Having The Cowboy's Baby

Like Granddad used to say, You can’t buy loyalty, son. But when it’s earned and real, it lasts beyond death. And those words had proven to be true when it came to Rosabelle and the ranch she’d loved.

Ian shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. Besides, I like Brighton Valley. And I plan to settle here and buy a piece of land.”

After Charles died and his oldest son, Jason, became the trustee, Jason had announced that he intended to sell the ranch. When Ian heard that, he decided to purchase it himself. He’d developed more than a fondness for the Leaning R, and not just because he’d worked the land. He’d enjoyed all the stories Granny used to tell him about the history of the place, about the rugged Rayburn men who’d once run cattle here.

“I take it you’ve been putting some money aside,” Carly said.

“You could say that.”

“If you need any help, let me know. I’d be happy to loan you some.” Carly had a trust fund, so she didn’t have any financial worries. Apparently, she assumed Ian was little more than a drifter and needed her charity.

“Thanks, but I’ll be all right.”

It might come as a big surprise to Carly and her brothers—because it certainly had to Ralph Nettles, the Realtor who would be listing the property—but Ian had money stashed away from his days on the road with Felicia. He also had plenty of royalties coming in from the songs he’d written for her.

So, since he could no longer inherit or purchase the Rocking M from his granddad, buying the Leaning R was the next best thing.

“You know that song you were just playing?” Carly asked.

“What about it?”

“Would you sing it for me? From the beginning?”

Ian had written it right after she’d left the ranch the last time, after they’d both come to the decision that it would be best to end things between them. And while Carly had seemed to think their breakup had been permanent, he hadn’t been convinced. She usually came running back to the Leaning R whenever life dealt her a blow, so he’d known she’d return—eventually.

Not that he’d expected her to fail. Hell, she had more talent than her mother and—from what Ian had seen and heard—more heart than either of her parents. And he suspected that, deep down, what she really yearned for was someone to love and appreciate her for who she really was.

Ian wasn’t sure that he was that man, though.

Then again, he wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t, either.

He reached for his guitar, then nodded toward the empty chair on the porch, the one she used to sit on during those romantic nights she’d spent with him in his cabin.

Once she was seated beside him, he sang the song he’d written about the two of them, wondering if she’d connect the dots, if she’d guess that she’d inspired the words and music.

When the last guitar chords disappeared into the night, she clapped softly. “That was beautiful, Ian. I love it. But I have to ask you something. Did you write that song about...us?”

“No, not really,” he lied. “When you left, I got to thinking about lovers ending a good thing for all the right reasons. And the words and music just seemed to flow out of me. I guess you could say the song almost wrote itself.”

He wasn’t about to admit that the words had actually come from his heart. He’d become so adept at hiding his feelings, especially from a woman who’d become—or who was about to become—an ex-lover, that it was easier to let the emotion flow through his guitar.

“You really should do something with that song,” Carly said. “In the right hands—or with the right voice—it could be a hit.”

No one knew that better than Ian. With one phone call to Felicia, the song would strike platinum in no time. But then, before he knew it, every agent and musician in Nashville would be knocking on his door, insisting he come out of retirement and write for them. And there’d go his quiet life and his privacy.

“Would you please let me sing that with you as a duet at the Stagecoach Inn on Saturday night?” Carly lifted the platter of brownies in a tempting fashion. “If you do, I’ll leave the rest of these with you.”

A smile slid across his face. He’d always found Carly to be tempting, especially when she was determined to have her way. Sometimes he even gave in to her, but this time he couldn’t be swayed. “I may have one heck of a sweet tooth, but you can’t bribe me with goodies. It won’t work.”

She blew out a sigh and pulled the platter back. “Don’t make me ask Don Calhoun to play for me.”

That little weasel? Surely she wasn’t serious. “The guy who hit on you that night we stopped at the Filling Station to have a drink on our way home from the movies in Wexler?”

“Don went to school with me, and we sometimes performed together at the county fair.”

Ian clucked his tongue. “Calhoun’s a jerk. I saw him watching you from across the room. And as soon as I excused myself to go to the restroom, he took my seat and asked you out.”

“Like I said, Don and I are old friends. But if it makes you feel better, I told him no and let him know that you and I were dating.”

But they weren’t dating anymore. And, old friends or not, the guy was still a tool.

“What’s the deal at the Stagecoach Inn on Saturday night?” Ian asked.

“They’re having a local talent night. Our gig would just be a few songs—thirty minutes at the most. Will you please sing with me?”

“Now it’s playing and singing?”

She held out the brownies, offering him the entire plate, and smiled.

But it wasn’t the brownies that caused his resolve to waver, it was the beautiful blonde whose bright blue eyes and dimples turned him every which way but loose. He’d had all kinds of women throw themselves at him, and he’d never lost his head, never forgotten that there were some who weren’t interested in the real man inside. But there was something about Carly Rayburn that reached deep into the heart of him, something sweet, something vulnerable.

“Damn it, Carly. I’ll do it. But just this once.”

“Thanks, Ian. You won’t regret this.”

She was wrong. They were going to have to practice together every evening from now until Saturday. And he was already regretting it.

Chapter Three (#ulink_0a2ab654-1874-541f-be9f-136106610787)

Carly couldn’t believe how talented Ian was on a guitar—and how good they sounded together. Of course, that hadn’t made practicing with him any easier. In fact, over the past few nights, each session seemed to have gotten progressively harder to endure than the last, with this being the most difficult yet.

The air almost crackled with the soaring pheromones, the heady scent of Ian’s woodsy cologne and the soft Southern twang of his voice as they performed on the front porch of his cabin. Still, she sang her heart out.

As the music flowed between them, the words of the love songs they’d chosen taunted the raw emotion she’d once felt whenever she’d been in his arms. And it seemed to be truer now than ever, since this was their last chance to practice before singing at the local honky-tonk.

“Let’s try ‘Breathe’ one last time,” Ian said. “Then we can call it a night.”

“All right,” she said, but she feared that if she sang the sexy lyrics of that particular song once more time, she’d refuse to call it a night until she’d kissed the breath right out of her old lover. And then look at the fix she’d be in.

She stole a glance at the handsome cowboy and caught a sparkle in his eyes. The crooked grin tugging at his lips suggested that he knew exactly what he’d done. And that he’d planned all along to suggest the Faith Hill hit as their wrap-up tonight.

Darn him. He probably thought that after singing about the heated desire they shared she’d be more likely to suggest one last night of lovemaking—for old times’ sake. But she couldn’t do that, even though the idea was sorely tempting.

She had half a notion to scratch that particular song from their list. And she would have done it, too, if they hadn’t sounded so good together.

When the song ended, she reached for the glass of water she’d left on the porch railing and took a sip.

“We should be ready for tomorrow night,” Ian said, as he placed his guitar back into its case.