The Cowboy's Christmas Proposition

by Silver James

  An older man wearing a plaid flannel shirt covering a paunch that hung over his belt buckle offered a little wave. “I drive the bus,” he explained.

  Quin closed her eyes. She hadn’t had enough caffeine to deal with groupies and good-ol’-boy bus drivers, much less stars too handsome for her taste. When she opened her eyes, no one had moved. She pointed at the driver as she pulled out a notebook and pen. “You. Tell me your full name and what happened?”

  “Max, ma’am. Max Padilla. After the concerts, I hang around backstage until the after-party starts to break up. Then I come out and warm up the bus. It’s a diesel so it runs rough on cold nights if I don’t. Plus, I like to get the heat goin’ in the back so the guys are warm, you know?”

  Holding on to her patience, Quin prompted, “The baby?”

  “Well, yeah. I was gettin’ to that. So anyway, I came out to start the bus and there was the usual stuff stacked up around the door.”

  “The usual stuff?”

  “Yeah. Flowers and...” The man stared at his boots. Was he blushing? “And stuff that girls—fans—leave for Deacon and the boys.”

  “Stuff. What kind of stuff?”

  A guy who looked Asian leaned forward. “We get love notes and T-shirts and—”

  “Bras and panties,” a younger version of Deacon Tate explained.

  Why her? She was so close to end of shift. Quin made a pointed notation in her book: Stuff! She looked up, pretending Deacon didn’t steal her breath. “And?”

  When Deacon’s younger clone opened his mouth, Deacon himself cut him off. “Shut up, Dillon. There was a basket tucked in with all the stuff.” He glanced through the bus doors, and Quin noticed a wicker basket for the first time. “Little Noelle here was inside all bundled up in blankets with her diaper bag.”

  “You know her name?”

  Another man, just as handsome as Deacon but with darker hair and eyes—because she’d just realized Deacon’s were blue—stepped closer, an envelope in his hand, and introduced himself. “I’m Chance Barron.”

  That was a name she was familiar with. The Barron family attorney. Just jolly. Her night kept getting better and better. “And you are here why, Mr. Barron?”

  “Deacon is my cousin. My wife, Cassie, and I were here for the concert.”

  “I’m Jolie Barron,” the brunette added. “I’m an RN and I can check her over if my big goof of a cousin-in-law will give me a chance to hold her.”

  So these were not groupies. Quin studied everyone in the group of people standing around. Tates and Barrons were easy to categorize. That left the motley crew likely making up Deacon’s band the Sons of Nashville. Yippee. She wondered if she could call this in and let Cleveland County handle it. As she mulled over that idea, another police vehicle rolled to a stop next to her cruiser. Chickasaw Tribal Police. The casino and surrounding area were technically tribal land. Maybe she’d just let them have it.

  “The note that came in the basket states the child’s name is Noelle and that she belongs to Deacon,” Chance continued as the tribal cops approached.

  She took the proffered piece of paper and read it before handing it to the nearest tribal officer. Quin arched a brow at the country music superstar. “How often does your...” She didn’t want to say “baby momma.” Considering who she was dealing with, she had to proceed cautiously. “Has this happened before? Your child being dropped off like this?”

  “No.” Deacon’s voice was one step above a growl. The baby fussed and he automatically soothed her. “I’m not irresponsible, Trooper Kincaid. I don’t have any children.” He paused, then added, “That I know of.”

  Quin glanced at the Chickasaw officers and one shrugged. “Unless she’s Indian, we don’t have jurisdiction. You’re state. Up to you to place her with DHS.”

  The Department of Human Services—the foster care system. Quin knew what that was like. She’d been in the system as a kid. She was reluctant to sentence a baby to Child Protective Services but she didn’t have much choice. She keyed the portable radio mic clipped to her shoulder. “Adam-109, Dispatch. Notify DHS of an emergency pickup notice for an infant, my location.”

  Dispatch’s response was drowned out by loud objections from the Tates and Barrons. One voice rose above all the rest.

  “DHS can’t have her. According to the note, she’s mine.”

  Two

  What the heck was he thinking? Deke knew this baby wasn’t his. Or was she? He took precautions, though there was always a chance something might go wrong. Without knowing who the baby’s mother was, he wouldn’t be able to say for sure one way or the other. If he had any sense at all, he would hand her off to the female trooper—and why had he never noticed how sexy a woman in uniform could be? This one nipped at him like one of those yappy little ankle-biter dogs. He glanced at her, assessing the expression on her face. Okay, make that a Doberman.

  Noelle cooed and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. He always had been a sucker for little kids and the idea of this one going to strangers... He halted that thought because, okay, he was a stranger. But he wasn’t. Her mother had claimed he was the father and left the baby’s basket outside his bus for a reason.

  Fatherhood. The idea was like that charity ice-bucket challenge—chilling but with warm fuzzies underneath for doing something good.

  Hadn’t he spent the last hour contemplating family then going home to an empty house? A baby would complicate things but if Noelle was his, he’d step up and take care of her. Katherine Tate hadn’t raised her boys to shuck their responsibilities. He might be full-grown but his mom would take a strip out of his hide if he didn’t do the right thing.

  Noelle cooed and his heart did a funny little lurch in his chest. The idea of being her father didn’t seem quite so alien now. He tested the word dad in his head. It didn’t freak him out—and it probably should have.

  He glanced toward Chance, who shifted position so the trooper couldn’t see Deke. His cousin mouthed the words, Are you sure you want the baby? Deke stared into Chance’s eyes and nodded. Chance moved away from the group, phone pressed to his ear. Man, but it was nice to have a hotshot attorney right there. Things settled in his chest and he liked the feeling. He’d always wanted to be a dad, but at some nebulous point in the future. Maybe this was fate’s way of telling him the time was now. Taking on the care and feeding of baby Noelle was the right thing to do. Yeah, this was the right thing for him to do.

  “Have you thought this through, Mr. Tate?” The cop was still glaring at him through narrowed eyes.

  “I have, Trooper Kincaid.” He offered her the smile where his dimple peeked out. “Do you have a first name?”

  “Yes. How are you going to take care of her?”

  “What is it?” He’d like to take care of the trooper, for sure. The more he studied her, from her brown felt Smokey Bear hat to her shiny black roper boots, the more he felt that way.

  “Are you avoiding my question, Mr. Tate?”

  “No. What’s your name?”

  “Persistent, aren’t you?”

  “I am when I’m after something I want.”

  She blinked a few times as she tucked her chin in and leaned away. He’d surprised her. Her light-colored eyes narrowed and her generous mouth thinned out as she pressed her lips together in a disapproving sneer.

  “I told you my name. It’s Trooper Kincaid.”

  “I’m Deacon, Troop, but my friends call me Deke.”

  “I’m not your friend, Mr. Tate.”

  “But you could be.”

  She glanced around as if suddenly realizing they had an audience. He liked that he’d put her off balance. She hit him with a steely-eyed, no-nonsense glare. Deke was enjoying teasing her far too much.

  “Mr. Tate. Please hand over—” Noelle wailed and the trooper looked panicked.

  Deke patted the baby’s bottom. Yup. The kid was wet. “I do believe she needs a diaper change.” He turned for the bus.

  Jolie stepped forward we
aring what he called her stern-mother face. “I’ll take the baby inside to change her.”

  As a guy, Deke should have turned over the task automatically, but he suddenly found himself oddly protective and...possessive of the baby. “I’m perfectly capable of changing a wet diaper, Jolie. Not the first time I’ve done it.” He glanced at Cash and Dillon. “You two certainly gave me enough practice when I got stuck with babysitting duty.”

  Before Jolie—or anyone else—could argue, Deke snagged the basket, which still held the diaper bag, and climbed the curving stairs into the main living space of the coach. There were two captain chairs—one for the driver, the other for a copilot—just beyond the door.

  Inside, leather couches the color of pewter flanked an eating area with a table and two benches next to the kitchenette. The walls were tiger-eye maple. The counters and tables were topped in granite veined with a handful of colors ranging from black to rusty pink to white. Deke dropped the basket and bag on the couch next to the table.

  He heard someone clomping up the steps behind him. Without turning around, he knew who had followed him. “Have a seat, Troop. I’ll be right back.” He paused before heading to the back of the bus, again giving her the once-over. Her tan slacks were tailored to fit and not even the bulletproof vest beneath the dark brown uniform shirt could contain her curves. She’d slicked back her hair under the Smokey Bear hat and he couldn’t tell the color, but thought it was blond or light brown. He really wanted to see the color of her eyes but the hat brim kept them shaded.

  Trooper Kincaid wasn’t the type of woman who usually caught his attention. Groupies knew the rules, played the game. Maybe he was intrigued because she was something different. Her stern authority didn’t fit in his world, but there was some undefined something that drew him. He’d have to think about why later. First things first.

  “Dig around in the bag for wipes, a fresh diaper and something to change her into, will ya? This onesie is wet now.”

  * * *

  “This onesie is wet now?” Quin muttered as she bent over the couch and opened the diaper bag. “How does the man even know what a onesie is?” By the time he got back with several towels to pad the table, she’d found the items he requested. She noticed the wet spot on his chest. That explained the need for a clothing change but she was still mystified as to how he knew what the garment was called. She watched as he got to work, fascinated despite her best intentions.

  This guy had bad boy written all over him. Now that she could see him in decent lighting, his sheer male magnetism hit her like a tackle from a Dallas Cowboys linebacker. He was undeniably handsome, with thick brown hair that fell around his high cheekbones and sculpted jaw. Five-o’clock shadow added a rugged layer to his face. Wide-set blue eyes held a twinkle that reminded her of a star-sapphire ring she once had. His black Western shirt and leather jeans fit him far too thoroughly for the welfare of the general female population. Herself included.

  His fingers were long and dexterous, as would befit a guitarist, and he deftly changed the baby’s diaper and clothing. He wore a leather thong around his neck and Noelle snagged it in one chubby hand. Deacon laughed and cooed at her, like he did this all the time. For all Quin knew, he might.

  She tried to sift a bio for him out of her crowded brain. Not that she was a big watcher of entertainment gossip shows. Still, Barrons and Tates were often covered in the local news, but she couldn’t recall hearing that he was married—or ever had been.

  “Did you find any bottles in the bag? Or a can of formula or something?”

  Lost in her musings, she startled at the sound of his voice. Luckily, he was still concentrating on the baby so he hadn’t noticed she’d been staring at his butt this whole time. “Oh, yes. There are a couple of full bottles. Not sure what’s in them.”

  He glanced her way, and that killer smile with a side of dimple guaranteed to dampen groupies’ panties appeared. Quin refused to let it work on her. Much. She curled her fingers against her palms because they itched to push his hair back off his face and then tangle in the thick waves. His gaze focused on her mouth and she couldn’t stop her quick inhalation, nor could she keep her chest from swelling and pushing against the rigid bulk of her bulletproof vest. This man was lethal and she needed to remember that.

  He held out his hand and she passed one of the bottles to him. Deacon twisted off the lid, sniffed and then dipped his finger in to taste, which was such a guy thing to do. “Formula. I think. Let’s pop it in the microwave for about fifteen seconds. We don’t want it too hot.” He caught her gaze on him, and the stars in his sapphire eyes blazed. “The formula, that is.”

  Quin just managed to avoid rolling her eyes. She wasn’t some teenage fangirl fawning over the magnificent Deacon Tate. She retrieved the bottle from him and dumped it in the sink. “I’ll make fresh.” She snagged a can with a baby on the label and read the instructions. She pretended the whole time that her fingers hadn’t tingled when they touched his skin. That her nose hadn’t gotten a whiff of clean sweat and a scent deeper and more primal when she handed the bottle back to him. He settled on the couch.

  Opting for discretion over valor because her body was fomenting mutiny, she retreated across the bus and sat on the matching couch to watch. She still couldn’t get over how proficiently this guy handled the baby.

  “You said you don’t have kids?” she finally asked, removing her hat.

  His gaze was sharp as he looked up. “Kinda hard to have kids without a wife.”

  That didn’t stop a lot of celebrities but she didn’t point that out. “Then how are you so good with the baby?”

  He paused to burp the infant then cuddled her back in one arm with the bottle in her mouth. Quin attempted to read the expression on Deacon’s face. She found a sweetness there that was almost as surprising as his competence.

  “Only child?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not a hard question, Troop.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Then tell me your first name.”

  Quin refused to throw her hands up in a fit of frustration. “Fine. Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s Quincy.”

  “Did you hear that, Noelle? Her name is Quincy.”

  The baby cooed, and Quin discovered she was grinning rather stupidly. She wiped that expression off her face and leaned forward so she could breathe a little easier in her vest. “And to answer your question, I’m not an only child. I have four older brothers.”

  Deacon peeked up at her from under lashes far too long and lush for a man exuding as much testosterone as this one did. “Ah, the baby in the family. I’m the middle and got stuck with baby duty, especially with Dillon. He was a late surprise for Mom and Dad.”

  She glanced out the tinted window behind her. “Dillon is in your band?”

  “Yup.”

  “Was he serious?”

  “About what?”

  “The...stuff?” She wanted to bite her tongue. She didn’t care if overenthusiastic fans embarrassed themselves by leaving underwear in tribute to the band. Nor did she care if maybe some of the owners of said lingerie ended up in the bedroom or one of the curtained bunks she could see when she glanced toward the back of the bus.

  He laughed and set the bottle on the table. Shifting the baby to his shoulder, he patted her back until she burped again. Deacon checked her diaper, settled her back in the crook of his arm and gazed at Quin. “Yeah, he was serious. We get stuff like that thrown on stage sometimes, too. Goes with the gig.”

  She couldn’t decide if he was being this nonchalant because he was so egotistical that he figured the thongs and stuff were his due or because he didn’t care. Time was passing and Quin needed to get things wrapped up. “Is she really yours?”

  “Who?”

  “The baby,” she said pointedly.

  He studied her face and she flushed for no reason she understood. He broke their staring match first by peering down at the sleeping infant. That
soft expression washed over his features again, and she wondered where the feelings came from. Maybe Noelle really was his. Her chest burned at the thought, and she didn’t quite know how to handle the feeling. To cover it up, she asked again, “Is the baby yours, Mr. Tate?”

  Before he answered her question, the sound of booted feet stomping up the steps drew their attention to the front of the bus. Chance Barron’s gaze bounced between her and Deacon before he announced, “She is until you find her mother, Trooper Kincaid, and we clear things up.”

  Three

  Deke didn’t know whether to high-five his cousin or panic. Was his ego overriding his common sense on the outside chance Noelle was his? Babies were hard. He knew that, but while he didn’t quite understand his attraction to the gruff cop, he was adamant about keeping the baby close until he knew definitively who the father was. Noelle was a cute little thing and deserved something more than becoming a ward of the state.

  So yeah, he’d score this one for the good guys. Not that Quincy Kincaid was a bad guy. She wasn’t a guy in any way, shape or form. She’d pushed to her feet when Chance came in. With her back to Deke, he could tell the hair twisted into a tight knot at the base of her neck was blond.

  His blood warmed. There was something about the nape of a woman’s neck that really stirred him up. Some men liked breasts, some a sweetly rounded butt. Him? The arch of a woman’s neck and the lines of her back. He loved kissing his way down from the spot where a woman’s hair met skin on her nape, across soft shoulders and down the valley of her spine. Shifting uncomfortably, he jerked his thoughts away from Quincy the woman to focus on Quincy the cop.

  “I don’t think you understand the situation, Mr. Barron. A Child Protection worker from DHS will be here shortly. Under the law, Mr. Tate has to relinquish custody. He has no proof the child is his.”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand, Trooper Kincaid.” Chance stepped toward her, his phone held out. “I’ll have the paper version of this court order here very likely before your DHS representative arrives.”