The Baby Bargain

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN MITZY BARLOW invited him over for Saturday supper, the first week in June, Rafe Montana had gone gladly, anticipating an evening of hot, no-holds-barred sex.

Instead she’d served pot roast.

She’d served it up with such a hopeful, fluttery smile—fussing over the homey details like candles on the table, bran rolls she’d baked herself, glazed carrots just like the ones he’d enjoyed in the restaurant last week when he took her out on their first date—that Rafe realized immediately, with a sinking heart, that this wasn’t to be a simple night of fun between two healthy, sensible adults who knew precisely what they wanted.

Oh, no, this was an audition. Along with the peas, pot roast and carrots, Mitzy was dishing out all the unspoken reasons she’d make a good—no, a perfect—wife. His perfect wife.

How could a man so misread a woman’s intentions? Rafe wondered, scowling through the windshield as his headlights fled before him up the valley. He would have sworn from the way she talked last week—hell, from the way she came on to him—that they were in complete agreement. After dinner they’d danced, and you couldn’t have wedged an ace of hearts between them, the way she’d melted into his arms. And later, when he’d walked her to her door, Mitzy had made it crystal clear what she wanted. While he kissed her good-night, she’d drawn the hand he’d placed lightly on her shoulder down to her breast—then held it there while she moaned and squirmed against him. He’d felt plain apologetic, when he came up for air, explaining that he couldn’t stay. That since he hadn’t presumed to make arrangements for someone to sleep over with his daughter out at Suntop Ranch, he had to go home to Zoe.

Mitzy had caught him off guard on their first date. But this Saturday, when she’d insisted in a husky voice that it was her turn to entertain him, he’d come prepared. At his pointed suggestion, Zoe was sleeping over in Trueheart tonight with her best friend, Lisa Harding. And yesterday he’d stopped by the barber’s for a trim, a week before his usual cut. Plus he’d shaved for the second time today, just before setting out. And along with a thirty-dollar bottle of French wine, he’d brought a wallet full of condoms.

But then Mitzy served pot roast—her great-grandmother Barlow’s recipe. Rafe had sat there at the table with his expectant grin fading on his face, wondering if he should tell her how he felt before the meal. Or after.

Like all men, he was a coward when it came to hurting a woman, so he’d opted for after, praying with each bite of overdone beef that he was wrong. That Mitzy just liked to cook. Or that maybe she was building up his strength for the evening’s entertainment.

No such luck. Along with the strawberry shortcake, their limping conversation had taken a turn for the worse. Mitzy had started quizzing him on Zoe. How had he ever managed, raising a small daughter alone out on a ranch miles from anywhere, without even a neighbor’s wife to give him advice?

She’d shaken her head and smiled knowingly when he’d insisted they’d managed just fine. Seeing that smirk, he’d felt his temper rise. No one had better hint to him that he hadn’t done his best for Zoe. He’d shaped his whole life around her from the very start.

And he hadn’t been fool enough to try to raise her alone, though he owed Mitzy no explanation and so had given none. He’d recruited Mrs. Higgins to be their live-in housekeeper after Pilar’s death, and that arrangement had worked out fine.

At least it had up until last year, when Mrs. Higgins had fallen head over heels for the new county agent and, after thirty years a widow, remarried. Since then, she could only come three days a week to cook and clean, but neither Zoe nor he would have dreamed of trying to replace her. After all these years, she was family. Besides, by this time Zoe hardly needed constant supervision.

“But if it wasn’t so bad before,” insisted Mitzy, “what about now, now that she’s…um…a young lady?” Didn’t Rafe find himself at a loss dealing with sex and the other issues a young woman faced?

“When it comes to the birds and the bees, ranch kids learn most of the answers before town kids think up the questions,” Rafe had observed dryly. As to other issues—things a teenage daughter wouldn’t care to discuss with her own father—she could take those to Mrs. Higgins.

Besides, though this was nothing he’d share with Mitzy, Zoe was maturing late. That date earlier this spring, for the St. Patrick’s Day dance, had been her first real night out. And apparently nothing had come of it. The kid—what had his name been—Bobbie?—must not have measured up. Which hardly surprised Zoe’s father. She had been chosen valedictorian of her class this spring, just as he’d predicted. He’d been so puffed up with pride, watching her give the graduation address last week, he’d thought he might burst. But where was a girl like that going to find someone to match her in a small town like Trueheart? It was one more reason he’d pushed her to apply to Harvard.

“But now that she’s interested in boys, don’t you think she needs advice on how to dress, how to behave…how to flirt?” Mitzy demanded.

“She’s not interested. Not yet,” he said to close off this line of inquisition. He felt his teeth come together with a click when Mitzy burst out laughing.

“At sixteen? Of course she is, Rafe! And if you think she isn’t, that just shows how out of touch you really are.”

He kept the edge out of his voice with an effort. “She’s been pushing herself hard in school these past four years, Mitzy. Really hard. She has won national awards four years running in the science fairs. And then with her extracurricular work—the yearbook and choir. And volunteering down at the hospital in Durango—”

“But I suppose Zoe knows you’d disapprove of her choice,” Mitzy mused, ignoring him entirely. “I imagine any young man who dared to date your daughter would have to pass a pretty fierce inspection at the door.”

She had that double-damn right, at least. But that was beside the point. As yet, there were no randy young studs sniffing after Zoe for him to check out. Zoe was too busy being a tomboy and a scholar. “That doesn’t leave much time for boys,” he finished, and smacked down his coffee cup. End of subject.

“Oh, there’s always time for boys,” Mitzy purred, rising from the table. She came up behind him, and, resting one hand possessively on his shoulder, reached around him for the dessert he’d barely touched. Her forearm drew across his chest, and her breast brushed the back of his arm.

Rafe felt himself stiffen all over. He went too long between women. Managing a spread the size of Suntop Ranch, he had little time or energy left to go courting in town, where the available women were. And bringing a lover back to the ranch, with his daughter living there, had never been an acceptable solution. At least that would be changing soon, when Zoe went off to college.

“Let’s have our brandy in front of the fire, shall we?” Mitzy said from the counter, lifting two balloon glasses.

Rafe sighed and followed her to her big couch in the living room, which he’d noted with approval only an hour ago when he first arrived. One reason he went a long time between lovers was that he refused to play the games that some men played. He couldn’t stomach stringing a woman along, pretending to agree with her dreams when he was after something else entirely.

Still, though he believed in straight talk, he hesitated. Telling another person that you knew what she wanted, before she’d declared herself, felt downright rude. On the other hand, maybe these tippy-toe hints were as close to a declaration as Mitzy could come.

She handed him his brandy, then clinked her glass against his. “To us,” she said softly, and held his gaze over the rim as she drank. She licked her upper lip, then smiled a slow invitation.

But Rafe was stuck back on “us.” There was no “us” yet, as far as he was concerned. “Us” sounded like a matched pair in harness trotting down the long, long road together. No, thanks, Mitzy. She was moving way too fast. “To good times,” he said firmly.

“What about you?” Mitzy murmured, snuggling back into the hollow of his shoulder. “With your chick leaving the nest in September, won’t you be terribly…lonely?”

“No.” He finished half his glass in a gulp, and straightened the arm she was leaning against along the top of the sofa, making himself into a hard, unbending corner. “I won’t be.” At least, he thought not. “You’ve got to understand, Mitzy. I’ve been sitting on that…nest for almost seventeen years.” Hatching his one fabulous, freckled egg for the past ten years all by himself, except for Mrs. Higgins. “I was nineteen when Zoe was born.”

“That must have been so hard,” she said softly. “But I suppose the good side of it is, now you’re still a young man. Why, you even have time to start a second family, if you feel like it.”

“What I feel like, after all this time of being a responsible, hard-working daddy, is taking a break,” he said bluntly. “Being footloose and fancy free. Free to come and go as I choose, when I choose.” To chase one woman or twenty, or none at all.

She was right; he was still a young man. But he’d missed most of the good times that a young man enjoyed. Those wild and crazy times that made the best memories, that a man could look back on with rueful pleasure when he reached his settle-down years. So far, Rafe had had to live his life backward, and though he didn’t regret it—look what he had to show for his hard work—still…If this wasn’t his time now, when would it ever be?

“Oh,” Mitzy said in a small voice.

Good, she was getting his message.

“Do you mean to…travel much?” She tipped her head to gaze up at him.

“Some,” he allowed cautiously. As manager and part owner of one of the region’s largest ranches, he’d never be able to travel far or long. But he’d finally found himself a good foreman, and he paid the man well enough to keep him. Anse could take up the slack if Rafe wanted a week or two away in the off-seasons.

Though it wasn’t as if Rafe had any particular plans. He wasn’t one of those middle-aged idiots desperately trying to recapture the lost years and live them now. At thirty-five, he was too old, too stiff, to hit the rodeo trail, although that had been his intention before he and Pilar had made a baby.

And he was too wise to chase the girls he’d missed out on seventeen years ago—the pretty rodeo queens, the spunky barrel racers, the sassy waitresses. Somewhere along the line his tastes had changed. To him, those girls all looked like slightly older sisters of Zoe, staying up way past their curfews. No, nowadays when he wanted company, he wanted a warm and knowing woman in his bed, not some giggling child.

The warm woman leaning against him stirred. “I’ve always wanted to travel, too. I’ve been thinking about flying down to Cancún, sometime this month. Laze around the beach, drink too many margaritas, take a lo-o-ong siesta every afternoon.” She arched her back and smiled up at him then, and hooking an arm around his neck, leaned backward. “Want to come with me?”

If there hadn’t been so many strings attached…Rafe had shaken his head regretfully, resisting the urge of both gravity and nature to follow her down on the cushions. “June is branding month, moving the cows up from the home pastures…” And he was a full-time father for one last summer, before he could cut loose.

She pouted prettily. “What if I waited till July?”

“I don’t think you should wait for me,” he’d said in all truth. Any woman who dreamed of starting a second family with him would have a long, long wait, indeed.

He’d made his excuses and left soon after that, though it had been a hard-won retreat. Sensing his cooling, Mitzy had redoubled her efforts to fan his flames. But knowing she wouldn’t thank him tomorrow if he took what she was offering tonight, he’d politely declined—and gained no gratitude for his self-control. He winced, remembering her final tearful reply as he stood shuffling on her doorstep, hat in his hands.

“Thanks? Thanks for nothing, cowboy!”

“Well, damnation, what was I supposed to do?” he now asked the night and the mountains. His truck was mounting the last rise of the county road that twisted up the valley past Suntop.

He’d given nothing tonight, taken nothing. Felt nothing now but shame and frustration and emptiness. A man felt nothing but small when he failed to give a woman what she needed, wanted. And as for his own wants—He thought of that handful of condoms in his wallet and groaned aloud with embarrassment. If he hadn’t needed both hands for steering, he would have yanked them out and tossed them to the winds!

He reached the main gate to the ranch, and, as his truck turned under the big name board that arched overhead and rumbled across the cattle guard and onto his own land, Rafe heaved a sigh of relief. At least here on Suntop, everything was simple.

As he drove the last half-mile up to the manager’s house, his eyes automatically swept the pastures to either side, his mind cataloguing the state of the grass—greening up nicely since they’d moved the yearlings last week. The condition of the fences—a post on the right looked wobbly, tell Anse tomorrow. He braked as a whitetail deer soared over the right fence, touched once, twice on the roadway, then flew away over the left into darkness. He brought the truck to a halt and waited, and sure enough here came a second, then a third, fourth and fifth. A fawn raced frantically along the barbed wire, calling, and one of the does leaped back the way she’d come to meet it.

Rafe drove on—then let out a grunt of surprise as he topped the last rise and saw Zoe’s Mustang.

Must have just arrived, he realized as he parked beside it, outside the back door. She’d yet to shut off her headlights, and the passenger door swung wide. Great. Much as he loved his daughter, she wasn’t the sort of company he’d had in mind tonight. And given his mood, he’d sooner get over his frustration alone, with a cold beer and a good book by the fire, than be forced to sit in the kitchen, eating a bowl of ice cream, while Zoe quizzed him in cheerful detail about his big night out.

“Daddy!” Zoe leaped down the porch steps to the yard, with the dogs, Woofle and Trey, bounding at her heels. “What are you doing back?”

“Called it an early night,” he said, walking around to her door to close it. As he leaned in to turn off her lights, he saw the bags of groceries crowding the seat and the floorboards. He scooped up the nearest four and straightened. “You’re supposed to be over at Lisa’s,” he noted.

“She, um…got sick. Flu, I guess. It seemed smarter to not stay over. So I swung by the grocery store, then came back.” Zoe reached for one of his bags. “Here—give me that one.”

“I’ve got it.”

She tugged it out of his arms. “This one’s got the eggs. There’s a really heavy one with lots of cans. If you’d get that…”

“Sure.” He followed her up the steps to the porch, the dogs surging delightedly around their feet, celebrating this reunion as if he and Zoe had been gone a month instead of hours. “Woof, sit.”

The Airedale dropped on the stoop, stub tail wagging, while the jealous Border collie, hearing a command, spun on her furry length and shoved out the kitchen door for her own—just as Zoe stepped up over the threshold from the mudroom.

“Watch it!” Arms full, Rafe lunged helplessly toward her, then stopped short as she tripped over the dog and went sprawling headlong. “Zoe!” He set his bags down. “Baby, are you—”

“I’m fine.” She pushed herself to her elbows, laughing, as the collie bathed her face with apologetic kisses. “Stop, Trey! Back off!” She curled her long legs under her and sat, as Rafe dropped on his boot heels beside her. Then her smile vanished, and her mouth rounded to an “Oh” of dismay.

“You’re hurt! Where?” He ran his hands down her slender arms. She’d broken her wrist years before in just such a fall. Not yet grown into her legs, she was always tripping, still clumsy as a foal.

“N-no, I…” She was staring beyond him at the cans and boxes that had scattered across the floor. Her eyes switched to his face and she gave him a shaky smile. “I’m fine, Daddy, really. Perfectly fine.” She started to rise. “If you’d go get the rest of the groceries, I’ll—”

“You’ll sit till you catch your breath.” Rafe glanced around for a chair, stood to get it. He scanned the spilled groceries, seeking the carton of eggs she’d mentioned. A blue box had tumbled nearly to the stove. As the words on its label registered in the back of his mind, his gaze stopped. Swung back. And locked on.

“Um, Daddy?” she said in a tiny quaver as he crossed the room.

He could hear the blood thumping in his ears. Those words couldn’t say what he thought they’d said.

What they really said.

Impossible. He straightened, holding a pregnancy test kit.

“What’s this for?” he asked in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.

THE DUDES in Aspen Cabin and Cottonwood Cabin, who had driven over to the Indian cliff houses at Mesa Verde National Park for the day, had returned, tired, sunburned and happy—and an hour and a half later than they’d promised.

By that time Dana had assumed they’d stopped to eat in town. Recklessly switching her menu at the last minute, she’d decided that Sunday would be Barbecue Night, instead—you really needed a crowd out on the deck to make it a festive occasion. She’d told Sean to scatter the coals and let the fire die out in the outdoor grill, while she’d whipped up a tomato-and-onion quiche with a spinach salad for her remaining guests, the two sisters from Boston. They were perpetually fussing about calories, anyway, so let them eat light for once.

But no sooner had Dana pulled the quiche from the oven than the truants had trooped in, appetites raging, consciences shameless, innocently expecting a hot, home-cooked meal to materialize out of thin air.

“They’re brats,” she confided to Petra in the privacy of her kitchen. “Could even teach you a thing or two, sweetie, but don’t you listen.”

No fear there. Utterly absorbed in a game of Follow the Leader with Zorro, the cat, Petra scuttled across the linoleum, rump high, diaper askew. “Ca, ca, ca, ca!” she declared, reaching for Zorro’s tail, as he leaped up to the safety of a chair tucked under the kitchen table. Zorro whisked the endangered prize out of sight, then stepped serenely onto the next chair and sat to lick a paw.

“Cat, that’s right,” Dana crooned absently while she sliced the quiche into cocktail-size bites and arranged them on a platter. This, two bottles of wine and a bowl full of cherries, should keep her guests amused for the next twenty minutes or so.

But what then? Think, Dana.

She was too tired to think, and the pressure of ten healthy appetites demanding satisfaction in her living room sent her thoughts whirling like clothes in the dryer. Oh, drat, she hadn’t moved the load from the washer an hour ago, had she?

Focus, she commanded herself as she tucked the bottles of wine under her elbow, then hoisted the platter and bumped her hip against the swinging door that led into the dining room. As she passed the long mahogany table, she realized she’d told Sean to set it for four. She’d need another eight settings now.

But first food, she reminded herself. “Cocktail hour!” she announced with a smile and a flourish, handing the platter to Caroline Simmons and nodding at the coffee table. “And Leo, would you play bartender?” He was the one member of the latecomers who’d had the grace to look embarrassed. She placed the bottles of chardonnay on the sideboard, where he’d find glasses and a corkscrew.

“Could you use any help in the kitchen?” he asked, smiling down at her.

“Oh, thanks, not at all! Just sit down and put your feet up. You’ve had a long day.” She threaded her way through the rest of her milling guests, with a smile and a word for each, then went up the front stairs, consciously imitating Zorro’s unruffled serenity. Once she’d turned at the newel post on the landing and was out of sight, she took the last steps three at a time. Help? Oh, no, not me!

Arriving at Sean’s door—closed as always—she paused and drew a breath, steeling herself. Then knocked. “Sean?”

No answer, though she could hear music turned down low, beyond his barricade. “Sean, please.” He hated it if she opened his door without permission, but then, the other rule of his game was that he never seemed to hear her. “Sean!” She gritted her teeth and opened the door. “Sean, honey—”

“I told you, you’re supposed to knock!” he growled, glaring back at her from over his shoulder. He lay sprawled on his stomach on the bed, a book propped on his pillow.

“I need help,” she said, voice quivering with the effort to keep it level. She didn’t sound far from tears, she realized. Wasn’t. Oh, do I need help. This job had never been intended for one. That wasn’t the way she and Peter had planned it.

But now all she had was Peter’s son, glaring at her with Peter’s brown eyes. And none of Peter’s tenderness. “Please, Sean? I need eight more places set at the table, then some help in the kitchen.”