The Sheikh's Small Town Baby Read online

  The Sheikh’s Small Town Baby

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  Want More?

  1. Teresa

  2. Jabir

  3. Teresa

  4. Teresa

  5. Jabir

  6. Teresa

  7. Teresa

  8. Jabir

  9. Jabir

  10. Teresa

  11. Teresa

  12. Teresa

  13. Jabir

  14. Teresa

  15. Jabir

  16. Jabir

  17. Teresa

  Epilogue

  More Series by Holly Rayner

  Copyright 2018 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  Teresa

  Snow trickles down my boot, along my bare ankle. I know I should have worn socks, but the fact that my laundry is all completely dirty deterred me from that civilized comfort. I stick my finger between the boot’s tongue and my bare skin, and try to scoop out some of the white flakes while I walk. At the same time, I tuck my pajama pants into the top of the boot, warding off any more crystallized intruders.

  Whoosh! My feet fly out from under me and all of my efforts to keep my feet dry backfire. Suddenly, I’m catapulting down the steep bank towards the river’s edge. After three or four turns, skidding between pine branches and boulders, I end up in a heap on the sandy bank.

  A squirrel chatters. It feels for all the world like he’s laughing at me.

  “Yeah? You try getting down that bank before you’ve had coffee,” I toss back at him.

  He scurries away, and I stand and straighten my fur-lined, army-green jacket, trying to regain my dignity.

  I don’t allow myself to feel too satisfied because, well, he is squirrel after all. And I’m a twenty-eight-year-old human being.

  I have to step up the bank a few feet to retrieve my sketch pad, which flew out of my hands as I slipped down the icy incline. My tin coffee mug is farther up, its contents splashed across the grey, pine-needle-strewn snow. Why I thought I could manage the steep descent carrying all of that and fix my boot at the same time is beyond me. I’ve never been an athletic girl; my memories of childhood kickball games are overshadowed by the paperback novels I would try to read while lazing in the far outfield—much to my gym teacher’s disapproval—when the ball happened to sail my way.

  My pink PJ bottoms are wet from my fall. I prop the empty coffee cup in the middle of the sandy bank, so I won’t miss it on my way home. Stepping carefully, I rock-hop over shallow, icy water out to a big, smooth boulder, where early morning sunshine is pooling.

  The dawn’s first rays start to dry me off as I stand there, looking out over the dark green river that lies just at the rock’s edge.

  Thank goodness it’s sunny. If not, my early morning start would have been futile, and I’d have to climb back up the bank and miss the best sketching hour of the day.

  I tilt my head up, trying to soak in some of the sun’s warmth and wake up a little bit, since my hazelnut cup of joe is watering pine roots.

  There are a couple of crows in the treetops, cawing as if their morning got off to just as rocky a start as mine has. I hold up my hand to shield my eyes, and look up towards the treetops. What has the birds so fired up?

  “She’s back!”

  I look around for my squirrel friend, to see if he’s heard my announcement. He’s too busy peering into the coffee mug that I’ve left on the sand to pay any attention to me.

  I settle down cross-legged on the rock, forgetting all about my semi-dry bottom. I pull out my charcoal pencils—a fine one in black as well as a grey-toned, thick one—and place them next to me. Within seconds, my hand is dancing across a fresh sheet in my leather-bound sketch book. My eyes never leave the eagle, who is working busily to arrange sticks in the crook of the tallest tree on the opposite bank.

  Together, my eyes and hands work seamlessly to create an image on the page. Half of the time, I don’t even look down at what I’m drawing. Though my gym teacher failed me twice, I’m sure she would be impressed by my hand-eye coordination if she could see me now.

  A second eagle, slightly smaller, joins the first. He’s lugging a massive stick with him, his wings beating hard with the effort.

  Her mate!

  I feel overjoyed for an instant, and my hand pauses as I watch him lay the stick down in the crook of the tree along with the others. They mate for life, eagles do. I remember when I learned that, I thought my Uncle Joe was pulling my leg. It sounded too good to be true. But it is true!

  I forget about the sketch I’m working on as I watch the couple work on this year’s home together. They’re just like two busy newlyweds, preparing a nursery. He flaps attentively around the edges of the stick-castle, while she centers herself in the middle, fine-tuning his efforts.

  I’m reminded of my friend Janine, and the way she and her husband seemed to have boundless energy before she gave birth to their first son. Will I be like that? Will I have the “nesting instinct” as Janine called it when I lectured her about staying up late to paint the nursery walls.

  “You’re pregnant—you need your sleep!” I’d said.

  “I feel all this nesting energy,” Janine had said happily. “You’ll see when you have your first kid.”

  That had been eight years ago, when we were both twenty. Now, all these years later, I’m still waiting to find out what that kind of energy feels like. Janine is having her third baby soon, and here I am, no closer to having a family than the icy November Wakanaki River is to boiling.

  I sigh and close my notebook. My urge to sketch is gone.

  I frown as I watch the two birds work together. When will I have a partner like that—a mate for life? Heck, at this point, I’d settle on a couple of dates with a nice man. It’s been months since I’ve seen anyone.

  The sun gets warmer, and I peel off the beanie that I’ve thrown over my tangled blond hair. The sun is almost hot against my bare head, and I look up to see where it is. It’s climbed up higher in the sky—it’s almost in line with the top of the white pine that the eagles are working in.

  Shoot! My hands fly to my beanie and I yank it back over my ears as I struggle to stand up. With the sun that high, it must be nine at least.

  That means—I fumble as I try to grab my pencils in one swoop—I should be back at the cabin, getting ready for work! I’ve stayed down at the river way too long.

  I scramble up the bank, using my bare hands to grab pine branches and haul myself up as fast as I can. I’ve crossed the dirt road and am at the front door of my cottage before I realize that I’ve forgotten my tin mug down by the river.

  There’s no time to get it. I run a brush through my hair and throw on black pants and a blouse. I jam my bare feet into a pair of rubber boots. My ballet flats are already in a plastic bag by the cabin’s entry way, and I toss them into my purse before I rush out the front door.

  The grey pickup my grandfather left me starts right up, and fifteen minutes later I’m pulling into the back lot of the Mountain Laurel.

  I’
m through the staff entrance, sliding into my flats, when my boss, Dawn, enters the back hallway.

  “Teresa! I was just going to give you a call. Were the roads okay?”

  “So sorry I’m late!” I look down and breathe a sigh of relief as I see that I’m only five minutes late for my shift. I take off my hat and shake of the few flakes that gathered there as I walked from the parking lot to the hotel. “It just barely started coming down. The roads were just fine.”

  “They’re saying twelve to eighteen inches over the next twenty-four hours,” Dawn says. She’s grabbed the black portable phone in the entryway. “I don’t know if Joan will be able to get here at four for her dining room shift—it’s already accumulating on Perkins Peak, I heard. I’m going to give her a call and see if she has the truck tonight.”

  Dawn starts to dial. Her face is pinched with concentration. Tilting her gold-rimmed glasses down off of her nose, she peers at me after punching in the numbers. “Don’t suppose you’d want to stay and waitress tonight? You’re in the truck, right?”

  I’m smoothing out my hair and pinning my name tag to my blouse. If I work a double, my paycheck would be a little plumper than usual. But that would mean hanging out in the sleepy confines of the Mountain Laurel for a full twelve hours—or longer, depending on how late the last dinner guests linger. Plus, snowy late night traveling, regardless of my four-wheel drive and studded tires, is never a good way to wind down for bed. I’d be up till midnight, and that might mean missing out on a visit to the eagles at sunrise tomorrow. I bite my lip, deep in thought.

  “It should be a decent night for tips,” Dawn’s voice singsongs up and down as she tries to tempt me to accept. “You know how it is on snowy nights.”

  I nod. “Okay. If Joan can’t make it, I’ll cover.”

  “That’s my girl.” Dawn flashes me a grandmotherly smile just as Joan answers. Dawn sweeps out of the room while she talks to the head (and the Mountain Laurel’s only full-time) waitress. It’s not until midafternoon that I learn the verdict.

  I’m trying to keep myself busy by cleaning out the lost and found drawer when Dawn catches me off guard. I’ve completely zoned out, and the feather duster in my hand is sweeping back and forth along one section of empty shelving while I daydream about my artwork.

  “I think that you’ve gotten all the dust in that spot—it’s sparkling, honey,” Dawn chuckles.

  My shoulders twitch with surprise, and I move the duster to another part of the shelf.

  “Daydreaming again?” she asks.

  I lift myself up off of my knees and stand so that I can see Dawn. “The eagles are back.”

  She smiles at me. “You do love those birds,” she says. “Remember, we need another one of your sketches to replace the one that was damaged when the pipe blew out in the blue room.”

  The Mountain Laurel’s rooms each have their own color theme. The blue room is one of our nicest suites, along with red and yellow.

  I nod. “That’s on my mind. Nothing’s been quite right, yet, but maybe now that the birds are back, I’ll do one of them. That would look nice in the blue room, I think.”

  Dawn is one of the only people who has ever actually paid me for my artwork, and her reminder gives me a boost. The day’s been dragging on, but just the prospect of selling another piece of art makes me feel better. I feel myself stand up straighter. “What did Joan say? Can she get off the hill?”

  Dawn holds up the phone. “She wasn’t sure when we spoke. Had to wait till Derryl called her back to see if he could bring her the truck in time. That was just her on the phone. He’s stuck in Melrose—won’t make it back.”

  “So you want me to stay?”

  She nods. “We’ll cook you up something tasty for dinner, and you can take a break before you start. I know it’s a long day for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I lick my lips, thinking about Dawn’s husband’s cooking. As the head chef and co-owner of the Mountain Laurel, Neville has been wowing out-of-town guests and locals alike with his gourmet cooking for over twenty years. Thinking of the approaching dinner makes my mouth water.

  I place my hand on my stomach. “That would be awesome. I forgot to pack lunch.”

  “Oh, you poor thing! I’ll have him start it now. You can eat at four. The special is salmon, seasonal vegetables, and wild rice. Sound good?”

  I nod eagerly.

  She pats my back. “And he’s whipping up a tiramisu for dessert. I know he’d love it if you tested it out. We’ll get some padding on those bones eventually.” She winks.

  I’ve been working for Dawn and Neville here at the Mountain Laurel since I was a skinny high schooler—first as a housekeeper, and more recently at the front desk.

  “Not if you keep on workin’ me twelve-hour days! I’m going to be worn to the bone, here.” I tease back.

  She winks at me. “You’re one of the hardest workers in New Hampstead. I’m sure you can handle it. I’m going to tell Neville to add a little extra heavy cream to your salmon’s lemon-dill sauce.”

  I laugh. She heads out of the room, and I’m once again left to dust the shelf as I daydream. This time, it’s food I’m salivating over, not my longing to be a full-time artist.

  Instead of dreading the waitressing shift, I’m looking forward to it. New Hampstead is in a box canyon, so we don’t get much through traffic. But sometimes, travelers venture up into our valley to escape the treacherous roads that would take them over Perkin’s Pass. As the town’s only hotel, the Mountain Laurel collects stray travelers. Who will the storm bring in tonight?

  Chapter 2

  Jabir

  I punch at the radio dial. Static. Again. “Nothing comes in here.”

  “That’s because we’re in a valley, Jabir.” My twin brother, Hassan, takes his eyes off of the road long enough to jam one leather-gloved hand towards my passenger-side window. I turn my head and see a snow-covered mountain. “Perkins Peak, there, and Pennsylvania’s highest range, the Appalachians, over there.”

  He motions out the driver’s side window, and as he does so, the car swerves slightly. The sliding sensation grows and Hassan slams both hands back on the wheel. He jerks it back and forth, trying to correct. “Shoot, this is getting slick.”

  “Remind me again why you’re driving my new car?” I ask.

  “Because, you have zero experience in the snow. I at least have some.”

  “Barely.”

  “More than you.”

  I can hear resentment in my brother’s voice, and reluctantly I realize that it’s justified. Over the last few years, as our father began buying up industrial real estate to house our factories in America, Hassan has left our sunny home country of Dalia many more times than I. This might be fine, except for the fact that he’s the one with a one-year-old son at home, while I, the single one, have no reason not to travel abroad.

  I move past his passive-aggressive comment with one of my own. “How am I going to learn how to drive in the snow if you don’t let me try?”

  “Hey, I want to get to this town in one piece,” Hassan says. “This car isn’t made for weather like this. I told you we should have taken something with more stability.”

  We’re sliding again, and now I’m too afraid to squabble anymore. I cling to the roll bar above my right shoulder for dear life. The newest model of Canarra’s sports line—my father’s company, for which Hassan and I both work—is designed for a racetrack, not the snow-covered Pennsylvania roads we’re traveling. Hassan’s right; my insistence on taking the sports car from the lot in New York, when we started our tour of our father’s Stateside Canarra factories, had been foolish.

  Hassan scowls at the snow-covered road as if it’s his mortal enemy. “Keep trying to find some weather on there.” His voice is tight.

  “I’m trying.”

  I tap the “seek” button again. A country song jangles over the speakers, crackling with static. I’ve jacked the volume way up as I searched, and now I lowe
r it.

  Frustrated by the lack of reception, and possibly trying to displace my fear, I burst out with my complaints. “How do these people do it? Nothing comes in, except for fifty-year-old music! I feel like we’re going back in time or something. Don’t they miss modern amenities?”

  A large wooden sign appears through the thick veil of snowfall. “New Hampstead. Population 203.”

  “We made it,” Hassan breathes.

  “Two hundred and three! That’s less than then number of people who live in the palace!”

  Hassan chuckles, relaxing now that we’re rolling into town. “It’s rural America,” he says. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. A couple thousand?”

  I continue flipping through the stations, also feeling more relaxed now. Finally, I catch a part of a weather report: “…two feet in Sharpee County, and we can expect more than that north of Sharpee, in Melrose and New Hampstead. So get out your snow shovels, folks! And make sure you have lots of water and firewood in the house, because with this much snow we are sure to see some power outages.”

  I’m peering at the window, looking at the small town as we start to drive down what I can only assume is the main street. There are a few brick buildings, about five stories high. Besides that, the buildings are squat and wooden. Some have signs out front. I can’t read the signs through the flurry of white flakes, but I get the idea that they are naming businesses. Though it’s only five o’clock, the windows are dark.

  “Where is everybody?” I turn to Hassan. It’s a nasty habit of mine to always rely on him for the answers. I have to remind myself that this is his first time in the small town as well, and that despite my respect for his intelligence, and the fact that he’s three minutes older than I, he isn’t all-knowing.

  My brother, never one to turn down the opportunity to know something I don’t, takes a stab at an answer. “Probably all went home early for the storm,” he guesses. “I’m sure they’re have certain routines for weather like this, up here in the mountains like we are.”