Surprised by a Baby

by Mindy Neff

  Judd opened his screen door and stepped out, a shotgun held in his hand. Good. Storm was in the mood for a fight.

  Back in 1909, Ranger captain Bill McDonald had coined the phrase that had become the Texas Rangers’ creed: “No man in the wrong can stand up against a fellow that’s in the right and keeps on a-comin.”

  And that was exactly what Storm did: kept right on a-comin’. Slamming Judd’s body up against the screen door, he rammed his forearm beneath the contractor’s chin and pressed hard, shoving the head full of gray hair right through the mesh screen. He yanked the shotgun away, felt with his fingers for the safety, then tossed the weapon in the flower bed. After pinning one of Quentin’s meaty hands to the brick wall beside the door, he slapped a strip of sticky fly-paper over the man’s palm and fingertips.

  His left hand on the palm and fingers of Judd’s right hand, Storm looked him in the eyes and smiled.

  “You a betting man, Quentin?” He drawled the words a little more quietly than usual. “What do you think the chances are that the fingerprints we’ve got here between us match the prints found in a big old mess over at a beauty salon in town?” Using his weight as leverage, Storm leaned in, then shoved himself back, taking the print evidence with him.

  Judd rubbed his throat and coughed, sweat trickling down his temple. “I didn’t steal anything,” he said. “You got nothing on me. Besides, I have a key.”

  “To the front door. Guess you forgot it didn’t work the back door, as well?” He held out his hand. “I’ll take it, if you don’t mind.”

  “It ain’t on me.”

  Storm shook his head. “You’ll understand that I don’t exactly trust you, so I’ll just have a look-see myself.” He advanced, and Quentin jerked back, his elbow tearing another hole in the screen door.

  “You might want to step away from that door, Judd. I’m in a real funny mood right now, and I’m just dying to cut loose on somebody. You’re about to be it.”

  Judd snatched a single key out of his pocket and tossed it toward Storm. It hit him in the chest and fell to the ground. He didn’t pick it up, but he did stop.

  “When you packed up your tools two years ago, your entitlement to use this key ended.” Keeping his gaze on Quentin’s, he moved a few feet to the right and put his hand on the hood of the J.Q. Construction truck.

  “Hmm. Engine’s still pretty warm. Seeing as this is the back of the house, it’s not too odd that the grill is practically nosed into the brick on the house. Could be you were out having a drink with the boys, misjudged a little. Maybe your brakes are starting to go?” He shrugged. “Some folks just get in an all-fired hurry to get home and get in the house.”

  Judd wasn’t saying a word, but in the porch light, Storm could see that the corner of his left eye still twitched.

  “There’s a pry bar in the back of your pickup. I have a funny habit of noticing things, you know? And I don’t recall seeing it there this afternoon. The tool all by itself would give me cause to charge you with possession of a burglarious instrument…if I were here wearing a badge, that is. We could look at probable cause for unlawful entry, malicious trespass, vandalism, invasion of privacy…that’s just the beginning. Mostly misdemeanor stuff a good lawyer can make go away—or at least make it not hurt so bad. But the felonies, now those will stick. No doubt about it.”

  “Look,” Judd said, folding his arms across his chest, his body shaking now. “I cut some corners, okay? The electrical service was adequate for the load one hairdresser ought to put on it. I couldn’t very well help it if she went out and beefed up the wattage of her hair dryers and stuff.”

  “Man, every time you open your mouth, I’m convinced your IQ’s about half your boot size. You know what the contract said, you know what you got paid for and you know what you installed—or didn’t install. Granted, that’s only one of the problems we’re looking at, but it happens to be the biggest…and potentially deadly. How would you feel about murder charges added to fraud and…” He shook his head.

  “Damn. I keep forgetting I didn’t come out here wearing my law-enforcement hat. But, pal, I’ve got to tell you, you’re wading in a pool of quicksand over hell, and I’m the man who knows how to pull the plug.”

  “I said I’d make it right. None of this would have happened if Matheson—” Quentin’s mouth snapped shut, and he raked his fingers through his thick gray hair.

  Storm grinned. “Yeah. You’re probably smart not to go there. I might have to put my badge back on for information about our former fire marshal and what type of deals the two of you teamed up on. Meanwhile, this here deal’s between me and you. Donetta’s salon is going to be your one and only priority for the next two weeks—”

  “I can’t get all that done in two weeks. You’re talking saw-cutting concrete, tearing into walls—”

  “Two weeks,” Storm repeated. “I don’t care if you have to hire a crew of five hundred and work twenty-four/seven, you will have Blane Pyke’s signature on a certificate of occupancy and the doors to that hair salon open in fourteen days or less. And two years’ worth of interest on Ms. Presley’s money should take the sting out of your checkbook when you reimburse her for each day her business is forced to stay closed—another incentive to hustle. Seeing as there are just the two of us civilians here, I’m making you a deal. If you stick to your half of the agreement, then as far as I’m concerned, you and I are square. Personally and legally.”

  He didn’t need to spell out the consequences of not sticking to the agreement. They were clearly implied. And whatever deal he made with Judd didn’t have anything to do with Donetta. She could file against the man’s contractor’s license, take him to court, make things go pretty badly for him.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Judd stuck out his hand, then let it drop when Storm deliberately kept his own hands in his pockets.

  “I imagine we’re seein’ eye to eye,” Judd said.

  “Good. Just one more thing and I’ll let you go on in and get your beauty rest. Stay away from Donetta Presley. If you so much as talk to her without me standing right there, you will find out in a hurry why I have a reputation for being a very good person not to mess with.”

  Smiling, he tipped his hat and walked back to the truck, breaking the beams of the headlights as he passed in front of them. He climbed in, started up the engine, put it in gear and left a nice rooster tail of gravel as he peeled out of Quentin’s yard.

  He realized he hadn’t actually gotten a chance to take a poke at the guy, but he felt better.

  His high beams lighting the dark country road, Storm cruised at an easy speed. When he’d left the house, he’d been spitting mad and dying to unload on somebody.

  The thought of what Donetta had gone through in her marriage made his blood boil, but how could she be uneasy around him? That was what he didn’t get. And how could she suggest that they didn’t know each other after all these years? Hell on fire, they were having a baby. If that wasn’t knowing a person, what was?

  And if he was such a shirttail acquaintance, why the hell would he be running up and down Old Bird Creek Road at ten o’clock at night, leaning on a sleazy contractor? And why would he have gone nose to nose with the damn fire marshal this morning?

  When Blane Pyke had forced him to put duty over friendship it had galled him to the bone. The resentment had nearly burned a hole in his gut by the time he’d opened the door and stepped into Donetta’s salon, looked into those amber eyes and fought to mask his dread and discomfort.

  God knows, he’d stalled as long as he could, given her as much of the day as possible to finish her ladies. If he’d gone in there with his hat in his hand, let her see how badly he felt over having no choice, she wouldn’t have budged.

  And tonight she might have been sitting in a jail cell, waiting for a judge to set bail or for her friends to come through for her. Hell, he would have posted the bail himself.

  And she probably would’ve tossed it back in his face.
>
  Damn it. The woman had knocked him right in the heart today with surprises that were bigger and more important than any that had ever come into his life.

  She was having his baby. And she didn’t trust him. He hadn’t realized how much that would bother him, had never imagined it would ever be an issue between them to begin with.

  He wanted his child, and he wanted Donetta’s trust.

  His headlights sliced through the dark and glanced off the barn as he navigated the last curve of his private drive. The final arc illuminated Donetta’s fiery red Tahoe.

  Flashy and bold, just like the woman.

  Seeing her car parked in front of his house, knowing she was waiting inside, gave him a feeling of rightness he hadn’t experienced in a long time, if ever. It was that same, weird, déjà vu sensation he’d had earlier at the salon.

  She’d been part of his world for as long as he could remember. And now he understood. He wanted Donetta, the woman—all of her. Not just in his bed. He wanted her in his everyday life.

  Man alive, he was scared to death.

  DONETTA AWOKE EARLY the next morning, disoriented for a moment. It took mere seconds and the sickening revolt of her stomach to clarify her mind. She was at Storm’s house, in the guest room across the hall from his bedroom.

  The package of Saltine crackers was still next to her on the bed. With shaking fingers, she pulled out a square and nibbled. She’d talked to the doctor last night, and crackers, dry toast or ginger ale were Lily O’Rourke’s suggestions, since Donetta was adamant about not taking prescription drugs.

  She tried to focus on something, anything, besides the seething cauldron in her stomach, and quickly slapped the pillow over her face.

  But the scent on the pillowcase distracted her. It smelled familiar. It wasn’t the faint hint of her vanilla perfume. Something else. Storm had given her the pillow last night—from his bed. That was it. The familiar scent was Storm. Just Storm.

  She remembered one time years ago when she’d spent the night with Sunny and had forgotten her pajamas. Sunny was too petite for anything of hers to fit, so Anna had given her one of Storm’s old baseball jerseys to sleep in. It had still smelled like him, even though it had been washed. She’d pressed it to her face, imagined him, yearned. And felt totally stupid because of it. He was six years older than she was. She was a skinny giraffe who’d been sent to the principal’s office more than once for getting in a fight. Why, she had asked herself, would a hunky, all-star college boy ever be interested in a kid?

  Yet when she’d gone to his house six weeks ago, she was no longer a little girl, and she could see that he was interested.

  Despite her deliberately flamboyant, sultry behavior—behavior that ensured she would be the one in control from now on—her confidence in herself as a woman had been badly bruised. That was only one of the many reasons she hadn’t dated since her divorce. And didn’t plan to travel that road again.

  Not until Sunny had come home from California had Donetta’s and Storm’s paths begun to cross more frequently. The chemistry between them as adults was potent, but she’d told herself he was just a guy who knew how to play the teasing, flirting game, and she’d vowed to treat him the same as she did all the other men who were merely good friends.

  She’d been relaxing with him on that late-summer’s evening, laughing over the rim of her third glass of wine, and something had shifted. The intensity of his gaze. The stillness in the room. The leap of her heart. The trusted, familiar scent of his skin.

  She’d felt desirable, sexy, truly wanted. And it had been the strongest aphrodisiac. The coalescing of all her secret dreams, dreams she’d hidden away and rarely thought about, had burst from the locked chambers of her soul like glittering fairy dust scattered by a magic wand.

  Caught up in the wild, heady moment, she’d let down her guard, forgotten about the past, present or future. She’d known only desire: Storm.

  It wasn’t until the next morning, when she’d regained her wits, that she’d realized she was an idiot, that she should have never allowed that intimacy to happen.

  Especially with this man. Her best friend’s brother. If tension arose between them, it would bleed over onto her relationship with the rest of his family—and she would not risk her bonds with them. Ever.

  She glanced toward the curtained window. The sun was barely lighting the horizon. The crackers weren’t cutting it, and she couldn’t ignore the horrible churning in her stomach a second longer. She flung back the blankets and raced to the connecting bathroom.

  A few minutes later, she heard the door swing open and wanted to sink through the floor. Thankfully, the bouts of “baby fits,” as she’d begun to call them, were quick. She just wished they weren’t so darned often.

  “Aw, darlin’.” His baritone voice was even deeper from sleep and compassion. “You’ve hardly had any rest all night.”

  She made a shooing motion with her hand, but Storm didn’t pay any attention. He ran water over a washcloth and squatted to wipe her face. Donetta snatched it from him and flushed the toilet, burying her face in the cool cloth.

  “Do you always have to come in and see me looking like a walking corpse?” Twice during the night she’d been sick. And both times Storm had appeared by her side with a wet cloth and gentle, soothing hands.

  “I’m half responsible, Slim.” His voice was soft, solemn.

  “Yeah, you are. So, I vote that you take this half.” She glanced at him. His feet were bare. So was his chest. All he wore was a pair of men’s cotton pajama bottoms. She’d just had her stomach lining yanked inside out in the most jolting manner, and now butterflies were dancing there with giddy delight at the sight of Storm in his pajama bottoms. Not only was she sick in the stomach, she was sick in the head.

  “Sorry, darlin’. I’d like to be noble and all, but I’m a big baby when it comes to the collywobbles.” He smoothed her hair over her shoulder. “I’m taking you to the doctor today. This isn’t right—you being so sick like this. It can’t be good for you. Or the baby.”

  “I already have an appointment set up for Friday. That was the soonest I could get in with Dr. O’Rourke.”

  Storm frowned. “You need someone with more experience than Lily O’Rourke. I know of a good man in Houston, but that’s too far away for convenience. I’ll make some phone calls, find out who’s the best OB-GYN in Austin. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get in today.”

  Donetta’s jaw dropped open. Lily O’Rourke had been a classmate of Storm’s—and she’d chosen to come back to Hope Valley to set up her practice after medical school.

  “You’re not calling another doctor! Lily has plenty of experience. Do you think they just pass out medical certificates without giving doctors any hands-on training? Honestly, Storm. You can’t just come into my life and expect to make decisions for me and—” Her stomach pitched again.

  She planted her hand in the middle of his chest and shoved. Hard. Tipped off balance, he slid backward across the tile floor, giving her precious seconds of semiprivacy.

  Minutes ticked by until she at last pressed the damp washcloth to her swollen eyes and hot skin. The silence in the room made her much too aware that Storm was still sitting behind her and she was wearing pajamas that were hardly more than a see-through camisole and silky shorts.

  “Can we at least go sit in Dr. O’Rourke’s office?” he asked quietly. “Kind of like a standby passenger on an airline flight?”

  Ridiculously, Donetta felt a bubble of laughter escape. Instead of answering him right away, she got up and brushed her teeth, then dried her face and sat back down on the floor.

  “I don’t think doctors’ offices operate under the same principles airlines do.”

  “I bet if you barfed in her waiting room she’d hustle us back to a room in a hurry.”

  “What’s with this ‘us’ stuff? I’m not planning to have an audience when my gynecologist examines me.” She had an odd thought that they did a lot of visiting
while sitting on bathroom floors. He had his back against the wall by the door, and she was propped against the oak vanity, facing him. If she stretched out her legs all the way, their feet would touch.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little late in the game for modesty between us?”

  “Have you ever been present during a female exam?”

  “No.”

  She smiled. “Exactly. And you won’t be, either—at least not mine—so deal with it.” She held up her hand when his face darkened with irritation and challenge. “I should not have to paint you a picture here. Would you like me in the room when the doc sticks his finger in your rear end and invites you to cough?”

  He opened his mouth, stared at her for a long, somewhat bewildered moment, then dropped his head back against the wall and laughed. “You’re a holy terror. How can you be so sick one minute, then rally enough to put me in my place the next?”

  “Talent. Pure and simple.” She grinned. “It helps that the nausea leaves as quickly as it comes—well, that’s not totally correct—”

  “Come here.”

  She frowned at his interruption. “What?” He sighed and got to his feet in one fluid motion. “Don’t ever sign up for the military or police academy. You’d never make it.” He bent down, scooped her up in his arms and strode to the bedroom.

  “What…?” Her brain was having trouble keeping up. “Thankfully, I have no desire to join either service. And just because someone doesn’t respond to an order doesn’t mean you can gain compliance by…by man-handling them. I was in the middle of talking to you, but obviously you didn’t care enough to listen.” And damn it, that hurt her feelings. “So, you can just—”

  His mouth covered hers. Utter surprise and flash-point desire effectively shushed the rest of her tirade.

  Chapter Eight

  This second interruption took the sting out of his rudeness.

  Storm Carmichael was a man who knew how to kiss.

  She felt weightless, hardly aware that he’d carried her into the connecting bedroom. He sat on the edge of her bed and settled her bottom in his lap without ever lifting his head.