The Cowboy SEAL's Jingle Bell Baby

by Laura Marie Altom

“No, no, no...” She massaged her forehead.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “But I needed that commission.” Her stinging eyes and tight throat might mean she was ready to cry, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.

  “Relax. I’ll help you raise the baby. Financially, and you know...” He waved his hands. “With all the other stuff kids need.”

  “Great—only you won’t be raising him at all. Susie and Jeb Parker will. They’re amazing people, and both have real jobs—as opposed to you. I’m assuming you’re a low-life seasonal cowboy? Now that you’ve earned enough cash to buy beer through the long, cold winter, you’re back in town to raise a little hell?”

  “First, cut the attitude and sass. Second, how about trying to act like a civilized adult. Third, I’m a freaking navy SEAL—it doesn’t get much more real than that, sweetheart.”

  “You’re in the navy? In the middle of North Dakota? The night we were together, you told me you were a bull rider. But now I see you meant to say you’re just full of bull.” She primly folded her hands atop her desk. What she wouldn’t give to have one of her father’s former legal team make mincemeat of this loser—although they hadn’t been all that successful with her dad.

  “Okay...” He sighed, then leaned back in his chair, opening his long duster coat just enough for her to see how well his brown sweater clung to his broad chest. “I get that the night we met, I wasn’t exactly on my best behavior, but then, neither were you.”

  True.

  “But here’s the deal. I really am in the navy, and I was in town for the annual rodeo and to visit my family for Easter. They were supposed to join me in Virginia Beach, but Dad tripped during the last big snow and hurt his back. The reason I never got your message is because I was in Afghanistan and dropped my damned phone down a well.”

  “Show me pics or it didn’t happen.” What kind of drugs was this guy on? “Oh—but since your phone is at the bottom of a well, guess that won’t happen, either.”

  “Ever heard of the cloud?” His expression brightened when he pulled out his phone to start flipping through photos of a guy wearing desert camo, mirrored Ray-Bans and a similar cowboy hat, only with a full beard and shaggy hair. “Here I am with a donkey, and playing soccer with village kids—that’s the phone-eating well in the background...” He pointed. “There’s me driving a tank, and me in a cave—Oh, here I am with a cheetah. You find the damnedest things in terrorist camps.”

  “Okay, okay, so you proved you’ve been somewhere in the Middle East, but as for you being a SEAL? Let’s get real. If I had a dollar for every time some guy in a bar told me he was a fighter pilot or spy—or in your case, bull rider—I sure wouldn’t be selling real estate in the middle of nowhere, North Dakota.”

  “Case in point.” He stashed his phone in his back pocket, then winked. “You sure didn’t have a problem with my line the night we made our son—if he even is mine.” He said the words, but Logan’s churning stomach recalled that split second of condom doubt. He could deny it all he wanted, but in all probability, this baby was his.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Ready to reach an amicable arrangement?”

  “No. Because not only do I not believe you’re from Maple Springs, but I think you’re lying about the navy and your rodeo glory days and probably damn near everything else you’ve ever told me.”

  “That’s it.” Jaw clenched, he leaped to his feet, planted his hat on his head, then rounded to her side of the desk. Hand on her upper arm, he barked, “Get up. There’s someone you need to meet.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Oh, yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Look...” Even though he’d released her, she could have sworn his each individual fingertip scorched her skin through her dress. He knelt so his gaze landed dead even with hers. He was close enough for his warm, coffee-laced breath to flare her nostrils and raise achingly familiar goose bumps up and down the length of her arms. To compensate for the fact that her lungs forgot how to breathe, she gasped—unfortunately making her sound like a flopping fish. Good God, he was a fine-looking man. “I understand why my showing up like this would catch you off guard, but promise, I have nothing but you and our baby’s best interests at heart. If you want to share custody, I’ll happily pay child support. If you want to go the old-fashioned route and get hitched, I’d hardly say I’m thrilled with the idea, but we could work something out. Come back to Virginia with me. I’m damned good-looking and you’re a stone-cold fox. This baby’s gonna be a heartbreaker. We’ll make things legal. You stay home with the rug rat and I’ll provide you both with a decent living. I get why you might not trust me, but since we already have an appointment, at least come with me to my parents’ ranch. Meet my mom and dad—they’ll vouch for me. Give me a chance to prove I’m a stand-up guy.”

  His speech made Tiffany more than a little miffed.

  Their looks were irrelevant.

  Besides, she had a plan. A good plan. He’d been out of her picture for months. How dare he barge in here and act like he was now in charge?

  “What do you say? It’s nasty outside, but Dad’s got a fire going and Mom makes crazy-good hot chocolate. Toss in one of her homemade cinnamon rolls and I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”

  What if I already am? Not by any of what he’d just proposed, but by the fact that it was far too late to put on the brakes and start over with their relationship. She never would have slept with the guy if something about him hadn’t drawn her in. He was smart-mouthed and cocky and no doubt a pain in the ass to deal with in everyday life. But his green eyes made her feel as warm as if she were back home in Dallas, relaxed and happy, strolling hand in hand barefoot across a sumptuous grass lawn she hadn’t had to mow.

  “Tiff?”

  “What happened to you thinking I’m lying about you being my baby’s father? Plus, I don’t even know your full name.”

  “Sorry. Now that I’ve seen you, I remember how we both went more than a little crazy that night. As for my name, it’s Rowdy Jones. Right there on your appointment sheet.” He nodded to the memo on her desk. Mr. Jones. He hadn’t lied about his name?

  “Show me your ID.”

  He shook his head at the imposition but did as she asked.

  Sure enough, unless he’d spent a fortune on a fake, that was his real name. He stood six-two, weighed 220 and was even an organ donor.

  “Now that you know I’m official, ready to meet my folks?”

  She lurched when the baby gave an extra-hard shove to her appendix.

  “Whoa...” Rowdy stared at her enormous belly. “Was that our little guy?”

  She had a spiteful retort on the tip of her tongue about the baby technically no longer belonging to either of them, but Tiffany instead nodded.

  “Mind if I...you know...” He hovered his hand above her bump.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  When he touched her, all sense of logic short-circuited.

  His fingers were big and warm and reminded her of that night when they’d both been very naughty, yet that poor behavior had felt so very good. She hadn’t been with another man since.

  The sad truth was that she hadn’t wanted to.

  This guy—the one she’d been reunited with for all of fifteen minutes—was already making her head swim with all manner of delicious possibilities for a brighter, better life.

  But she didn’t have just herself to consider. Even if she did, she had to remember men were the enemy—on all fronts. Her dad had been a ticking time bomb for a decade before exploding her and her mother’s lives. Then there was her ex, Crawford. Just when she’d needed him most, he’d emotionally shredded her heart. He hadn’t even had the cojones to tell her in person that he wanted a divorce. He’d had some random co
urt-appointed suit show up at their Dallas home to serve papers. She’d tried calling him, certain there had been a mistake, but his secretary had told her Crawford was no longer accepting her calls and that the house, the furnishings, her jewelry and a sizable chunk of cash were hers free and clear.

  The only stipulation?

  Crawford William Ridgemont IV wanted his precious, unsoiled family name back.

  Devastated didn’t begin to describe how she’d felt. She’d given him what he wanted, then proceeded to sell the house and everything in it to help pay Big Daddy’s legal fees.

  The baby kicked again—jolting her from the past and right back into her confusing present.

  “Damn...” Rowdy whistled. “He’s a tough little guy. We’ll need to start thinking of names. My mom’s already got a half dozen, but what would you think about John Wayne—of course, as a tribute to the legend.”

  “John Wayne Jones? Really?” Tiffany pushed her wheeled desk chair back so abruptly that Rowdy, who still had his hand pressed to her belly, lost his balance and fell onto his knees.

  “Hell, woman.” He rubbed his lower back. “What’s your problem? A little advance notice of your move might’ve been nice.”

  “So would returning my call.”

  He groaned. “Are we back to that? I already told you about my phone and the well.”

  “Look,” she said as she examined her sadly painted pink nails. “There’s much more going on here than you could possibly understand. It’s complicated.” All her life, she’d had a private manicurist, and she still hadn’t mastered the art of doing it herself. But she was trying—just like she was giving all she had to this real estate job. All she’d need was one good commission to build her savings and ensure Gigi and Pearl would be comfortable and warm for at least a few months if that was how long it took for her to make her next sale. “All my life, I’ve depended on men, and they’ve always, always let me down. Now the only person I trust with my well-being is me.” She hugged her belly. “Don’t think for one hot second I wouldn’t love being a stay-at-home mom, but I’ve been down that road and discovered the hard way that it’s a dead end.”

  “So you don’t want to get married?” Was it her imagination, or did he look relieved?

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m cool with you being a single mom. I mean, I’ll always be there for you whenever I’m in the States and I plan to support my kid whether we marry or not, but it might be best if we don’t tempt fate by—How do I put this in a delicate manner?” There he went again with his maddeningly sexy grin. “Let’s just say it probably wouldn’t be in either of our best interests to go at it quite to that degree again.”

  “Get out.” She pointed toward her closed office door.

  “Aw, now, don’t go getting your pretty pink panties in a wad—I wasn’t complaining. I just—”

  She stood. “I don’t care what you meant. And for the record, Mr. Jones, my panties are black—like a black widow spider. After she mates, she kills.” Tiffany had once heard the line in a movie and thought it made for a great dramatic effect. She tried crossing her arms to further emphasize she meant business, but of course, they landed too high on the baby to be comfortable or sufficiently menacing. Still, no way was she giving in now. “Get out.”

  “Miss Tiffany, you are one helluva special snowflake.” After a good long chuckle, he pushed himself to his feet, retrieved his hat, then followed her orders. “Want your door open or closed?”

  “Closed.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Only after she was once again alone did Tiffany collapse back into her desk chair. During previous catastrophes, she might have indulged in a nice long cry, then soaked in a bubble bath with plenty of champagne and imported chocolates.

  Now? Her only option was to pull out the big guns.

  With an extra-hard tug, her bottom desk drawer popped open to reveal one of her favorite wedding gifts—a Baccarat crystal candy dish from Crawford’s Aunt Cookie. Since they’d been married two years before their divorce, Tiffany got to keep all the gifts. She’d sold the vast majority but kept a cherished few. After all, now that she’d reached rock bottom, she needed to remember what awaited her back at the top.

  Smiling, she reached into the bowl for one—okay, make that four—fun-sized Snickers.

  Rowdy might have temporarily interrupted her day, but she refused to let him permanently bring her down. She had commissions to earn, a mother and grandmother to support, and a healthy baby to raise for the Parkers. Which was why she next ate a snack-sized bag of minicarrots, followed by apple juice and cheddar cheese cubes.

  All of which should have filled her but didn’t.

  What was she really craving?

  One of those cinnamon rolls Rowdy said his mom made.

  Covering suddenly flushed cheeks, Tiffany rested her forehead against the cool laminate top of her desk. Given the fact that according to WebMD, the average cost of childbirth in America was $9,600—an uncomplicated C-section was a whopping $15,800—she had no option other than to give her son up for adoption so his new parents could pay. Pearl offered to mortgage her home to keep her great-grandson in the family, but Tiffany could no more let her do that than she could afford health insurance—she knew she’d owe a hefty penalty come tax time for not finding coverage, but she’d worry about that next April.

  What Rowdy proposed sounded crazy. Maybe if he’d presented his proposition in a more reasonable manner, she might have considered it.

  All she had to do to keep her baby was marry his father, and voilà—her every financial problem would vanish. Only it wouldn’t be quite that easy. Rowdy wasn’t going to make her his bride for nothing, and not to be a drama queen, but she’d already learned the price for marriage was her soul.

  Chapter Three

  “Uh-oh...”

  “That about sums up my morning.” Rowdy shut the back door on nasty blowing snow, wishing he were back on a beach—or, shoot, even a desert would be preferable to this.

  “I take it she didn’t accept your proposal? Told you so. You should’ve taken a ring.” Patsy Jones lounged in the kitchen’s usually sun-flooded window seat, wearing the Hello Kitty grown-up footy pj’s his dad had bought her last Christmas. Maybe it was best he hadn’t brought Tiffany today?

  “Best as I could tell, her refusal had nothing to do with a ring.” He hung his hat and coat on the rack beside the door, then went straight to the oven, only to find it empty. “Thought you were making cinnamon rolls?”

  “I was, but in the book I’m reading, Jack just got chased by a bear and Marcy has his gun.”

  Shaking his head, Rowdy settled for heating up a can of SpaghettiOs, then asked, “Where are Dad and Carl?”

  “They called a while ago. Found a momma determined to have her calf in this storm. They’re staying out there to make sure she’s okay.”

  “Cool.” Only it wasn’t. He was used to having every minute of his days filled with action, and out here, seemed like everyone had something to do but him. He’d planned on having the mother of his child here to at least hash out plans.

  He was running out of time. He needed to get back on base, and their baby wasn’t going to wait for Tiffany to make a decision. “I’ll be in my room.”

  “Why? Don’t tell me you’re giving up?”

  He sighed. “No way, but there’s not a whole lot else I can do today. Since my ambush didn’t work, I need to come up with a better plan of attack.”

  “How about if you don’t treat this like one of your military missions but like a man asking a woman to marry him for the sake of their child? Did you tell Tiffany how sweet you can be if you set your mind to it?”

  “I told her I was good-looking.”

  “Good grief, Rowdy. No wonder she’s confused.”

&nbs
p; “More like pissed. From what I can gather, this isn’t her first rodeo, and she’s been burned before.”

  His mom paled. “You mean she already has a child?”

  “No. I meant her previous relationships went sour, so now she’s one of those man-hater types.”

  Frowning, she noted, “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “You know—like the last guy she was with was an ass, so now she hates all men.”

  “That can’t be true.” She winced at his foul language, then rested her book on the nearest pillow. The kitchen was yellow, and by yellow, Rowdy meant every last thing save for the oak kitchen table and white marble counters was the color of a damned lemon. Her pillowed window seat was no exception. “Did you tell her you’re not like that and wouldn’t hurt her?”

  “Sure, but by not contacting her until this late in the game, I pretty much already have hurt her. If only I’d have been here from day one of her pregnancy, you know?”

  “That’s a given. But it’s not like you were off with another woman. Did you explain how your phone fell down a well?”

  He snorted. “To Tiffany that was the equivalent of telling her my dog ate my homework. She’s not buying it.”

  “Want me to talk to her? Vouch for you?” Yes. Initially, that had been exactly what he wanted. But now he wasn’t sure bringing his mom into this mess would help.

  “Thanks, but no.” He arched his head back, slicing his fingers through his buzzed hair. “The last thing I want is for you to interfere.”

  She waved off his concern and ducked her head back behind her book.

  In his room, Rowdy used the remote to click on the TV and flip through channels, but then he realized the TV no longer had a satellite connection—just an ancient VCR and a stack of his mom’s workout and chick-flick tapes.

  His desk had been replaced by a treadmill, and against the wall where his bed used to be now sat a sewing/craft station and a brass daybed with a freakin’ yellow floral spread. His formerly blue walls had been painted yellow and his bikini pinups no doubt burned.