CULLEN'S BRIDE Page 23

  Getting into the garage was an unexpected problem. The wind was blowing against them, making the heavy, reinforced doors almost impossible to open. Gasping for breath, Rachel forced herself to think. She had to wait for a lull in the gusts, then quickly haul the door open and fasten it, otherwise it would slam back and hit her.

  Not for the first time in her life, she cursed her feminine weakness. Cullen could have done this one-handed without breaking a sweat. If only the wind would drop for just a split second.

  Agonising seconds ticked by; then finally a lull came. Rachel wrenched at the door, got her shoulder in the gap, then used the weight of her body to lever the door back against the shed. Fumbling and breathless, she located the hook and jammed it into place, anchoring the door open. Wiping rain and wet hair off her face, she rested while the wind pounded on her back and the rain drummed a staccato on the stiff oilskin. Time seemed to stretch out while she waited for her chance at the other door, and when the drop in the wind arrived, she almost didn't react. Stepping clumsily, her stomach suddenly feeling tight and heavy, she staggered to the other door and put her weight against it, almost falling over when it swung with unexpected speed. Latching it open, she stumbled into the dark interior of the garage, which was lightened where the battered roof was now open to the weather.

  The baby chose that moment to kick.

  "Don't you start," she muttered, massaging the place the little tyke was abusing and feeling the lumpy outline of a foot.

  After shrugging out of the pack, she unlocked and opened the car door, tossed the pack inside, then gingerly hauled herself into the driver's seat.

  The engine fired immediately. Breathless but relieved, Rachel backed out into the gravel turnaround area. Flicking on the lights, she eased out onto the farm road and began to drive slowly, searching the murky daylight for any sign of another vehicle. Finally she brought the car to a halt and stared down at a landscape she hardly recognised.

  The bottom paddocks were almost completely underwater. There was no stock in sight, so Cullen must have got them all away in time. Even as she watched, the water encroached on more pasture. The river itself was a boiling mass of brown, with branches and trees being railroaded along in the current.

  Movement caught her attention. There was an animal stranded on one of the last pieces of land still above water. No, there were two. Three. And one of them wasn't an animal, it was Cullen on his horse, Mac. He was attempting to pull another horse out of what looked like a ditch, and a lanky foal was in imminent danger of miring itself, as well. Cullen must have got the rest of the herd out, then come back for the stuck animal. But he didn't have much time left. Within a matter of minutes the whole area would be flooded.

  Rachel inched the car down the hill, then came to an abrupt halt. Cullen had left the truck parked in the centre of the road, above a bridge. There was no way she could drive around the truck without bogging her little car down.

  She could take the truck. The bridge still cleared the water by a foot or more. It would only take a minute or two to haul the mare out with the sturdy vehicle.

  Snatching up her pack, Rachel eased from the car, holding the door against the slamming wind. When the wind dropped, she made for the truck, using both vehicles as support.

  The truck was cumbersome after her small hatchback, but not unfamiliar. When she was old enough to drive, her brothers had made sure she knew how to use four-wheel drive vehicles during the holidays she'd spent at the farm. As she inched across the bridge, Cullen wheeled Mac and arrowed toward her at a reckless canter. She glanced down at the deep, narrow creek. Debris was packed up on the banks, crowded against the bridge timbers. She felt a shuddering vibration as a particularly large log rammed into one of the piles.

  It was a relief to be on solid ground again.

  She brought the truck to a halt just as Cullen slid off his horse and wrenched her door open. His face was taut, eyes narrowed against the wind and rain that hammered around him as he filled the doorway with the width of his shoulders. "Thank God," he muttered, then cupped her face with his cold, wet fingers, forced her lips apart with his and plunged his tongue into her mouth. The kiss was deep and hard and possessive. And over so fast that Rachel was still spinning when he pulled away.

  "What was that for?" she said into the relative calm of the cab.

  He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, he looked furious as well as grim. "The bridge is unsafe. The road barrier and reflective tape were all blown away by the storm. When I saw you driving down the hill, I didn't think you were going to make it across."

  Rachel's stomach clenched, tight and heavy with dread. "That was the bridge you told me about?" she asked, thinking back to what had seemed unimportant when mentioned over dinner one night.

  "That was the bridge," he echoed flatly. "Shift over."

  Rachel moved awkwardly onto the passenger seat, while Cullen hitched Mac to the fence. Then Cullen swung in behind the wheel and manoeuvred the truck into the paddock so he could use the winch on the front. He attached the rope to the harness he'd already strapped on the mare before inching the truck backward. The mare neighed a protest, her foal bugled shrilly, but she finally began to slip free. When she scrambled up the bank she was slimy with mud and trembling. Cullen led both horses through the gate, untied the harness and rope, and slapped the mare's rump, sending her shambling toward the relative safety of the hills, her foal close behind.

  Cullen backed the truck out of the paddock. The deeply notched mud-grip tyres slid in the wet, then bit solidly into gravel as he gained the road. The water followed them in a lapping tide, easing over the place where the horse had been stuck only seconds ago.

  Rachel glanced at Cullen's set face. "Now what?" she asked, knowing in advance what he was going to say.

  He drove his fingers through his hair, slicking it back from his face. "We wait," he said grimly. "If we take the truck over the bridge now, the whole thing will probably go."

  The water had risen in the short time since Rachel had crossed the bridge. As they watched, a tangle of tree branches caromed into the side of the debris piling up against the bridge timbers, creating a dam effect. The water began to spread on either side, onto the road.

  "I can't believe I drove across it," she said numbly.

  "Why do you think I went so crazy when I saw you? Damn it, when I said I wanted you to stop taking risks, I meant it."

  "You needed help with the horse," she countered stubbornly.

  "The hell with the horse."

  "There's no need to yell! I wanted you out of that paddock. If I'm going to lose you, it won't be to a flood."

  Cullen made a rough sound. His hand curved around her jaw; warm hard fingers stroked her skin. "You are one crazy woman. It would take a lot more than this to bring me down."

  Rachel rubbed her cheek against Cullen's palm, unable to resist the shimmering delight of his touch, even if he was mad at her. "A tree branch smashed into the garage. When that happened, I couldn't stop thinking about the same thing happening to you. I couldn't bear to stay inside when I thought you might be hurt or drowning."

  "You shouldn't have gone outside. If something hit you…" His fingers tightened on her chin. "How in hell did you get the garage doors open by yourself? And what were you doing in there with trees falling on the building?"

  "Not trees," she corrected, irritated by the way he'd homed in on what she'd already privately acknowledged as a miscalculation on her part. "One branch. And I opened the doors in the usual way."

  "The usual way." He said something terse beneath his breath. "The wind was slamming in hard against those doors when I secured them this morning."

  "I managed."

  His expression said he believed that only because she was here now. "You're supposed to be resting," he said in the controlled tones of one talking to a particularly dense child.

  "I've been resting for months! I'm sick of resting. I'm sick of you saving me, too. It was going to
be my turn to do the saving."

  Cullen's eyes narrowed at her outburst. A bubble of silence seemed to grow and expand to fill the cab of the truck, pushing back the sounds of the storm. He released her chin and raked his fingers through his wet hair. "Oh, baby," he said softly, his mouth curling in a way that made her bones melt. "What am I going to do with you?"

  Rachel blinked and looked away before she made a couple of pertinent suggestions that involved the next fifty odd years. Before she gave in to the need to reach out and touch him in the way he'd been touching her, to demand a kiss that would involve a lot more than longing and regret.

  "I brought you coffee and sandwiches," she said instead, reaching for the pack she'd dumped on the floor when she'd shifted seats. Just as she unscrewed the cap of the thermos, there was a loud cracking sound. Her head jerked up. She was just in time to see the bridge tilt, skew, then half submerge as the water gained momentum and punched through the gap where the supports had once been.

  Cullen swore with an earthy, somehow reassuring, fluency.

  "What do we do now?" Rachel whispered.

  "What we were going to do anyway. With the water running so high, we can't use any of the fords. Aside from that bridge, there's no other way out of this part of the farm other than to head up into the hills, then down onto Sinclair land. I'm going to call Cole on his mobile and tell him where to meet us. Then we drive as far as the road will take us, ride Mac along the stock routes until the going gets too rough. Then we walk. Or rather, I walk—you're not doing one more thing if I can help it, except breathe."

  Rachel stared at him with unfeigned horror. "You mean you're going to carry me?" Blessedly, in the past few weeks the nausea had stopped. Unfortunately, her appetite hadn't.

  Cullen didn't answer, which meant he was going to carry her. Rachel stared in dismay at her very pregnant body as Cullen swung out of the cab and hitched a sodden Mac to the rear of the truck.

  When Cullen clambered back into the cab, he jabbed a number on his cell phone and spoke tersely, then handed the phone to her. "Cole wants to talk to you."

  Rachel took the receiver and listened to a furious catalogue of brotherly anxiety and abuse. She noticed almost absently that Cole didn't blame Cullen as he once would have. He placed the blame securely where it belonged—on her shoulders.

  "I love you, too," she said wryly, when Cole had run out of sensible reasons for his sister's irrational behaviour and had started on the insane ones. Then she gave him the only reason that mattered. "I couldn't stay in the house when I thought Cullen might need help."

  After a few more gruff words, this time in a more reassuring vein, Cole let Rachel terminate the call. Cullen started the truck and headed up into the greyness that she knew hid hills, hills and more hills. Rugged country cloaked by a dense coverage of bush and broken by sheer rockfaces.

  He stopped the truck at the base of a particularly steep piece of road. "This is as far as we go on wheels."

  "Couldn't we four-wheel drive up there?"

  Amusement took some of the grimness from his expression. "We could rock and roll over these hills, but somehow, I don't think junior would appreciate it."

  Rachel touched her stomach. "I'm sorry. I came to help, but all I've done is cause you more trouble."

  His hand covered hers in what was now a familiar gesture. "You did help. Without the truck, I couldn't have got that mare out, and we would probably have lost the colt, too. If this is anyone's fault, it's mine. I should have had the damned bridge either repaired or demolished by now."

  Rachel stared out at the rough county, where the tussocky grass disintegrated into brooding bush and dark, towering peaks. She couldn't help thinking that if Cullen hadn't sacrificed so much of his time to help her, he would have finished the work on the bridge weeks ago.

  "Don't worry," he said, misreading her expression. "We'll make it out of here. We've got hours of daylight, and we'll take it slow. The first thing we need to do is check on the weather. The wind's eased, but I'd like a report before we leave the truck."

  Cullen turned on the radio and they both listened, frustrated at the static that fuzzed up the reception so badly that they could hardly hear what was being said. The hills cut off or disrupted the radio signals.

  "There goes Plan A," she muttered. "Do we have a Plan B?"

  Cullen switched the radio off. His gaze drifted to the pack she'd brought. For some odd reason, he smiled. "We eat. What did you cook me?"

  She plunked several spongy packages in his hand.

  "Peanut butter. Mmm. My favourite."

  He handed her one of the thick, doorstop sandwiches.

  Rachel's stomach twinged in protest. "I'm not hungry."

  "Eat it for her," he murmured, glancing at her tummy.

  Rachel took the sandwich and nibbled at a crust. It disgusted her that once she began to eat, she developed a hearty appetite and polished the whole sandwich off. "How do you know she's a she? She could be a he."

  He gave her a complacent very male look, "There's a little lady in there. I could tell by her foot."

  Another annoying twinge tightened her stomach, then shot up her back. She shifted her position to ease it. "Before you got the boot off or after?" she demanded irritably.

  Cullen frowned. "What's wrong?"

  Rachel rubbed at her back. Now that she'd eaten, she felt slightly nauseous. And she needed to go to the bathroom something fierce. "The usual. My back feels like it's got a knife stuck in it, and I need the bathroom. Now."

  "I'll help you." Cullen screwed up the sandwich wrapping, shoved it back in the day pack, then came around to her side and opened the door.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she asked weakly, knowing very well what he intended.

  "Taking you to the bathroom."

  "I can hold on."

  His brows lifted. "For how many hours?"

  She closed her eyes and held out her arms. He lifted her out of the truck, cradling her against the angled, driving rain as he walked as if she weighed nothing.

  "This is as sheltered as you're going to get," he said into her ear. Cullen set her on her feet, his big body shielding her from the worst of the weather. His hands slipped up beneath the oilskin, firm and gentle as he began pulling her leggings down.

  "I don't need any help," she protested, grabbing at her leggings as a cool, moist draught blew up her legs. She knew the sensation of exposure was ridiculous; she was draped in enough oilskin to make a tent, and they were standing in the middle of nowhere, with wind and rain howling around them. There was no one for miles, and no reason to blush. Biting back a disgusted groan, she gave in to Cullen's gentle pressure and squatted. Her back protested the movement, and the sudden stab of pain made her sag against his chest.

  "That's it," Cullen murmured into her ear. "Lean on me."

  His thighs were on either side of hers; he was all around her like a muscular supporting framework. Rachel gave in. Not that she had much choice. Her face burned as she voided a ridiculously small amount of liquid. When she was finished, Cullen helped her back to the truck. Once they were inside, he stripped them both of their oilskins, rolling one up so that the dry lining was on the outside—a crude, but usable bolster that he positioned in the small of her back.

  "See if you can sleep for an hour. By then the wind will have dropped even more and the going will be easier."

  Rachel tensed on another tightening pain.

  "Damn," Cullen muttered, grabbing a cloth from beneath his seat and mopping up a trickle of moisture. "The rain must have soaked through the oilskin."

  Rachel bit her lip. "Cullen," she said softly. "That's not rain. I think my water just broke."

  His gaze locked on hers, pupils expanding with shock, but he said quite calmly, "How long have you been having contractions?"

  "I didn't think I was! I've been having the usual back pain, and some twinges that I put down to muscle strain."

  "Muscle strain?" he repeated with a dangerous qu
ietness.

  "The wind was pinning the garage doors closed. I had to get in the garage."

  Cullen stared out at the grey, relentless hell of the storm. At the sheer, brutal force of the weather spinning off from the Pacific hurricane belt. Weather that killed, scything down on land just as wild. Even though the storm was diminishing in intensity and would blow itself out overnight, they were still cut off, isolated from any form of help. And Rachel needed to be in hospital. Now.

  Adrenaline surged white-hot through his veins, tearing a low, rough sound from his throat. Sweat leaped from his pores. Suddenly he couldn't block the emotion that beat at him from all directions. Sweet hell. He'd never felt such fear.

  Rachel's mother had died giving birth. Rachel and the baby could die because of him.

  He was the one who had allowed this impossible situation to develop. He'd gotten her pregnant, risked her health with the burden of bearing his child, brought her to live on his wild property with its dangerous propensity to flash flood.

  Ever since he'd returned to Riverbend, events had careered out of control. In the SAS, if there was an enemy to overcome, his options were as clinically precise as black on white. In Riverbend, the rules were wild, and the shadows of his past reached forward and touched everything with grey. And even though he now knew that most of the trouble and bad feeling had been deliberately manufactured by the man who'd been indirectly responsible for his father's death, he still had his own personal demon to deal with.

  And that demon seemed determined to give him a guided tour of hell. He loved Rachel more than his next breath, but all he seemed to bring her was trouble and danger, then more trouble and danger.

  Rachel met his gaze unflinchingly. Despite the discomfort and uncertainty she must be feeling, her eyes were clear, trusting. Trusting him. Pain spasmed in Cullen's chest. He picked up one of her tightly clenched hands and folded it in his. "The weather's too bad to airlift you out. The rescue services would never get a chopper in the air, even if they were willing to try. Our original plan is still our best option." He didn't add that it was their only option. "I'll get you to the hospital. It'll take two, maybe three, hours to get above the mouth of the river, then it'll be downhill all the way until we hit Sinclair land. Cole will be waiting for us with a four-wheel drive."