As Tom kept pace with Darcy, but respected her silence, he decided that maybe that’s what being in love did to a man. Made him decisive. And made him do silly things. Like buy a big bunch of pink roses and a beautiful baby spray and then drive an hour to hand-deliver them…only to give a stranger’s child his name at the end of the trip. Tom looked over at Darcy, noting things now like her height, the shape of her nose, her general shapelessness under the hospital’s gown and robe. Yep. She was a stranger to him, and him to her.
He didn’t know any of the things about her a man would normally know about a woman whose child bore his name. Things like…what it felt like to hold her, what it took to make her laugh, to make her smile. Or cry. Or to make her mad. He didn’t even know her favorite flavor of ice cream. Or her favorite TV show or book. Where she’d gone to school? How would she raise Montana Skye? Where would she raise the little girl?
No, he didn’t have any of those answers. But he did know that he had the rest of his life…and Darcy’s…to find them out.
BACK IN HER room, having climbed slowly, sorely back into her bed—again with Tom’s help—Darcy sat with her bottom half covered with a light blanket, her hands folded in her lap, and stared at the man who’d just…well, fathered her child, in essence. Looking away from him to the end of her bed where his white Stetson still rested, Darcy exhaled sharply.
The sound made him glance at her. “You okay?”
She nodded haltingly. She’d come to the decision as she’d walked back to her room that she needed to give him a way out. “Look, if you’ve already thought better of putting your name on Montana’s birth certificate, I can—”
He raised his hand. “No. I’m not sorry.”
Darcy brightened. He wasn’t? Then she remembered she didn’t dare fall for him—not from a maternity ward bed, at any rate. This just was not good timing. So, she raised an eyebrow, trying for skeptical. “You look to me like you are.”
“And how’s that?”
She looked him up and down. The man was perfect. “Well, you’re a little pale under your tan,” she lied.
His gaze shifted away from her, to the roses he’d brought. Then he resettled his gaze on her. “Look, I admit that what I did back there is a big thing. Huge. But it doesn’t scare me, Darcy. I won’t run. And I won’t change my mind. I did it, and I’m glad.”
Pricked to her very core—could this man see all the way into her frightened soul?—Darcy stuck to her guns. She couldn’t afford to like him any more than she already did. Her first priority now was her daughter. She just didn’t need to keep thinking of him as good and noble and fine. But most of all, she didn’t want to let him hurt her first. And that, regrettably, gave her only one course of action. “Fine.” The one word sat him up in his chair. She snatched up the nurse-call button.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to call the nurse.”
Concern edged his sky-blue eyes. “You hurting somewhere?”
“Not anywhere it shows.”
Tom slumped back against the chair. “Then let me guess. You’re going to change the birth certificate, aren’t you?”
Darcy shrugged, adopting a bravado that hid her pain for her child’s sake. Montana Skye was about to lose another father. “If I can. There might be a law or something that says I can’t.”
“But you’re sure going to try, right?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, pressing wrinkles into his crisply ironed white shirt.
Well, she’d done it now…he was angry. Still, believing she was doing the right thing, Darcy looked him up and down, trying desperately to find fault with him. “Is white the only color you wear? I mean, are you really all that good all the time?”
His eyes narrowed. “You trying to pick a fight with me, Darcy? You think that’ll make me go away?”
Here was the opening she needed. She stabbed a pointing finger at him. “See? That’s what I don’t get. Make you go away? Tom, we don’t have a relationship. We’re essentially strangers. I shouldn’t have to make you go away—because you shouldn’t even be here. I mean, I’m thankful and all for everything you’ve done for me.” Her heart cried out for her not to continue, but as always, she didn’t listen to it. “But your work here is done, Lone Ranger.”
There. She’d done it…given him nowhere to go. No way to argue. A heavy silence filled the air between them. As she held his gaze, Darcy felt triumphant…and about ready to burst into tears. Why had she been so hateful? What was wrong with her?
Tom stood up slowly. Darcy figured she was about to find out exactly what was wrong with him. “All right. You’ve made your point. I’ll go.” He walked over to the foot of her bed and snatched up his Stetson, which he carefully fitted to his head, tugging it low over his brow. Then he looked her in the eye. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
Darcy didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She raised her chin a notch and tried to swallow past the knotted emotion in her throat. Her heart screamed for her to stop him…but she refused to open her mouth. And so, he turned and walked out of her room. And out of her life.
He was gone. Darcy sat staring at the opened doorway to her hospital room…and listened to his every booted footfall out in the hallway until they faded. She sniffed and looked all around her at the flowers and the balloons and the cards that congratulated her and wished her well. They suddenly blurred. Darcy blinked back the tears. She’d never felt more alone.
Just then, the air-conditioning came on, blowing cold air from the vent directly onto her. As if that were the final insult, Darcy’s chin dimpled and quivered. Releasing the nurse-call button, she slid down a bit in the bed and turned on her side, away from the door, drawing her knees up as much as her soreness would allow. Pulling her covers close around her, clutching a twist of the blanket in her hand, she put her other fisted hand to her mouth and bit down on a knuckle…so no one would hear her cry.
5
“WELL, HERE WE ARE, Darcy Jean, you and baby Montana home all safe and sound. Just be careful there, honey. Watch that threshold. Don’t trip. I’d hate for you to drop that two-day-old baby.”
“Why? Don’t they bounce?”
Everyone already in the living room, as well as those people crowding in behind Darcy, froze in place and got quiet. “Good Lord, don’t say things like that, Darcy,” her mother scolded.
Yeah, well…she was tired. It’d been a long convoy home with the Buckeye Bridge Beauties following in their cars, all of them loaded down with the flowers and plants from Darcy’s hospital room. “Well, what did you want me to say, Mother? I have no intention of dropping my baby. I would die first.”
“Well, thank heavens, it’s not required. I’m just nervous for you, that’s all. So don’t be testy. Just sit here. Freda, move that pillow for her, will you? Yes, that one. Good.” Then, over her shoulder, “Close that door, can you, Barb? We’ll get the flowers inside in a minute. Thanks. I know, but Darcy insisted on wearing these old maternity shorts—I just hate them—and I don’t want her to catch cold.”
Forget the shorts. Darcy hated being talked about like she wasn’t in the room. “A cold, Mother? In Arizona? In May?”
Her cheerfully oblivious and proud mother obviously chose to ignore Darcy’s questions in favor of overseeing her…with Montana in her arms…being lowered into the big, soft and overstuffed recliner—one Darcy stood no chance of getting out of without the able assistance of a construction-grade crane. “Thanks for helping, Barb,” Margie Alcott said. Then she straightened up and beamed at Darcy. “There, baby. All settled. Is there anything I can get—Jeanette, hand me that afghan to put over Darcy’s legs.”
“I don’t want the afghan—”
Jeanette Tomlinson bunched the knitted blanket around Darcy’s legs. “I just love this afghan,” the older woman said, a good-natured twinkle lighting her blue eyes. “I’ve told your mama that one day I’m just going to steal it from her.”
“Make that day today, will you?”
Darcy coupled her words with a smile, but it was forced. Mrs. Tomlinson’s eyebrows rose. And Darcy felt sorry for herself. All she wanted was to be left alone for just a bit to get to know her daughter.
But just then, Barb Fredericks leaned over Darcy and gently tugged the baby’s blanket back. “Oh, she’s the prettiest black-haired little girl, Darcy. Now, what state did you name her after, honey? It was something with an M, wasn’t it? Missouri, maybe?”
Darcy stared soberly at the short, dark-haired woman whose only child was Vernon, the 50-year-old editor of The Buckeye Bugle. He still lived at home with her. “No. Not Missouri,” Darcy corrected. “But close. Michigan.”
“Darcy,” came her mother’s warning. “It’s Montana, Barb. Montana Skye. With an E.”
Barb turned to her friend Margie. “With a knee? What’s wrong with her knee?”
Not believing any of this, Darcy put her free hand to her forehead and rubbed. But before the ladies could get going on that tangent, a voice came from near the sofa. “Well, will you look at this. Isn’t it the cutest thing?”
They all looked. Freda Smith—sitting on the over-stuffed leather sofa and rooting through the big bag of helpful gifts the hospital had bestowed on Darcy—was holding up a typical, ordinary, everyday four-ounce glass baby bottle for all to see. Looking grave and judgmental, she glanced Darcy’s way. “We didn’t have these when Johnny was a baby 48 years ago. All we had to use were breasts.”
Amidst the collective gasps of embarrassment coming from the remaining bridge club members, Darcy…suddenly highly amused and truly loving every one of these ladies…assured Freda. “Women today still have breasts, Freda.”
“But are you using them?”
Darcy couldn’t resist. “Sure. Watch.” She began tugging on her maternity top’s buttons.
That cleared the room. The ladies bolted for the dining room around the corner, squawking about iced tea and calling home and how hot it was outside already. In the relative quiet of the abandoned living room, Darcy finally got to relax and look down at her daughter. “Your mother’s a stinker, Montana. But that may be the only thing that gets us through, kiddo.”
Wrapped from her head to her toes in swaddling blankets, Montana yawned and frowned and made awful faces…and dropped off to sleep. “Great,” Darcy said to the otherwise empty room. “I’m such a fascinating conversationalist. I’ve either driven everyone away—” She tried not to think of a tall cowboy in a white Stetson. “—or I’ve put them to sleep.” She smiled down at her tiny daughter and cooed softly, “My lectures on Chaucer have the same effect on my students, baby girl. Yes, that’s right. Your mama’s boring.”
Boring? I wish. Darcy thought about her upcoming car trip to Baltimore in January, a little less than eight months away. The child-care concerns she’d have once she got there. The effect of cold weather on a baby used to Arizona warmth. The demands of her new job. The grading. The paperwork. The seemingly endless classes she had to teach. The faculty give-and-take. The trying to pull her life together after her leave-of-absence, one she’d had to take after only one year at the university. It was a miracle she still had her position there. The new apartment she’d have to find since her upstairs one in the city only had one bedroom.
It all crowded in on her now, along with the alleged independent life she was supposed to be building for herself. All that—and on the same campus as Hank Erickson. Montana’s real father. Feeling defeated and overwhelmed, Darcy leaned her head back against the recliner’s dense padding and closed her eyes. Heighho, Silver. Where’s the real Lone Ranger when you need him?
The doorbell rang, startling Darcy into sitting upright and staring dumbly at the closed door. From around the corner, her mother called out, “Stay there, Darcy, I’ll get it.”
Under her breath, Darcy mumbled, “That’s a good thing, Mother, because I can’t get out of this chair.” But what she was thinking, as she busied herself with rearranging Montana’s soft blanket around her little face, was, Oh, surely I didn’t conjure the man up. And I mean my Lone Ranger. Not the Lone Ranger. Well, either Lone Ranger, actually.
Darcy looked up when her mother rounded the corner from the dining room. Barb, Freda, and Jeanette, all holding glasses of iced tea, were close on her heels. As one, all four of them headed for the door. And they all avoided looking at Darcy. Sudden dread filled her. Oh, this can’t be good.
“Well, I wonder who this could be,” Margie Alcott chirped.
Her mother’s voice, so falsely cheerful, told its own story, saying it would be just like Marjory Elaine Alcott to do exactly what she’d threatened yesterday—have Freda’s son use his sheriff/bloodhound skills to track that cowboy down. Johnny Smith could do it, too. It wasn’t as if Darcy’d been dumb enough to actually tell her mother that Tom Elliott had paid her a visit. But she supposed that anyone at the hospital could have done so. And probably had. They loved her mother. And were afraid of her.
So, yes, it could happen, Darcy knew. And here was the result—her mother had found the cowboy and then she’d invited him out here today. If she did, then I have to kill her…if I can get out of this chair.
At that point, her mother opened the door and stared outside. “Why, look. It is Vernon Fredericks. Hello.” She turned to Barb, the man’s mother. “Look, Barb. It is your son. Vernon. The town’s most eligible bachelor. I cannot believe he is here. On this day of all days.”
It was worse than Darcy’d feared. Her mother wasn’t using contractions. Darcy made a face of despair. Oh, dear God, not Vernon Fredericks.
“Why. What a nice surprise. Hello, son. How ever did you find me?” It was spreading. Now Barb had lost the ability to use contractions. Her stiffly repeated words sounded as if she were an amateur actor reading her lines from cue cards she’d never seen before.
Darcy slowly shook her head. Yep. Going to have to kill them…all four of them.
From outside, on the shaded verandah, a man’s whining voice said, “But you told me to come out—”
“Why, Vernon Fredericks, you silly ass—I mean man, you silly man. Now, we did no such thing and you know it. Come in, come in.” Holding her iced-tea glass out carefully, Margie Alcott snatched the skinny fellow in off the porch, closed the door behind him, and then turned him to face Darcy. “Look. Darcy’s home with her new baby.”
“I know. You told me she would be.” He was thoroughly bewildered, that much was obvious, as he looked from one woman’s face to the next. He was also balding and sweating and wearing an ill-fitting shiny suit.
Here was Bachelor Number One, Darcy had figured out. Taking pity on him—he really was a nice, if timid, man—she gave him a little wave and a smile. “Hello, Mr. Fredericks. It’s nice to see you again. I enjoyed your story about me yesterday in the newspaper.”
“You can call him Vernon. It’s okay.” This from bright-eyed, sweetly smiling Freda Smith. But the red-faced and unresponsive man himself had to be shoved forward by his mother. “Go say hello to Darcy, son. And remember to make a fuss over the baby.”
Thus pushed, the older man…more than twenty years Darcy’s senior…stumbled forward across the thick carpet and fell, landing—amidst gasps and shouted warnings from all sides—on his knees in front of Darcy. Startled awake by all the noise, no doubt—and by her mother’s whisking her up and out of harm’s way—Montana began screaming.
It was absolute chaos. Iced-tea glasses were plopped down everywhere. Helping hands reached out, taking the baby, helping Vernon to his feet, helping Darcy struggle awkwardly out of the chair, everyone shouting and blaming each other, all—
The doorbell rang again. Everyone froze. Except Montana, who apparently saw no reason not to continue flailing her arms and airing out her lungs. Stiff and sore and clutching at Jeanette’s arm, Darcy sought and found her mother, who was bouncing and rocking her granddaughter and eyeing Darcy guiltily. But Darcy wasn’t about to let her off the hook. “Would this be Bachelor Number Two?”
Margie p
ursed her lips and raised her chin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Darcy Jean Alcott.”
“Oh no?” Darcy pointed to Vernon. “Explain him.”
The doorbell rang again. Margie immediately handed Montana off to a thrilled Freda and stalked toward the wide entryway of her spacious ranch home. “I have to answer the door.”
And then, with everyone hushed and waiting in the living room, she opened the door to the Arizona heat. And just stood there. Then, planting a hand at her waist, she said, “Well, I’ll be.” She turned around to the group. “Will you look who’s here? It’s the Lone Ranger.”
OUT ON THE verandah, Tom pulled down the brim of his white Stetson. Yep. He should have turned around somewhere on the long sandy drive out here and gone the other way, especially when he’d seen all the cars. Hell, he shouldn’t even be here. Maybe he never should have even left Phoenix. But here he was. And so was Darcy.
Tom felt like a fifth wheel. She didn’t want to see him. She’d made that plain the other day in her hospital room. But now that everyone was staring at him, he didn’t have any idea what to say. Except, “Howdy.”
Still, no one said anything. He could hear little Montana crying. But no one moved. Tom focused on the big-haired, well-groomed older woman who’d answered the door, removing his hat and holding it in one hand, fiddling with the brim. “I’m here to see Darcy Alcott. That is, if she’s up to seeing another visitor right now.”
“Well, she sure enough is. Come on in. I’m her mother. You can call me Margie. Everyone else does.”
Tom nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. I will.” He stepped inside, and nodded to the folks facing him. “Howdy,” he repeated, with a duck of his head. “I’m Tom Elliott. I—”
The room exploded with noise. “That’s Tom Elliott?” “That’s his name?” “He sure is tall.” “And handsome.” “I have to get back to the Bugle office.” “Is he the one who stopped and—?” “Shhh, Freda. Don’t say that out loud.” “I have to get back to the Bugle office.” “Yes, he is.” “Well, I’ll be.” “He doesn’t look like he’s from Michigan.” “Montana, Barb. Montana.” “I have to get back to—”
Drive-By Daddy & Calamity Jo Page 6
