The Baby Bargain

“Who—” His eyes narrowed with rage. “You don’t know?”

She shook her head wordlessly. His daughter. He was no longer a maniac, but an outraged…father. And he wants Sean. Her hand rose of its own accord to her lips. My Sean?

“Uh-huh,” Montana said dryly, as if she’d spoken her thought aloud. “And where’s his father?”

“He’s…not here, either.” Montana might seem somewhat more human, claiming a daughter, but still, no way was Dana admitting she didn’t have a man to back her. “He should be home any minute.”

“Sooner the better.” Montana walked out of her bedroom, glanced through the open door to the empty bathroom, then headed back down the hall.

Hands clenched, Dana tagged at his heels. “If you would just tell me what this is about—”

“He’s around here someplace, isn’t he?” Montana growled, descending the stairs. “You thought he was in his room. So…” He walked through to the kitchen again, then out the back door.

She caught up with him on the deck. He stood with big hands on his lean hips, staring up the slope toward the corral and the barn. A light shone through the cottonwoods from one of the cabins along the creek. “Where is he, Mrs. Kershaw? In the barn? Or—what’s that house beyond—the bunkhouse?”

“One of the guest cabins. But if you barge in on my dudes, I’ll call the sheriff and have you arrested, so help me God. Now, tell me—” She stopped with a gulp as a thought hit her. “Oh…” She drifted past him, down the two steps to the gravel where her old pickup should have been parked. Turned a slow circle of bewilderment.

Montana joined her, glanced down at the ruts made by the tires, and swore. “Where’s he gone?”

“I…don’t know.” At fourteen, Sean had no license yet. Peter had allowed him to drive the truck on their property, and though Dana didn’t entirely approve, she hadn’t dared revoke that privilege after Peter was gone. Sean had extended his range without asking, she’d noticed this last six months, to include the private road out as far as the highway. But he wouldn’t dare—“Did you pass an old pickup on your way in from the public road?”

“I passed nobody.”

Which meant, she supposed, that Sean had already departed. Or fled, she realized, staring up at Montana. He knew you were coming! That phone call during supper.

“Where would he be on a Saturday night, Mrs. Kershaw? Down in Trueheart at one of the bars?”

“Sean?” She laughed incredulously. “Of course not!”

He stepped closer, till they stood almost toe to toe. “You haven’t a clue where your punk is, do you, lady? I guess I should have expected that. Running wild…”

Insults on top of invasion, and the truth in his charge only made it sting more. She tipped up her chin. “And I suppose you know precisely where your daughter is this minute, huh?” What was she supposed to do? Keep a fourteen-year-old boy who outweighed her by twenty pounds—who barely could stand the sight of her—on a leash? She was doing the best she could!

“You better believe I do,” Montana said coolly. “Zoe’s locked in her bedroom without even a phone for company. And that’s where she’ll stay till I thrash this out.”

A tyrant, on top of all else! Dana paired two fingers and jabbed them directly into his second shirt button—it was like prodding warm stone. “Thrash what out?” Please, not what I’m thinking. This had to be some sort of ridiculous mistake. Perhaps he had the wrong Sean.

They both jumped as, inside the kitchen, the phone rang. Montana caught her arms and moved her aside with a gentleness that belied his temper. She stood for a moment, blinking, strangely undone by the sensation of a man’s hands upon her—it had been so long—then spun and went after him. She saw him lift her phone to his ear. “Don’t you dare!”

“She’s right here,” Montana said in response to the caller’s question, then handed her the receiver with ironic courtesy.

“Mrs. Kershaw?” inquired a male voice. “This is Colorado State Trooper Michael Morris calling, ma’am. Do you have a son named Sean?”

“Oh, God!” Not Sean, too! Slowly she sagged against the counter. No, no, oh, no. She was dimly aware that Montana had set one broad hand on her shoulder, steadying her, and that he’d tipped his head down close enough to hear the trooper’s voice. His temple brushed her hair.

“Oh, no, ma’am, nothing like that—not an accident! Sorry to scare you. But I’ve got a Sean Kershaw stopped here on Route 160, and it appears he isn’t licensed to drive. We’ve checked the plates, and you’re the owner of record of this vehicle. Did you give him permission to drive, ma’am?”

“I…” She drew in a shaking breath. Sean was all right! He wouldn’t be once she got hold of him, but for now…Thank you, thank you, oh, thank you! “No, Officer, I did not.” She straightened, and Montana’s hand fell away from her shoulder, though he still hovered within hearing range. She met his eyes and smiled her relief, and, wonder of wonders, his mouth quirked with warmth and wry humor. A very nice mouth indeed, she noticed, when it wasn’t hardened by temper.

“Well, that’s good,” said the trooper. “I’m afraid, though, we’ve got a situation here, ma’am. I ought to take him in and book him, but we’ve had a tractor trailer tip over, down by Durango. Took out a few cars with it. All the tow trucks are out on the job, and I should be over there, too. If you and another licensed driver could get down here in a hurry, I’d release the car and your son into your custody. Saves me a trip to the station.”

“Tell him yes,” Montana said in a whispered growl, his eyes lighting.

No way was she taking him along. “I’ll…yes. Of course.” She’d ask Leo Simmons, the dude in Cottonwood Cabin, to help her out. “Tell me again where you’re located?”

The trooper told her quickly, then added, “I’ve got a second kid here, too, ma’am, in case you could contact her parents for me. She won’t be charged, since she wasn’t driving, but…”

“Who?” Dana asked with a sinking heart. Somehow she knew already.

“She refuses to say, ma’am. A tall, redheaded, mouthy kid.”

The shock dawning in Rafe Montana’s eyes was almost laughable. He shook his head, shook it again as if he were slinging water out of his eyes, and snatched the phone from her grasp.

“Ask her if her name’s Zoe Montana,” he rasped. “Never mind who I am! Ask her.”

There came a long pause. Montana stood as still as a rock, teeth clenched, as he glared into the distance, utterly oblivious of Dana’s wide-eyed scrutiny. Then, as the trooper spoke again, Montana swore under his breath and said, “You tell her for me, Officer, that her father’s on his way.”

“Know just where your daughter is, do you?” Dana couldn’t resist murmuring.

CHAPTER FOUR

STRAPPED INTO her car seat on the rear bench of Rafe Montana’s long-cab pickup truck, Petra whined and fretted till they reached the smoother highway. As the big truck settled into a mile-eating drone, her long lashes drooped on her fat rosy cheeks and she slept.

“Never fails,” Montana murmured, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

The voice of experience, Dana realized, studying his hard-edged profile. Perhaps he had other, younger children aside from Zoe. And for that matter—“Where’s Zoe’s mother?”

Five fence posts whipped into the headlights, then passed, their barbed wire swooping and falling, before he spoke. “She died in a car wreck when Zoe was six.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She watched his mouth curve wryly. Yes, she supposed it was a bit late to be offering sympathy. For that matter, he might well have replaced Zoe’s mother years ago. With his darkly smoldering good looks, that intense vitality, he’d find plenty of volunteers for the job.

The taillights of a car appeared as the pickup topped a rise. The country was flattening out into sagebrush-covered slopes, the dryer land to the west falling away toward the state border. The truck closed on the car in a rush—slipped out, passed it by and roared on.

“What about your husband?” Montana asked without taking his eyes off the road. “You didn’t leave him a message.”

She didn’t answer the question behind that statement. “No, I…didn’t.” To confess would be to admit he’d scared her. Scared her still in some way she could not fathom. But her instinct was to raise any and every barrier against him she could find.

At the same time, though, necessity demanded that she understand his outrage before they reached Sean, that she defuse it if she could. “Why did you want my stepson, Mr. Montana?”

“If I’m going to drive you halfway to Utah, Mrs. Kershaw, you can call me Rafe.” A tractor trailer thundered past, shaking the truck, and he flicked on his high beams.

She would have preferred the formality of last names, but he’d maneuvered her neatly. Now she’d look ungracious not to reciprocate. “Then it’s Dana.” She straightened her shoulders. “But what about Sean?”

“My daughter’s pregnant.” He glanced at her, as she shook her head. “Oh, yes. I caught her sneaking a pregnancy test kit into the house this evening.”

“Not Sean!” Dana said emphatically. “That’s not possible.”

“You’re saying my Zoe’s a liar?”