Rock-A-Bye Rancher

Then he’d talk to his foreman, “Hawk” Hawkins, whose brother and sister-in-law had been trying to conceive for years and were talking adoption.

Either way, he’d face that road when he came to it. Clay might have made a lot of mistakes with his son over the years, but he wouldn’t fail his granddaughter.

He opened the office door for Daniela, then followed her out into the hall.

She fingered the side of her hair, just now realizing she was falling apart, and a grin tugged at his lips. For an attorney who was supposed to be bright and capable, she seemed a little ill-at-ease to him.

She’d just passed the bar, he’d been told. And had a slew of recommendations from her professors at law school, not to mention she was second in her class.

That was impressive, he supposed, assuming someone was big on academics, which he wasn’t. The most valuable lessons were learned in the real world. That’s why going to college had never crossed Clay’s mind. Instead he’d prided himself on his ranching skills, his common sense and an innate head for business. He’d done all right for himself. Hell, he had more money than he knew what to do with.

At the elevator, Daniela punched the down button, then glanced up at him and smiled. She had to be closer to twenty than thirty, if you asked him. Of course, it might just be her size. She only stood a little over five feet tall and was just a slip of a thing.

The elevator buzzed, and when the door opened, they stepped inside.

“So tell me about your granddaughter,” she asked.

“There’s not much to tell. I’ve never seen her before.”

“How old is she?”

He shrugged. “I forgot to ask.”

She cocked her head, perplexed, he supposed. But he didn’t see what the kid’s age had to do with anything, other than prove that it was possible Trevor had fathered her.

“The baby has to be less than a year old,” he said, “but more than two months.”

As they continued their descent to the ground floor, the scent of her perfume swirled in the elevator. It was something soft and powdery. Peaches and cream, he guessed.

“Are you sure the child is your son’s?” she asked.

“Nope.” But the fact that it might be was reason enough to go to Mexico and bring her home.

“There are blood tests that can prove paternity,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah. I know that.” He’d have the test run after he got back in the States. “But let’s take this one step at a time.”

“And that first step would be…?”

“Getting that baby home.”

When they reached the ground floor, the elevator opened and they entered the spacious lobby.

Clay stepped ahead, then opened the smoky-glass double doors and escorted her outside and down the walkway to the parking lot. “My truck is in the second row. To the left.”

When they reached the stall where he’d parked his black, dual-wheeled Chevy pickup, he pulled the keys out of his pocket and clicked the lock. He tossed her suitcase in the bed of the truck and opened the passenger door. Then he removed his duffle bag and waited for her to climb inside.

She bit down on her bottom lip, as she perused the oversize tires that made the cab sit higher than usual. He couldn’t help but grin. She was going to have a hell of a time climbing into the seat with that tight skirt. An ornery part of him thought he’d stick around and watch the struggle. She placed a hand on the door, then lifted her foot and placed it on the running board.

Pretty legs.

“Need some help?” he asked.

“No, I can manage.”

Rather than gawk, which he had half a notion to do, he tossed his bag in the back of the truck. As she continued to pull herself into the Chevy, the fabric of her skirt pulled tight against her rounded hips. She might be petite, but she was womanly. And damn near perfectly shaped.

She slid into the seat, then glanced around the cab. “Where are the baby’s things?”

The baby’s things? Hell, he hadn’t given that any thought. All he’d wanted to do was talk to his attorney, fly to Mexico, get the kid and head home.

She crossed her arms, causing her breasts to strain against the fabric of her blouse. “Don’t tell me you don’t have anything packed for an infant?”

Okay, he wouldn’t tell her that. But he didn’t have squat for the kid. In fact, he wasn’t prepared to take on a baby at all, and in his rush to get to Mexico, he hadn’t given supplies any thought. Nor had he given much thought to what he’d do with the kid, once he got her home.

“I don’t know much about babies or their needs. Hell, I never even held my son until he was close to two.”

“Well then, like you said, we’ll need to take this one step at a time. I suggest you stop by Spend-Mart. It’s just down the street and ought to have everything you need.”

“I hope you have a few suggestions. I don’t have a clue what to get.”

“Believe it or not, I have a pretty good idea. But it won’t be cheap.”

Neither was the trip to Mexico. But money was the last thing Clay had considered. Not when he was still carrying a ton of grief over Trevor’s death.

The pastor who’d spoken at the memorial had told Clay it would take time. But so far the weight on his chest hadn’t eased up a bit.

Minutes later Clay and Daniela entered the crowded department store.

“Get a shopping cart,” she told him, taking the lead. For some fool reason, Clay, who never was one to follow orders, complied.

In no time at all, she had the cart filled with disposable diapers, wipes, ointments, lotions, pacifiers. Next, she threw in bottles, formula—both readymade in the can and powdered in packets—plus a couple of jugs of water. Then she zeroed in on receiving blankets, pajamas, undershirts and clothes.

“You already have one of those,” he said, nodding to the pink and white PJs. “But in purple.”

“We don’t know what size she wears, so we’ll keep the receipt and return whatever doesn’t fit.”

Clay merely nodded his head as he followed the pretty, dark-haired attorney through the baby section.

For a single woman, she sure was adept at knowing what things he was going to need. What an intriguing contradiction she was. On the outside, she seemed every bit as professional and competent as Martin Phillips had insisted she was. But there was obviously a maternal and domestic side to her, as well.

“This ought to get us started,” she said. “You can go shopping again, after you get her home.”

“Maybe you can do that for me,” he said.

She arched a brow. “My fees are $250 an hour. I’m sure you can find someone better qualified and cheaper.”

“But maybe not someone who knows as much about kids as you do.”