The Baby Notion

“I’ll do anything to have a baby—even if it meansgoing to the sperm bank. Unless sexy cowboyJake Spencer is willing to be a daddy…the natural way.”—Priscilla Barrington, hopeful mom-to-be.

THE BABY NOTIONby Dixie Browning (Desire 7/96)

“I’m more than willing to help Mitch McCord take care

of the baby he found on his doorstep. After all, I’ve been

in love with that confirmed bachelor for years.”

—Jenny Stevens, maternal girl-next-door.

BABY IN A BASKETby Helen R. Myers (Romance 8/96)

“My soon-to-be ex-husband and I are soon-to-be

parents! Can our new arrivals also bless us with a

second chance at marriage?”

—Valerie Kincaid, married new mom.

MARRIED…WITH TWINS!by Jennifer Mikels (Special Edition 9/96)

“I have vowed to be married by the time I turn thirty.

But the only man that interests me is single dad

Travis Donovan—and he doesn’t know I’m alive…yet!”

—Wendy Wilcox.biological-clock-counting bachelorette.

HOW TO HOOK A HUSBAND (AND A BABY)by Carolyn Zane (Yours Truly 10/96)

“Everybody wants me to name the father of my baby.

But I can’t tell anyone—even the expectant daddy!”

—Faith Harper, prim, proper—and very pregnant.

DISCOVERED: DADDYby Marilyn Pappano (Intimate Moments 11/96)

One (#ulink_afc48500-e444-5ffb-8c2a-b81fd2aa5757)

Jake stepped out of the barbershop feeling naked after his long overdue haircut. Pausing on the dusty sidewalk, he pulled a list from his shirt pocket, squinted down at it and then checked off one more item. That made…let’s see, florist? Check. Shady Grove Cemetery? Check. Bank? Yep. Barber? Yep. Which left the hardware store, the grocery store and—

“Hey there, Jake.”

He glanced up and smiled. “Hey there, Trilla Dean.”

“You going to the dance Sunday night?”

“Honey, you know me and dancing. I’d cripple half the women in New Hope if I was to show up at a dance.”

“You’re not all that bad.”

“I’m worse, and we both know it.”

She giggled. “I’ll save you a dance, anyway, just in case you decide to come.”

“You do that.” Jake grinned and shook his head. Trilla Dean Moyers was his age. She’d put on about fifty pounds since they used to make out in the back of his truck, but with her big blue eyes and her slow, sweet smile, she didn’t look a day over twenty.

Jake took out another list—Pete’s grocery list, this time. Squinting some more, he muttered, “Two dove’s eyes,” and translated it to two dozen eggs. He didn’t know which was worse—Pete’s writing, or his own reading. Jake figured either his eyes were going or his arms had gotten shorter.

“Hey, Jakey.”

He glanced up again and grinned at the frayed-looking redhead with two kids hanging on to her skirttails. Poor Connie. She was pregnant again. “Hey, Connie. How’s Mick?”

“He’s doin’ better, but he’s still real tore up about the Harley. I guess you heard it was totaled. Come see us sometime, y’hear?”

“I’ll do that,” Jake said, and meant it. Connie was another of his old classmates. They’d had a thing or two going way back in junior high school.

Jake was just about to shove the two lists back in his pocket and head over to the hardware store to see if the truck was loaded when he saw a peach-colored Cadillac convertible slide into a parking space across the street. Leaning his back against the sun-warmed brick wall, he lingered to watch the driver open the door, swing both legs out and follow them with a body that was designed to raise the noonday temperature about ten degrees.

The haystack blonde. He’d been hoping for a glimpse of her before he headed back out to the ranch. When she leaned inside the car to retrieve her purse, Jake lifted his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Somebody ought to tell her, he mused, that women built the way she was built weren’t cut out to wear tight jeans. Especially not when they were also wearing pink plastic sandals with fourinch heels.

Fortunately, no one ever had.

Jake flexed his shoulders, enjoying the sensation of heat on aching muscles. He didn’t particularly like towns. He especially didn’t like the town of New Hope, Texas. But then, he’d never been one to cut off his nose to spite his face, and catching a glimpse of his favorite fantasy always made the trip worthwhile. One of these days he was going to screw up his nerve and—

Whoa. She was fixing to go into that shop across the street.

Well, hell, as long as he was in the neighborhood…

Shrugging away from the hot brick wall, Jake rammed his lists into his pocket, carefully resettled his Stetson, and sauntered across the street, never once taking his eyes off that sweetly rounded backside.

Jake had been known to forget a name. He might even forget a face. Hell, he’d even been known to forget his own when he’d been on one of his infrequent benders. One thing he never forgot, however, was a well-turned rear end, on either a horse or a woman. He’d been seeing this particular example around town for too long now without ever getting a close look at her face.

Or maybe he just wasn’t a face man.

The first time he recalled seeing her had been the day they’d auctioned off that godawful palace of old man Barringer’s, along with everything in it, right down to the last solid-gold toothpick holder. Folks had come from five states to pick over the leavings.

Normally Jake wouldn’t have been caught dead at a gig like that, but the old man had had a mare that Jake had wanted right bad, so he’d figured he may as well give it a shot.

And there she’d been, standing off to one side with her arms crossed and her nose in the air, like she was too good for the rest of the vultures flocking around to pick over the old bastard’s carcass.

He’d got the mare, but by the time he’d wound up the paperwork, the woman had been gone. Since then he’d seen her half a dozen times, always from a distance. Sometimes she’d be walking, but mostly she’d be wheeling by in that flashy vintage Cadillac convertible. He figured she’d bought it off H. T. Barrington’s estate. He’d heard the old man collected the things.

Jake didn’t begrudge her the car. Right this minute he wouldn’t have begrudged her every horse on his spread, and they weren’t even his.