can’t let you carry me.” She glanced down at her belly and frowned. “I’m too heavy.”

She might be pregnant, but she was a petite woman. Small boned.

“Don’t be silly. You’re a lightweight.”

“Open your eyes, Mark.” She stroked her stomach.

Heck. Women could be so testy about their weight—even when they weren’t pregnant. As he opened his mouth to argue, he caught a glimpse of skepticism in her frown.

Hey, wait a minute. Was she doubting his ability to carry her?

His male pride bristled. “Listen, sweetheart. I’m probably ten to fifteen years older than you, but that doesn’t make me over the hill yet.”

She balked momentarily, as though contemplating a fight, but she slipped an arm through the shoulder strap of her purse, swung her legs over the side of the seat, draped a hand around his neck and let him scoop her up.

She was heavier than he’d expected, but she was all belly. How big was the kid?

As he lifted her from the rented sedan, he choked back any sound she might consider a winded effort. But once he’d straightened and kicked the passenger door shut, it wasn’t so bad. In fact, he kind of liked holding her in his arms and feeling like some kind of kick-ass hero.

Her arm looped around his neck. Holding on. Holding him.

He carried her up the steps, nails in the wood creaking under their combined weight. Damn, he hoped that whoever had built this stairway had made it sturdy. And that it hadn’t been the original staircase. No telling what more than a hundred years of wear and tear had done to the structure.

“Mark, wait. I’m really uneasy. That can’t be good for the baby, either.”

She was right. He let her down, then helped her walk the rest of the way. Slowly. Carefully. Step by step.

When they reached the top landing, she dug through her purse for the key, but instead of unlocking the door, she turned to him instead. Her belly brushed against him, tempting him to touch it. To see what it felt like. But he refrained.

Her eyes sparked with sincerity. “I can stay alone. Really. Maybe, if I give you a key, you can stop in and check on me several times a day.”

The idea had merit. But Mark had promised the doctor he’d look after her. And that’s what he intended to do. “If it’s okay, I can stay with you. Besides, I’m stuck in town anyway—at least until the county clerk returns and I can have a look at those old recorded deeds.”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted. “Are you going to move into my place?”

No. He couldn’t do that. Ever since his wife had left him and filed for divorce—way back when—Mark had learned to protect himself, his freedom. His secrets.

Even when he was seriously dating someone, he’d maintained a distance. He didn’t like the idea of having his toothbrush and razor claim space on someone else’s bathroom counter or on a shelf inside a medicine cabinet. Unless, of course, it was in a hotel room on a lover’s getaway weekend.

But this was different.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to check out of the inn completely. It wasn’t a matter of saving money. It was saving his space. His privacy. His ability to slip away before things got complicated.

“No, I’m keeping the room at the inn.” As an explanation, he added, “With all the fortune hunters who’ve clamored into town, rooms are limited. And if I give up my place across the street, I might not be able to find another one.”

And that was true. Mark sure as hell wouldn’t ask his folks if he could stay with them. Not at the small mountaintop home they owned. Not even on a couch in the office of The Big Sky Motel.

“If you’ll be okay for a while,” he said, “I’ll go across the street and bring over a few personal items. A change of clothes.”

She flashed him a battle-weary but confident smile. “I’ll be fine. Remember, I’m the one who wanted to stay alone.”

He nodded, waiting as she turned her back and slipped the key in the lock. After she opened the door, he followed her inside.

The scent of cleaning products mingled with a hint of paint, as he entered a living room that didn’t have any walls separating it from the kitchen or dining area. He glanced around, eyes adjusting to the darkened interior.

She flipped on a switch, turning on a goofy wagon wheel chandelier that lit the room, revealing a brown tweed sofa, a black recliner and a maple coffee table.

A trace of old cigarette smoke that a good scrubbing and a paint job hadn’t been able to hide lingered in the gold drapes and the green shag carpet.

“Why don’t you lie down,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

As he turned to go, she grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, those rich mahogany eyes snaring his, setting his nerves on edge, making his heart rumble in his chest.

“Thanks…for…you know…” She gave a little shrug. “For everything.”

“No problem.” But as he stepped into the crisp, cool morning air, he wasn’t so sure he’d done anything commendable.

Juliet wasn’t in a hospital—where she belonged.

And Mark, who had volunteered to be her private duty nurse, didn’t know squat about pregnant women, childbirth or babies.

What in the hell had he set himself up for?

Juliet stretched out on the sofa, her head propped up on two pillows. As she thumbed through a Parents magazine, a knock sounded at the door.

She glanced up from an article on breast-feeding that had caught her eye. “Mark?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“The door is unlocked. Come on in.” She fingered the fringed lapel of her blue robe, hoping he wouldn’t give her a hard time because she’d taken a shower and shampooed her hair. But she’d been careful and had taken it slow and easy.

Mark, who looked shower-fresh himself, strode into the room with a newspaper tucked under his arm and carrying a gray duffel bag in his hand. His gaze zoomed in on her, and he frowned. “Why is your hair wet?”

“I took a quick shower. No strain, no stress.”

“I don’t think that’s what the doctor meant by extreme bed rest.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll rest easier if I’m clean.”

He scanned the interior of her apartment, as though noting the Early-American-Garage-Sale decor, the mismatched furniture, the decoupage wall plaques that served as artwork.

So the apartment was a little drab. She was happy here. She lifted her chin, prepared to defend her home from a remark that didn’t come.

He nodded toward the wagon wheel chandelier that hung over the dinette table. “Those are low-watt bulbs. Do you mind if we have some more light in here?”

“No, go ahead.”