The Cowboy, The Baby And The Bride-To-Be

He snorted. “This is a long way from a crisis. But when you do have a crisis, you don’t have any choice when you’re this far from anything.”

She hugged herself and looked out over the land. “I think this is right in the middle of everything.”

Sure you do, honey. “Until the first time you crave pizza at two in the morning.”

“Pizza is easy to make.”

“It is?” he said with reluctant respect.

“Oh, sure. A little bread dough and tomato sauce, pepperoni, and fresh green peppers.”

“Fresh. There you have it. What we don’t have.”

“I can eat it without,” she said absently. “You could grow a garden, couldn’t you?”

He shot a guilty look at the dead flowers in the box under the bedroom window.

She followed his gaze. “Oh. Did you plant those?”

“Not hardly,” he said a trifle defensively. Did he look like the kind of man who planted pansies?

Something tightened in her face, and he could read the whole story of what she thought had happened there. He’d had a brief fling with a woman who thought she was staying and had planted flowers. He’d gotten rid of her and not even bothered to water the plants.

Actually, his sister had planted the flowers in one of those periodic attempts she made to spiff his place up. He’d watered them meticulously for a week or so. And then he’d gotten contracts to put thirty days’ training on six horses, plus he’d acquired that renegade, leopard-spotted Appy mare who only had murder—his—on her mind.

He decided, stubbornly, not to tell his uninvited guest those few facts, even if they might have redeemed his hardened soul somewhat in her eyes.

If she was silly enough to think he was some kind of playboy, let her think it. It might keep her from getting any damn fool notions.

That kid was going to be here for a day or two, and she wasn’t leaving without him tucked in his little seat in the back of her little car.

“Poppy, is it?” Perhaps that would explain a sensitivity to perished flowers.

She looked baffled.

“Your name?”

“Good grief, no. Shayla. Shayla Morrison.”

He thought Poppy was a somewhat more sensible name, even if it didn’t suit her. Shayla was an exotic name, which for some ridiculous reason made him wonder about her underwear again. Frills. He’d bet his last buck on that one. Come to that, he’d probably bet his soul for one little peek, so he’d better get himself out of harm’s way and quick.

“Miss Morrison—”

“Shayla, please.”

“Shayla, I’ve got some chores to do, so you’ve got the place to yourself if you want to have a bath or shower. I’ll pull out the sofa bed for the night.”

“I can’t stay here!”

“Well, you sure as hell can’t leave. That kid isn’t going anywhere, and you’re not going anywhere without him.”

She mulled that over. “And the nearest motel?”

“Care to guess?”

“Close to the pharmacy and hospital?”

“Right around the comer.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“An irritating habit I have.”

She smiled, and it was a nice smile that showed small white teeth and lit up a light inside her eyes, making him realize he’d been wrong about one thing. Because she was downright beautiful when she did that.

The smile disappeared, and she gnawed on her bottom lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know what I’m going to do—”

“I think you’re going to have to stick around. For a day or two. I’ll see if I can track down Maria and find out what’s going on.”

“Track her down? But—”

“She used to have some family in these parts.” Family, he remembered, who lived in a frightful little shack with a car corpse or two in the yard. Part of the reason he’d decided she was completely unsuitable for his brother.

MacLeod, he told himself, you’re a real SOB.

“I’m sure she’s planning to call you,” Shayla said. “I can stay the night, but—”

“You can’t leave him here. You either have to stay or take him with you when you go. He strikes me as a tough little tyke, but his Mom’s gone, and I think he’d be scared to death if you dropped him here with a complete stranger.”

The depth of his caring for the little boy took him slightly aback.

“I think you’re right,” she said, apparently as surprised by his sensitivity as he himself was.

“Are you rushing back to a job or a boyfriend or something?”

“Not really. I can do my job anywhere.”

“What job is that?” No mention of a boyfriend? Why did that make his stupid heart skip a beat?

“I write songs for a children’s show.”

“That explains it. The songs you pull out of the air.” For some reason her offbeat job made her seem appealing.

Then again after three years without so much as a kiss, he’d probably see appeal in just about anyone, up to and including Ma Baker who ran a pretty good café in Jordan—and was two hundred and thirteen pounds, and damn proud of every one of them.

And now he’d gone and encouraged her to stay. Sleep in his bed. Take a shower. She’d get out all rosy and smelling of sweetness and soap—

And he’d work himself into the ground until well after dark, come in, hit the sack and fall into a deep, dreamless and exhausted sleep. He could manage that for a day or two. Actually it wouldn’t be that different from his regular routine.