Page 6 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
“Thank you for your help,” she said, with the enthusiasm of a sullen teenager forced to thank a great-aunt for the homemade, itchy wool mittens she’d been gifted.
Miles’s six senses sprang to life in a very male, very predatory response. The skittishness he’d noted earlier stared him straight in the face. So did a whole heap of wildness. He could literally smell the heat from her skin. A few years ago, he’d have answered the call of the wild, even if only to flirt, but his flirting days were behind him. Especially when it came to flirting with danger.
Danger, in this instance, being her brother Ford, who looked as if he might hold strong opinions concerning men who paid his pretty baby sister too much attention.
She ducked her head and spun away, setting her short little elf skirt a-twirl, and proceeded to rid herself of the broken glass and the dustpan and broom, relegating them to their appropriate places. He kept her in his line of vision, but from the corner of his eye, so she wouldn’t notice him watching her.
The polished mirror behind the bar tossed his reflection at him, in case he’d forgotten how important appearances could be. If he turned his head a little to the left, he looked the same as ever. Tilting it to the right, however, was a whole different story. Then, he was no longer Miles Decker, the former face of professional bull riding. He became Miles Decker, the man with the face professional bull riding had ruined.
He picked up his beer, his taste for it gone. Maybe the remaining ninety-five percent of him wasn’t so special, at that. Maybe that five percent was a bigger deal than he’d assumed. Because maybe he wouldn’t have minded flirting with Santa’s pretty blonde helper.
A little.
*
Miles
Miles only stayedlong enough to finish his beer. Hannah and Dallas had taken the two youngsters in hand so he didn’t have to worry about them.
By the time he got home it was dark, bitterly cold, and getting late, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed and grab some much-needed sleep before his alarm clock went off. He started up the short walk to the three-bedroom bungalow he planned to finish renovating as soon as he could work it into his schedule.
He didn’t recognize the car parked on the street in front of his house. That was why he paid no attention to it. At first.
Until someone emerged from the car. After that, things took a weird turn. A woman called out his name. She reached into the back seat and pulled out a suitcase.
No, not a suitcase. A baby carrier.
What the hell?
The woman moved under the streetlight, giving him a better look. It took him a few seconds to place her.
Tami.One M, one I. He’d met her back in Texas, at some bar, a few months after the accident. He had a hazy recollection of a mechanical bull, too many shots of tequila, and a motel room where he’d stayed for one night but ended up footing a bill for two weeks.
She hurried toward him. The baby carrier strung from her arms bounced off her thighs. An enormous diaper bag jostled her hip. Meanwhile, uneasiness and a strong sense of foreboding wriggled under his skin.
He’d used condoms. Right?
“I need to talk to you,” she huffed, struggling with her baggage, her words turning white in the cold winter air.
Miles eyed the baby carrier, busy doing the math in his head. Whether or not he wanted to hear what she planned to say, or even believed any of it, he couldn’t leave a woman and baby out in the cold. “Come on inside.”
She thrust the carrier into his hands. A small blanket covered the contents, but he felt it move, so whatever was inside it, it was alive.
He took the bag from her, too. Inside the house, he turned on a light and dropped the enormous diaper bag next to an equally oversized coatrack made from antlers he’d picked up at an auction.
Tami—he had no idea what her last name was—hugged herself and shivered in her thin coat as if she’d never be warm again. She hadn’t dressed for a Montana winter. Not in thigh-high leather boots and a short skirt underneath a light, all-weather jacket. Damn, she was young.
He had a mental flashback to Santa’s helper. The two women were about the same age. But while Tate Shannahan had a certain untouched innocence about her, Tami did not. When Miles looked in her eyes, he read calculation—and remembered she’d taken him for two weeks’ worth of rent as well as a ride.
He didn’t bother taking her coat, figuring she’d want to keep it until the heat got through to her skin, then led her into the living room. He set the baby carrier carefully on the carpet and gestured for Tami to take the armchair beside it. The armchair had a woolen throw draped on its arm and she picked it up and wrapped it around her shoulders, over her coat.
No point in dragging this out. No point in wondering what was under that blanket, either. All he really questioned was why it had taken her so long to approach him. “I assume you’re looking for child support.”
“No.” Weariness clung to her. So did determination. “Her name is Iris. Her birth certificate and everything she’ll need for the next few days are in her bag. I wrote down her nap schedule and instructions for feeding.”
Money demands, he understood. That was what lawyers were for. He couldn’t fully process what was happening here, however, so he asked the first dumb question that popped into his head.
“My name’s on the birth certificate?” Could she do that without his consent?
