Making matters worse—if that were even possible—was the fact that Tiffany didn’t earn enough money in real estate to have her own place. She and her mom lived with her paternal grandmother, Pearl. Since Big Daddy had paid off her house long before his trouble with the law, authorities allowed her to keep it.
“You did hear it’s supposed to snow?” Her mother lounged on the white velvet chaise Tiffany had salvaged from their former home by strapping it to the roof of the secondhand red Jeep Cherokee she’d bought from their former housekeeper.
Mr. Bojangles—her spoiled teacup Chihuahua—slept on her mother’s lap. He wore a black sweater and rhinestone collar. It had become her own special ironic hell that her dog now dressed better than her.
“When is it not supposed to snow?” Tiffany peered out her bedroom window to find another gloomy day in her equally gloomy life.
Blustery wind shook Pearl’s century-old home like a dog with a bone.
For comfort, she cupped her hands to her baby bump, but even that wasn’t satisfying, knowing she’d soon give her son to the Parkers. They were an amazing couple—both attorneys. Jeb Parker was considering a gubernatorial campaign. Susie Parker promised as soon as the baby was born, she’d resign to stay home with their new son.
In her former life, Tiffany had much the same plans, but then her father’s legal woes had been too much for her ex, Crawford, to deal with, and that had been that. He’d filed for a quiet divorce and was now married to one of her best friends—a former Miss Texas. C’est la vie.
Tiffany did learn one valuable lesson from her pain—men were as flighty as trash in the wind. Never to be trusted. They made you love them and then broke your heart. Okay, maybe that was more than one lesson, but bottom line, she would never, ever, ever give her heart to another man.
A twinge of guilt for her infant son made her hug her tummy. You’re excluded, little fella. You’ll be the one man on the planet who’s perfect in every way. I might not be physically with you while you’re growing up, but I’ll be with you every day in spirit.
Tiffany reached for her hot-pink sequined Uggs, cramming them over the navy tights she wore with the only fashionable maternity dress she owned that still fit—she’d change into her navy pumps at the office. Early on in her pregnancy, she’d found cute, cheap dresses at thrift shops, but now that she was huge, secondhand maternity wear was as elusive as late-October real estate sales.
“Maybe you should stay in?” Gigi had moved on to a more current Vanity Fair.
Mr. Bojangles glared at the imposition of waking when she moved.
“Mom, stop.” Tiffany added a pale pink cardigan over the dress, then a floral scarf and pearls. At this point, accessorizing was her only hope of maintaining a businesslike appearance at Hearth and Home Realty, where she worked twice as hard as her coworker Lyle, yet because he was the boss’s nephew, he had a knack for landing the best listings. “We can’t live in Maple Springs forever. Don’t you want to get back to Dallas?”
“Honestly?” Gigi sighed. “I’d rather continue hiding. As long as Big Daddy’s away, I’m not setting foot in polite society.”
To this day—months after her husband’s formal sentencing—Gigi refused to state out loud that her husband was in prison. She much preferred genteel euphemisms that sidestepped the harsh reality that it could be a year before she had a true marriage again.
Tiffany had visited her father only twice but regularly called.
Gigi preferred old-fashioned paper correspondence.
“I’ve got to get to a showing by nine. Try helping Grammy with some housework, okay?” Tiffany kissed her mother’s cheek—already fully made up and smelling of pricey lotion and cream. To show how much she adored her mom, Tiffany picked up sample-sized expensive-brand cosmetics at Bismarck department stores or online at discount wholesalers. There was no need for Gigi to ever learn the true extent of just how bad things were financially.
“I’ll try, dear, but you know how dust makes me sneeze.”
“I know. Just do your best.” Tiffany rubbed Mr. Bojangles between his ears, then made it down the two-story home’s creaky front stairs and almost to the door before getting busted by her grandmother.
“Don’t even think of dashing out of here without a proper breakfast.”
“Grammy, I’m starving and would love to eat but have to meet a client by nine.”
“What if I made you an egg-and-cheese sandwich to go?”
Tiffany’s tummy growled. That did sound awfully tempting.
“See?” Grammy smiled. “Your boy’s already got an appetite.”
“Okay, I’ll eat. But I’m meeting Mr. Jones at the office at nine, so I can’t be late. And, Grammy, you know I can’t keep the baby.”
“Nonsense.” Pearl guided Tiffany into the kitchen and parked her in a comfy chair at the table her ancestors had reportedly hauled west in a covered wagon.
She happily sighed when her grandmother handed her a steaming mug of homemade cocoa with whipped cream on top.
“Mmm... I love you,” Tiffany said.
“I know,” Pearl said.
When the first piece of bacon hit the skillet, Mr. Bojangles scurried into the kitchen. Of course, Grammy fed him part of a still-warm buttermilk biscuit.
The eggs frying in butter in her grandmother’s favorite cast-iron skillet smelled so good that Tiffany didn’t even get too terribly upset when an extra-hard wind gust rattled the paned windows. She just glanced that way to note that it had indeed started to snow.
The flakes were huge—like designer gumballs falling topsy-turvy, covering ugly brown grass with a tidy blanket of white.
Would her son love playing in the snow as much as she used to when visiting her grandmother over the holidays?
Along with the realization that she’d never know, pain knotted the back of her throat. She squashed it.
Giving up her son was the hardest thing she’d ever do, but it was hands down the best decision for him. For his future life. What she wanted didn’t matter. If it did...
Well, she squashed that thought, too.
* * *
ROWDY LOVED STAYING with his folks, but having spent the bulk of the past ten years in warm—if not downright hot—climates, he much preferred the family traveling to Virginia to see him. A few times a year, they packed up his brother, Carl, sister-in-law, Justine, and their two rug rats, six-year-old Ingrid and eight-year-old Isobel, to come to the beach.
Clearly, the last time he’d been in Maple Springs had been a disaster. He’d always had a thing for cowgirls and Tiffany had been as hot as they come.
Last Easter had been unseasonably warm, and after the annual rodeo he’d attended, he and a few friends had headed to the town’s only bar. He’d met Tiffany in one of those twists of fate you might see in movies but think never actually happen.
Rowdy had tried calling her, but the number had been disconnected. He’d next gotten on the phone with his mom and had her make a few discreet inquiries.
Rowdy had been under the impression that Tiffany lived in Dallas, but turned out a very pregnant girl named Tiffany Lawson currently resided with Pearl Lawson, who used to run the town’s only grocery before selling it to the Dewitt brothers—all of which was a roundabout way of explaining why he was now headed down Buckhead Road to meet with Tiffany at her place of business at Hearth and Home Realty. If his mom ever gave up ranch life, she ought to consider signing on with the CIA. No spook Rowdy had met came close to solving a mystery like his mom.
That said, she was currently none too happy with him.
For quite a few years, she’d expected him to marry and give her more grandkids. The news that she might already have a grandson on the way had been far more agreeable to her than him. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been through a similar scenario, and
he couldn’t handle that brand of stress again.
Regardless, he had plenty of leave time coming, so he’d let his CO know he’d be gone a few weeks, then hopped the earliest flight to Bismarck. His family had been thrilled to pick him up from there. That had been yesterday.
First on this morning’s agenda was meeting with the mother of his child and hopefully having a rational, adult conversation about a number of topics. First, he needed to be 100 percent sure the baby was his. Second, he’d inform her that she had no right in hell to give his son away to strangers—or anyone else. That said, he wasn’t sure what might happen next, but he was an honorable man.
He and Tiffany would find a mutually amenable arrangement.
His folks felt Rowdy should have at least given the woman a courtesy call that he was in town, but when it came to the topic of signing away his kid, he wasn’t in a courteous mood.
In a businesslike setting, everyone would be on their best behavior.
The twenty-minute drive from the ranch to town gave him too much time to think.
Maple Springs was nice enough in the summer, but once winter set in, the place could best be described as gray. A half-mile, single-sided stretch of old-as-dirt grayish brick buildings housed antiques stores, insurance agents, the drugstore, the diner and café, three clothing stores, and a day care. A few years back, his mom told him the mayor’s wife decreed the windows of each business be fitted with red-striped canvas awnings. In warmer months, they were okay, but the rest of the year, they resembled soggy ice-and snow-crusted circus popcorn boxes.
Judging by how fast the snow was falling, this might be one of the last weeks of the year when both sides of Richard L. Fulmer Avenue were available for parking. The usual snowplow drift grew on the same side of the road as the railroad tracks. That side also happened to not have any businesses—at least not until a good two miles outside town, where the Robert T. Fulmer Tavern had moved into the former feed store’s building. Mayor Richard L. Fulmer was less than pleased about his twin brother serving spirits, which was why the establishment had to be outside city limits.
As long as the beer was cold, nobody in town gave two hoots. As an added bonus, Robert had been kind enough to restore the long-abandoned roadside motel just next door. Much to his brother’s dismay, he’d been voted Maple Springs’ Man of the Year in 1998 for giving free rooms to patrons too tanked to drive.
Rowdy recalled that at the time of his son’s conception, he was awfully thankful for the motel’s close proximity.
He pulled his dad’s truck into an empty space just down from Hearth and Home’s office. When he wasn’t in town, Rowdy stored his truck in one of the ranch’s outbuildings. As his lousy luck would have it, this morning, the damned thing hadn’t started.
In an attempt to hold off winter’s fast-approaching gloom, pumpkin lights hung from the office’s awning. Skeletons danced from gaslight sconces on either side of the mirrored-glass double doors.
Rowdy turned off the engine, then sat a spell to compose his thoughts. He’d made his appointment with Tiffany through her secretary. Would Tiffany even remember who he was? For that matter, was she mistaking him for another man? There was also an off chance this gal wasn’t even the same woman with whom he’d had relations. If she wasn’t, he’d be free to return to his normally kick-ass life.
Forcing a deep breath, he dove from the balmy truck cab to the miserable white mess outside.
Sleet mixed with the snow.
Wind pitched it like darts against his forehead and cheeks. He tugged his battered brown leather cowboy hat lower and raised his long duster coat’s collar higher.
Hell’s bells, what he wouldn’t give to be back in Virginia.
Everyone on the bustling street walked with their heads down. It was a downright miracle there weren’t more pedestrian collisions.
He yanked open the door to find wondrous heat. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the sudden lack of sleet in them. When they did, he found a cozy seating area that had a sofa and two armchairs facing a coffee table and electric fireplace.
“Mr. Jones?” A woman with curly brown hair that was almost as big as her bosom rose from her desk to extend her hand. “Our Tiffany will be glad you made it through this storm. Sometimes newcomers take a while to adjust to our weather, don’tcha know.”
“True. But I grew up here, so I’m used to it.” Her thick accent had him working to hide a smile. When he’d lived in town, he hadn’t noticed, but now that he’d been away, he heard how pronounced it was in some Maple Springs residents.
“You did? Well, why didn’t you say so? Who are your people?”
“Patsy and James Jones. Know them?”
“As I live and breathe. Rowdy?”
“Yes, ma’am. Have we met?”
“Boy—you’re breaking my heart.” She pressed her hand to her impressive rack. “I’m Doris Mills. Well, used to be Doris Patrick, but that was before I went and married Skeeter. I used to be your fourth-, fifth-and sixth-grade Sunday-school teacher. Don’t you remember?”
“Sure. Sorry. It’s been a while.”
“I’ll say.” She looked him up and down, then whistled. “You’ve grown into a cool drink of water. Bet your momma’s pleased as punch ’bout you moving home.”
To avoid getting into the whole messy business of why he was actually in town, Rowdy said, “I, ah, really need to talk with Tiffany and figured having her show me a house or two would be the best way to connect.”
“You two sweet on each other? You always did have the kindest heart. It’s adorable that you don’t mind her being...” she reddened and patted her own robust belly “...you know... By another man.”
Ouch. “Would you mind pointing me to her office?”
“Oh—sure, sure.” She waved toward a short hall. “Two doors down on your left.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
Rowdy stood outside the partially closed office door for a good thirty seconds. He’d have felt more comfortable pulling all-night surveillance in croc-infested waters. This whole thing raised an uncomfortable number of similarities to a not-so-distant situation he’d just as soon forget. Besides, aside from what his brother had told him about the crap he’d gone through with Justine’s cravings, mood swings and general crankiness, Rowdy knew nothing about pregnant women. That said, he did know a fair bit about charming the normal variety of gal and planned on using the same general logic.
“Thank you, Susie. Promise, as soon as I have my next sonogram, I’ll email the pictures.”
Eavesdropping on Tiffany’s call, Rowdy narrowed his gaze.
“Susie, I’m expecting a client any second, but promise, I’ll sign all of your attorney’s documents this afternoon.” There was a long pause. “Please stop worrying. I have no intention of backing out of the adoption. This baby boy will soon be yours.”
“The hell he will.” So much for adult professionalism or laying on the charm. Rowdy stormed Tiffany’s office like an enemy camp—only instead of rescuing hostages or liberating territory, he was claiming his unborn son.
Chapter Two
“Susie, I’ve gotta go.” After hanging up the phone, Tiffany’s eyes widened in shock and maybe even a little horror to find her baby’s daddy standing a mere five feet away. “You...”
The man she hadn’t shared a room with since she could see her own toes closed the door.
“What are you doing here? How did you even find me?” Flustered, she couldn’t decide what to do with her hands. She skimmed her no-doubt-messy hair, then tried crossing her arms, but that didn’t feel quite right, because she’d grown so top-heavy that her arms were practically under her chin—yet one more reason to despise the man standing before her.
“Got your message.” He wagged a silver-toned cell phone.
“Li
ttle late, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “Been out of town. Unavoidable delay.”
“Uh-huh...” She returned to her email. “Whatever you’ve got to say, you’re not just a little late, but all-the-way late. Adoption plans are already in place.”
“About that...” He stepped forward, bracing his hands on either side of her small desk. In a quiet, downright lethal tone, he said, “There’s no way in hell you’re signing away my son.”
Tiffany gulped. The last time she’d seen him he’d been handsome, but she’d also been wearing martini goggles and in hindsight had figured it was an impossibility for him to look half as good as she remembered. Wrong. He looked even better. He smelled amazing, too—like a day at the beach. Warm sun and sand and a hint of sexy sweat. She sneaked a peek at whisker-stubbled cheeks and eyes green enough to remind her of her former Dallas mansion’s lawn.
Straightening in her chair, she retorted, “As a matter of fact, I am giving him up. We might have discussed the matter had you been courteous enough to call within hours—or even days—of my message. But when you failed to share so much as an opinion after months, what did you expect? As much as I’d love being a mom, I can barely afford being me—which reminds me, I have an appointment for a showing, so you’ll need to leave.”
He not only didn’t leave but set his battered brown leather cowboy hat in one guest chair, then proceeded to help himself to the other. His legs were so long they didn’t fold right given the cramped space, so he stretched them out. Beneath her desk, the toes of his cowboy boots touched the toes of her pumps.
She lurched backward as if she’d been struck by a rattler.
“Let me guess?” he asked with a lopsided, white-toothed grin. “This client is a Mr. Jones?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“I am him.” He chuckled.
The Cowboy SEAL's Jingle Bell Baby Page 2
