The Cowboy SEAL's Jingle Bell Baby

by Laura Marie Altom

  Their team’s plans had been precise.

  They’d each played an assigned role and there shouldn’t have been a problem. But there was.

  Faulty intel led their team into a trap. It was a damned miracle more of them hadn’t died.

  In the belly of the Chinook chopper, Rowdy and Logan had held Duck’s hand till the end. The guy had a wife and four kids—one of them a girl, barely a month old.

  He looked up to see Ginny, Duck’s wife, standing stoically, bravely, as if her entire life hadn’t shattered. She held the baby in the crook of one arm and the hand of their smallest son. The two oldest boys flanked her.

  Her dark sunglasses hid her eyes but couldn’t mask the glint of sun on silent tears.

  The Norfolk, Virginia, day was ridiculously pleasant.

  Birds chirped and a hint of a breeze waved countless American flags. The air smelled of freshly mowed grass and Logan’s annoying aftershave.

  Rowdy missed Tiffany.

  He’d lost track of how many times he’d started dialing her number but stopped himself short. Whatever emotions simmered between them had to stop. It had taken a front-row seat to seeing one of his best friends dying to make Rowdy understand how real shit had gotten. Committing to being a father wasn’t a game.

  It killed Rowdy that he hadn’t been able to save Duck. He’d played the scene over and over in his head. If only he’d been closer, faster, more agile.

  It was finally his turn to press his pin into the top of Duck’s casket. The sign of respect was a time-honored SEAL tradition, but Rowdy hardly felt worthy. Duck’s family haunted him. The boys looked just like him—right down to the blue eyes, freckles, sandy-brown hair and cowlicks on the right side of their teary faces.

  Rowdy pressed his palm to the casket’s sun-warmed wood.

  I’m sorry, man. It all happened too fast. There was nothing I could do.

  The knot in his throat made it tough to breathe.

  “Dude...” Logan placed his hand on Rowdy’s shoulder. “Let him go.”

  Rowdy nodded.

  Let him go.

  Logan’s words were unwittingly profound. Yes. He had to let him go. Only Rowdy wasn’t just talking about Duck but his son.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, Rowdy was finally back in Maple Springs.

  Big surprise, it was snowing. Hard.

  So hard that he had to lean forward behind the wheel of his pickup to see the reflective poles marking the road’s edge.

  His mom’s car had been in the shop for the past few days, and she’d gotten a Christmas-carol CD stuck in his truck’s player. If he heard one more line about a drummer boy or figgy pudding, he’d shoot the damned thing out.

  He’d been in a foul mood since getting back.

  Everything felt out of whack. He hadn’t been sleeping and foods no longer tasted right. He was no good to himself or anyone else. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ginny and those four fatherless kids.

  When Rowdy finally reached Pearl’s street, snow fell so fast the wipers had a hard time keeping up.

  In front of the old house, he killed the engine, grabbed his overnight bag, then dashed for the house.

  On the porch, he stomped snow from his boots, then rang the bell.

  “Good gracious,” Pearl said upon opening the door. “Why am I always finding you playing out in the snow?”

  “Couldn’t tell you, ma’am. Is Tiffany here?”

  “Of course. She’s in the office. Take off your coat and boots. I’ll go get her.”

  Tiffany’s dog barked himself silly, trying to attack Rowdy’s feet. The mutt wore a hot-pink rhinestone sweater with a fur collar. The ridiculous sight gave Rowdy his first faint smile in what felt like a damned long time.

  Rowdy scooped him up.

  A rub behind his ears was all it took for the little dog to quiet.

  “I could slap you into the next county,” Tiffany said, practically waddling down the hall in a too-tight T-shirt and sweatpants. Her baby bump was huge, but her cheeks looked hollowed. Dark circles were under her eyes. “Why didn’t you call?” As if maybe wanting a hug, she stepped in close but then backed away, hugging herself. “I’ve literally been worried sick.”

  “Sorry. Honestly, I figured you’d be glad having me out of your hair.”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “Probably.”

  “I mean it. How dare you leave the country without telling me? What’s wrong with you? What kind of father leaves his child without even saying goodbye?”

  “I tried calling, but my battery died.”

  “Likely story. Ranks right up there with you losing your phone down a well. I hate you!”

  “Tiffany Anne!” Gigi floated into the entry. She wore a red-sequined muumuu and carried a string of Christmas lights. The house smelled of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread. “Is that any way to talk to your fiancé?”

  “Stay out of this, Mom. Rowdy was just leaving.” She snatched the dog from his arms.

  “The hell I am. Have you seen how hard it’s coming down?”

  “I don’t care where you go,” Tiffany said near the stairs, “but you’re not staying here.”

  “Rowdy.” Gigi pressed her hand to his forearm. “You are welcome to stay as long as you like—just remember, no relations until after the wedding.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When Gigi headed back to the living room, Rowdy chased Tiffany up the stairs. “For looking about ten months pregnant, you’re fast.”

  “Shut up. I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t.” He hovered behind her, making sure she didn’t fall.

  “I seriously do. I’ve been sick for days. Why? Because you’re too damned inconsiderate to give me a single call.” At the top of the stairs, she paused to catch her breath.

  Mr. Bojangles had fallen asleep in her arms.

  Rowdy hefted both of them into his arms, carrying them to Tiffany’s bed.

  “Put me down,” she said, launching a halfhearted fight. But by the time she’d really worked up a head of steam, he’d already settled her on the mattress.

  “We need to talk.” He took a seat on the chaise.

  “The time for talking was back in November. Now I’d just as soon spit on you as look at you.”

  “Fair enough. I’m sorry. When I left...” He glanced at the ceiling, wishing for an eloquent way to explain the chaos in his heart. “I thought I was sure about a lot of things. I wanted to marry you and raise our baby boy, but—”

  “Now you don’t?” She gulped, rubbing her palms over the baby.

  He leaned forward, cupping his hands over hers.

  The fascination, the heat, was still there. He couldn’t deny he wanted her just as bad now as he ever had. But as long as he was a SEAL, he had no right becoming a dad. He’d seen the pain of losing their father etched on the faces of Duck’s boys and they haunted him. As did the thought of his baby girl never truly knowing her father. She wouldn’t have anyone to take to daddy-daughter dances or to give her away at her wedding. It was tragic. Only one thing could have stopped it—if Duck had never married or had kids at all.

  After forcing a breath, he said, “I think we should go ahead with the adoption.”

  “What?” She shook her head. Tears shone in her eyes. “After our night together and I found out you were in danger, I realized we should keep our baby boy. I don’t know what I feel for you, but I do know it was awful having you gone. Let’s resume your house hunt. Find you a nice little ranch where your only real danger would be falling off your horse.”

  “Here’s the thing.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I need the danger. The revenge. I know I must sound sick, but I’m afraid it might be the only thing keeping me alive. My friend Duck—”
His voice cracked with emotion. “He died. When it happened, it didn’t seem real. It was like a video game. I watched him going down—it was in slow motion, blood gushing from his side. I kept thinking, This isn’t real. It can’t be real. But it was. And he—he died. And I...”

  “Hey...” Tiffany left the bed to sit beside him on the chaise, wrapping him in a sideways hug. “I’m sorry. Death hits everyone in different ways.”

  “I guess.” He leaned forward, sliding his hands into his hair. “My only real takeaway is that if he can die, so can I. How stupid is it that before losing Duck, the fact never sank in?”

  “You’ve never seen other soldiers pass?”

  “Sure, I have. But this was different. Before, I knew them, but they weren’t close friends. I didn’t know they preferred yogurt and granola for breakfast and listened to Aerosmith on endless flights. I didn’t know they had a wife and kids waiting for them to come home. Only Duck never will. And that kills me.” He rubbed his chest. “Losing him hurts so bad, but I have to keep it together. For you. For our son.”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” she softly said, “except let me take care of you. I’ve got this.” As she cupped her hand to his cheek, he couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes and leaning in to her touch.

  “I’m tired,” he admitted.

  “Then sleep.” She took his hand, tugging him onto the bed. “Everything will look better after a good long rest.”

  “Promise?” he asked with a sad, strangled laugh.

  “Considering our current situation, all bets and promises are off. All I can tell you with one-hundred-percent accuracy is that my bed is awfully warm and cozy. Assuming Mr. Bojangles makes room, there should be plenty of space for the three of us.”

  Thank you, he wanted to say. But he was too tired. His confessions had taken a costly emotional toll. She consistently brought out the best in him, but what could he offer her?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Tiffany woke to bright sun streaming through her bedroom windows. As usual, her lower back throbbed, as did her feet, but the blissful warmth of being spooned against Rowdy overrode all complaints. He rested his big hand on her even bigger tummy and suddenly, for the first time since she couldn’t remember when, all seemed right in her world.

  But for how long?

  Her growling stomach and the fact that she had to pee provided excellent reasons to ignore the nagging question.

  She eased from the bed without waking Rowdy—or Mr. Bojangles, who shared Rowdy’s pillow—shoved her giant feet into cozy slippers, wrapped herself in her robe, then visited the bathroom before trudging down the stairs to find food.

  Heavenly smells led her to the oven-warmed kitchen, where Pearl was already busy baking.

  “It’s about time.” Pearl clanged her wooden spoon on the edge of a pot simmering with apple pie filling. The sweet-spicy smell of cinnamon and nutmeg and brown sugar made Tiffany even hungrier. Hands on her hips, Pearl said, “I don’t have many rules around here, but as an unmarried, pregnant young woman, I would appreciate you not fornicating in my—”

  “Grammy, promise, all Rowdy and I did was sleep.” She gave her grandmother the abridged version of what had happened with Rowdy while he’d been overseas. “He was exhausted and needed a soft place to land. That’s it.”

  “Now that he knows how precious life is, I’m assuming this adoption business has once and for all been taken off the table?”

  “That’s just it...” Tiffany took an iced Santa cookie from a plate on the counter. “He’s more determined than ever to go through with the adoption. He basically said he can’t quit his job. Because of that, he doesn’t feel justified in raising a child only to potentially leave him.”

  Pearl scowled. “That’s the biggest bunch of hogwash I’ve heard in all my days. Not a single one of us are given out guarantees along with our birth certificates. In this life, you get what hand you’re dealt, and you deal with it. Period. Look what happened with you and your mom. I don’t say this often, but I’m proud of the way you two have managed to carry on.”

  “Thank you.” Tiffany bowed her head. Coming from her strong, proud grandmother, who had buried her husband and seen her only son imprisoned, the praise meant a lot.

  “I think you and Rowdy ought to put this whole baby business aside—at least as long as you can. Enjoy the holidays and get to know each other the way a man and woman should. You two put your cart waaaay before the horse with your baby. How about slowing things down? Help me decorate cookies and then help your mom with her giant fancy tree. Try acting like a couple instead of already frazzled parents.”

  Misty-eyed at her grandmother’s practical yet much-needed advice, Tiffany nodded.

  “Never thought I’d get used to all this white stuff,” Gigi said. She flounced into the kitchen wearing an emerald-green caftan with ostrich feathers and jewels around the neck. She already wore full makeup—including her false eyelashes. “But look at it shining in the sun. Looks like an entire world filled with diamonds.” She gave Tiffany a hug, then Pearl.

  “What’s got you so chipper this morning?” Pearl asked.

  “It’s almost Christmas, my very pregnant daughter is almost married and I have an afternoon call scheduled with Big Daddy. What more could a girl need?” She giggled.

  “Indeed,” Pearl said. “Although, this girl could use help with the dishes. Any volunteers?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  All three women turned to find Rowdy standing on the kitchen threshold. He wore faded Wranglers and a US Navy sweatshirt, and his short hair looked adorably mussed. Stubble lent him a bad-boy appeal. The way he cradled Mr. Bojangles made it entirely too easy for Tiffany to imagine him carrying their son. His good looks made it impossible to find her next words. His willingness to help her grandmother only compounded his charm.

  “You’re a good man, Rowdy Jones.” Pearl wiped her hands on her white apron. “After that, you and Tiffany eat a nice hearty breakfast. Then there’s plenty more to do around here to get this old house decorated and spit shined for Christmas. Oh—and if you really want to get on my good side, the chickens need checking on, and the front and back walks need shoveling again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Two hours into his chore list, the man wasn’t even winded.

  Meanwhile, Tiffany’s lower back was on fire and her feet felt like great big Christmas hams.

  Mr. Bojangles, being the ultimate diva, snoozed on a sofa pillow in a patch of living room sun.

  A fire crackled in the hearth, Dean Martin crooned carols and the air smelled heavenly from her grandmother’s latest batch of gingerbread men.

  Gigi sat at the dining room table, polishing heirloom silver Tiffany prayed wouldn’t have to be sold.

  “You made this?” In front of the fresh-cut tree a neighbor had delivered and settled into its stand not an hour earlier, Rowdy held up a pink salt-dough snowman ornament. After twenty years, crooked rhinestones and heavy-handed glitter still shone.

  “Yes, I did.” Afraid he might be poking fun at the treasured keepsake, she snatched it from him. “What about it? Think it’s lame?”

  “I like it.” When Gigi wasn’t looking, he stole a kiss hot enough to at least temporarily make her forget how bad she was hurting. “In fact, it’s the cutest damned thing I’ve seen in a while—aside from its creator.” The look in his eyes made her knees as unsteady as her feet. As it generally did whenever she was around him, her pulse went haywire. “I love learning more about you from happier times—assuming when you made this you were happy?”

  Before nodding, she wiped away silly, sentimental tears. “I was a blessed child. Mom and Daddy spoiled me rotten—not just with material things but love and attention. When they couldn’t be with me, I had nannies.” While she added red
velvet bows to the tree, her voice took on a wistful tone. “We traveled the world. London, Paris, Switzerland, Milan.”

  “What was your favorite?”

  “The Alps. No contest.”

  “Interesting.” He placed another homemade ornament front and center. A small-sized paper plate with horrible green paint, an obscene amount of glitter and an adorable, crooked photo of her with no front teeth. “I had you pegged for more of a Paris gal.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong, I love everything about Paris, but something about those mountain views...” The longing in her voice made him want to be the next man to show her that view. Impossible, since he’d return to duty as soon as the baby was born and safely transferred to Jeb’s and Susie’s capable arms.

  Just thinking about that moment—handing over his son—made him physically ill. But if Rowdy intended to stay in the navy, it had to be done. The last thing he wanted was for his boy or Tiffany to wear the same grief-stricken look in their eyes as Duck’s wife and sons. “Does your grandma have any antacid?”

  “In the hall bathroom’s medicine cabinet. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he covered. “I just ate two more servings of Pearl’s biscuits and gravy than I should have.”

  “I know the feeling.” Her grin brightened his world. It was the same one from the ornament’s picture. Sure, she now had all of her teeth and wore her hair swept up instead of in pigtails, but for an instant, her happy glow was back.

  How could he make it stay after the adoption, after he’d gone?

  By late that afternoon, even Tiffany was shocked by the progress they’d made. Fresh fir garlands had been hung from the stair railing—courtesy of another neighbor in exchange for six dozen of her grandmother’s frosted cookie masterpieces. The tree was trimmed, and more garland hung from the mantel, as did cards from Pearl’s many friends. Pearl punched holes in the corners of each one and hung them by ribbons from the garland and tree.

  Her mother’s Christmas village had come to life on the dining room buffet, and the nativity scene played out on the entry hall table.