Baby In His Cradle Read online

  Samuel Evans was a man in his element, she decided.

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Books by Diana Whitney

  About the Author

  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

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright

  Samuel Evans was a man in his element, she decided.

  He was comfortable not only with the isolation of his remote mountain retreat, but also in the company of strangers, one of which was a newborn infant. It was a dichotomy that a man who clearly cherished his privacy would relinquish it without any trace of resentment. Most people, at least the people that Ellie had known, would not have been so gracious.

  Then again, she instinctively realized that Samuel Evans was not like most people.

  Ellie watched in fascination as Samuel stepped into view carrying what appeared to be a large woven basket with legs.

  “I thought he’d be more comfortable with a bed of his own,” Samuel explained.

  “It’s a cradle,” Ellie whispered, marveling at an exquisitely woven basket. “I’ve never seen anything so intricate.”

  The gesture touched her heart. Samuel Evans was indeed an extraordinary man.

  Dear Reader,

  With Mother’s Day right around the corner, Special Edition commemorates the warm bonds of family. This month, parenthood brings some unlikely couples together in the most wondrous ways!

  This May, Sherryl Woods continues her popular AND BABY MAKES THREE: THE NEXT GENERATION series. THAT SPECIAL WOMAN! Jenny Adams becomes an Unexpected Mommy when revenge-seeking single father Chance Adams storms into town and sweeps Jenny off her feet with his seductive charm!

  Myma Temte delivers book three of the MONTANA MAVERICKS: RETURN TO WHITEHORN series. In A Father’s Vow, a hardheaded Native American hero must confront his true feelings for the vivacious schoolteacher who is about to give birth to his child And look for reader favorite Lindsay McKenna’s next installment in her mesmerizing COWBOYS OF THE SOUTHWEST series when a vulnerable heroine simply seeks solace on the home front, but finds her soul mate in a sexy Stallion Tamer!

  Listen for wedding bells in Practically Married by Christine Rimmer. This final book in the CONVENIENTLY YOURS series is an irresistibly romantic tale about an arranged marriage between a cynical rancher and a soft-spoken single mom. Next, Andrea Edwards launches her DOUBLE WEDDING duet with The Paternity Question. This series features twin brothers who switch places and find love—and lots of trouble!

  Finally, Diana Whitney caps off the month with Baby in His Cradle In the concluding story of the STORK EXPRESS series, a very pregnant. heroine desperately seeks shelter from the storm and winds up on the doorstep of a brooding recluse’s mountain retreat

  I hope you treasure this book, and each and every story to come!

  Sincerely,

  Tara Gavin

  Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., PO. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  DIANA WHITNEY

  BABY IN HIS CRADLE

  To Barbara and Mandy Wilson, who have been thoughtful, supportive and great for a writer’s fragile ego. Your friendship is deeply appreciated. Oh, and thanks for all the wonderful snow stories!

  Books by Diana Whitney

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Cast a Tall Shadow #508

  Yesterday’s Child #559

  One Lost Winter #644

  Child of the Storm #702

  The Secret #874

  *The Adventurer #934

  *The Avenger#984

  *The Reformer #1019

  †Daddy of the House #1052

  †Barefoot Bride #1073

  †A Hero’s Child #1090

  ‡Baby on His Doorstep #1165

  ‡Baby in His Cradle #1176

  *The Blackthom Brotherhood

  †Parenthood

  ‡Stork Express

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Still Married #491

  Midnight Stranger #530

  Scarlet Whispers #603

  Silhouette Romance

  O’Brian’s Daughter #673

  A Liberated Man #703

  Scout’s Honor #745

  The Last Bachelor #874

  One Man’s Vow #940

  Silhouette Shadows

  The Raven Master #31

  DIANA WHITNEY

  says she loves “fat babies and warm puppies, mountain streams and California sunshine, camping, hiking and gold prospecting. Not to mention strong romantic heroes!” She married her own real-life hero twenty years ago. With his encouragement, she left her longtime career as a municipal finance director and pursued the dream that had haunted her since childhood—writing. To Diana, writing is a joy, the ultimate satisfaction. Reading, too, is her passion, from spine-chilling thrillers to sweeping sagas, but nothing can compare to the magic and wonder of romance.

  Chapter One

  “Who told you to take a break, girl? Them buffet trays ain’t gonna fill themselves. Get a move on.”

  Across the ski-lodge kitchen, Ellie Malone immediately snatched up a wooden stirring paddle, tried to ignore the nagging throb at the base of her spine. “Almost finished,” she told the scowling chef who’d made her life miserable for the past six weeks. “The potatoes are already under the heat lamp, and the scrambled eggs will be done in two minutes.”

  “Make it one. I got me a schedule.” He grumbled under his breath, eyed her distended belly with undisguised disdain.

  “Yes, sir.” She zigged the paddle through hot eggs to judge moisture content, then grabbed a towel, using both hands to hoist the heavy iron skillet and transfer its contents into a gleaming stainless-steel buffet tray.

  A muscle spasm struck like a fist. Ellie gasped, twisted. The skillet clanged to the floor.

  “You clumsy fool!” the chef yelped. “Look what you’ve done.”

  Steadying herself on the counter, she bit her lip until the pain eased. When she finally caught her breath, wet yellow lumps were strewn over the polished pine planking. “I’m sorry...I’ll clean it up.”

  The furious man was not consoled. “I told ’em you wouldn’t be no help,” he ranted. “If it ain’t morning sickness, it’s backaches or sore legs or just plain feeling poorly. In my mama’s day, pregnant folks didn’t force private problems on everybody else. They stayed home where they belonged.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Squatting awkwardly, she retrieved the skillet, wishing she had the strength to fling it at her obnoxious boss. At the moment a job was more valuable than dignity. “I’ll take care of everything, I promise. It won’t take more than five minutes to scramble a fresh batch—”

  Chef yanked off his floppy white hat, flung it on the cutting board. “I ain’t got five minutes, missy! Look outside.”

  He wiggled a hairy finger toward the mullioned window that faced the lodge parking area. “The tour bus just pulled up, and all them hungry Christmas skiers are gonna hit the brunch buffet like starving vultures. What am I supposed to tell ‘em, that they can’t eat ’cause my pregnant cook needs a back rub?”

  Frantic, Ellie retrieved the skillet, pulled
herself into a standing position and lumbered toward a sink already filled with hot soapy water. She tuned out the chef’s ranting, plunged the pan into the water and glanced out the window to gage the size of the morning’s crowd. Her heart sank. The parking lot was indeed packed with parka-clad tourists, their faces flushed by the icy air, eyes mirroring disappointment that the ski lifts had been shut down in deference to the coming storm.

  Thwarted skiers were renowned for their appetites. Since the bar wouldn’t open until after noon, they had nowhere to go except the already crowded dining room.

  Behind her, the chef continued to rail against the injustice of being saddled with useless help while harried busboys hustled to carry out fresh buffet trays of steaming sausage, crisp bacon, eggs, Belgian waffles and tempting fruit trays to waiting guests.

  Ellie swallowed a surge of panic. Much as she disliked her foul-tempered boss, she had to admit he was right. She hadn’t been able to keep up with the other cooks. If not for an empathetic personnel director with four kids and a soft heart, the employment application of a woman in her seventh month of pregnancy would have been summarily dismissed without a second glance.

  But luck had been with Ellie, who’d arrived at the Sky Mountain Ski Lodge over a month ago in desperate need of work. Now that she had the job, she was determined to keep it despite problems created by fatigue, backaches and a burgeoning belly. For the past couple of weeks Ellie found herself standing so far away from the stove she could barely reach the upper portion of the grill. She’d planned to work right up until her due date, which was less than a month away, but on bad days—days when her legs throbbed and her back muscles screamed and constant heartburn turned her chest into a lava pit of pure pain—Ellie wondered if she’d be able to survive even another hour, let alone another month.

  Not that she had a choice. She had to work, had to save enough money to move from a sparse room shared with one of the lodge housekeepers to a place of her own, a place where she could create a warm and loving home for the child growing inside her.

  A son. The doctor had said that she would have a son, a beautiful boy-child. Ellie’s heart fluttered with anticipation. She was so anxious to hold her baby son, to count his tiny fingers, to gaze into curious little eyes blinking up at the mother who would adore him forever.

  A booming voice shattered her thoughts. “Where’n hell are them eggs?”

  “Coming right up.” Refocusing on the task at hand, Ellie rinsed the skillet, wiped it dry and angled another quick glance out the window just as a gleaming luxury sedan pulled up in front of the lodge’s main entrance.

  A tiny spasm of fear tickled her throat.

  The passenger door opened, and a lithe blond woman emerged sniffing the air with predatory intent. The man exited from the driver’s side. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the area, lips thin with grim determination.

  Panic surged like bitter bile. Ellie pushed away from the sink, ripped off her apron and dashed to the employee lounge oblivious to the chef’s vile oaths. He was screaming that she was fired, but that didn’t matter anymore.

  Snagging her jacket from a coatrack, Ellie snatched a backpack out of her locker, dashed out the rear exit toward the woods and the safety of a nearby cabin that had been vacant since summer. Adrenaline pumped like fire through her veins, dulling the throb at the base of her spine, easing the sting of wind-driven snow in her face.

  She ran blindly, oblivious to the boiling gray clouds, the surrounding forest blurred by blowing snow and wind-whipped pine boughs. Escape was all that mattered now. They had found her. She had to get away.

  The axe blade sliced air, split the log cleanly. Samuel quartered the halves and tossed the firewood atop a huge pile stacked against the east side of the cabin, where it would be partially protected from drifting snow. He buried the axe in the cutting stump, tugged his sheepskin collar up to block the howling wind. A few sharp ice crystals stung his skin, signal of the storm. Black clouds boiled at the forest’s edge. The snow would be thick tonight. Several feet would fall by week’s end.

  Samuel Evans didn’t mind. Sierra Nevada could be treacherous in winter, but it could also be beautiful—a mysterious wonderland of wilderness blanketed in white, draped in tranquillity, shrouded in silence. In the belly of the mountain only nature dared raise its voice, howling with the wind or whispering through the trees or simply revealing itself in the comforting scrunch as tiny feet scurried over crusted snow.

  Samuel loved it all, the magnificence, the power, the absolute silence after a storm. Most of all he cherished the isolation. This was God’s country, where a man could be alone with his thoughts, consider the past with quiet reflection, contemplate what might have been.

  A rustling from the cabin porch caught Samuel’s attention, and was followed by the hollow click of doggy toenails on rough-hewn planks. A moment later, his aging, flop-eared hound lumbered around the corner, dropped a pinecone at his master’s booted feet. Old Baloo sat gingerly on the icy crust, his liquid fudge eyes peering bright and hopeful from beneath saggy lids.

  “What’s the matter, ’Loo? Don’t you think I’ve had enough exercise today?”

  Baloo rolled his head toward the patchy dirt road cutting a crusted swath through the trees, then lopped a glance up at his master with a dare-you gleam in his eyes.

  Smiling, Samuel scooped up the pinecone, bounced it on his gloved palm. “One hundred yards.” The old hound yawned, shifted his forepaws in the canine equivalent of a shrug. “Hey, cut me some slack, will you? I just chopped half a cord of firewood.”

  Heaving a lazy sigh, Baloo pleated a graying muzzle, and focused an intent gaze on the pinecone his master held.

  Samuel widened his stance, squinted down the road to gage distance. Using both hands, he grasped the cone like a baseball, raised it over his head, lowered it slowly to midchest.

  Anticipating the game, Baloo swished a happy tail, pranced in place. Samuel took a deep breath, held it, angled a covert glance at the gray-muzzled mutt. “Double or nothing,” he told the excited animal. “I feel lucky.” With that, Samuel wound up, kicked forward, uncoiled his arm and threw.

  The pinecone arched into the wind, hovered a moment, then sailed sideways and landed barely fifty yards away. Muttering, Samuel rubbed the back of his head. “Misjudged the wind,” he told the disappointed animal, who was much too lethargic to chase pinecones, but enjoyed watching his master throw them anyway.

  Flipping a reproachful look over his shoulder, Baloo lumbered back toward the cabin’s covered porch. Samuel trudged the same path, found the dog at the base of the porch steps, staring down the forest road with unique intensity. “What is it, boy?”

  The hound whined and to Samuel’s surprise suddenly shot across the clearing toward the road. “’Loo!” Samuel cupped his mouth, emitted a sharp whistle to which the dog had been trained to respond. This time, however, the old hound simply disappeared into the trees without a backward glance. “Damn.”

  It wasn’t the first time the normally lazy old hound had initiated a game of tag with a lurking deer or meandering rabbit. Samuel was annoyed by the abrupt departure, but not particularly concerned. Old Baloo knew these woods like the back of his paw, and had even been called upon to sniff out disoriented skiers who’d lost their way.

  Knowing the stubborn animal would be back when he was ready, Samuel knocked the ice off his boots on the porch steps and headed into the cabin to start supper.

  An hour later, the woodstove was glowing, stew was simmering on the propane cooktop and the tempting aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeated the interior of the primitive but cozy cabin that Samuel’s father had built nearly three decades ago. The open design was simple but efficient.

  In the front of the cabin, a central woodstove divided the living area from the sleeping area, over which was the cramped loft where Samuel and his older brother had once slept. There was a serviceable kitchen area large enough for a round pine table and four chairs. The compact bathroom had
been walled off between the sleeping area and the kitchen, extending beneath the loft.

  Now Samuel glanced out the kitchen window, saw the snow settling wetly on the mullioned frame. It was still in the twenties outside, although the temperature would dip well below zero by morning.

  Frowning, he studied a wall clock shaped like a leaping trout, worried because Baloo hadn’t returned. He shivered at the thought of venturing out into the frigid storm, but knew perfectly well he would. That lazy old hound dog meant the world to him. He’d do anything, even freeze himself solid, to protect his loyal companion.

  Heaving a resigned sigh, Samuel had just reached for the trusty sheepskin-lined jacket that was warmer than a down sleeping bag when a familiar whine was followed by a thin scratch at the cabin door. His heart leapt in relief. “Thank God.” Crossing the narrow room in three strides, he yanked open the door. “Where in hell have you—”

  The question died in the howling wind as he rocked back on his heels. Baloo whined again, shifted to support the weight of the woman leaning against him with her frigid fingers locked in a death grip on his collar. Her face was white as a blizzard, lips blue as bruises. Beneath the neon blue parka hood, a tangle of sable hair twisted wetly at her trembling jaw. A smattering of snowflakes clung to her frozen lashes, and the only sound she uttered came from the convulsive chatter of her teeth.