“And since it’s your first Mother’s Day,” Dustin continued, “I wanted you to have everyone you loved around you.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide.
“Your mother’s flying in at one, and my parents will be driving in sometime this afternoon. Morgan’s going to spend her first Mother’s Day with all the mothers in her life.”
Annie’s lip trembled. “Oh, Dustin—”
“No tears,” he warned, picking the coffee up from the tray and offering it to her. “I thought we were done with hormones.”
“Temporary flare-up,” she told him, and sipped the coffee. He’d made it just the way she liked; the man was the most thoughtful human alive. How on earth did she get so lucky? “How did you manage this?”
“To invite everyone here without telling you? Or do you mean how did I manage to get Kitty to hop on a plane knowing that she was going to be called ‘grandma’ at some point today?”
Annie giggled. “Yes to both.”
“She was drawn to the siren call of baby Morgan. No one can resist her.” With a wink, he leaned in and gave Annie a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’m told that we’ll have our choice of babysitters tonight, which means Mommy and Daddy are free to have some alone time.”
“This is quite the Happy Mother’s Day, then,” she murmured, anticipating that even more. Moments of alone time were normally stolen and didn’t happen often enough. “I’m a lucky woman.”
He gazed down at her, his hand curving along her cheek, and a smile lit his tanned face. “Don’t make me fight you for the title of ‘luckiest one’ in this relationship.”
“Pillow fight for the title,” she teased him, switching her daughter to her other breast.
Dustin watched her, eyes gleaming. “You’re on.”
Mother’s Day was going to be her favorite holiday, she could already tell.
Keep reading for the next Cowboy romance from Jessica Clare
A COWBOY UNDER THE MISTLETOE
Coming soon from Jove
It was the middle of December, and Jason was sweating.
He walked along the snowy sidewalk in Painted Barrel, focusing on the quaint buildings that lined the main street of town.
It had been six years since Afghanistan. He could have sworn he was getting better. But because it was a blustery winter and the town was small, it was quiet out.
Too quiet.
No one came out of the souvenir shop across the street or went into the hotel. The gas station at the far end of the street—the only one in town—was empty. The lights were on, and he could see the clerk reading a magazine behind the counter. Painted Barrel boasted a bar that doubled as the town’s only restaurant, but it was closed because it was midday. No one was around. Despite the festive wreaths that hung on the doors, it was like the entire town was deserted.
His sweating grew more intense. Jason could feel his heart speeding up, and adrenaline rushing over his body. The sky overhead was bright blue, despite the fresh layer of snow on the ground, and it felt . . . open. Too open.
Open was bad.
It reminded him of the day that everything happened. He was visiting a village just outside of Kabul when a gunman opened fire, killing his buddy, and shooting Jason three times, nearly taking his life.
Ever since then, quiet, wide-open spaces bothered him.
Kinda dumb for you to take a job as a cowboy, then. He could hear Kirk’s voice in his head, even though Kirk had been dead for the last six years. And heck, maybe it was dumb, but Jason really thought he was better. Even after his PTSD service dog, Truck, passed away in the spring, he hadn’t had many breakdowns. He thought he was past that.
Guess not.
His sweating increased and his self-preservation instincts kicked in. He needed to find someplace to hide. Anywhere, really. He just needed to get out of the open, and fast. Panting, Jason raced down the sidewalk and tried the first door he came to. Locked. With a low growl of frustration, he sprang to the second one, and flung himself inside when it opened.
A wall of heat hit him and he skidded on the tile floor, his wet boots unable to find traction. Jason slammed into the wall and stayed there for a moment, trying to calm down. He sunk down low, the urge to crouch and hide overwhelming.
To take cover.
Someone cleared their throat. “Hi, can I help you?”
Jason closed his eyes. He didn’t know where he was at the moment, but he was pretty sure he’d just made a spectacle of himself. And since Painted Barrel was a small town—population about two handfuls—it was sure to be on everyone’s lips in less than a day. That was bad. The last thing Jason needed was his new employer finding out that he suffered from PTSD.
Great. Just great.
“Are you . . . here to return a library book?” The voice was kind, quiet. Soft.
He cracked an eye open, willing his racing pulse to slow down. “I need a moment.”
“Take all the time you need,” the woman said. “Let me know if I can get you anything.”
Huh. That wasn’t the normal reaction he got when he lost it. People panicked when he did, assuming that because a nearly seven-foot-tall man was freaking out there was something to freak out about. Because of his height, Jason wasn’t real good at blending in with the crowd, and when he lost control, everyone noticed.
He was rather thankful that the woman left him alone. He leaned back against the wall and tried to focus, to ground himself in reality. No one was shooting at him. There were no snipers in nearby windows. It was quiet, not because people were waiting to attack, but because it was just quiet.
So he focused on coping mechanisms, wishing again that Truck’s warm, comforting presence was at his side. He forced himself to pay attention to his surroundings. He noticed Christmas music playing somewhere nearby—Bing Crosby. Wood paneling on the walls. Serviceable metal-armed chairs—two of them—across from him. The room itself was small, and off to one side there was a shelf of books that all looked as if they were twenty-years-old and hard-used. There was a computer in a corner with an uncomfortable looking chair parked in front of it, and a solitary counter. Behind the counter were rows of what looked like metal mailbox cubbies, and there was a woman.
A woman in a very ugly Christmas sweater and a headband with stuffed reindeer horns.
She smiled at him, noticing his attention. “No rush. You’re not the first person to come in here sweating at the thought of paying your bills.” Then she winked, as if that wasn’t the most ridiculous thing to say.
He laughed, the sound nervous. “I didn’t come in to pay a bill.”
“Library fine, then?” She arched a brow at him.
Jason found himself laughing again. He took off his baseball cap—cold with damp sweat—and ran a hand through his military-short hair. “Is that where I am? The library?”
“You are in the municipal building of Painted Barrel, Wyoming,” she told him in a voice that was somewhat proud, somewhat wry. “We handle the water bills. And the mail. And the library.” She gestured at the sad shelf of books. “And animal control, but I have to warn you that if you’ve got anything bigger than a stray dog, I’m going to need help bringing him in.”
He stared at the woman in surprise, noticing her appearance—well, beyond the ugly sweater and antlers—for the first time. She was about his age, maybe a few years younger. Pretty, golden-brown hair that hung like a curtain past her shoulders. Round face. Dimples. Gorgeous eyes, gorgeous smile, and a welcoming expression.
He liked her immediately, more so because she hadn’t acted like he was crazy for storming in and collapsing. “Are you the mayor?”
“I am a municipal clerk,” she admitted, moving to one side and picking up a coffeepot. She poured some coffee into a ceramic mug and then came from behind the counter and approached him, holding the coffee out. As she came clo
ser, he noticed that while her sweater was ugly and boxy, her legs were thick but shapely and she had a great, round bottom. She didn’t look like a model like the kind of girls he normally dated, but for some reason, he liked that she was different. She didn’t look like someone who wanted to go out to the club and drink the night away. She looked like someone who’d be happy curling up on the couch.
And he liked that most of all.
“What’s your name, municipal clerk?”
“Sage, like the herb,” she announced, crouching next to him and offering the coffee. “If you don’t like caffeine I can make a pot of decaf.”
He took the mug and gulped half of it down before he could think about it. He was feeling more normal with every moment that passed, and Sage-like-the-herb was a great distraction. She was pretty, she was sweet, and she apparently had a sense of humor. “You offer everyone coffee when they come in to pay the bills?”
“In the winter I have to spike it with something once people hear just how bad their heating bill is.” She winked at him and then got to her feet. “Kidding. I don’t offer coffee to everyone, no. We’ve only got a few mugs and I won’t keep foam cups here because it’s bad for the environment. You just looked like you needed something to drink.” She tilted her head, studying him. “And you must be . . . Jason Clements, right? Jordy’s cousin?”
Jason stiffened, all the pleasure rushing out of him. “Why, because I came in here with my head all messed up?” His tone was abrasive, accusing. “Is that the rumor around town?”
Her big brown eyes widened. “No,” she said softly. “Because you didn’t know who I was. Painted Barrel’s kind of small. We don’t get a lot of newcomers that wander in.” Her smile returned, but it was hesitant, tight around the edges.
He felt like an ass. “Sorry. I’m a little distracted today.”
“It’s okay.”
“And a jerk.”
One of the dimples returned. “You said it, not me.”
He found himself smiling again. “I, ah . . . have a bit of a phobia about being outdoors when it’s real quiet.” Jason hated to admit it, but he didn’t want her looking at him strangely. He wanted to keep her smiling. “Sometimes it sneaks up on me.”
To his surprise, she nodded and went back to standing behind the counter. “I had an uncle who was agoraphobic. I recognized the look.”
She did? She wasn’t judging? He ran a hand over his mouth, and then drank the rest of the coffee. Most times when people heard he had PTSD from the war, they either acted like he was utterly crazy and about to snap, or they gave him pathetic, pitying looks and treated him like a drooling idiot. He hated both reactions.
Jason found himself getting to his feet and returning the coffee cup to the counter. “I appreciate the understanding. I haven’t told many people about that.”
The woman—Sage—flashed him another dimpled smile and picked up a stack of mail, sorting Christmas catalogs into piles. “This is a no-judgment zone. Well—” she amended, tilting her head and making the reindeer antlers cock. “Unless you came here to use the library computer to look up porn like the high school kids do. Then I’m going to judge you.”
He snorted. “No, ma’am.”
“Miss,” she clarified, and to his surprise, she turned bright red in the cheeks. “It’s miss. I’m not married.”
“Ah.” He didn’t know what to say. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, her face as red as the reindeer nose on her sweater. She was pretty, and charmingly sweet, but it was clear his head was still a damned mess. Asking her out would be a bad idea. He doubted he’d be in Painted Barrel for long and didn’t need commitments. Besides, she probably had a boyfriend in a town as small as this, especially with how utterly adorable she was. He cleared his throat. “I’d appreciate it if the whole PTSD thing stayed between you and me.”
She made a locking motion over her mouth and pretended to throw away the key.
Cute. Everything about her was cute, and that was bad news for his heart. He forced himself to look at his surroundings. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m here at the library.”
“Oh?” She tucked a strand of long, silky hair behind her ear, and he tried not to look at how cute—or small—that delicate ear was. “You need a book?”
“Yeah. On ranching. Something like Ranching for Dummies would be great.”
Her pretty brown brows furrowed and her mouth pursed. He noticed that she had full, pink lips that would be perfect for kissing, and then he got mad at himself for noticing that. For a man not interested in dating, he sure was liking everything he saw about Sage. “I’m sorry, did you say a book on ranching?”
“I did.”
“I . . . thought you were a cowboy? Working out at Price Ranch?”
He managed a rueful smile. “Hence my dilemma. I need to know a lot, and real quick before anyone finds out I don’t know what I’m doing.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jessica Clare writes under three pen names. As Jessica Clare, she writes contemporary romance. As Jessica Sims, she writes fun, sexy shifter paranormals. Finally, as Jill Myles, she writes a little bit of everything, from sexy, comedic urban fantasy to zombie fairy tales. She lives in Texas with her husband, cats, and too many dust bunnies.
CONNECT ONLINE
jessica-clare.com
facebook.com/authorjessicaclare
twitter.com/_JessicaClare
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The Cowboy and His Baby Page 25
