Surprised by a Baby Read online

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Thank you for reminding me. You have a nice day, Miz Lloyd. And be careful not to trip on that extension cord.” The cord was safely secured to the floor with black electrical tape, but he was annoyed enough to comment. Damn Blane Pyke for forcing him to come here in the first place.

  “My eyes are fine, young man. I can still see to pick up my feet. You, on the other hand, had better watch your step. You were off chasing hooligans for twelve years, and just because you were raised here in Hope Valley, that don’t mean you know everything. If you did, you wouldn’t be standing here now, trying to enforce rules that new Yankee fire marshal ought to have the gumption to handle himself.”

  Millicent Lloyd didn’t miss too much that went on in this town. For as long as he’d known her, Storm had never had a conversation with her that he’d fully understood. The undertones in this puzzling discourse clearly had something to do with Donetta, and the fact that he didn’t know what it was gave him a jolt of unease.

  “My hands are tied, Miz Lloyd. I have to follow the law.”

  “Things aren’t always black and white, young man. What you see isn’t necessarily the whole picture. You ought to know that better than most.”

  Direct hit. She was referring to his suspension several years back, allegedly due to excessive use of force on an obstruction-of-justice arrest involving a woman named Shantelle Kingsley. The fiasco had turned into a media circus, splashed across the news and carefully edited to show only what the television and cable stations wanted people to see—regardless of the accuracy. The reminder twisted his gut into knots.

  But what did that have to do with Donetta?

  “If there’s something I should know about Donetta, why don’t you just say it?” Great. Interview 101. Nonaccusatory. Gain the subject’s confidence and make him—or her—want to tell his story. He’d just blown this one like a rookie right out of the police academy.

  As expected, Millicent took a step back from him. “If you’re smart, you’ll stop thinking with what’s in your pants and look a little deeper than skin.”

  She hugged her purse to her side as though expecting a mugger to accost her on the way to the door and left him standing by Donetta’s empty station, stunned.

  What the hell did that mean? The woman almost seemed to know that he’d slept with Donetta. Millicent Lloyd clung to a personal standard of what was and was not proper. He was pretty sure her parting words put him in the improper category.

  He felt as though he’d just been chastised by his mother. And he had no idea what he’d done wrong. Maybe she’d seen him checking out Donetta’s backside a few minutes ago. It might have looked crass, but by God she didn’t have all the facts. The woman ought to be paying a little more attention to her own riddles.

  As far as the building-code violations went, he’d taken an oath to uphold the laws of the court. He might not like the assignments that crossed his desk, but rules were made to be followed.

  There was one thing, though, that he was fast learning: dealing with hardened criminals was a damned sight easier than going up against the women of Hope Valley. Between his mother and her pals, his sister, Sunny, and her Texas Sweethearts group—which included Donetta, Tracy Lynn Randolph and Becca Sue Ellsworth—he’d be lucky to survive the next few days without blood being spilled. Namely his blood.

  He shoved his Stetson back on his head and stalked across the salon. The hat was part of his uniform and he could wear the thing indoors if he felt like it.

  He was tired of being ignored. He had better things to do than follow Donetta Presley around like an adoring puppy.

  Folding his arms, he waited while she shut off the water in the shampoo bowl and wrapped a towel around Darla Pam’s hair.

  “Oh, my land, Storm Carmichael. Shame on you for catching us girls lookin’ like a mess.” Darla Pam, not a day under sixty, twittered and held the towel in place on her head, thrusting her chest out in the process.

  Storm glanced away and saw Donetta roll her eyes in disgust. He wanted to mimic the gesture, but he’d probably hear about it from the mayor.

  “You still look real fine, Miz Kirkwell.”

  This time Donetta didn’t bother rolling her eyes. They snapped to his. If the sparks shooting from them had been packed with gunpowder, his mama would be pressing his burial suit right about now.

  Before Darla Pam could reply, Donetta aimed a falsely sweet smile at the woman. “No flirting until everybody has her hair done. We allow only genuine compliments in here. I think I’ll put you under the dryer for a few minutes, Darla, while I start on Cora.”

  Storm was smart enough to stand back as she ushered Darla Pam to the red vinyl chair, dropped the dryer dome and cranked the blower on high with a vicious twist of her wrist. Darla didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss.

  Side stepping, she lifted the dryer hood from Cora Harris—who was Jackson Slade’s housekeeper, and Sunny’s, too, now that his sister had married the rancher. Cora wiggled her fingers at Storm and giggled.

  “Cora, go ahead and have a seat in my chair.”

  Storm cleared his throat. “Sorry, ladies. Cora. Darla Pam.” He looked at each woman, lifted Darla’s dryer hood and shut off the blower.

  “Donetta’s Secret is closed for business until further notice—fire marshal’s orders. I’ll have to ask you both to gather up your belongings and exit the building.”

  Chapter Two

  “For crying out loud, Storm.” Donetta glared and marched right up to him. Survival instincts almost convinced him to retreat a step.

  Thank God he didn’t follow through. It would be a sad day in Houston if the men in his former Texas Ranger company got wind of Storm Carmichael shaking in his boots at the advance of a beautiful, ticked-off redhead. With her chest practically brushing his, he barely had to tilt his head to meet her seriously annoyed eyes.

  “I will not let a customer walk out of here with wet hair!” Darla Pam looked relieved to hear that, he noted. “And you can’t just come in here and start bossing everyone around,” Donetta added.

  “The court order in my pocket says otherwise.” He’d tried to discuss this away from gossiping ears, but she’d been too stubborn to budge. “You’re holding a pair of threes against a full house, darlin’. You either close up this shop, or I’ll have to arrest you.”

  Donetta’s jaw dropped. The two older ladies gasped and moved right up beside her. At least, Cora did. Darla Pam stood half a pace behind, clutching Cora’s arm, her wet hair clearly forgotten since she was about to snag a juicy morsel of gossip to share at her ladies’ club.

  “Storm Carmichael,” Cora snapped. “I’ll have you know I have the ear of your mama and your sister. And they would not want to hear about your behavior. If you’ve any notion of arresting Donetta, you’ll have to arrest all of us.”

  Ah hell. He’d predicted something like this would happen. “If that’s the way you want it, Miz Harris,” he said quietly, deliberately.

  Darla Pam let go of Cora’s arm and scuttled backward. Cora stood her ground. Storm had to admire her courage and loyalty. As the live-in housekeeper out at the Slade ranch, Cora often took care of his niece, Tori. He didn’t have a single doubt that this was a woman he’d want at his back—and watching over his sister and her family.

  Donetta quickly removed the curlers from Cora’s hair and tossed them on a dryer chair. She finger-combed the curls, then slid her arm around the older woman.

  “Cora,” she said softly. “Storm’s not going to take anyone to jail. But I think it’d be best if you both do as he asked and go. There’ll be no charge for my services.” She reached in the drawer of the station closest to her and pulled out two scarves, then retrieved purses and passed the items to the women.

  Darla Pam lit out the door as though a posse were on her tail. That was when it sank into Donetta’s brain that she was well and truly in a fix.

  Her skin turned clammy as the nausea she’d been battling signaled a
final, critical warning. The room grew hotter by the second, as if someone had switched on the furnace.

  Giving Cora a quick hug, she said, “I’ll call you. Later.” Then she bolted for the bathroom.

  SOME JOKER MUST HAVE HAD himself a good laugh when he named this pregnancy malady morning sickness, Donetta thought. The past week, it had been morning, afternoon and night sickness.

  How could anything so tiny make her this miserable? If she’d been a horse, some kind Samaritan would have taken one look at her and put her out of her misery.

  When she was fairly certain the worst of the bout was over, she sank onto the cold tile floor and leaned back against the wall—right next to the ridiculously expensive handicapped toilet that the contractor hadn’t installed according to code.

  This salon was her dream, her means of security. Hadn’t she learned a good-enough lesson from her ex-husband about the consequences of allowing someone else to control what was most important to a person?

  Yet that was exactly what she’d done. She’d trusted her contractor, Judd Quentin, to take care of paperwork she herself should have followed up on.

  Her throat ached all the way up to her ears, and the need to cry nearly overpowered her. She’d been on the verge of tears all week and hadn’t understood why. Well, this morning she’d gotten some answers—two pink stripes on a white stick.

  And a red tag on her salon’s glass door.

  She swallowed hard, tried to go inside herself to that secret place where carefully erected walls formed a dam, safely holding back the rivers of silent tears she’d collected but never shed.

  For almost twenty-two years, she’d been able to find protection at a moment’s notice, find the place where vulnerability no longer existed and will replaced weeping.

  Why was it suddenly so difficult?

  She remembered when she’d first discovered the power of escape.

  Her family had lived in a trailer park not too far from the elementary school. Mom was drinking—she always drank. That was why she couldn’t get a job. Cybil Presley had wanted Donetta to be someone, to get them out of the dump they were living in. To her mother, having a pretty face was more important than getting good grades or joining after-school sports programs. To Donetta’s regret, even as a little girl she’d had the type of looks that drew automatic compliments.

  Cybil had begged Donetta to enter beauty contests like the ones that Tracy Lynn did, but Donetta had stubbornly resisted, for once glad that they didn’t have money.

  Her dad had been a partyer, as well, but his drinking and gambling had made him seem adventurous. Donetta had loved that man with every fiber of her being.

  “Who’s my girl?” he would ask.

  “I am!” And he’d hoist her onto his shoulders and run down the narrow, barren streets of the trailer park, their laughter echoing off the aluminum siding of the dented mobile homes.

  And then one day he left and never came back. Donetta had been sure her heart was broken, and she’d cried for days.

  Until Cybil got sick and tired of the tears. The vicious slap had stunned Donetta. But it was the nasty words that had made her bleed.

  “You silly brat. Crybaby. He’s not coming back for you. He isn’t even your father!”

  That day was the last time Donetta had allowed anyone to see her cry, the day she’d learned to close off the tears—

  Her first lesson in not trusting anyone or anything at face value.

  Too bad she’d had to learn the painful lesson twice—with the man she’d thought was her father and with her ex-husband.

  She’d never found out who her true biological father was. Perhaps that was why the Carmichael family had become such an important entity in her life. They’d accepted her constant presence in their home, opened their arms and their hearts without reservation, made her feel as though she mattered. They’d given her a place where she could at least pretend to belong when her young world had been so sadly adrift.

  There were only a handful of people Donetta trusted completely. Storm’s mother, Anna, was one. Sunny Carmichael, Tracy Lynn Randolph and Becca Sue Ellsworth were the others—three girlfriends of hers since elementary school, who were closer to her than true sisters. The Texas Sweethearts, they called themselves.

  They didn’t know about the pregnancy, yet. Oh, she would tell them. Just as she would tell Storm.

  After she at least had a free moment to get used to the idea herself, to think things through.

  The staccato rap of knuckles against the bathroom door made her jump. Without having the decency to wait for a response, Storm walked right into the ladies’ room as though he had an engraved invitation.

  She didn’t even have the energy to yell at him. Was it normal to be heaving up her toenails every hour? At this rate, she’d have to be dead three days to start feeling better.

  She wanted to go upstairs and crawl under the bed, pretend this day had never happened. She wanted to find her backbone, for pity’s sake.

  “Staring daggers at the pot won’t budge it, Slim.” He angled his head, stepped closer. “You sick?”

  “No,” she drawled, deadpan. “I’m having tea with Lady Bird Johnson.” She reached up and flushed the toilet. “I bet if you look real hard in your precious penal code book you’ll find that it’s illegal for a man to come barging into the ladies’ room.”

  “I knocked.”

  She gave an indelicate snort.

  “And the law doesn’t apply when there’s only one bathroom,” he added. “Then the facility is coed.”

  “Great. Ally McBeal comes to Hope Valley.”

  He ignored her flippant remark, frowned and shoved one hand in his pocket. “So, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Stress, probably. It’s been a train wreck of a day.” She pinched the bridge of her nose to staunch the burn in her tear ducts.

  “That dog won’t hunt, darlin’. The Donetta Dawn Presley I know would eat an armadillo before she’d admit to hugging the porcelain over a bad-hair day.”

  “Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do…darlin’. Or maybe I’ve just got the flu.”

  She had to head this conversation in a different direction. She wasn’t in any shape to spar with him, to hold her own. She fully intended to tell him about the baby—she would never keep that information from him. Right now was not a good time to inform him of his impending fatherhood: Guess what, pal? You’ve just put the mother of your child out of business!

  Before she could stop them, tears welled in her eyes. Oh, God, Donetta. You’ve made it this far. Hold it together. Don’t do this. Please, please, don’t do this.

  All these years…not even her ex-husband’s fists could draw tears.

  Yet even as she looked up at Storm’s stunned face, fought like mad to find the strength that had served her well for almost twenty-two years, the dam broke.

  STORM JERKED HIS HAND out of his pocket. He felt as though he’d been sucker-punched by a ham-fisted nun collecting donations for her parish. Shock, confusion and a sudden illogical longing for code-three backup slammed through him.

  Donetta Presley never cried.

  In two steps he was squatting in front of her. “Hey,” he said softly. “Come on, now, darlin’. We’ll make it right.”

  Evidently, that had been the wrong thing to say.

  Tears the likes of which he’d never seen spilled down her cheeks.

  Utter panic clawed deep in his gut. For a split second, her eyes were as startled as he was certain his own were, and for the life of him he couldn’t determine whether he was witnessing mortal embarrassment or heartrending anguish.

  Before he could even begin to analyze, she slapped her hands over her face, locking him out.

  He’d known Donetta since she was a little girl hanging out at his family’s house with his sister and the other three girls in the Sweethearts group they’d formed. Donetta was the tough one. She had the clichéd redhead’s temper, led with her chin, and despi
te her innate siren looks, she’d been the tomboy who was rarely without her prized basketball and who’d just as soon slug you if you dared feel sorry for her. Adding a little more confusion to her mix of contradictory traits, she’d also been the peacemaker and mediator of the foursome.

  But damn it, he was dealing with the grown woman now.

  And as far as his own behavior was concerned, he’d only been taking his cue from her.

  Ever since they’d spent the night together, she’d given him major hands-off signals, told him flat-out, “Thanks, but no thanks. Be a pal and back off.” He didn’t like it, but he’d obliged her.

  So how the devil was he supposed to know how to act when she kept changing the rules of conduct on him?

  She had her knees drawn to her chest, her hands covering her face, and damn it all, her neck was turning red.

  “Take a breath, Slim.” He gently held her wrists, his fingers completely circling her slender bones, but she resisted his careful attempts to lower her hands.

  Tears dripped down her wrists, soaking his fingers. Man alive, she had to have been storing these up for a good long while.

  He still didn’t know what to do for her, what she needed, how to stop the copious tears. But now that he’d allowed himself to touch her, now that he’d felt her erratic pulse where his fingers rested, he knew what he needed.

  He needed to hold her. To wrap her up tight and protect her from any threat, shield her from pain, sweep her life free of bad guys—which at the moment, he realized, happened to be him.

  “Ah, the hell with it.” Abandoning his tug-of-war with her wrists, he scooped her up, took her place on the floor and settled her on his lap. She put up an immediate struggle, which he’d known she would. “Damn it, Donetta. Don’t fight me. I’m fragile.”

  Her shoulders jerked as she sucked in a breath and held it.

  Startled, Storm did the same, bracing himself as her head whipped up and her hands fell to her lap.

  Utterly still, stunned and disbelieving, she stared at him out of amber eyes that had turned the most awesome shade of gold, with tiny starbursts the color of fine whiskey drizzled around the pupils.