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Authors: Fiona Brand

BOOK: Cullen's Bride
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Cole nodded. “I thought I might put a call through to Dan.” His expression turned distinctly wolfish. “It'll take Hayward a good twenty minutes to hit the main highway in that fancy car of his, so we've got time to stop him. If Dan needs back up, I can despatch some of my guys to give him a hand.”
“Dan might not have enough evidence to move on Hayward yet,” Cullen warned.
“But there's no harm in trying,” Cole drawled softly. He sketched a quick salute and disappeared back into the lounge.
Cullen released Rachel. “Wait here. I'll drive as close as I can get to the door, then come and get you.”
“Do we have a vehicle?”
“Cole lent us one of his four-wheel drives. And if this weather worsens, we're going to need it.” Cullen didn't add what scared him most. If Rachel went into labour early, they would need a four-wheel drive to get through the inevitable floods and road damage and to the hospital care she needed.
“I don't care if this
has
been the party from hell,” she said abruptly. “I'm glad everyone knows what a rat Hayward is, Will he face charges?”
Cullen lifted his shoulders. “Trask's not likely to take all the heat on his own. He'll talk. If Caroline agrees to testify, Dan won't hesitate to mdict Hayward for harassment, at the very least. But even if none of the charges stick, Hayward can still kiss his career goodbye. He'll never work around here again, and it's likely he'll face disbarment.”
“He deserves everything he gets,” Rachel said fiercely, touching his arm. “What you did for Carolme...”
Cullen had to restrain himself from laying his hand over hers. Her fingers were pale and smooth, elegant and impossibly fragile against his scarred, muscled forearm. Beauty and the Beast. The analogy hit him forcibly. He felt like the Beast. Even now, his instincts were primitive. He wanted to haul Rachel close and keep her beside him so that she and everyone else would know that she was his. But he had to deal with her fear first, no matter what it cost him. Gently, he withdrew from her touch. “I frightened you.”
“You didn't
frighten
me! You've never frightened me. Now Hayward...” she said deliberately, “I'd say that's one very frightened man. If I looked apprehensive it was because I knew what that situation in there cost you.”
“Then maybe you
should
be frightened, because if you hadn't touched me when you did, I would have hit Hayward, and the way I was feeling, I wouldn't have wanted to stop.”
With a last shuttered look, he turned and strode out into the darkness.
Chapter 16
W
hen they reached home, Rachel made sandwiches and coffee for Cullen while he put the truck away. Every part of her body throbbed and ached in subtle ways, as if she'd been sandpapered from the inside out. She was exhausted, but it was as much a tiredness of the spirit as the physical strain of late pregnancy. Three weeks. That was all she had, and it was going too fast. Soon she would have a baby in her arms, a child to love and cherish, but they would be alone. She could feel herself breaking inside, a slow splintering of all her hopes and dreams, and she wondered how she could possibly survive it. Not that she would have any choice. She would have to survive, for the baby's sake.
The mudroom door opened and closed on a burst of wind as she lowered herself into a chair at the table. She could hear Cullen shedding his oilskin and boots, the sound of water running as he washed his hands; then he padded in.
Instead of taking his seat, he went down on his haunches beside her. His hand settled gently on the curve of her belly, sending minor shock waves through her at the unexpectedness, the tingling heat, of his touch.
“Are you sure you're all right?” he demanded. “If you think the baby's on its way, I'll take you to hospital now.”
Rachel met his gaze with calm determination. “I'm not in labour. The baby isn't due for three weeks. All my tests have been fine. Dr. Dalziel said I'd have to expect to feel tired. And that's all I'm feeling. Tired.”
She didn't say what was uppermost in her mind- Once she went to hospital, she would relinquish what little contact she had with Cullen, and she
wouldn't
give up on his love until she knew she'd lost.
In a move that was as unexpected as his hand caressing her stomach, Cullen touched her cheek, then the delicate skin beneath her eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said huskily. His eyes locked with hers for a long, drawn-out moment; then he straightened and turned the radio on.
The storm had been upgraded to a depression, and cyclone warnings were being broadcast at regular intervals. Often big weather systems headed their way but dissipated, swallowed by the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean before they ever reached the northern tip of New Zealand. This one was early in the season and had been discounted because of that. But instead of the innocuous drizzle that had been expected, the system was holding, building.
By twelve o'clock the next afternoon the windspeed was gale force. Rachel paced into the kitchen and stared out the window. A loud crack jerked her gaze around in time to see a branch of the big old puriri tree next to the garage break off and tumble down the corrugated iron roof of the building. The sound of glass shattering punctuated the steady howl of the wind.
She was alone in the house. Dane had stayed in town for the weekend, and Cullen was shifting stock out of the lower river flat pastures before the whole area flooded. He hadn't wanted to leave her, but Rachel had insisted. She felt perfectly fine, and the mares and foals needed to be moved. The wind wasn't as violent as it could have been, but with the torrent of water that would pour down off the hills, flash flooding was expected. Her final argument, that she could always ring Cole if she couldn't get hold of Cullen on his mobile phone, had finally convinced him.
Another strong gust battered the house, and abruptly the power went out, plunging her into gloom. A piece of iron that must have been dislodged by the falling branch peeled off the garage roof with a shrieking sound and whipped away, leaving a hole in the roof and other pieces of iron flapping.
Rachel rubbed her arms. Goose bumps roughened her skin, even though it wasn't cold. It was lunchtime, and Cullen should have been back by now. He'd rung twice earlier to check on her, but she hadn't heard from him for over an hour. He could be in danger, trapped by a flood or unconscious under a fallen tree. She picked up the phone and stabbed in his number—it took her a moment to realise the line was dead.
Of course. The power was out, so why should she expect the telephone lines to remain intact? Panic settled low in her stomach.
“Get ahold of yourself,” she said sharply. “Just because the phone's dead, it doesn't mean Cullen is. All it means is that he's taking longer to shift stock than he'd planned and he can't get hold of you.”
But even though she'd said the admonitory words aloud, they didn't comfort her in any way. Cullen was strong, but the relentless power of the storm was frightening.
Rachel paced the house, staring out different windows, straining to see past cascading water, to hear more than rain and moaning wind. The helplessness of being trapped alone in the house while Cullen was outside in
that
filled her with frustration. If the wind showed any signs of abating, she decided, she would take her car and check on him. The decision to act instantly made her feel calmer, more in control. The road to the river flats was high, well metalled and clear of trees—the chances of getting stuck were almost nonexistent. She would take a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches. She shivered at the monotonous flapping of the loose iron on the garage roof. She would take the first aid kit, too. If she parked with her lights on, Cullen would see her and come, and then she would know he was safe.
Quickly she filled a thermos with hot coffee and slapped plaunt butter sandwiches together. She stuffed everything into one of ancient canvas day packs that Cullen kept on a peg in the m room, then made herself sit down and wait.
The wind was supposed to drop through the day, and no matter how restless and downright scared she was for Cullen, she wouldn't rinsk her baby in dangerous conditions. Half an hour passed, and the wind did seem to lessen. She hadn't heard any more iron rip loose, and the torrential downpour had abated to a steady light rain driven by wind.
On impulse, Rachel grabbed the phone and punched in Cole's number, then remembered the phone was dead and let the receiver drop back onto its cradle.
She couldn't wait any longer
Dragging one of Cullen's oilskins on over her cotton sweater and leggings, Rachel stamped her feet into gum boots, awkwardly managed to shoulder into the day pack, then grabbed her car keys and braced herself to go out the door.
Even though she expected it, the wind nearly tore the handle out of her grasp. Gritting her teeth, she forced the door shut and walked gingerly down the steps, holding on to the railing with one hand, keeping the hood of the oilskin anchored to the top of her head with the other. When she rounded the corner of the house, the wind hit her full force. She staggered back Had she thought the wind had lessened? Bowing her head, she did her best to shield her face from the stinging, driving ram
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. Humbling 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 gnmiy. “If we take the truck over the bridge now, the whole thing will probably go.”
The water had risen m 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.

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