“Because?” His eyes bored into hers like a pair of stainless steel drill bits.
“Well, because I already was. Pregnant, that is. So I didn’t need to—”
“It’s mine,” Jake said wonderingly. “You’re going to have my baby!”
Wordlessly, Priss nodded. She couldn’t have spoken if her life depended on it.
“Judas priest, I’m going to be a daddy.” He was grinning from ear to ear, but his voice sounded hushed, almost reverent. And then he sobered. “Well. Okay, then. Here goes.” Clearing his throat, he launched into a speech that was plainly rehearsed. “First off, I’ve got right much money put by from sales and all. I was planning to use most of it adding onto the horse barn, but if you’ve got some other ideas, like maybe a baby’s room, why then, that’s all right, too. Second thing is, I don’t drink a whole lot anymore, but now and again, I might like to cut loose some. I’ve never lifted a hand against a woman—never will, and I don’t believe in running around once a man settles on his permanent woman. There’s some that think that’s sort of old-fashioned, but it makes sense to me.”
Jake looked self-conscious and magnificent all at the same time. Priss felt as if she were melting right down into her boots.
“Where was I? Oh, yeah. I don’t go to church, but I don’t reckon I’d mind if you was to want to start up.”
“Jake—”
“About children. I never figured on having ’em, so I don’t know much about this daddy-ing business, but I can learn.”
“Jake—”
“What I’m trying to say is, if you’re fixing to have a baby, why then, I’m going to be about the best dad-blamed daddy any kid ever had. What’s more, even if it turns out you’re not increasing, I still want to marry you. We could try some more. Maybe just to be certain, we’d better—”
“Jake?”
He cleared his throat, lifted his hat and settled it back on his head. “There. I think that about covers everything.”
“Oh, Jake,” Priss said with a sigh. She, who never wept, was weeping again. He hadn’t said a word about love. He didn’t have to. She knew love when she saw it.
And then he threw open the bedroom door and she commenced to laugh, but even then, it was a weepy, gasping, tearsome kind of laughter that was purely an overflowing of joy.
“I guess I should’ve asked you before I started fixing it up,” Jake said, and she shook her head.
“It’s wonderful. It’s beautiful. Jake, it’s the prettiest room I ever saw, only how did you know what I liked?”
“Faith said pink. Sue Ellen down at the diner said you liked a roof over your bed and you might like one of those French settees to lie back on and read in the afternoon.”
The walls were the color of strawberry ice cream. The floors were carpeted in rose, patterned with what appeared to be watermelon vines. The chaise longue was dark green velvet to match the painted and decorated chest of drawers and the velvet draperies at the tall, ripple-glass windows. There was a lot of ruffly white eyelet embroidery all over the windows, too—and the vanity and the king-size canopied bed.
It was wonderfully gaudy. It was Nora Barrington’s worst nightmare and Priss’s dream come true, mostly because of the big, rawhide man who stood in the middle of the room, watching her with an aching look of uncertainty on his rugged face.
But partly, too, because she truly did like gaudy.
“If you don’t like it, you can scrap it and start all over again. I can afford it.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said with a sigh. “Jake, I love it. And oh, how I do love you.”
Later, she never knew which one of them made the first move. She did recall mentioning that she liked soft mattresses, and Jake said something about feather beds, but by the time they made it to the bed, both were naked and neither one of them was thinking much about furniture.
“God, I missed you,” he said with a groan as he lowered himself stiffly onto the mattress, which wasn’t awfully soft, not that either of them noticed. “A dozen times I got nearly to town and then lost my nerve.”
“I kept trying so hard to forget you, but the more I tried, the more I thought about what it was I was trying so hard to forget.”
“You’ve got the most beautiful body in the world,” he said reverently, touching her breasts, which she fancied were already slightly fuller, and then sliding his hand down to her belly, which wasn’t, but soon would be.
They would talk more about the baby, she thought, but not now. Oh, my mercy, no—not when he was touching her the way he was, and doing all those wonderfully wicked things to her with his hands and his tongue.
When she rose to her knees and began to return the favor, Jake braced himself, gripping the pink-and-green flowered sheets with both hands. If she had the least notion of what she was doing to him, he would never be able to call his soul his own.
Couldn’t anyhow. When a man went down as hard as he had, he was truly down for the count.
He was too hungry for her to wait a moment longer. Handling her as gently as if she might break, he turned her over onto her back and knelt over her. “Stop me if I get too rough,” he said huskily. The fire that burned deep in his eyes was reflected in hers.
“Jake, I’m going to have a baby. That doesn’t mean I’m an invalid. Please…” Her breath caught in her throat as he thrust inside her. Light seemed to splinter around her head, and then she closed her eyes and let it happen.
And happen, it did. If the first time had been almost wonderful, the second time was all the superlatives in the world. There simply were no words to describe what was happening to her as Jake drove into her body again and again, his teeth clenched, his eyes closed, a look of exquisite agony on his sharp-planed face.
With a sharp cry, Jake collapsed on top of her, but almost immediately he rolled over onto his side, drawing her with him. Cradling her in his arms, he slept.
For a long time, Priss stayed awake, thinking of what they had just shared—thinking of what she had so nearly missed. If Jake hadn’t happened into the Baby Boutique—if she hadn’t been in there, too—or if he had found what he wanted and left before they could meet…
No. God wouldn’t be so cruel.
She slept for a while, safe and secure in the arms of love. It was pitch dark when she awoke, to find that Jake was awake, too.
“I reckon we got carried away,” he murmured.
His voice rippled over her, raising goose bumps. “I reckon we did,” she whispered.
“I don’t reckon we’d better do it again today, what with you being in the family way and all. Once a day is probably okay, though, don’t you think?”
“I take vitamins.”
“Oh.”
Playfully, Priss swung one leg over Jake’s hips. “Maybe you’d better start taking them, too.” She could tell from the way he was sucking his breath in between his teeth in teensy little gasps that he wasn’t quite as relaxed as he was pretending to be.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about Pete and Rosalie,” she mused.
The fact that she was able to think at all put her one up on Jake. Literally, as it happened. “Yeah?” he said between clenched teeth as she settled into position athwart his hips.
“I mean, what are we going to do if they don’t get along?”
He groaned. He could see right now that it was going to be a long night. A long fifty-odd years, if he survived it. “I reckon they can stake out their separate territories, mark ’em, and try not to step on the boundaries,” he said. “Me, I’ve already staked out mine.”
Gazing down at him from her lofty position, her streaky blond hair tumbling over her freckled shoulders, Priss said gravely, “I didn’t ask if you minded. About me beingum, where I am.” She jiggled her hips on his thighs as if to demonstrate. “There was this article I read about variety that said—”
Jake closed his eyes and prayed for endurance. “I gotta find out where you’re gettin’ all this readin’ material. Honey
, why do you think I call this place the Bar Nothing?” he asked.
Priss looked startled. And then she began to laugh.
And then Jake did, too.
And then, for a long, long time, neither one of them had very much to say.
* * * * *
Don’t miss the next book
in Silhouette’s exciting
DADDY KNOWS LAST series.
Here’s a sneak preview of
BABY IN A BASKET
by Helen R. Meyers
available in August from
Silhouette Romance.
Baby in a Basket
“What a difference a day makes, eh, folks? It’s Monday, August 17. Stay right here at KDYL for breaking news about the approaching line of thunder—”
Mitch McCord shut off the radio. He didn’t need to hear anything about the weather. A different, more catastrophic storm had already exploded right over his head, and the National Weather Service would be of no use to him whatsoever. But one thing was worth noting: twenty-four hours could make an incredible difference in a person’s life.
Amazing. Yesterday at this very moment he’d been climbing to thirty thousand feet on his way to California. Today he was sitting here on his driveway, trying to sum up the courage to go next door and face his future.
“This is your life, Captain Mitchell Sean McCord. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Just get your butt out of this ego machine, and watch what the bluebird of happiness bequeaths you.“
To think he used to believe being grounded was the worst thing that could ever happen to him. Short of utter disaster in the sky, that is—but he worked hard not to dwell on such a thing. He was a man who stayed in control, the guy who made things happen. A participant, not an observer. Well, apparently he’d participated one time too many. Where was his infamous power of positive thinking now?
Hang gliding in the Twilight Zone.
Too true. And it did no good to sit and mope. It certainly wouldn’t resolve his dilemma. Ready or not, he had to go knock at Jenny Stevens’s door and say, “Hey, Jen. Guess I’d better take the baby. My daughter. The one left on my doorstep this morning. With a note saying ‘Take care of your child.’”
A movement out of the corner of his eye had Mitch looking toward the right where Jenny peered out at him from the lacy-curtained frame that was her kitchen window. Ever-observant Jenny. Heaven only knew what she must think of him at this point.
With a heavy sigh, he shoved open the door and climbed out of the sports car. There was no putting this off. If he didn’t go in, she would come out. The smartest thing would be to meet her on her turf, pronounce the verdict, and beg for help. More help, since she’d already been wonderful that morning. Of course, he already knew what she was going to say. After living next to her for nearly half his life, he doubted Saint Jenny could surprise him much.
She would be supportive, sweetly reassuring, and generous to a suffocating fault. Agony. Nevertheless, he needed that right now—at least until he could figure out what to do about this mess.
He crossed from his property to hers, and approached the small house constructed of pink and gray granite with a white curlicue sign out front noting Jams By Jenny.
Surely he could converse with one harmless female for a few minutes and come away with what he wanted?
He almost had himself convinced. Then she opened the door and laughed at him.
“Well, for pity’s sake, McCord. You look like the verdict’s death by hanging.”
Apparently nothing was going to go as expected today. Mitch shot her a sour look. “It might as well be.”
Jenny’s dark eyes went wide and she clasped her hands together. “She’s yours, then? I mean, of course she’s yours. Anyone who looks at that baby would know it in a heartbeat. But…there’s been no missing persons bulletin filed? No call by a bereft mother? What did they say at the police station? Did you stop by the hospital, as I suggested?”
Since when did the woman prattle like a teenager with her first telephone? “Let me know when it’s my turn to say something.”
He knew he sounded like a grump, but he simply couldn’t help himself. Who needed all that bubbly chatter? Or the evocative scent of fresh baked muffins that attacked him as she stepped aside and he entered her kitchen!
There was no sound coming from across the room where the baby lay. This triggered Mitch’s curiosity, as well as a smattering of hope. If the kid wasn’t hungry at this point, Mitch told himself, he had a chance left yet, because no kid of his could be around aromas like this without ending up with a growling stomach.
Suddenly a pitiful wail erupted from the woven hamper on the kitchen table. Mitch hung his head. So there it was, the final knockout punch—as if he needed one at this point.
eISBN 978-14592-7886-8
THE BABY NOTION
Copyright © 1996 by Harlequin Books S.A.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office. Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017 U.S.A.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A
® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
Printed in U.S.A.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Dedication
Books by Dixie Browning
About the Author
Meet The Soon-To-Be Moms of New Hope, Texas!
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Preview
Copyright
The Baby Notion Page 16