by Lori Wilde
“Or make them worse,” Tara muttered so quietly he barely heard her.
“Civility,” he said, and offered up a slow wink. His go-to grin designed to win people over. It didn’t work on Tara. He should have known. She was a killjoy from way back.
She glowered like a thundercloud and set her lips to “prim.”
His smile wavered. Did the black eye mar the effect of his trademark grin? Or was he forever doomed where Tara was concerned?
She waved them over the threshold. “Please, come inside.”
Tara stood next to the door. She was the tallest of the Alzate girls. Five-seven. With a sturdy but trim figure appropriate for the physical demands of a nursing job. Full hips and breasts. Curvy waist. Long, straight black hair pulled into a single braid at her back. High cheekbones paid homage to the Mescalero Apache ancestry on her father’s side.
Ms. Bean went first, passing Tara in the foyer.
Rhett followed, his shoulder accidentally grazing Tara as he passed. A shot of static electricity snapped between them.
Crack.
She gasped. It was a soft but audible sound. He felt a corresponding underground vibration running through him like a mallet striking a gong.
He jerked his head around and met her gaze.
Her dark eyes were wide and startled. She moistened her lips, and he saw a dash of her pink tongue. For a whisper of a second, their gazes locked, and it felt as if they’d gotten trapped together in some exotic maze without an exit.
Then he scooted away from her as fast as he could, following Ms. Bean into the living room. The duplex was small, but clean and orderly. Still, it was not the palace his little princess deserved to grow up in.
“Please sit down,” Tara invited, fastidious and proper. She eased onto the edge of the couch, the baby tucked securely in the crook of her arm.
The room was stiff with awkward silence. A coffee carafe and teapot rested on a serving tray, along with baked goods and his childhood favorite, strawberry wafer cookies. Had she recalled he liked the cookies or was it merely coincidence?
It touched him to think she might have remembered.
Kitschy cookies aside, the elegant spread looked like something from a fancy women’s magazine. But that was Tara, hostess to the max.
A lazy memory drifted over him. An outdoor tea party organized by Tara. The four Alzate girls wearing their mother’s jewelry and high heels. Sipping grape Kool-Aid from tiny teacups, their pinkie fingers stuck out in the air. Munching on wafer cookies and animal crackers.
Man, but he’d wanted in on that tea party.
Rhett had been hiding out from his brother Remington, lurking on the roof of the well pump house, crouched above them in his secret spot underneath a giant old mesquite tree.
He’d spied on them until he’d gotten bored, dropped down from the roof to land in the middle of the folding table. He’d slipped on the shingles in the descent, hit the table, and rolled off. Ended up on his back on the ground, all the air knocked from his body, lungs spasming, staring up at the squealing girls gathered around him.
“Stupid boy,” Ember, the oldest sister, had muttered, scowled, and sank her hands on her hips and shook her head, a motion that sent her Irish red curls bouncing. She was the only one of the Alzates who looked like their mother, Bridgette. “You’ve ruined everything.”
“You killed Walker!” Kaia cried, cradling a squashed walking stick insect in her palm. “Murderer!”
“You got Kool-Aid on my new shirt,” Aria wailed. “Punch him, Em, punch him.”
“Don’t punch him, Em,” Tara had pleaded, sinking to her knees beside Rhett. “Can’t you see he can’t breathe?” She stroked his forehead. “Kaia, put down the dead walking stick and go get Lucy. Aria, hush up. Ember, stand over here to give us some shade.”
He remembered staring up into Tara’s face and in that split-second thought, She’s an angel.
The memory loosened its grip, but seeing Tara pick up the baby from the bassinet, his baby, the premature baby she’d taken care of in the neonatal unit for four months, he thought again, She’s an angel.
Ms. Bean took the chair opposite the couch, leaving Rhett to sink down beside Tara.
She stiffened, giving off don’t-touch-me vibes.
It made him want to touch her all the more. To make sure that he didn’t, Rhett scooted as far away from her as he could get until his hip bumped against the arm of the couch. But he could still smell her scent, the soft, muted fragrance of lavender and lemons.
She kept her eyes trained on Ms. Bean and her arms wrapped around the baby. “Please, help yourselves to some refreshments.”
God, but she was a polite one even when she didn’t want to be, with that starched spine and those shapely knees pressed tightly together. She wore a sunflower yellow dress, and her tawny legs were bare.
What gorgeous gams.
“You too,” she said to Rhett without making eye contact.
While they’d never been buddy-buddy, there had never been this level of animosity between them before. Not even when she threatened his private parts over dating Aria. But hey, this was understandable, right? Considering the circumstances.
“I need to feed Julie.” Tara leaned over and reached into the diaper bag positioned at her feet. She took out a small bottle of baby formula.
“Julie?” he whispered. “Is that her name?”
“Julie Elizabeth.” Tara rested the bottle’s nipple on the baby’s tiny pink mouth, and Julie began to suckle.
“Julie Elizabeth Lockhart,” he said, testing it out.
It was a sweet, delicate name that stripped him of all his defenses. He had a daughter named Julie Elizabeth. “Who named her? Rhona?”
It didn’t seem like a name Rhona would have chosen. Not that he knew Rhona all that well, but she seemed the type to name her baby something offbeat or exotic. Like Jett or Sierra or Trinity.
“I named her,” Tara said. “She needed a name, and since I was her primary nurse, the hospital allowed me to name her.”
“It’s not uncommon,” Ms. Bean explained, “in the case of babies abandoned at hospitals for the nurses to name them.”
Abandoned.
The word was a knife to his chest. His little girl’s mother had abandoned her. Hell, in a sense he’d abandoned her too. Guilt was a sledgehammer, whacking him over the head. He was a lousy-ass father. Julie had been all alone for four months.
Well, not completely alone. Tara had been with her.
His heart opened, and his chest softened, and if Tara hadn’t been holding the baby, he might just have given her a hard, impulsive hug. It cut him to the quick that his child did not have a mother. He knew what it was like to lose your mom. His mother had died of breast cancer when he was eight, and Duke had completely checked out. Leaving Rhett and his brothers to be raised by a string of nannies, with help from their housekeeper, Tara’s mother, Bridgette.
“Would you like to feed her?” Tara invited.
“Huh?” Rhett blinked.
“Would you like to feed your daughter?”
“Me?” He placed a palm over the right side of his chest.
“You are her father.” Tara extended the baby toward him.
His hands trembled as, hesitantly, he reached for her. The clock on the mantel gonged the hour. Dong, dong, dong.
“Hold her like this.” She demonstrated how he was to cradle the baby for the most support, and then showed him how to hold the bottle so Julie wouldn’t suck in too much air.
Oh gosh, oh wow. The baby was in his arms, looking up at him. Her big blue eyes wide with curiosity. That little mouth, so fascinated by him, was no longer working the nipple. She stared, watching him.
Their gazes met. Held.
Then she did the most amazing thing. She reached out a little hand, curled it around his pinkie finger, and went back to sucking on the bottle.
Rhett’s heart squashed in his chest, flattened by a truckload of emotions. A virtual flood
gate of feelings. Who knew?
Lamar was right, damn him. He shouldn’t have come. He should have signed that affidavit and relinquished his rights on the spot. Because seeing the baby did change everything.
Walking away was no longer an option.
Chapter 5
Honest bucker: A bull that bucks the same way every time out of the chute.
Tara mustered every ounce of courage inside her, placed the baby in Rhett’s arms, forced herself to let go, and stepped back.
The sinewy cowboy, whom she’d known all her life, peered down at the baby as if she were a magical unicorn. Rhett looked utterly gobsmacked. His eyes widened and his breath quickened, and his mouth formed a surprised O.
Her heart staggered sideways. He felt something for the child. She could see it in the way his face softened and his eyes glistened.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey there, little one.”
She couldn’t bear to watch him watching Julie. Gnawing her bottom lip, Tara dropped her gaze to his feet. Studied his cowboy boots as if they were the most fascinating things she’d ever seen. Black hand-tooled leather, red flames inlaid, special order.
Of course the boots were special order. Everything about Rhett Lockhart was special order.
Her gaze drifted up his faded Wrangler’s to that dazzling belt buckle. The showoff. He wore a blue and green plaid shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps instead of buttons. His body was lean and hard in the way of bull riders, full of swagger and gall.
He was colorful, energetic, rash, and extravagant. He was the first person to pick up a restaurant tab or stuff a twenty-dollar bill into a tip jar. A party followed him wherever he went. His quicksilver mind was both intriguing and exhausting. He’d dropped out of high school at seventeen, but later he’d gotten his GED. He was whip-smart but tended toward laziness. Rich. Spoiled. Alluring.
And now he was a father.
The father of the baby she yearned to adopt with every fiber of her being. The child she ached to call her own. Tara placed a palm over her lower abdomen, inhaled deeply.
Rhett cooed to the baby, “I’m your daddy.”
Tara cringed. Adorable. The man was freaking adorable. But it was easy to fall head over heels for Julie. That didn’t mean Rhett had what it took to be a father. Not for the long haul. Surely, he had to realize that he was in no position to raise a child on his own. He was constantly on the road. He had a dangerous job . . .
“Hey there, Jules. Can I call you Jules?” He slid a sidelong glance over at Tara as if asking for her permission.
Fear was a band around Tara’s chest, squeezing tight. He’s given her a nickname. He’s going to take her away. You’re going to get left out.
The teapot rattled.
Tara shifted her gaze to Ms. Bean, who was peering at her over the rim of her teacup, pinkie out. Observing. Assessing. That ’70s Show meets British high tea.
Tara hid her jealousy with a soft smile. I’m cool. I’m civil. Can’t you see? I want what’s best for Julie. Always. And what’s best for Julie is me.
But what if she were wrong? What if Rhett was best for Julie? What then?
Everyone, from her colleagues, to her family, to her lawyer, warned her not to get too attached. So many obstacles stood between her and the adoption. And the biggest obstacle of all was sitting right next to her on the couch.
Julie’s tiny little fist was curled around Rhett’s big pinkie finger. Transfixed, Rhett stared at the baby. “She’s a miracle,” he murmured, clearly bowled over. “A solid miracle.”
Tara’s heart was a fist, pummeling against the inside of her chest like a punching bag. Overcome by the sweet sight of father and daughter, she had to look away again. She glanced out the window to the backyard, where she’d already put up a small swing set. The wind gusted and set the empty swing swaying.
Ms. Bean stood up. “Bathroom?”
“Down the hall, first door on your left,” Tara directed with a wave.
Ms. Bean’s high-top sneakers padded softly against the tile floor. The minute the door clicked closed, Tara whirled to face Rhett. It was on the tip of her tongue to bark, What in the hell do you think you’re doing? But she managed to control herself. Exploding like an incendiary device would not help her case.
Easy does it.
Rhett was the sort of guy who took demands as challenges. For him, rules were something to break, tradition something to flaunt. She’d get nowhere by throwing shade.
Julie was her goal. Love was her motive. Rhett was the monkey wrench. She had to conduct the situation with a delicate hand.
“Overwhelming, huh?” she said, infusing her tone with a friendly note. Way to keep things light. Thumbs up, Tea! Her snarkier inner voice cut her no slack.
Rhett glanced up, his eyes shiny. “I . . . I . . . had no idea.”
Ah, crap. Why did he have to look so utterly vulnerable?
“Parenthood is not something to be taken lightly,” she whispered.
“No.” He nodded as if he had a clue. “It’s not.”
“Raising a child is a lifelong commitment. It doesn’t stop at age eighteen. It’s not a whim.”
His face paled beneath his tan. His Adam’s apple pulled up and down in a massive gulp, moving like a nibbled fishing bobber on a calm lake. “Yeah.”
“Pretty tough raising a child for a single man who lives on the road.” A tickle of fear feathered through her. Had she pushed too hard?
His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared. He was scared, but too tough to admit it. Wasn’t that the definition of foolishness?
Or was it courage?
“You want to adopt her.” His voice was flat. The muscles in his arms tensed, the veins at his wrists ropy and strong.
The baby was still clinging to his pinkie.
Tara moistened her lips, met his gaze head-on. Heard the theme song from Brave rise in her head as she mentally channeled her bold older sister, Ember. “I do.”
“Why?”
“I love her.” It was an ironclad statement, honest and true. “Long before I learned she was my niece by marriage, I was in love with her.”
“Do you want to adopt all the babies you fall in love with?” His tone held the sliver of a blade, razor-sharp and piercing, a quick stabbing wound.
“Only the ones who’ve been abandoned,” she said, her words coming out more tartly than she intended. He’d started it with the tacky tone.
His features hardened, and his cheeks reddened. “I didn’t know.”
His shame mollified her. Maybe he wasn’t a complete lost cause. “Because heaven forbid you would ever check back with any of the women you’ve bedded and see how they’re doing.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Is it untrue?” She softened her voice, not wanting to be a total ball-breaker, especially when he’d gone contrite.
The redness in his cheeks darkened. “No.”
She shrugged, her point made.
“You’re angry with me.”
“I’m angry for Julie. This isn’t about you.”
His lifted the eyebrow with the stitches, winced. “No?”
God, why did he have to look so adorable? “Surprise. Not everything is about you.”
“I agree. Not everything is about me. But your attitude? That self-righteous tilt to your head? That is about me. You disapprove of my lifestyle and don’t even try to deny it.”
Purposefully, she relaxed her spine. She was mad at him, but she wasn’t going to admit it. She wanted to say, Where were you when Julie needed you most? But that might goad him into saying, Well, I’m here now. And she did not want to say or do anything to encourage him to stick around.
His whiskey-colored curls were mussed from his cowboy hat. His dark eyes plowed into hers over the top of the baby’s head. Unabashed and unapologetic.
Tara gulped, and her uterus rippled again. You’re losing it, Alzate.
A day’s growth of scruff ringed his jaw, dusty and stubbled. Compound th
at with the black eye, bruises and stitches, and, well, he could have been a stunt double for Jesse James. He looked raw, primal, untamed. Except for the baby in his arms. The tender way he held Julie canceled out the outlaw mien. But it did nothing to lessen his sexual appeal.
In fact, if anything, the baby made him more attractive.
She tracked her gaze over him. He sported an outdoorsy tan, and his hands were calloused but clean. He used his body to make his living, and it showed in the way he carried himself. He was a well-oiled, finely tuned machine. As sleek and impressive as a luxury sports car engine.
She hadn’t been in a luxury sports car since Kit’s Porsche. She missed the feel of how a precision automobile hugged the road’s curve. The smell of the expensive leather. The sensation of wind blowing through her hair with the top down.
Tara moistened her lips. Shook off thoughts of revved engines and the smooth ride of sports cars. “It’s hard for me,” she said. “Thinking of you as a dad.”
He gave a defenseless laugh, full of nervousness and humility. “I’m still wrapping my head around it too.”
There he went again, redeeming himself by showing vulnerability. He was making it hard for her to hate him. “No one I know could ever picture you with a kid.”
“Me least of all.” He paused, his eyes still on hers. Those steady eyes that had her thinking of rich, dark chocolate.
Her heart knocked like a clunker in dire need of a tune-up. Why?
“I want to thank you, Tara,” he said. “For taking such good care of my daughter. You did far more than I ever could have.”
Mutely, she nodded. Her muscles—which had tensed when he’d given Julie a nickname and he’d looked at the baby as if he’d stumbled over a secret treasure—started to unwind. He knew he wasn’t equipped to take care of a child. He wouldn’t be fool enough to file for custody.
To hammer the point home, Tara gave him an earful of what life was like with a preemie. “It’s a big responsibility. She has weekly doctors’ visits and probably will for her first year. She sleeps on an apnea monitor to alert you in case she stops breathing. She has GER and is prone to spitting up three or four times a day. To avoid that, she needs smaller, more frequent feedings. She takes daily medication for—”