A mistake that’s meant to be…

All John Beauchamp wants is a simple life. He’s happy running his Louisiana sugar cane plantation and doesn’t want more than that. Then Shelby Mackey breezes in, announcing that she’s pregnant. Their one crazy night of passion has changed everything.

Except Shelby insists John doesn’t have to be involved—she’ll raise the baby herself. But John can’t let her go that easily. Even without the baby, Shelby is a breath of fresh air. Her call-it-as-she-sees-it attitude intrigues and attracts him. So when Shelby agrees to stay temporarily, John’s determined to make that stay permanent—and as sweet as can be.

“Maybe I want to be alone.”

John didn’t say anything else for a moment and averted his eyes from hers. He cleared his throat. “Do you want me to look for a place for you?”

“Not really,” Shelby said.

He opened his mouth as though to say something but instead snapped it closed, nodded and backed out of the room. “Good night, Shelby.”

“Good night, John.” She stood and shut the door.

Turning, she sank against it, fighting against asking John to come back so she wouldn’t be alone, so she wouldn’t be so conflicted about the decision she’d made to chuck her pseudo-life in Seattle and stay in Magnolia Bend.

A knock at the door made her jump.

She opened it to find John looking determined.

“Did you—” she asked, closing her mouth as he stepped toward her. His arms came around her, hauling her up against the hardness of his chest, as his mouth descended upon hers.

Dear Reader,

This book began with a character. Shelby Mackey appeared in The Road to Bayou Bridge (Mills & Boon Superromance, September 2012) as Darby Dufrene’s girlfriend. The premise of that book involves a secret marriage—one neither Darby nor the heroine, Renny, knows about. In the course of the book, Darby falls back in love with Renny and leaves Shelby holding a bag of dreams.

I really hated that for Shelby…mostly because I liked her.

So the more I thought about her, the more I knew she had a story. Shelby always falls for the wrong guy. And even worse—she always falls for married guys.

In this book I gave her a hero who was also married—to the ghost of his wife. And I gave John and Shelby a reason to move forward and find love. I gave them a surprise pregnancy and the question of What if?

This book concerns grief and second chances, but it also deals with the concept of family and finding where one truly belongs. I hope you enjoy the beginning of a new series set in Magnolia Bend, Louisiana, and the story of two lost souls finding love in difficult circumstances.

As always, I love hearing what you think. You can find me at www.liztalleybooks.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/liztalleybooks.

Cheers!

Liz Talley

The Sweetest September

Liz Talley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A 2009 Golden Heart Award finalist in Regency romance, Liz Talley has since found a home writing sassy Southern stories. Her book Vegas Two-Step debuted in June 2010 and was quickly followed by four more books in her Oak Stand, Texas series. In her current books, she’s visiting one of her favorite cities—New Orleans. Liz lives in north Louisiana with her hero, two beautiful boys and a passel of animals. She enjoys laundry, paying bills and creating masterful dinners for her family. She also lies in her biography to make herself look like the perfect housewife. What she really likes is new shoes, lemon-drop martinis and fishing off the pier at her camp. You can visit her at www.liztalleybooks.com to learn more about the lies she tells herself, and about her upcoming books.

For my mother-in-law, Eretta, who has endured too much grief in her life. Finding happiness isn’t easy and takes work, but love is always worth the effort. I love you.

Special thanks to Scotty Comegys and Greg Lott for teaching me about trusts, and Sam Irwin for teaching me about the sugarcane industry. All mistakes are mine.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EXTRACT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHELBY MACKEY HAD experienced a lot of bad sex in her lifetime, but she’d never made a man cry.

Sitting on the sink of a run-down bathroom in some Louisiana hole-in-the-wall grocery store/bait stand/bar, she focused on the man in front of her, who was breathing hard and blinking away honest-to-God tears. The yellow glow of the naked lightbulb over his left shoulder kept bobbing...or maybe it didn’t. After all, she’d had two glasses of wine before moving on to gin and tonics. Shelby couldn’t remember how many of those drinks the tall stranger had bought her, but they likely were responsible for the disgusting bathroom spinning.

He had dark hair—a sort of brownish-red that a poet might describe as a sunset sinking into the horizon. But he’d covered the rusty-brown with a well-worn cowboy hat. That damn cowboy hat had made her lose every inkling of good sense she had.

Or maybe the five—or six—drinks had done that.

Whichever.

Results were the same—she teetered on a chipped sink, her panties nowhere in sight.

A faded country ballad still played in the background, and as she watched the man grapple with what they’d done against the bathroom sink, she noted he had a thin white scar along his chiseled jawline.

The sex hadn’t been bad. But not good, either. Sort of desperate and fast. Shelby hadn’t cared, because for a brief moment she’d felt desired. And being wanted had been way more powerful than even the deadly combination of cowboy hat and booze.

Green eyes looked down at her, swimming with a flurry of emotions—a sort of “oh, hell, look what we just did.” She released the fists she’d knotted in his simple white button-down shirt and slid to the linoleum.

“Wow,” she muttered, which was totally inaccurate. Not wow at all. She tugged her cashmere sweater over the bra he’d not even managed to unhook and gave him an embarrassed smile.

No. This wasn’t awkward.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked like she’d smacked him in the head with a baseball bat. Mechanically, he turned, dealing with the absurd pink condom she’d handed him minutes earlier. He tossed the wadded napkin in the waste bin and stayed with his back to her.

“Uh, you okay?” she asked, looking for her pesky watermelon-pink panties he’d tossed...somewhere.

Shaking his head, he said, “Oh, God.”

“What? Are you okay?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this.”

Jeez. He apologized like he’d just tossed his cookies on her grandmother’s wedding china. Or like he’d accidentally stepped on a kitten. Or tracked dog shit in the house. Like it was...something bad.

He spun and his eyes reflected anguish.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, trying on another smile, pretending like this wasn’t what it was—a guy apologizing for having sex with her. “But if you can help me find my panties?”

If anything, he grew even paler at the suggestion. Wild-eyed, he glanced around. “We’re in a bathroom.”

“Ding. You’re correct,” she said with a decided slur. Gin did that to her. Okay, gin did that to everyone.

She didn’t want to look back at him. Didn’t want to see the despair and guilt in his eyes. He regretted this whole thing. Wished he hadn’t gotten wasted and agreed to help her in the bathroom, which she’d made code word for screwing me against the lavatory. It was almost as if...her gaze flew to his left hand.

“Oh, crap.” She grabbed the tanned hand with the noticeable white stripe on the ring finger. She hadn’t noticed it in the dark bar, but could see very well in the blinding reality of the ladies’ bathroom. “You’re married?”

He glanced at the hand she held in hers and jerked it away, using it to tug up worn jeans that still gaped. The sound of his zipper was deafening. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and exhaled. “Not anymore.”

He opened those pretty eyes and their gazes met. A sheen of tears remained, but there was more—sadness over the words he’d just uttered. The regret made Shelby feel even worse. Head swimming, gut rolling, she stepped away and spied her panties hanging on the paper towel dispenser over his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again.

Shelby ignored her panties and instead turned away from him. The water came out of the faucet ice-cold. Why had she turned on the water? No clue. She needed something to do, something to prevent her from telling—oh, cripes, what was his name again? Josh? Joe? Did it even matter?

Shelby stuck her shaking hands under the water and splashed her face, not even caring that it would make her mascara run. She didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see the utter abhorrence for her and for what they’d drunkenly done.

After the past few days, she felt close to losing it. Close to doing something like...screwing a stranger?

Too late, sister.

The sound of music roared into the bathroom before muted silence fell again.

Well, hell.

He’d left. Just flippin’ walked out after an apology she didn’t even want.

What an ass.

Shelby looked at herself in the speckled mirror and tried hard not to let her tears join the water coursing down her face. Not only had she impulsively gotten drunk and laid, but the guy she’d chosen for such an honor hadn’t even bothered to stick around and buy her a drink for her trouble.

Not that she needed another drink.

The sound of crickets came from somewhere in the bathroom. Her phone. Crap. Where had she left her purse? Shelby swiped her face with a paper towel, grabbed the panties she’d bought last week thinking her now ex-boyfriend Darby might like them and searched for her purse.

She found it on the window ledge next to the only stall, the torn condom package sitting right beside it. At least she hadn’t been too drunk to remember to protect herself. She’d bought a box in Baton Rouge, hoping she and Darby could finally take their relationship to the next level.

But then she’d found out Darby was married. Okay, so the man hadn’t realized he was married to his high school flame when she’d started dating him. The whole thing was a big shocker for everyone involved. But by the time Shelby made it down to Louisiana to try to talk him into coming back to Seattle and the interview with her father’s firm, her perfect prospect had fallen in love with his, uh, wife.

Yeah, another married man in her life. It was becoming a thing with her.

“Shit.” Shelby sighed, picking up the bright red package, her heart aching at the thought of being back at square one. She felt like a blooming fool...even if none of it was her fault. Guess falling in love was like contracting measles. Bam. Just happened despite one’s best efforts. Darby was off the menu. No more visions of her in a wedding dress smiling at the dark-headed Southern boy with the alligator grin.

Stick a fork in her dream of respectability.

Done.

The phone went silent just as the self-loathing took over. This was what her life had come to—driving the memory of heartbreak away with random stranger sex in a backwater crap hole. She’d never sunk so low.

“Perfect, Shelby,” she whispered, leaning onto the stall door. The bathroom still spun a bit but she remained upright. The worst of it was she couldn’t drive in the state she was in, and she was utterly alone on her little venture out to tour Louisiana plantations. She’d either have to sit at the bar and drink water until the drunk wore off...which could be a good five or six hours, or swallow her pride and call Darby and ask him to come get her. Neither one appealed to her, but she guessed that was too damn bad.

She’d come to terms long ago that if she waited on Prince Charming to arrive on a white steed, she’d be worm food before he showed up.

As always, it was up to her to figure out a solution.

She dug her phone out of her purse, noted her missed call was from Delta Airlines and asked Siri about cab service. What good was having a couple of million bucks sitting in a bank if you couldn’t pay an exorbitant cab fare once in a while? But no dice on a cab. Wasn’t even a taxi service out this far.

So she dialed the number to Beau Soleil, Darby’s childhood home. The man owed her a ride back to Bayou Bridge. Time to go back to Seattle.

Goodbye, Louisiana.

So long, life she thought she’d have.

* * *

JOHN BEAUCHAMP CLOAKED himself inside the pickup truck that had seen better days, tossing his beat-up cowboy hat onto the bench seat and leaning his forehead against the steering wheel.

His chest felt like he’d been hit with a wrecking ball, tight and achy, the way it had been the entire day of his wife’s funeral a year ago. He needed to cry. He needed to punch something until his knuckles bled...until the pain went away.

What in the name of Jesus had he been thinking in there?

He hadn’t.

That was the problem.

He’d come to Boots Grocery to drink away the pain and ended up screwing some blonde chick in the bathroom. Like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just betrayed the vows he’d made eleven years ago last month. Like that would lessen the hurt.

No. The pain never abated, and trying to extinguish it with some bar bunny had done nothing more than release crushing shame.

John felt in his pocket for his keys, pulled them out and reached toward the ignition, but then remembered—he was drunk as a sailor and couldn’t drive.

Since his younger brother, Jake, was on a fishing trip, he’d have to call his older brother to pick him up.

No. He didn’t want to see the pity in Matt’s eyes, nor the unstated disappointment that would quickly follow. Getting drunk wasn’t something they did in the Beauchamp family. Hell, naw. Praying was what they did in the Beauchamp family.

But that hadn’t gotten him anywhere, either.

Goddamn it.

Nothing took away the damaged part of himself, nothing healed the open sore, erased the knowledge he hadn’t been there when she died...hadn’t even had a chance to try and save her. How could God let that happen to Rebecca, the sweetest, most wonderful person in all of Magnolia Bend? Hell, in all of St. James Parish. Why her and not someone else?

Why not him?

John tilted his head back and punched the dashboard. “Ow.”

He shook his hand out and sank back onto the worn leather, the world tilting crazily. He needed to buy a new truck. This one reflected who he was—dinted, dinged and worn out. He had the money, but something stopped him every time. Because he didn’t want to change, didn’t want to move forward.

And now he’d not only drunk himself sick on the anniversary of that day, but he’d shamed himself with Shelby.

That had been the bar bunny’s name.

Shelby.

She’d had nice straight teeth, a big laugh and sugar in her smile. He’d thought maybe she could make the dull throb go away. Someone named Shelby ought to bring sunshine, but in the hard light of that bathroom, he’d seen the same emotion reflected back in her eyes—sadness.

“Shit,” he said into the darkness, wiping the moisture from his eyes. He allowed his head to slide from the headrest, and listing sideways, he flopped onto the bench, knocking his old hat to the floorboard. The seat belt jabbed him in his back, but he ignored the discomfort and instead fastened his eyes on the stars twinkling out the window in the deep purple Louisiana sky.

All his life he believed in heaven. In God. When your daddy’s a pastor, it’s pretty much expected. But for the past year, John had stopped believing in anything except the morning sun and the pale moon. Except the rain that fell straight onto the cracked earth and the tender shoots stretching up from the ground. He’d believed in nothing but what he could see.

An empty house.

A made bed.

A lonely man.

And then he didn’t care if the tears came. He only cared that he’d loved Rebecca and she was gone.

Gone like the whiskey he’d just used to numb himself...

Just plain gone.

CHAPTER TWO

Ten and a half weeks later

THE DUST BOILED up around her rental car making Shelby squint to see the tractor rolling along the rows of tall plants. Sugarcane. That’s the crop John Beauchamp grew on the thirteen-hundred acres owned by the Stanton trust. Or at least that’s what Annie Dufrene had told her when she’d called with the report...and unstated questions.

But Shelby hadn’t given any answers.

For one thing, the private investigator was her ex-boyfriend’s sister-in-law. For another, Shelby hadn’t told a soul the reason she had to find John Beauchamp.

Yeah.

The gravel road wound through the green fields leading her to a white-columned farmhouse with a wide front porch. The hedges out front needed a good trim and the flower bed had long gone the way of despair. A patch of gravel indicated a parking area, so Shelby rolled to a halt there, sucking in deep breaths of air-conditioning and tried to still her pounding heart.

You can do this, Shelby. You have to do this. It’s only right and fair.

With shaking hands, she pulled down the visor and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked good. The Louisiana humidity had been chased away by a cold front and so her bouncy blond hair looked like something out of a shampoo ad. She’d applied her makeup with a careful, light hand, and the taupe-and-orange-striped wrap dress emitted a polished vibe. She looked just right to tell a man she’d met only once that she was having his baby.

Yeah.

She still couldn’t believe she was pregnant, but the visit to the obstetrician a month ago had confirmed what she’d tried to pretend away when the monthly bill hadn’t arrived. She had no clue how it had happened. Even in the drunken haze, she remembered the condom being tossed into the trash can, the torn package she’d scooped up. Proof she’d been responsible.

The fact the stick had awarded her with two blue lines had caused her to literally drop to her knees.

Pregnant.

She’d immediately lost the lobster she’d choked down at dinner with her parents and afterward had lain half dressed in the bathroom of her parents’ guesthouse wondering how in the hell something like this could have happened. Then she convinced herself it was a false positive. Had to be. But to be certain, she’d schedule an appointment with her doctor, where three weeks later the wub-wub of the fetal heartbeat had crushed her with reality and some other feeling she couldn’t identify...something that had led her back to Louisiana to find the man she’d wrapped her legs around in a moment of desperation.

Before she’d heard the heartbeat, she’d planned to make the mistake go away. Abortion wasn’t a pretty word no matter how one dressed it, but Shelby thought it best for everyone concerned. She’d made the appointment with her doctor in Seattle, researched the procedure on the internet and told herself it was the right thing to do. She’d even cleared her substitute teaching schedule in order to have the procedure on a Thursday and be able to return to school on Monday.

Not easy, but best.

Until she heard the heartbeat.

She hadn’t known what the doctor was doing when she squirted cold lube on her stomach and moved that thing around. And then...there it was.

Whoosh, lub, whoosh, lub.

And that’s all it took—Shelby fell in love with her baby.

Simple as that. Never would she imagine the pull to be so visceral. But at that moment, she knew there would be no abortion. She couldn’t erase this mistake the way she erased assignments from the dry-erase board at school.

Armed with a prescription for prenatal vitamins and various pamphlets, Shelby had strolled out of the doctor’s office a different woman than when she’d strolled in, for now she was an expectant mother.

She felt different than being an accidentally knocked-up loser who didn’t even know who the father of her baby was. Correction. She knew the father was a guy named Josh or John Beau-something who’d been in Boots Grocery, the unfortunate grocery/bar/bait stand, the second Friday in September.

Of course, it had crossed her mind to forget all about him...and the uncaring way her child had been conceived. Yes, her child. Not his. But that didn’t sit well with her. In the past, she’d tried to slide around corners and hide from truth, and if she was going to have a baby and raise him or her to be a good, productive, honest citizen, she had to start out on the right foot.

And that meant finding the man who’d cried after having raunchy, impetuous sex with her...and telling him she was pregnant.

So when Thanksgiving break had rolled around, she’d bought a plane ticket back to the state she’d hoped never to see again. Then she’d called Annie Dufrene. Two days before Shelby was set to fly back into Baton Rouge, Annie sent her a fax on one John Beauchamp. Thirty-four years old. A widower. Sugarcane farmer. Resides at 308 Burnside Hwy 4, Breezy Hill Plantation. No children. Parents living. Two brothers and one older sister. Registered driver, organ donor and no arrest record.

Biggest relief ever—he hadn’t lied when he said he was no longer married. At least that small thing had gone right.

So here she was in the middle of Louisiana on a nice fall day about to shock the boots off the poor man.

For a good five minutes Shelby fiddled around in the rental, double-checking her phone messages, updating her GPS and wadding up gum wrappers and tucking them in a tissue. Finally, with nothing more to piddle with, she opened the car door and climbed out into the cool Louisiana afternoon. The tractor still ambled along in a half-planted field. Behind it trailed several men, tucking what looked to be sticks into the furrows. In another field, a huge combine thing cut sugarcane, or at least that’s what she assumed.

She knocked on the door twice, but no one seemed to be inside. Or anywhere around the outside of the house.

Maybe she should have called. But how awkward would that have been?

“Yes, hello. John? It’s Shelby...Shelby. You remember me? Mid-September, Boots Grocery, watermelon-colored panties?...Yeah, well, guess what? I’m having your baby.”

Didn’t seem too kosher...not that Shelby was Jewish. Still, seemed like something a woman should tell a man face-to-face. But she’d been here for almost fifteen minutes and no one was around. Surely someone should have seen her driving up. How long should she wait?

Shelby glanced back at the field. Tractor still churning...or doing whatever tractors do.

Sighing, she sank onto the top step of the porch. There were rocking chairs framing a bank of windows, but sitting in one seemed presumptuous...like she was an old friend, familiar enough to sit on his porch. But she wasn’t an old friend...or even a new one. Shelby was nothing to this man...and he likely wouldn’t feel too “friendly” when she delivered her news.

She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes had passed. Hadn’t someone seen the car come up the drive?

“Hey,” a voice came from her left.

Shelby turned and peered over the overgrown sweet olive bush to find a young sunburned guy in sagging jeans and a flat-billed cap staring at her with suspicion. She stood. “Oh, hey. I wondered if anyone was around.”

“If you’re sellin’ something, we don’t want it,” he said, wiping his brow with a soggy blue bandanna.

“Well, how do you know you don’t want it?” Shelby asked.

“If I ain’t offered nothin’ I don’t have to choose whether I want it or not. Stands to reason it’s easier to say I don’t want to buy nothin’.”

Roundabout logic, but it made sense.

Shelby walked down the five concrete steps. The guy with the bowlegged gait, stained T-shirt and bright blue eyes narrowed his gaze.

“I’m not selling anything, but I am looking for John Beauchamp,” she said.

“Out there on the tractor.” He pointed at the big green tractor. It was so far away Shelby could see only the outline of a figure inside the cab.

“Oh,” she said, licking her lips, trying to look calm.

“You here from the church, then?” he asked, shoving the bandanna in his back pocket.

“The church? Uh, no.”

He lifted his brows. “Well, the boss—”

“But I do need to speak to Mr. Beauchamp. It’s important,” she interrupted.

The kid shook his head. “We in the middle of harvest and don’t quit for nothin’. Not even a pretty lady.”

Shelby didn’t know what to say. Seemed evident the worker wasn’t about to fetch John off the tractor. “But this can’t wait.”

“Guess I can take you out if you want. Boss will have to stop then.” He gestured to a golf cart on steroids. “I’m Homer. Been working for the Stantons forever. Reckon I can decide you’re all right and take you out to do whatever business you got with Boss Man.”

Boss Man? Had she entered a time warp? “Thank you. I’m Shelby.” She stuck out her hand, but Homer waved it away, lifting his hands and showing streaks of grease on his palms.

“I’ll just say how you do.” He bobbed his head.

Southerners were weird sometimes. And charming. But mostly weird. “You called Mr. Beauchamp Boss Man but you said this land belongs to the Stantons?”

“The boss married a Stanton and runs the place for the family. Ain’t nobody works this land the way Boss Man do. Even ol’ Mr. Stanton, who died right there in that tractor of a heart attack, didn’t love it like Boss, and there ain’t nobody left to run this place, which is a shame since this land’s been worked by Stantons for long as I can remember and way past that. Boss’s wife died last year in an accident.”

“Oh,” Shelby said, not really wanting the history lesson, not really wanting to soften over John losing his wife. She wanted to get on with telling John about the baby and go back to a place that made sense to her.

Homer cracked another smile. “You ain’t from here, are you? You talk funny.”

“I’m from Washington State.”

“Well, tell the president ‘hey’ for me when you see him.”

Okay, she wasn’t touching that one. “Will do.”

“I’ll get a towel outta the barn for you to sit on. Don’t want to mess that fancy dress up,” Homer said, loping off toward the barn.

Shelby waited, fiddling with the key chain and double-checking she’d locked the rental car since she’d left her purse on the floorboard. Of course no one was around to make off with it, but living in Seattle most of her life had ingrained certain precautions.

But then, sometimes taking precautions failed. She stood here living proof about to climb into a cart and bump out to a tractor operated by a man who was going to get the shock of his life. Yeah, sometimes in spite of a best effort, shit happened.

Like getting pregnant.

When Homer came back around, he carried a faded striped beach towel, which he placed on the seat of the cart. “Here ya go.” He patted the towel.

Shelby eyed the new boots she’d bought before peeing on the pregnancy test stick and learning her life would go from single, focused substitute teacher to single, unfocused mother. Somehow the sleek knee-length boots she’d bought to make her feel better about the whole Darby fiasco seemed frivolous for her new role, but that didn’t mean she wanted them spattered with Louisiana mud.

Minutes later they took off, rolling over ruts in bone-jarring fashion. Shelby clung to the handrail attached to the roof of the cart and focused on not sliding out since the seat belts looked to have been cut out.

She watched the green tractor in the distance grow larger. It still chugged along, workers scurrying behind. Finally, when the motorized cart Homer called a mule got within a hundred feet, the big tractor stopped. Seconds later the stranger from the bar climbed out, looking tired and puzzled.

Homer hopped out of the cart and jogged over to John Beauchamp whose edges looked sharper than she remembered. Sobriety did that. “Brought you a pretty lady who says she needs a word with you. I’ll come back for her in a few. Gotta get this part over to Henry.”

John glanced over to Shelby, his eyes narrowing, face bewildered. Shelby wondered what he thought. Probably had that same sinking feeling she’d had when her boobs had grown heavy and achy and the telltale crimson flow hadn’t appeared. Pure dread.

“Thanks, Homer, but you better give me the part. I’ll drive it over to the combine. Can you take over here for me?”

Homer saluted before scrabbling up the tractor into the cab. He called down, “Sure thing, Boss Man.”

John frowned, shaking his head. “Stop calling me that.”

Homer cackled. “Hey, it’s what you are.”

Shelby sat still as a puddle, watching John walk toward where she held a death grip on the handle. This wasn’t going the way she’d planned, but then again, things were all over the map in regards to plans lately.

Readjusting an old ball cap on his head, John stopped beside the driver’s seat, glancing back at the men standing behind the tractor, drinking water. They all stared, questions in their eyes, at the woman dressed for brunch sitting in a mucked-up cart in the middle of a cane field. “Go on, fellows. We need to finish this field today. Already late on this planting.”

The men leaped into action as the tractor lurched forward with Homer at the helm.

Shelby took a moment to take stock of the man she hadn’t seen since he’d slipped out of the bathroom that fateful night. John’s boots were streaked with mud and his dusty jeans had a hole on the thigh. A kerchief hung from his back pocket, and the faded chambray shirt he wore stretched across broad shoulders. He looked like a farmer.

She’d never thought a farmer could look, well, sexy. But John Beauchamp had that going for him...not that she was interested.

Been there. Done him. Got pregnant.

He looked down at her with cautious green eyes...like she was a ticking bomb he had to disarm. “What are you doing here?”

Shelby tried to calm the bats flapping in her stomach, but there was nothing to quiet them. “Uh, it’s complicated.”

He slid in beside her, his thigh brushing hers. She scooted away. He noticed, but didn’t say anything.

“Complicated,” he repeated as though tasting the word. “You didn’t go back to...Seattle, was it?”

“No, I went back.”

“But you’re here again.” His words held the question.

She glanced at him and then back at the men still casting inquisitive looks their way as they followed the tractor down the furrows.

John got the message and stepped on the accelerator, this time heading toward the huge combine sitting silent in the opposite field.

Shelby yelped and grabbed the edge of the seat with her other hand, nearly sliding across the cracked pleather seat and pitching onto the ground rushing by the wheels. John reached over and clasped her arm, saving her from meeting the hard ground.

“You good?” he asked, releasing her arm and making no apology for the abrupt launch and turn.

“Yeah,” she said, finding her balance, her stomach pitching more at the thought of revealing why she sat beside him than at the actual bumpy ride.

So how did one do this?

Probably should just say it. Rip the bandage off. Pull the knife out. He probably already suspected why she’d come. If it had been anything other than her being pregnant, she’d have found him before now.

As they turned onto the adjacent path, Shelby took a deep breath and said, “I’m pregnant.”

He made no sound, but she felt his reaction. Glancing sideways, she saw him go rigid, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Pregnant?” he said, his voice low, perhaps even angry. “By me?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s very unlikely.”

“Oh, I am. Went to the doctor. Saw the heartbeat on the ultrasound. Pretty sure there’s a baby in there.”

He slowed down and eyed her in the brightness of the afternoon, looking as if he studied an insect that had landed on his windshield. Squash or let it blow away on its own? “I understand the concept, but it’s not mine. We used a condom. I remember because it was bright pink and I’d never seen anything like that before.”

“Yeah, I thought pink condoms were kind of fun, but that’s not important. Or maybe it is, because something went wrong with it. Besides you ran out before—” She snapped her mouth closed, wishing she hadn’t mentioned his running out. The fact he hightailed it like a coward was the least important part of the whole travesty. “The condom must have broken. Or did you notice any, um, leakage maybe?”

His head snapped around. “No.”

For a moment he didn’t say anything and she wondered if he was searching his memory for that night. “Look I don’t remember much, but I’m pretty sure I would remember that. I was drunk but not stupid.”

“I’m not lying.”

John frowned. “I’m not saying you are, but I can’t accept you got pregnant that night.”

“Look, I’m not thrilled, okay? I’m only here because I thought you should know.”

“Are you sure it’s mine?”

She almost slapped him. Would have been melodramatic and very Scarlett O’Hara-like, fitting considering she sat in the middle of a field in the Deep South feeling rather beat down. “Thanks for the unspoken accusation that I’m a whore. And a stupid one at that.”

John slammed the brakes, his arm catching hers before she could slide forward into the dashboard. “I’m not calling you anything. A woman I barely know shows up saying she’s pregnant, I think I’m entitled to ask a few questions.”

Shelby yanked her arm away and shifted even farther from him. “I came to tell you. That’s it. I don’t expect anything from you. I can take care of the baby on my own.”

John sank against the cracked bench seat, looking as if someone had taken the starch out of him. “Just give me a sec, okay?”

Shelby didn’t say anything more. She got it. She’d needed a lot of moments herself over the past few weeks.

For several minutes they sat; the only sounds were the tractor humming, the occasional shouts of the men working the fields and their mingled breaths, which was vastly different from the last time they’d been together. Very sober. Maybe too sober for the reality that had just crashed into both of their worlds.

“So what are your plans?” he asked. “Are you going to, uh, move forward with the pregnancy?” He sounded choked, as if the words stuck in his throat.

“Yeah. At first I thought about taking care of it—”

“Oh, God,” he breathed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t imagine. I can’t—”

“I know, but my first reaction was to erase the mistake we made then I could just move forward, but...” She trailed off, wondering how she could put into words what she’d experienced when she’d seen the heartbeat, heard the rhythm established by a life growing inside her. It was almost sacred.

John’s eyes met hers, his gaze still convoluted, still shocked. “But what?”

“I heard the heartbeat,” she whispered, swallowing the sudden emotion. Something warm crept up her spine. It wasn’t an aw emotion. More like something that might eat her and swallow her whole. Not danger, but something life altering, something that made her palms sweaty.

John said nothing, merely turned his attention to the field full of glossy green leaves of sugarcane stirring in the slight wind. Captured stark against the horizon, he stood in sharp relief. John was a man shaken to his core.

“I’m sorry,” she said, after several more seconds of nothing from him. The knot in her stomach grew tighter. She didn’t know what to do, how to make it better for him. Or her.

“Me, too,” he offered, his eyes fastened on the horizon.

“If you’ll take me to the house now, I’ll let you get back to work,” she said.

John scratched his head beneath the Ragin’ Cajun ball cap. “Not yet. Let me run this part out and then we’ll go back to the house.”

Shelby didn’t want to spend any more time with him. She wanted to go to her hotel room in Baton Rouge, take a bath and curl up beneath the coverlet with the TV drowning out everything in her life. Escape sounded perfect, but obviously John wasn’t going to let her slink away. The knot inside her tightened and twisted. “Fine.”

After handing off a part to someone named Henry and bumping back along the original path, John headed to the farmhouse. It appeared around the bend, plain and lonely against the cerulean background. A turn of her head showed her John’s stoic profile, jaw squared as he contained his emotions.

Okay. She’d done it. She’d told him about the child growing in her belly. Their child. Mission accomplished. Now all she had to do was go back home, tell her parents, move out of the guesthouse, get a permanent job, take a birthing class, register for preschool, start a college fund....

Oh, dear God.

Parenting wasn’t for wussies...and she’d be alone.

Sweat broke out on her upper lip and her body started to tremble as the enormity of her situation, combined with the residual anxiety from telling John, crashed over her. Her teeth chattered as the knot inside her unwound, releasing some strange hormonal thing that smothered her.

John stopped the cart and climbed out.

But she couldn’t move.

Silly as it was, all the emotion she’d balled inside over the past four weeks rolled over her, rendering her, well, overwhelmed.

“Shelby?”

Oddly enough, during the middle of what was possibly a panic attack she realized she liked the way he said her name. He had a drawled Southern accent quite different from Darby’s soft Acadian dialect. Maybe a slight lilt.

Shelby waved her hands as if she could make the panic enveloping her go away. “I’m just a little—” Gulping deep breaths, she couldn’t finish.

“Jesus,” John said, taking huge steps around the mule to reach her side.

“No, don’t touch me,” Shelby said, brushing away the hand reaching for her, shrinking from him.

“It’s okay. Breathe.”

Shelby wanted to say something biting like what in the hell did he think she was doing, but she couldn’t seem to care enough to be a smart-ass.

“Come into the house,” he said, taking her by the forearm, his touch as gentle as his words. “We’ll have some tea or something and take a few minutes to process all this.”

“I just wanna leave,” she said, teeth still chattering, her breathing ragged. She figured if she didn’t get out of there, away from him, she might hyperventilate. “I told you. That’s it. I’m done.”

He stiffened again, but didn’t release her arm. “I understand, but you need to gather yourself before you drive. Come inside. It will be okay.”

“It won’t be okay,” she said, inhaling deeply, trying to find her calm, trying to find herself in the hysteria edging in. How dare he even imply such a thing? It will be okay. What a fat lie. She might be resolved to her fate, but having the baby of a stranger was not even remotely okay. “This is a screwup of enormous magnitude.”

“You’re right, but it will be okay.”

“Stop freaking saying that.”

He clamped his mouth shut and studied her for a moment. The same perusal he’d given her earlier. Scientific. “You don’t need to drive. You’re upset.”

“Duh. You think?” Shelby drawled, the anger, the lack of control pissing her off. She’d had a plan. Tell him. Leave. But somehow her body...or her mind...or something...hadn’t gotten the damn memo to play it cool.

He didn’t respond. Just stared at her. And tugged on her arm in an insistent manner.

“Fine,” she said finally, struggling to her feet. “I’ll gather myself and have a cup of tea. We can even pretend we’re normal people.”

Again, nothing from him. He released her arm as she stood.

Shelby took a deep breath, relieved her task was nearly over. Now someone other than her doctor knew about the life knitting together within her womb. Of course, she’d shared that information with a man she didn’t know beyond the investigative report sitting in her sock drawer...and the fact he sang off-key to old George Strait songs when he danced.

Wordlessly, side by side, they climbed the steps. When they reached the top step, where Shelby had perched a mere half hour ago, John stopped.

Shelby turned around, still fighting the edging panic.

“You’re not alone, Shelby.”

His words did what he meant them to do. Found their way inside her, creating a small bit of warmth in the midst of the madness of her life.

John stood there, handsome as sin, saying the right thing at just the right moment.

Damn him.

He was still the bastard who had treated her like a fungus, impregnated her with a child and implied she was some sort of whore.

But he knew exactly what to say.

And as he took her hand and pulled her toward the door, she realized he also knew exactly how to make her feel cared for.

And that was more dangerous than any other feeling she’d had since seeing him again.

CHAPTER THREE

JOHN LED SHELBY up the steps of the house that had been his home for a decade, every nook and cranny known and loved despite the flaws. Inside, he quaked as much as Shelby did. Outside, he maintained a semblance of control. Like always.

Shelby was pregnant with his baby. Or at least she said she was. The irony of the situation rubbed him, bitter and biting.

Rebecca’s desire for the pitter-patter of little feet had been a driving force in their marriage for the past year of her life. With her death, the thought of children ceased to exist. And now, he’d gotten what he’d once desired so greatly...at the hands of a drunken hookup in a crappy bathroom off Hwy 5.

God had a sense of humor. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe God liked to sucker punch John for the hell of it.

He pulled the screen door open, holding it with his boot as he turned the century-old iron doorknob and pushed inside.

His yellow Lab sat, tongue lolling, ready to greet him.

“Down, Bart.” John pushed the hairy beast with the generous kisses off his thigh and walked inside the cool darkness of the living room, turning right and escorting Shelby toward the kitchen. Bart followed after them, tail threatening the doodads on the low antique tables Rebecca had scattered throughout the foyer and formal dining room. He should pack them away, but something held him back.

It always did.

“You have a dog,” Shelby said like she’d never seen one.

“Yeah. This is Bart.” John released her hand and pulled out a chair in the kitchen. He didn’t know why he’d grabbed her hand to begin with. Maybe because for a moment she looked like a lost child and he hadn’t wanted her to run away. “Here. Sit. I’ll boil some water for tea.”

Bart sat, too. Right at Shelby’s feet. She patted the dog’s head, causing Bart to nudge her hand for more.

John never made tea because he always went for a beer at the end of a long day. In the pantry he found some boxes of herbal tea that had expired a few months before. Tea didn’t go bad, did it? Probably. But this would have to do.

He found the kettle and lit the flame on the stove, eyeing Shelby out of the corner of his eye. Her teeth had stopped chattering, and though she was pale, she looked less panicked.

The woman was almost too pretty, with flaxen hair likely achieved in a high-end salon. Wide blue eyes were framed by inky long eyelashes; high-rounded cheekbones and a mouth he remembered thinking belonged on a pinup girl. Plump and made for sex. Large breasts, nice legs and a waist that was still trim despite her pregnancy. A freaking Playboy Bunny of a woman.

God.

He filled the kettle at the sink and tried to figure out how to handle the situation. Shelby had seemed offended when he asked if she was certain the child she carried was his, but he had to ask, right? He knew nothing about her, and she’d seemed more than willing to pull that condom out of her purse that night.

Of course, it didn’t mean she was morally loose.

Morally loose? Jesus. He sounded like his father.

Stay away from those kind of girls, Johnny. No girl who gives it away is worth your name, and if you knock her up you’ll have to marry her.

So should he insist on a blood test? How did those work? Maybe the baby had to come first before they could test and that was months away. He didn’t know how to handle this situation. Hell, who really knew how to handle this situation? He felt like he’d fallen into a well and was treading water with no foothold on the slick walls, no way to heft himself up.

He focused on what he could control. “Looks like all I have is Apple Orchard or Peachy Keen.”

Shelby stopped petting Bart and the dog whined his displeasure. “Either, as long as it’s caffeine-free. I’m not supposed to have caffeine.”

John put the kettle on and stepped toward the back door, whistling for Bart to come. Reluctantly, the dog stood and waddled to the door. “Go tee-tee,” he said out of habit.

When he turned, Shelby had a weird look on her face. “Go tee-tee?”

He shrugged. “Started when he was a puppy. Somehow changing the term to piss seemed wrong.”

The kettle whistled, and John grabbed a cup, plunked in a tea bag and poured the water. Then he grabbed himself a beer. He’d allow himself only one, though he felt like he needed a six-pack to deal with the woman sitting at his kitchen table. But he needed to get back to the fields.

Pulling out the chair beside her, he slid the cup to her and cracked open his beer. “Feeling better?”

“Yes and no,” she said, lifting the tea and inhaling. Just like Rebecca. The memory punched him. “Thank you for the tea.”

“You’re welcome. So...I’d like to talk a bit more.”

“I assumed that’s why you made me come inside and drink this.” She didn’t look happy about his wanting to know more. What had she said? I told you. Now I’m done.

“So what are your immediate plans regarding the pregnancy?”

“Immediate plans? Go back to Seattle, break the news to my parents and find a permanent teaching job.” She fiddled with the teacup, bending a finger around the rim. Her nails were clipped short and painted a soft pink. Definitely a nice manicure.

“You’re a teacher?”

“I teach high school math. My last teaching assignment in Spain ended this past spring, and I didn’t come stateside in enough time to interview for a permanent position. It’s hard to pick one up midyear so I’ve been substituting in the Seattle school district on a part-time basis. The baby’s due in June, so I should be able to maintain a permanent position next year.”

“The baby’s due in June?”

“The due date’s June 24.”

“My birthday’s the eighteenth,” he said, wondering why the hell that even mattered. But even so, the image of a small bundle cradled in his arms appeared. A son with dark hair and fair skin, his little mouth doing that lip quivering thing as he cried annoyance at being taken from his mother’s arms.

“I know. I hired a private investigator to find you. I was fuzzy on your name.” Her bite of laughter was bitter and when she looked up he saw shame in her eyes.

“I remembered yours. Thought it was a pretty name.” He’d remembered her name, the way she smelled—like something sweet and expensive—and the small encouraging sounds she’d moaned as he pulled up her skirt.

He hadn’t wanted to remember, but on dark, lonely nights when he lay awake staring at the crack in the ceiling he needed to repair, he recalled Shelby and the way she’d felt against him. He hated himself for it.

For a few minutes, they each contemplated the enormity of the situation.

A baby. Good God.

“So,” she said. “I’m feeling a little better. I’m embarrassed I sort of freaked out. Guess it was everything built up. I’m not usually so...wimpy.” Her smile was embarrassed, almost pained. “I won’t keep you from your work.”

John cradled his beer in both hands. “Are you staying in town?”

“No, I’m going back home to Seattle tomorrow. Besides, staying in town a few days is what got me in trouble in the first place.” She gave a humorless chuckle.

“This is crazy,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed with a nod, “but it’s not the end of the world. I can deal.”

“I’d like it if you could stay at least a day or two,” he said, suddenly alarmed about the finality in her voice. Did she think she could drop this bomb and walk away...and he’d just go back to cutting cane like the news she’d brought was equal to “I sideswiped your mailbox” or “I accidentally broke your window.” This wasn’t something a person confessed to and then walked away. This was about a child...his child. “Just give me some time to wrap my mind around this and help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” she said, pushing the teacup away. “I’m not trying to interfere in your life. Just thought telling you about the pregnancy was the decent thing to do.”

“And that’s it? I get to know and that’s all?”

Shelby’s eyebrows knotted. “I didn’t think you...” She paused and looked hard at him. “You don’t have to do anything. I didn’t come here asking for money or a way out of this. I’m not a girl in trouble. This isn’t the ’50s or ’60s. I can take care of the baby myself. I’m financially secure and mentally stable...mostly.”

He made a face.

“I’m kidding,” she said, her complexion pinking, her eyes resuming a less-tragic glint. “I’m mentally stable.”

“But it’s my baby, too.” John set his beer aside and leveled her with the same look his father had used on him when he thought to take the easy way out. John wasn’t going away. If that’s what she’d thought, she’d been wrong.

She gave an exaggerated, slow nod. “Okay, so technically speaking, it’s your child, but you don’t have to be involved.”

“Too bad,” he said. “You came here to tell me I’m the father of the child you’re carrying. Did you really think I’d say ‘thanks for the info’ and go about my life as normal? What kind of man do you think I am?”

“I have no idea what kind of man you are,” she said, scooting her chair back, looking as if she might run for the back door. “I didn’t think you would—I never considered anything other than...” She knotted her brow, twisting her lips as if searching for the right way to say she didn’t want him to care.

“Doing the right thing?” he finished. “I believe that’s the way you put it. So why even tell me if you don’t want anything from me?”

“Because you have a right to know.”

“But not a say-so?”

“Why would you? You ran,” she said, looking up at him. “Remember? You left me in that bathroom, drunk, ashamed and...knocked up. Why on earth would I think you’re the kind of man who would stand with me? And why would I want you to?”

John felt as if she’d just hit him in the face with a wet dish towel. The kind of man who would run? Yeah. She wasn’t wrong. He’d been running for the past year...from his family, his friends and the grief that consumed him. The only thing he hadn’t run from was the incessant work he did in the fields as some kind of penance to his wife’s family. As if he could make up to Carla Stanton the loss of her daughter by keeping the Stanton legacy alive in some way. Rows of cane and this empty house were all he had left in his life. Even knowing how pathetic it was to close out the people who loved him hadn’t stopped him from soaking himself in work and regret. “Okay. I’ll give you that. I ran. I was a total dick. For that I apologize.”

Shelby’s sculpted eyebrows lifted. “Oh. Thank you for apologizing.”

“I know this is a hard situation. I’m not asking you to do anything other than stay a day or two so we can figure some things out together. Obviously, you’ve been carrying this burden by yourself. Maybe you could use my help. Maybe fate threw us together and gave us, uh, a baby for a reason. So whether you wanted me involved or not, I am.”

Shelby looked annoyed. “You’re making this complicated. It’s not. I’m pregnant. I’m having a baby. I’m making the decisions. You provided the sperm. Job over.”

“No. It’s not that simple and you know it. I’m not going away just because you want me to. You’re not being fair.”

“What? I’m being more than fair. I flew down to tell you. I didn’t have to do that.”

“But you did. It was the right thing to do, and you can’t legally keep me out of the child’s life. I’m the father. You said so yourself.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this? I live thousands of miles away. I can’t give you what you’re asking for.”

“Well, I’m not satisfied being a phantom figure who mails a check once a month. Is that what you thought I would do? Never want to see my child?”

Anger burgeoned in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“But you did.”

“So you keep reminding me,” she said. “I only wanted to tell you about the baby. I didn’t want anything else from you...not even a check.”

“Too bad.” John stood and scooped up her cup. He walked to the counter and set the half-filled cup in the depths of the scarred farm sink. His feelings were twisted into a giant ball of so many emotions he couldn’t begin to identify them, but in the midst of the disappointment, regret and anger was something that surprised him.

Joy.

Seemed impossible, since he hadn’t felt an inkling of happiness in well over a year. But despite feeling out-and-out terror, inside John thrilled at the warm thought of a child in his life. “We made a mistake a few months back. Not you. Not me. We. Which means going forward is something we’ll do together.”

Shelby eyed the empty spot where her tea had been. “Why did you pick up my tea? And why do you think you have the right to decide anything about my future?”

John eyed the cup in the sink before turning back to her. “Sorry.”

She glared at him.

“You’re carrying something inside of you who is as much a part of me as you. You would deny me the right to know my own son or daughter?”

Shelby paled but said nothing.

For a few minutes, they stared at each other, once strangers with a compulsion...an urge to feel something that dark September night, now tied together by the tiny life growing within Shelby.

“I need to use your restroom before I head back to Baton Rouge,” Shelby said, her voice firm and teacherlike. She seemed set on ignoring his last question. As if she could make him go away.

John studied her, seeing too much or maybe not enough of the woman beneath the highlights and sophisticated clothes. The woman beneath the expensive leather boots and jewelry that probably cost more than his broken-down truck. This was a woman nothing like his wife. But this was a woman he wasn’t going to run from this time. He conceded the battle, but the fight wasn’t over. “Down the hall to your left.”

She stood up too quickly and hit the table with her thigh. His beer fell, emptying its contents on the table he’d inherited from his grandmother May Claire. He scooped the bottle from the table, droplets of yeasty beer mixing with the scent he remembered from that night long ago—a sultry warmth that belonged to a woman he’d never thought to see again.

A scent that belonged to a woman who carried a part of his future.

John grabbed a dish towel and wiped up the spilled beer, wishing he could fix his world as easily.

* * *

SHELBY WALKED QUICKLY down the dim hallway, looking for the bathroom...looking for an escape.

God, why had she come?

Of course, she knew why. She’d put herself in the shoes of a man who’d had a one-night stand and convinced herself she would at the very least want to know she had a child out there somewhere. Seemed ethical. The right thing to do.

But now she wished she hadn’t said anything.

I’m not satisfied being a phantom figure who mails a check once a month. So what did that mean?

All the doors on her left were closed. Shelby tried the first one, but it was an office, desk cluttered with paper and somehow lonely in the afternoon shadows dancing against the pale wall. Shelby closed that door and found the small bathroom next to it.

Twisting the antique crystal handle, Shelby closed herself in the narrow gray half bath and bolted the door. Silly, but she felt better having a locked door between her and the man she’d paid her ex-boyfriend’s sister-in-law three hundred dollars to find.

Irony was such a bitch.

The bathroom showed a woman’s touch. Embroidered antique towels hung on a ring and a pewter picture frame sat on the vanity. Shelby picked up the picture of the happy couple on the sugar-white beach. John was nearly unrecognizable with tan skin and a huge grin. The wife he held in his arms was small, brown and pretty in a wholesome way. Happy times for a couple that no longer existed.

Shelby set the picture down next to a small carving of a pelican perched in the corner. From the top of the pelican sprouted cattail and tumbling Spanish moss. The braided rug looked handmade in tones of blue and moss-green. Tasteful and simple. Most likely decorated by the woman in the picture.

Shelby sighed and ran water into the sink, blinking at herself in the mirror. She’d eaten her lipstick off long ago, but still looked much the same as she had earlier. She didn’t look like a half-panicked pregnant woman. She looked, well, prettier than normal if not a little pale after having to impart the news to the man clacking around in the kitchen, cleaning up her spill.

Cleaning up her spill.

Yeah. Story of Shelby’s life.

Stay a couple of days. Let me help you figure things out.

John’s offer was tempting to a degree. She had hated being back in Seattle. The summer had been long and rainy, spent waiting on Darby. Then fall had come, along with the news Darby was in love with his...well, wife. Things had unraveled and hadn’t gotten better. Her relationship with her parents was as strained as ever, so in one way not being in Seattle was fine, but she hadn’t wanted the complication of John in her life.

So why did you fly down here to Louisiana?

She had no delusions of some sort of relationship with John Beauchamp. God help her, but she’d had enough of emotionally unavailable men, and one look at the dossier prepared on him paired with the memory of his eyes that night, and Shelby knew he still loved his dead wife. And even if he were available, there would be no time for romance between pregnancy and her teaching career. Besides she hadn’t come down here wanting to be rescued. She’d meant it when she said she didn’t expect anything of him. She didn’t have a permanent job, but she had a solid bank account, and if all else failed, there was her inheritance. Money had never been an issue for her family.

No, coming down to Louisiana had allowed her to escape the reality of Seattle if only for a few days...and delay the ensuing disappointment and scandal she would heap on her accomplished family.

Again.

Once the black sheep, always the black sheep. She seemed destined to stay in the role she’d assumed long ago.

Sighing, Shelby hiked up her dress and tugged down her tights. Might as well—how had John put it? Oh, yeah. Tee-tee. Long drive back to Baton Rouge. She wasn’t staying here in Magnolia Bend any longer than she had to. If John wanted to talk about the future of their child, he’d have to—

Shelby’s last thought disappeared as she caught sight of the blood in the crotch of her brown ribbed tights.

She jerked her panties down and sank onto the porcelain toilet seat. Heavier smears of blood in her panties. Frantically, she grabbed some toilet paper and wiped.

More blood. Fresh.

Oh, God. She was bleeding.

Why had she climbed in that damn rattletrap mule? Bumping over those huge ruts in the field couldn’t have been good for the baby. And all this drama and stress hadn’t helped, either. She’d put her baby in jeopardy, and now she was having a miscarriage right there in a dead woman’s guest bathroom.

Jesus.

And suddenly she, who’d hated the life growing inside of her for nearly a month, who’d penciled in an abortion on her calendar, who didn’t even know the father of her baby beyond his birth date and occupation, knew beyond all else she wanted to keep the small miracle housed within her body.

She stood, tugged up her underwear and tights, squeezed her legs together as if that could stop the bleeding and called, “John!”

Shelby heard the pounding of his boots and slid the lock open, pushing back the door.

“What is it?” he asked, wiping his hands on a towel, looking alarmed.

“I’m bleeding,” she said, trying to stay calm despite the fear clogging her throat. Rough unshed tears made her hoarse.

John took her arm and pulled her gently from the bathroom. “It’s okay. I’m going to call Jamison French. He’s a doctor and one of my closest friends. He’s not far away.”

Shelby nodded, for the first time glad John stood beside her, glad to have someone to lean on. She didn’t want to need him, but her mind felt frozen and all she could think about was keeping the baby inside of her. “I’m scared.”

John escorted her to the chair she’d left moments ago and grabbed the cordless phone sitting on the kitchen counter. “I know you are, but I’m going to take care of you.”

Shelby sank into the chair and tried not to cry. She wanted to be strong, but at the moment doing so seemed impossible.

John barked some things into the phone, softening his tone with an apology. Shelby didn’t pay attention to who he talked to. She concentrated on telling her body to stop bleeding, to stop trying to eject the small life she’d glimpsed on the ultrasound.

“We’re going to my truck, okay?” John said, grabbing a set of keys. “Jamison’s at the hospital, but he’s going to meet us at his office. We’re going to go in the back door.”

“Oh, God,” Shelby breathed. “I didn’t want this to happen. Why is this happening?”

“It’s okay,” he breathed, helping her rise, smoothing her hair back.

“You say that a lot.”

“Maybe we’ll both believe it.”

Shelby closed her eyes. “I hope that’s true.”

John opened the back door, pushing Bart out of the way and flipping off the lights. “No matter what happens, Shelby, hold on to the thought everything will be okay. I’ve forgotten how to do that, but suddenly it feels pretty damn important.”

And when Shelby glanced over at him, she believed him...but that didn’t stop the fact she felt dampness in the crotch of her panties.

CHAPTER FOUR

DR. JAMISON FRENCH’S office looked nothing like her doctor’s office in Seattle. The walls were a bright blue and the hot-pink chairs looked like something in a funky designer’s office rather than an obstetrician’s. The navy chevron-patterned changing curtain and a funny picture of kittens playing on the ceiling above the exam table seemed to make pelvic exams fun...uh, almost.

Dr. French rolled his stool over to where Shelby lay on the exam table, paisley paper gown open to reveal her white belly. The tech rolled the ultrasound transponder around in the gook on her stomach while the doctor focused on the soft lub-lub of the heartbeat on the monitor.

Feeling like she might heave up the oatmeal cookie she’d scarfed down hours ago, Shelby watched the small screen and the mass of...something that caused the swooshing noises. The panic inside subsided as she listened to the telltale sound of her baby’s heartbeat.

“I’m not seeing anything that concerns me here, Shelby,” Dr. French said, his blue eyes intense behind his artsy glasses. Pointing to the screen he continued. “Heartbeat’s strong for an eleven-week fetus.”

“So why am I bleeding? Was it riding in that stupid mule?”

Dr. French nodded at the technician, who removed the roller-ball thing and handed Shelby a few tissues to wipe off the lubricant.

“No, your baby is safe in your womb and hitting bumps or getting jostled shouldn’t cause any harm. About twenty percent of women experience spotting in the first trimester of pregnancy. Usually caused by implantation of the fetus, but since you’re past that point of your pregnancy, I don’t think that’s the issue.”

“Oh.” Dread knitted inside her. What was wrong with her? Had she done something wrong? She’d had some wine and, oh, hell, a couple of vodka martinis before she knew she was pregnant.

“When was the last time you saw your doctor?” Dr. French asked, noting something in the thin folder before setting it on the counter by the sink. The technician left, shutting the door softly, and the pretty nurse who’d taken her blood pressure slid inside the examination room and with a warm smile, started doing whatever it was nurses did behind the exam table.

“Two weeks ago. Uh, when I had the pregnancy confirmed.”

“And did he or she do a vaginal exam?”

“Yes.” Shelby sat up and wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her arms. She didn’t want a vaginal exam. She couldn’t handle something that made her any more vulnerable than what she currently felt. Tears sat on the horizon waiting for an excuse to make a debut.

“Hmm.”

“What’s that mean?” Shelby tried to not sound panicked. Her life had been flipped topsy-turvy, and the ground beneath her feet felt as thin as the paper gown she shivered in. Dear Lord. How did single mothers do this and not lose their minds? She felt out of control...and there was no one to hand the reins over to.

On her own.

Dr. French lifted his head from the chart and gave her a sincere, comforting smile. “Relax, lots of changes are going on in your body—like the alteration of pH levels, which can allow yeast to flourish. Any disruption of the cervical cells, like having intercourse, can cause those inflamed cells to bleed.”

“I haven’t had sex. Um, since that night.” Shelby looked at the closed door. John sat right outside in the small waiting area. Did Dr. French suspect John as the father?

Silly, Shelby. Sure, the good doctor had question marks in his eyes when John hurried her in the back door like it was some secret abortion clinic and he was the preacher’s son, but that didn’t mean he suspected his friend of being the father.

“We’ll take a look and see if that’s what’s going on. A woman’s body during pregnancy is a mysterious thing.”

Shelby stared blankly at him.

“If you’ll just lie back and scoot your bottom right down here,” he said, flicking on the gigantic lightbulb at the foot of the table.

“Oh, God,” Shelby breathed.

The nurse placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Shelby. Try and relax.”

At this Shelby laughed...almost hysterically.

Yeah, sure.

Five minutes later, Shelby stood inside the small curtained dressing room, hands trembling and stomach pitching. As she pulled on her wrap dress, she beat back the self-pity threatening to wash over her.

Never had she felt so alone.

And there had been plenty of times in her life she’d stood by herself—the time she’d gotten lost as a child while on vacation, the time she found out her first love had only used her for sex, when she moved to Europe not knowing a soul and most recently in a bathroom at Boots Grocery. But enduring a pelvic in an unfamiliar office with the stranger who knocked you up standing outside scraped the bottom of the you’re-so-alone barrel.

Shelby curved her hand over her still-flat stomach, imagining she could feel the heartbeat beneath her hand.

Still with me.

Tugging on her boots, she whisked back the curtain and cracked the door so the doctor would know she was dressed. Sinking on the funky pink chair beside the wall of cabinets, Shelby pulled her purse into her lap and pretended she couldn’t hear the conversation between Dr. French and John.

“How do you know this woman again?”

Long pause. “I told you. She’s an old friend.”

Shelby almost snorted. Yeah. Two and a half months of old friendship.

“Her patient information sheet says she’s from Seattle.”

“Yeah.” Aggravation in John’s voice.

“I’m not trying to pry.”

Another long pause.

“Okay, maybe I am. You call and say it’s an emergency of the female variety, bring in a pregnant woman I’ve never seen before and then expect me not to ask any questions? I’m an old friend, too.”

More long silence.

A sigh.

“Fine.”

John’s voice again. “Is she okay?”

“Sorry. Patient confidentiality,” Dr. French quipped. A door shut and then Dr. French stepped into her exam room, annoyance in his eyes fading as he smiled. As the door clicked shut, he picked up her chart and grabbed a pen from his scrub pocket. Clicking it, he grabbed a prescription pad. “The good news is that at present, you’re not losing the pregnancy. I checked your blood work and you have a slight infection. Here’s a script for a cream that can help.”

Shelby opened her mouth to ask—

“No, it won’t hurt the fetus.”

“Baby,” Shelby said. What grew inside her had ceased being a fetus. It was her baby...and she supposed John’s, too.

“The small amount of cramping you’ve had is likely the uterus stretching a bit, making a nice home for your baby, and perhaps contributing to the bleeding. Still, I’d like to put you on limited activity for the next week as a precaution. Feet up. Lots of rest. It’s evident you’re tired and stressed.”

Shelby gave an embarrassed laugh, brushing her hair back, suddenly self-conscious about the no doubt tangled mess of curls...not to mention the mascara shadow under her eyes, which made her look like a heroin addict. She wasn’t interested in any man, but Dr. French was awfully attractive. How the tiny town of Magnolia Bend had netted both John the smoking-hot farmer and Jamison the sexy ob-gyn was beyond her. “I suppose it’s been a bit stressful these past few weeks.”

“Your body’s going through a lot of change, so maybe a little doctor-ordered rest will be good for you...and hopefully once the inflammation is gone the bleeding will stop.” Sticking his hand out, he shook hers. “I’d like to see you in a week. I’ll be glad to forward my notes and your chart to your regular doctor in Seattle when you return home.”

“So I need to stay in town?”

Dropping his hand, he took a second to think about her question. “If at all possible, yes. Miscarriage can be a complicated process. I don’t think the fetus, uh, baby, is in danger, but until we see if this cream works, it would be better for you not to travel. So put your feet up and focus on taking it easy for a week. If the bleeding becomes heavier or doesn’t lessen in three or four days, call me.”

Then he was gone, leaving her once again alone in the exam room. Shelby tucked the prescription in her purse, and found a tube of soft nude lipstick. If she were a bit more presentable, she’d feel stronger...like she could handle walking back out into the reality of her life.

She lingered a few moments, combing her hair, wiping away the traces of tears, and then left the room, running straight into John, who was lurking at the door.

His hands curved around her upper arms, steadying her, and Shelby tried not to think about how good it felt to have someone so solid beside her. “Whoa. You okay?” he asked.

Not even close.

She lifted her gaze and saw worry swimming in his eyes. “I guess. I don’t seem to be having a miscarriage if that’s what you’re asking.”

The worry lessened a bit, but then he seemed to remember where he stood. His head swiveled as if checking for spies...or maybe nosy nurses. His eyes landed on the door they came in. “Let’s go out the way we came.”

She pulled away from him. “I probably need to talk to the receptionist. I haven’t given anyone my insurance card.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he said, taking her elbow again and guiding her toward the door.

“Stop,” Shelby said, wrenching her arm away, feeling skeevy about sneaking out and not paying. “I don’t need you to—”

“I know, I know.” He held up a hand, his mouth growing rigid. “You can handle everything on your own.”

He sounded mad...and maybe a little hurt. She wasn’t sure because she didn’t know him well enough to make a judgment.

An exam room door opened and a woman wearing a tent waddled out. Okay, it wasn’t a tent, just a maternity dress that masqueraded as one. But still...yikes. Would she get that enormous? The poor woman might as well have had RMS Titanic stenciled across her side.

“John?” the ship, ahem, woman asked, a little V of befuddlement forming between her eyes. She smoothed the linen shift against her bulging stomach and sailed toward them, questions bouncing in her eyes. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Shannon,” John said weakly, his smile pained. “Uh, I’m here to see Jamison. This is his office.”

“I know that, silly,” Shannon said, inclining her head toward Shelby, her eyebrows raised in that age-old expression that meant Who’s your friend?

“Oh, you mean what am I doing here with Shelby?” He turned his regard to her.

“Hi.” Shelby did a little wave. “I’m a friend of John’s.”

“Oh,” Shannon said, her expression still puzzled.

“Shelby didn’t feel well and since Jamison’s a close friend, I asked if I could drop in.”

“Oh,” Shannon said again, her cheeks dimpling as she gave Shelby a smile. “Lucky you. Dr. French is the best doctor around. Women even drive up from New Orleans to see him.”

“Great,” Shelby said, wishing she’d allowed John to tug her out the back door without resistance. This whole thing was awkward with a capital A.

“Well, we need to go. Tell Rob I said hello,” John said, motioning Shelby toward the back door like a cruise director.

Okay, so she extended the ship imagery. Sue her.

“So are you new in town?” Shannon persisted, following them with the determination of a...

She was out of ship metaphors.

John paused, turning toward the inquisitive Shannon, but Shelby beat him to it. “Just passing through.”

“For the week,” John clarified.

“What?” Shelby snapped, realizing Dr. French must have told John he’d prescribed bed rest.

“You’re staying with my sister, Abigail, at her bed-and-breakfast, right?” John said, his eyes beckoning her to go along with his statement.

“Actually, I was going to stay in Baton Rouge,” Shelby said, giving John a look she reserved for naughty students. How dare he manipulate her? Magnolia Bend was a charming little town, but she didn’t want to spend her weeklong bed rest with John’s sister. Something told her it would be too...too suffocating.

Shannon looked from him to her, now resembling a...buoy bobbing in the current? Or maybe a cork? Or a—Shelby was officially about to lose it. She wasn’t sure what losing it might look like. She felt equal parts anger and hysteria.

“Laurel Woods is a lovely place to stay. I had my wedding reception there,” Shannon said.

“Really?” Shelby said, a giggle rising to the surface. She bit her lip and tried to hold on to the anger.

“Oh, sure. It’s one of the top bed-and-breakfasts in the area. Of course, we don’t get many tourists because we’re so close to New Orleans, but this time of year with Thanksgiving and the Candy Cane Festival around the corner, we see a few new faces.”

“Huh, that’s...interesting,” Shelby said, glancing longingly toward the back door. She needed to get out of there. Screw the insurance.

“In fact my brother’s playing at the street dance Saturday night after the tree lighting. Maybe I’ll see you both there?” Shannon’s question might as well have been a fishing line tossed into unknown waters.

Shelby couldn’t seem to stop the nautical metaphors. Anytime she couldn’t deal with situations she became plain silly...which meant if she didn’t vamoose, she’d say something inappropriate.

“Maybe so,” John said, tapping Shelby twice on the arm. “We better go.”

“Tell your father I enjoyed his sermon last Sunday...and tell your mama hello, too,” Shannon called out as John turned toward the door and nearly dragged Shelby with him.

Sermon?

Wait. John was an actual preacher’s son? The whole back door thing suddenly made sense.

“Jesus,” he said as he pushed out the door.

“Imagine that. A preacher’s son calling on his savior. Now the whole back door approach makes sense. You go into liquor stores the same way?”

“That’s not what this was about.”

Shelby lifted her eyebrows. “Whatever you say, sailor.”

“Fine. I wanted to get you in to Jamison’s without everyone asking questions, and I knew you’d get treatment faster. It was an emergency, right?”

“Right.”

“Doesn’t matter. Shannon will tell the whole town about me being with a woman at the local ob-gyn’s office.”

“That ship just sailed, huh?” And that was it. Her sanity snapped and the giggling started. John stared at her like she was deranged.

She was. At least temporarily.

“Sorry,” Shelby said, turning away, holding her belly, trying to find the remote control to her feelings. She teetered on the edge, the rollicking emotions pulling at her, making her wish for safe harbor from the storm.

Safe harbor.

The laughter boiled up again at the continued nautical nonsense, but she managed to stifle it. Turning around, she found John heading for his truck. He looked pissed, resigned, shell-shocked and pretty good in his jeans. She wished she hadn’t noticed that last thing, but there it was.

The man who had impregnated her in the bathroom was pretty hot, sad and grumpy.

Hey, a girl had to look for silver linings somewhere.

* * *

JOHN OPENED THE door for the woman who he suspected was either crazy as hell or suffering the start of a breakdown. Could be both, but either way she’d rolled into his world and pulled the rug out from beneath him. He’d hit the proverbial dirt so hard his proverbial ass had bruises. On an actual literal level, his head throbbed and the churning in his gut was something no antacid could cure. World rocked was an understatement.

He could get perspective later, though. At present he needed to convince her to stay in town.

Which could be a huge problem on a lot of levels, but still...he couldn’t help the inclination he felt to press Pause. He needed some time to think, some time to figure out possibly the rest of his life.

Shelby climbed inside the truck, allowing him to assist her, looking contrite after laughing like a cuckoo bird in the doctor’s parking lot.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. That night months ago, her vivacious laugh had first attracted him to her. Okay, if he were being honest, her body had been the first thing, but when she’d laughed, telling him lame jokes, he’d felt almost normal again. And then she’d flirted, pressing her polished nails against his chest, gazing into his eyes, telling him how good he made her feel...how much she needed someone like him to make her forget about the world.

That goddamn bright smile of hers and those baby-blues. By the time he was on his fifth beer, Shelby had been the answer to his prayers and he wanted to sink inside her, allow her to take the damn pain away and replace it with something as light as her laughter for just a little while.

God, send me something to take this damn pain away.

In John’s mind, God had answered, delivering Shelby with her perfect teeth and lush body.

Yeah.

God liked to play jokes...or maybe it was more his punishment for Rebecca’s death. Thanks, God. Good one.

John fired the engine, sliding a glance over to the woman who now sat solemnly, clutching her purse like it held the antidote to a horrible disease. Her knuckles were white.

“My sister has a bed-and-breakfast. You’ll be close by so I can check on you.”

“I have a hotel in Baton Rouge...all my things are there. Staying at your sister’s place isn’t necessary.”

“This isn’t just about you.”

She didn’t say anything, so he gave her time, rolling onto Main Street, heading back toward home. The postman gave him a curious glance...along with the woman who worked the dry-cleaning counter. John waved because it was expected, but he knew they wondered why he wasn’t out in the fields...and why a blonde sat next to him.

“True,” Shelby said finally, settling her gaze on him. “I get that you’re trying to do the right thing...that you feel bad about what happened that night—”

“You need help.”

“I don’t. That back there was a weird reaction to stress. I can’t help myself sometimes,” she said, looking sheepish, “but I’ll be fine on my own.”

“So beyond the half breakdown you nearly had, are you okay? I mean is the baby okay?”

“Yeah, Dr. French thinks it’s an infection.”

“I heard through the door. He said no traveling.”

“He recommended no flying.”

“Stay in Magnolia Bend.” He tried to keep his tone neutral. Half of him wanted her to fly out of his life, but the other half clung to the thought this woman carried his son or daughter in her womb. He didn’t want to feel anything for her. At all. But he couldn’t let her go.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said. “I don’t belong here and it doesn’t seem fair to you to invite questions. I bet your town is full of Shannons who will be disappointed in their golden boy.”

John’s mind flipped to an image of his parents. They’d be very disappointed, along with his brothers and sister. Well, maybe not Jake. Then his mind flipped to his former mother-in-law, Carla Stanton, and the churning in his gut intensified. When Carla found out he’d fathered a child with a random woman, she’d be devastated. The idea he could lose everything popped into his mind. But if he let Shelby leave, he could lose something even more unimaginable—his child. “Having time to decide how we’ll handle this trumps what everyone else thinks. I shouldn’t care what anyone thinks.”

Not even Carla.

“But you do. You just sneaked me in the back door of the doctor’s office. You had a life...”

“Key word is had,” he said, his heart tripping over the truth Shelby had unearthed. He was ashamed of what he’d done that drunken night. He’d been untrue to Rebecca, sullying the day she’d left this earth with selfish desires. He’d sown this discord in his life and now he’d have to deal with the reaping. “Look, I don’t know how to feel. I wish I could say I didn’t give a damn about what people thought about me and the way I live my life, but—”

“You do?”

“I haven’t attended a single social event in town since Rebecca died. I’ve been in mourning and people accepted that. So to show up in town with a beautiful woman at my side, having people stare makes me feel...” He left off because he didn’t know.

Vulnerable? Guilty? And, yeah, maybe embarrassed he’d been so stupid. Getting a girl pregnant was a bonehead move and so unlike the salt-of-the-earth reputation he’d established in the town that had been home to the Beauchamps since the Civil War. Maybe if he hadn’t been such a part of the community it wouldn’t matter. Shelby was right. They weren’t living in the ’50s...though sometimes the small Louisiana town felt very much that way.

They passed the general store run by the Burnsides who were cousins on his mama’s side and the old men sitting outside playing checkers and lying about the fish they caught raised hands in greeting. He then tooted his horn at his uncle, Howard Burnside, who stood outside the courthouse wearing his sheriff’s uniform. “My whole family lives here.”

“Strange.”

“That’s the way it is in these small towns. I know almost everyone who lives here...and they know me.”

“So having me sit here pregnant from the one time you decided to take off your mourning clothes is a bit like crawling out from under a rock only to get pissed on?”

He had no reason to smile, but, damn, she’d nailed it. “I’d say that’s an accurate depiction.”

“So why do you want me to stay?”

“I can’t let you traipse off to Baton Rouge and hole up in a hotel room without someone to look after you.”

“Why? I’m a grown woman. I have a cell phone.”

She had a point, but something inside him balked at her leaving. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted in regards to the child, but if Shelby left Magnolia Bend, he might never know. Her leaving felt wrong. “Look, I know you can take care of yourself, but do me this solid—stay here. If something goes wrong, you’ll have someone to help you. I’ll get your things from the hotel. My sister won’t pester you or ask questions. I swear.”

“You’ll be working so what does it matter if I’m here or in Baton Rouge?”

“I can visit you each evening. We can get to know each other better.”

“Better than sex on a bathroom sink?” she snorted.

“Yeah, not my best moment.”

“I’ll say.” After a moment, Shelby continued, “I don’t need you to apologize for what happened or feel guilty. I don’t blame you anymore than I blame myself. We both screwed up and fiddler’s bill is steep.”

“Yeah, but I wish the dance had been a little better,” he said, recalling the cheap linoleum, the naked lightbulb and the way he’d made her feel when the realization of what he’d done washed over him. Not well done of him. Cheap, shoddy and now that he knew Shelby a little better, not deserved. “But it’s too late for regret. Best both of us can do is to move forward, doing what is best for our baby.”

“Our baby,” she repeated, her voice sounding lost.

Right as he pulled onto the highway, Shelby touched his arm. Her hands were small, still polished and soft looking. Nothing like Rebecca’s hands, worn from washing them too often at the preschool where she’d taught. Shelby’s touch sparked something in him, something he’d rather ignore and keep hidden.

Hunger for something more than what he’d lived for the past year and nearly three months.

“For the baby’s sake, I’ll stay until I get the all clear from Dr. Jamison, but I can promise you nothing beyond that.”

John looked over as she pulled her hand back into her lap and focused on the broken yellow lines of the road zipping beneath the old truck. “Okay, we can start there.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE LAUREL WOODS Bed-and-Breakfast had a polished shine that John’s small plantation lacked. The house boasted plush Oriental carpets, shining mahogany and framed John James Audubon original paintings centered above marble mantels. The soaring ceilings and glittering chandeliers nearly overwhelmed, but the sincerity in Abigail Orgeron’s eyes set Shelby at ease...something she needed in spades at the moment.

Abigail, for one, didn’t ask a single question, as promised, merely ordered a smartly dressed young man to ready the Rose Salon and take up the shopping bag Shelby carried before waving Shelby into the dining room where a carafe of tea sat along with some pecan-studded muffins and perfect tea cakes.

“John, why don’t you fetch some milk for the tea and call Birdie inside? The sun’s about to set and I don’t want her breaking her fool neck in that oak tree,” Abigail said to her brother, dismissing him as she sank onto a velvet flocked chair of crimson. “Sit down and I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”

Shelby didn’t want to be there and didn’t want tea, but she sat down anyway. John glanced at her, concerned, but slipped through the swinging door no doubt leading to the kitchen. “You have a lovely place.”

“Thank you,” Abigail said, lifting the steaming pot and pouring the fragrant tea into a delicate cup. Handing it to Shelby, she smiled. “Hibiscus herbal tea. I can’t tolerate caffeine this close to bedtime. Stay awake all night.”

“Thanks,” Shelby said, taking the cup and balancing it on her knee, glad she hadn’t had to ask for decaffeinated.

“Sugar?”

“One spoonful, please.”

Swirling the spoon and clanking it on the lip of the cup, Shelby glanced up to find John’s sister staring at her with a curious expression on her face.

John’s sister looked older than him. She had an elegant silver forelock that swept her inky shoulder-length hair. Her eyes were a clear green, cheekbones high, chin long, mouth generous. Her navy slacks and trim apple-green cardigan portrayed no nonsense and easy sophistication. Soft tan leather ballet flats backed up the impression. Here was a woman who chaired committees, ran a house like a field general and...waited for others to explain themselves.

Silence sat fat between them. Abigail sipped her tea, never wavering in her stare, waiting for someone, presumably Shelby, to clarify the situation.

Shelby shifted in her chair as John reentered carrying a carton of milk and dragging a young girl with tangled hair and a pair of binoculars around her neck.

“Mom, I can’t believe you’re making me come inside. I had just gotten my ’nocs trained on that woodpecker. How am I supposed to draw him in his habitat? This is preposterous,” the tiny girl declared with a stomp of her sneaker.

“Birdie, you’ve been out there for the past hour and still have some reading to complete,” Abigail said, her eye going immediately to the dirt left by the sneaker stomp. “You’re tracking in the house.”

The girl wore glasses that made her blue eyes look impossibly large. The skinny jeans made her more waiflike and the oversize Flash Gordon shirt didn’t help. She looked exactly like her name. “It’s Thanksgiving break, Mom. I’m not reading that stupid AR book over my holiday.”

Abigail’s eyes widened but she said nothing, turning instead back to Shelby. “Shelby, this is my daughter, Eva Brigitte. We call her Birdie.”

“Hi,” Shelby said.

The girl glowered but muttered, “Hey.”

“Now, get cleaned up for dinner. Shelby is one of our guests tonight and doesn’t want to hear our squabbling over homework.” Abigail’s voice brooked no argument.

Birdie flashed her mother a withering look and ran toward the stairs, leaving more zigzag dirt on the polished floor. She may or may not have muttered “whatever” on her escape.

John stared after his niece looking as perplexed as Shelby felt. “Since when has she been fond of sketching woodpeckers?”

“Oh, it’s those Audubon prints scattered all over the inn. She’s so strong willed and—” Abigail waved her hand. “Let’s not do this right now. Birdie is Birdie.”

John’s lips tipped up, softening him. “She’s something else.”

His sister nodded. “That’s one way to put it. So, Shelby, how long will you be with us?”

“I’m not sure. Through Saturday?”

Abigail gave her the “you don’t know?” look and then glanced toward John, the unspoken question in her eyes.

“At least through Saturday. Actually, I’m bringing Shelby to Thanksgiving dinner.”

Abigail’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “Really?”

Shelby swallowed, wondering if she should correct him or merely accept the fact she was stuck with John in Magnolia Bend for a week.

“It’ll be nice to have a guest at our table. Friends are always welcome,” Abigail said, sliding another glance to John. The unstated questions literally pulsed in the quietness.

Shelby knew Abigail wanted to grill John, but likely relied on Southern graciousness in order to bite her tongue. Shelby wasn’t from the South so she said, “Just so you know, we’re just friends. Met a few months back.”

“Oh,” Abigail said, her gaze meeting Shelby’s. “I didn’t know John had started dating again.”

“We’re not dating,” John said, settling his hands on his lean hips. “Like Shelby said we’re just friends.”

“Yes,” Shelby agreed. “Just friends.”

“But he’s brought you home to meet his family,” Abigail persisted, unconvinced.

“I had some business to take care of down here,” Shelby said, setting the half-empty cup back on the antique tea cart with a clatter. “Getting to spend time with John is a bonus of sorts. Unfortunately, my health prevents me from flying back to Seattle and spending the holiday with my own family. John volunteered to help me get settled here for a few days, thinking I’d enjoy the small town atmosphere better than the busyness of Baton Rouge.”

“I knew she’d like Laurel Woods...just wasn’t sure you’d have room,” John said.

“I have room until Friday. This weekend the Candy Cane Festival starts, and I’m booked solid for a week. You’re welcome to stay until then. What about your health? Is there anything special I need to know?” Abigail looked worried, as if at any moment she might whip out Lysol and start spraying.

“No, nothing contagious,” Shelby said, almost laughing. Almost. ’Cause there wasn’t anything really funny about being an unwed, unemployed single mother who’d conceived a baby in the bathroom of a roadside honky-tonk that also sold bait and beer during daylight hours. “I appreciate you putting me up on such short notice, but I think I’ll head to my room for a shower and an early night.”

“Can I at least make you a sandwich?” Abigail volunteered. She didn’t look as worried anymore. “Ham? Turkey?”

“If you have peanut butter and jelly, that would be perfect,” Shelby said, rising and scooping up her purse. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Sure,” Abigail said, setting her cup on the cart and standing. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“I’ll walk her up,” John said to Abigail.

Seconds later, they climbed the grand staircase to the second floor. The rooms were all marked by placards, most named after flowers. Shelby withdrew the old-fashioned skeleton key and inserted it in the keyhole, the whirring machinations releasing the lock. Vintage outside, modern inside.

John pushed open the door and Shelby sucked in her breath.

“Oh, wow,” she breathed out.

“Yeah, pretty grand,” John said.

The room had raspberry walls stretching up to a ceiling with insets and heavy crown molding. The huge bed sat on a platform, the green silk canopy gathered in the center, cascading down the sides of the ornately carved bed. Large linen European shams banked the profusion of needlepoint pillows and the plump duvet beckoned weary travelers to lay their burdens down and burrow within the depths. The elegant antique furniture complemented the room and the adjoining door gave a view of an enormous claw-foot tub.

Shelby eyed her bag sitting at the end of the bed. “Well, thank you.”

John stared at her, his face impassive.

“You can go. I’ll be fine. Your sister seems capable of handling most anything.”

At this he snorted. “My parents should have named her Colonel so people would know what to expect when they find themselves facedown in the mud with tank marks on their back.”

“It would be hard for a girl to go through life with the name Colonel. She’d never find a personalized key chain or snow globe,” Shelby cracked, wanting him to go away, wanting him to stay so she wouldn’t feel so alone.

His flash-bang smile surprised her. “That’s the girl I remember from Boots.”

“Yeah, I have a good sense of humor when I’m not hormonal, on the verge of tears or cracking up...though I bet you wish you had never answered that knock-knock joke at the bar.”

“It was funny.”

“Yeah,” she said, walking toward the bed and sinking onto the plush comforter. “So...”

“I’m writing down my number.” He picked up the notepad by the phone. “If you need anything...”

“I won’t.” She hadn’t wanted anything from him in the first place. Her plan had been so simple—tell him about the child and fly back to Seattle. Okay, she hadn’t wanted to fly back to Seattle and face the music with her family...over turkey no less. She’d imagined the scenario several times over the long flight to Louisiana. “Pass the green bean casserole. Oh, and by the way, I’m pregnant.”

How fun was that?

Spotlight on her as she enacted the next installment of “Shelby the Eternal Screwup”—a yearly special airing near the holidays when family members were apt to ask things like “How are you?” And since Shelby prided herself on being honest and relishing the jolt on the faces of her brother, sister and assorted cousins, the answer was always shocking.

“How are you, Shelby?”

“Good, David. I lost my virginity to Dad’s junior partner, who swore he loved me and would marry me when his wife died. How are you?”

Yeah. That’s pretty much how it went. Come to think of it, saying, “I’m pregnant by a man I met at a back-road honky-tonk” sounded tame by comparison. Maybe dropping that doozy over the white-chocolate-cranberry cheesecake wouldn’t be so bad.

“Look, Shelby, I know we’re veritable strangers.”

“Veritable?”

“Virtual?”

“We know each other carnally. That’s pretty much it.”

He lifted both his eyebrows. “And that’s all it took.”

“Touché,” she said.

“My point is that I’m here for you. You aren’t alone.”

Shelby ran her hand over the fine needlework of the velvet lumbar pillow. “It’s been a tough afternoon, and you’ve been pretty damn decent.”

He spread his hands. “What else could I do?”

“You could have done a lot of things that weren’t as nice as what you did. I dropped a tornado on you and you didn’t hide in a cellar.”

“I don’t have a cellar. This is Louisiana.”

Shelby smiled and took time to study him in the golden light of the room. Despite the grimness shadowing his eyes, John Beauchamp was a fine specimen of a man. No pretty boy, he had a ruggedness that called to mind Clint Eastwood in his younger days. Brows that easily gathered into perplexity, a hard jaw that spoke of stubbornness and a sensual mouth that, though often drawn into a line, could curve into a wicked smile.

She remembered his scent, remembered the way his muscled chest felt beneath her fingertips, the way he’d kissed her...like a man starved.

Now that she knew he’d lost his wife over a year ago, she understood the desperation in his kiss, recognized the same need throbbing inside her. After Darby dumped her, her ego had been fragile and she’d been ripe for the plucking...or ripe for the—well, she wasn’t going there. Suffice it to say, she’d been just as desperate as John to feel the touch of another person.

“Time to process all of this would be nice,” he said. “So, I’ll let you rest and say good night.”

She nodded because she still struggled to believe her whole life had been turned on its ear. In six and a half months she’d become a mother...if she didn’t lose the pregnancy. Process? Not a bad idea.

“Good night, John,” she said.

For a moment he looked uncertain, like he wondered if he should extend his hand or offer a hug or something.

Luckily, a knock at the door interrupted the awkwardness, and Abigail hurtled inside, balancing a tray, which she sat on the desk.

“I hope it’s enough,” John’s sister said, arranging the silverware on the napkin. A single yellow chrysanthemum brightened the tray holding a sandwich, fruit and a slice of pecan pie.

“It’s perfect. Thank you,” Shelby said, rising.

“Don’t get up,” John said, lifting the tray and crossing the room, setting it on the bedside table.

“I could have done that,” Abigail said, eyeing her brother with an odd expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” John said, glancing down to where Shelby sat, one foot hooked beneath her.

“You’re in the middle of harvest.” Abigail looked as if she’d been tossed in a lake. “You can’t come here tomorrow.”

“I’m not too busy for a friend,” he said.

“Who are you?” Abigail asked.

“A man not that busy.”

“Hmm,” John’s sister muttered before turning to Shelby. “Let me know if you need anything. Extra toiletries are in the bathroom. You wouldn’t believe how many people forget basics.”

“Thank you,” Shelby called as Abigail headed toward the door.

John waited until his sister disappeared. “What about clothes...a, uh, nightgown?”

Shelby pointed to the plastic bag. “That’s why I asked if you’d stop at the store. I nabbed a few things including an oversize shirt to sleep in along with a toothbrush. I can manage.”

“If you’ll give me your hotel info, I’ll send someone to Baton Rouge to gather your things.”

“Don’t bother. Things are scattered all over the room, and I really don’t want a stranger packing my personal items. I can climb out of bed long enough to do that.”

“I’ll drive you, then,” he said.

“No. Just send my rental car over. Besides you looked pretty busy in your fields. Abigail seemed to indicate—”

“I’ll be here at noon,” he interrupted, tone firm. “Besides I need to stop in Baton Rouge for a part Homer needs.”

John Beauchamp was a driven man. Easy for her to recognize since she’d been around driven people all her life. Her entire family was listed under the definition in the Merriam-Webster’s dictionary.

“If you insist,” she said.

“I do. Good night, Shelby.”

“’Night.” The door closed with a soft snick and Shelby fell back on the bed.

Jesus.

At that moment, she wanted someone, anyone, to hold her. To tell her all would be okay. A mother to lean on would have been nice, but Shelby’s mother had never been the type to welcome weakness. Maybe someone like Picou Dufrene, Darby’s mother, would run a careworn hand over Shelby’s brow and help her figure things out, but that thought was insane. Darby didn’t belong to her anymore, if he ever had, so she couldn’t lay claim to anyone in that warm, quirky family. Like always, Shelby was on her own.

Going back to Seattle to her family wouldn’t change it.

Her parents weren’t horrid—they’d never locked her in a closet or even missed any of her important ballet recitals or graduations—but Shelby had always felt they loved her because they were supposed to, ticking off a list on a job description. As for her siblings, Shelby’s brother seemed to equate her with something a seagull vomited, and her older sister hadn’t wanted Shelby in her wedding. Sela had even joked in front of the bridal party she didn’t deserve a bridesmaid with less than a master’s degree.

Yeah, Sela was a bitch who had required her husband to pack his testicles away the day they wed. What had Shelby expected?

Shelby dashed the moisture from the corner of her eyes, staring at the fabric gathered at the crown of the bed.

Alone.

She placed a hand over her stomach.

Please stay in there, little pea. It’s me and you. We can do this together.

Even if John Beauchamp was the fly in the ointment.

CHAPTER SIX

JOHN JOGGED DOWN the steps of The Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast wishing he could start running and never stop. Like Forrest Gump.

Or maybe he’d head over to Ray-Ray’s and drink until he didn’t give a hot damn about anything anymore.

Of course the last time he’d gotten drunk he’d gotten Shelby pregnant so maybe Forrest Gump had something with that whole cross-country jaunt.

But running wouldn’t work...eventually a man had to stop, and reality would catch up. John climbed into his truck and punched the steering wheel, making the horn beep.

He didn’t want his sister to come out and start asking questions so he started the truck, flipped on the headlights and got the hell out of there.

Jesus H. Christ, what had he gotten himself into?

The truck bounced down the drive, jarring him the same way Shelby had jarred him that afternoon, showing up with that little nugget—I’m pregnant.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he said the words that had been bouncing around inside him since Shelby had uttered those words. “I’m sorry, Becca. I’m so, so sorry.”

Of course his wife wasn’t there to answer...but if she’d been there beside him, she’d have turned to him and said, “Don’t even say it, John Miller Beauchamp. You dug this hole. Now you gotta fill it.”

His Rebecca had been nothing if not tough. She wouldn’t have smiled as she said it, but the forgiveness would have been there in her eyes. He’d never deserved her. Rebecca Lynn Stanton had been his greatest champion...and that’s why disappointing even her memory made him feel like turning the truck into the big tree sitting at the end of the drive.

The cell phone sitting in the cup holder buzzed. He lifted it, expecting it to be Abigail, but it was his younger brother, Jake. News traveled fast in the Beauchamp family.

“Yeah,” he said into the phone.

“Who’s Shelby?”

“Shelby is none of your business.”

“So you’re out in the dating world again. Here I was thinking you were holding fast to the role of grieving widower.”

“It’s not a role.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, his voice softening from smart-ass to the hushed tone he’d used after the accident...after the funeral. John would rather have Jake stick with smart-ass. “You show up with a good-looking woman at our sister’s bed-and-breakfast, asking favors, lip buttoned, and you think you can escape the inquisition?”

“Just leave it alone.”

“Was it eHarmony or something? Lot of guys do computer dating. Even thought about it myself.”

Bullshit. Jake Beauchamp didn’t need a computer. Women fell in his lap. “No. It’s not like that.”

“Christian Mingle? The old man would approve.”

“I’m not using a dating website.”

“So how did you meet her? The Rev and Fancy will know by tomorrow morning. Rochelle Braud already told me she saw a strange woman in your truck, and Shannon Smith said you were at Jamison’s office with a blonde. Jig is up, my brother.”

John released a frustrated breath. This was the huge downside of living in Magnolia Bend. Nosy folk didn’t have enough to occupy them. “She’s just a girl I met.”

“Why was she at Jamison’s? Birth control?”

John smothered a bitter bark of laughter. Too damn late for that. “How about you back the hell off, Jake? Unless you want the same meddling in your life?”

Silence reigned on the line before his younger brother sighed. “Good point. I’m not prying. Just being there for you, bro.”

John already knew this. His family had always been there for him...almost nauseatingly so, and Jake was a good sounding board even if he ran as wild as the kudzu growing along the Mississippi River. “I appreciate that, but at present I don’t need help.”

Liar.

“If you change your mind, I’ll be at Ray-Ray’s later. A cold beer always makes things clearer...but maybe you’re getting a little something-something later? Am I right? Huh? Huh?” Jake cackled like an old woman.

“Goodbye, Jake,” John drawled.

His brother sobered. “I’m just raggin’ you. Besides if you’re getting some, good for you. You’ve been wearing black for a long time, brother.”

“I’m not wearing black.”

“Figuratively speaking, of course. Later, bro.”

John clicked off the phone and focused on the road in front of him. Part of him wanted to tell Jake about Shelby and the baby. The other part of him wanted to do what he’d been doing for the past year—withdraw and hide in the cave he’d made comfortable for himself.

Disappearing was easy to do when the light in your world was extinguished.

But he didn’t want to think about Rebecca, grieving or even the cane still standing in the fields. He had to decide what to do about Shelby.

He wanted to hate her for riding into his world looking like a sex kitten, making him remember he was a man...not a robot. He wanted to hate her for making him want her. But most of all he wanted to hate her for dropping the bombshell she’d dropped hours ago. His child, the one Rebecca had wanted so badly was housed inside a woman he barely knew. The thought squeezed all the air out of his lungs.

Shortly after Shelby uttered those words, John had felt resentment so intense it had stunned him in its ferocity. But when he’d entered the bathroom and saw the sheer desolation on Shelby’s face, that kernel of hate dissipated. He hadn’t a clue why. If she’d lost the child, everything would be easier. No one would have to know John’s shame. Everything could go on as normal. But one look at the terror in her eyes—at the desire to keep their child in her body—and he’d changed. Hate turned to an odd desire for that child...for the hope he or she represented.

Maybe hate was too strong a word.

He’d never hated Shelby.

Only himself for being so weak.

John turned into the drive he’d turned into every day of the past decade, bumping up to the silent house illuminated by moon glow. Like a ghost, Breezy Hill sat, a relic of happiness. As he stopped and shifted the gear to Park, the old ginger tabby crept out of the small barn located out back.

Damn cat.

Rebecca had loved Freddy even when John threatened to use him as gator bait for sharpening his claws on the seat of the new lawn mower.

“You touch that cat and you better sleep with one eye open, John Miller,” she’d said, brown eyes glittering as she propped her hands on slim hips. Rebecca’s brown hair had always been cut chin-length in something she called a bob. Her mouth was wide and a few freckles scattered across her nose. She’d been cute, but not pretty. But beauty had never mattered to John. He’d loved everything about his wife—the long fingernails she used to scratch his back, the messy office full of travel books on places she’d never go and the way she cried over every present he gave her...even the blender. Beauty hadn’t been a factor.

But Shelby was beautiful.

The first time he’d seen Shelby, he’d liked her because she was so different from Rebecca. Almost as if it was okay to hold her in his arms while they danced because she wasn’t even close to being the woman he’d loved.

Still, like Rebecca, Shelby had made him smile. She was funny, and when she laughed, her blue eyes sparkled. He’d heard that term before—sparkling eyes—but had never seen it until he’d met Shelby. Even now, in the face of this difficult situation, she cracked jokes.

It occurred to him perhaps that was her coping mechanism. Maybe Shelby laughed so she didn’t cry.

The cat wound around his ankles, its meows plaintive in the stillness. John walked to the porch steps and sank onto them, stroking the cat despite his profession of disliking the old thing. He’d fed it every morning, and some nights he sat outside and petted it, as if taking care of Freddy would make up for the fact he’d killed his wife.

Okay, so technically he hadn’t killed his wife—Rebecca had died from an accidental gunshot wound. He hadn’t been home when it happened, hadn’t been the one to leave the round in the chamber. But he’d been the one to accuse her of wanting to leave him. He’d been the one to make her feel guilty, guilty enough to want to please him by stopping by the gunsmith and picking up his repaired shotgun.

He shook his head. No time to think about guilt. No time to dwell on what might have been. He had to decide what to do about Shelby and the baby.

Telling his folks would be hard. The Reverend Beauchamp was a principled man, and also a good man. He’d never turn away one of his flock during times of trouble, including his own son.

But John wasn’t ready to bring any of his family, other than Abigail, into this mess...yet.

First he had to get to know the mother of his child...and convince her he belonged in the child’s life—as more than a check and weekly phone call. Maybe introducing his family to her wasn’t the best way to do that. The Beauchamps were like a straitjacket—the more you fought against them, the tighter the binds got. But there was no way of getting around his family, especially if he took Shelby to dinner on Thursday.

“I’ll think about this later, Freddy,” John said to the cat.

Freddy meowed and rubbed against him insistently.

“Yeah, I’ll do that, too,” John said, and looked at the moon.

* * *

SHELBY WAS BORED to tears. Okay, not real tears, but that didn’t matter. Lying in bed was only wonderful when one had a seven o’clock meeting and had to get up. When given permission to wallow via doctor’s orders, it pretty much sucked.

For one thing, John’s sister had obviously tried to create Old South ambience, and, alas, there was no television hidden in the ornately carved wardrobe.

To which Shelby said a modern version of “I do declare” that would have shocked Aunt Pittypat outta her hoop skirt.

And though cold air piped though vents somewhere in the room, there wasn’t a ceiling fan. And Shelby always slept under a ceiling fan, except for that one time in Girl Scouts when she’d gone camping. Emphasis on the one time.

Fiddle dee damn.

So Shelby stopped counting the folds in the canopy, rose out of bed and ambled around, finding a copy of The Sound and the Fury in the drawer of the secretary. Of course, she’d rather bite her toenails than read Faulkner. She’d never cared for “the classics”—dusty books recommended by English teachers made her break out in hives. Those, along with snotty historical biographies, were what her sister, Sela, read. When Shelby had professed to loving Christian Grey and being tied up, her sister had literally lifted her nose and given her that look.

Made Shelby want to take a paddle to her sister...and not in a kinky way.

So she stared out the window. The Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast was aptly named. Just outside the window, trees knitted together, holding mysterious woodsy secrets. Shelby had stared out, determined to enjoy the rustic peace. So far she’d spied a couple of bright red birds, one frisky squirrel and an ugly buzzard roosting in a huge tree.

Boring.

But then Birdie showed up.

The child wore skinny jeans and a hoodie. Huge binoculars dangled from around her neck. Her brown hair had been scraped back into a messy ponytail, as if she could care less, and on her back swayed a large backpack. Walking intently toward the big tree in which the buzzard sat, she immediately swung up on a lower branch and started climbing. The buzzard took flight, which Birdie didn’t seem to notice. After scampering up half the tree, Birdie plopped down on a thick joint just as casual as she pleased.

Good gracious. If the child fell, she’d break her neck.

Surely, Abigail didn’t allow her daughter to sit in trees without...did they make tree seat belts?

Birdie was partly visible through the half-bare branches. Shelby watched with bated breath as the child pulled off the backpack, sat a sketch pad on her lap and lifted her binoculars, training them on something to Shelby’s right. Adjusting the knob thing on top, the girl grew still and focused.

Shelby sighed and wondered if she should say something to Abigail about the child being so high in the tree. Then again, Abigail seemed to know about her daughter’s daredevil antics.

Turning away, Shelby looked around the room for something to do. Her phone had only 5 percent battery life remaining, and she’d left the charger in the rental car, which was parked at John’s house. No playing on her phone. She glanced at Birdie one last time. The kid still perched, binoculars focused on the distance behind the house. Shelby pressed her face against the window and tried to see what the girl watched, but she couldn’t see beyond the edge of the woods.

Something in the girl’s demeanor nagged at Shelby so she glanced back at Birdie, waiting for the girl to pick up her sketch pad and start working, but she never did. Instead the girl’s mouth fell open in that age-old expression of “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”

Shelby wrinkled her nose.

What the devil was Birdie watching that would render her so engrossed?

Any other time and Shelby wouldn’t care. But she was bored out of her gourd. Not to mention, some inner teacher Spidey sense told her this was not about birds.

So she pulled the oversize T-shirt serving as her nightgown over her head and scooped up the dress she’d worn yesterday. Thankfully, the dress was a rayon blend and didn’t wrinkle, but the stained tights were hopeless. She netted three points tossing her balled-up tights into the metal trash bin. The new cotton undies were a bit blousy, but the hot-pink socks featuring a popular boy band logo, which she’d grabbed at the Dollar Store, would work fine for stealth. She left her knee-high boots beside her purse and sneaked out the door.

No one was in the hall. Abigail had said she wasn’t full until next week so no surprise there. A soft runner ran the length of the shiny floor. Shelby padded to the end of the hall where an antique rocker and a bookshelf nestled near a wavy-paned window. She peered out, cursing the authentic glass. Despite this, she could still make out the large privacy fence and the houses backing up to it. There appeared to be a small subdivision with cookie-cutter houses and requisite postage-stamp backyards directly behind Laurel Woods.

So Birdie wasn’t bird-watching. She was people watching.

The little spy.

Shelby chuckled and craned her neck to see if she could make out who the child watched with such fascination. Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone plunge into a lap pool. Someone naked. Not just naked...but tight male ass naked.

Whoa. Birdie wasn’t just spying—she was a peeping, uh, Birdie. So what to do about that?

This was a child and a naked dude. A responsible adult would find Abigail and squeal. But maybe not yet. Maybe she needed to know more. Something about the girl’s pluck and natural curiosity carved a tender place in Shelby’s heart. Had to be hard having a mother like Abigail. Again, teacher Spidey sense blipped and she decided to track down Birdie later to suggest she not spy on naked dudes in their lap pool no matter how nice the view was.

“Shelby?”

She jerked around to find Abigail standing at the head of the stairs holding a tray. John’s sister wore her hair pulled back into a knot, a deep blue sweater and the same flats from the evening before. She looked like a librarian catching someone making out in the stacks.

“Oh, hey,” Shelby said, turning with hopefully a nonguilty smile. “Just checking out the, uh, view.”

Abigail snorted. “No view out that window. I fought like the devil trying to preserve this historical area, but I didn’t win. They built that subdivision last fall. I tried to fence them out and mask the sounds of a busy neighborhood with the water feature out back.”

Shelby moved toward her room, abandoning her own spying on the very interesting Birdie. “Well, my view’s lovely and I didn’t hear anything.”

“I’m lucky most of the rooms face the woods on either side of the house. I haven’t had trouble, but I would have preferred the solitude.” Abigail set the tray on the bedside table. “Nice socks.”

Shelby lifted her foot and wiggled the One Direction socks. “I feel cool, but maybe I’ll leave them for Birdie.”

“Don’t bother. She thinks boy bands are stupid...and boys are disgusting.”

Yeah. Right. “Well, she’s only...eight or nine?”

“Try twelve,” Abigail said with a smile. “A little small for her age.”

Twelve? Shelby thought she had stretched it by suggesting eight. Of course, Shelby didn’t know a lot about elementary-aged kids. Neither of her siblings had procreated, professing no urge to overpopulate the earth—something about the ozone layer and stretch marks. And by the time students hit high school and Shelby’s desks, most had gone through puberty.

“I brought you some oatmeal, a soft boiled egg and dry toast. John said you were sick or something and I didn’t know if you wanted anything rich. I have some Bananas Foster French toast if you’d rather that?”

Oh, yum. Shelby’s stomach growled...but then she thought about the diet guidelines in her healthy pregnancy books. Maybe something low fat and easy on her stomach would be a good idea. “This is fine. Thank you.”

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