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nodding at the doctor. “I might be on my own, but I have great friends, a very nice doctor, and I’m going to be a great mama to my little one. That’s all I need to know right now.”

      Dr. Strickland beamed back. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

      Mikayla smiled. Why did she have a feeling the doc had been waiting for her to come to those conclusions?

      “See you in two weeks for the ultrasound,” the doctor said. “Call if you have any questions. Even if it’s after hours, I’ll get back to you right away. That’s my promise.”

      Feeling a lot better about everything than she had an hour ago, Mikayla and Amy left the exam room. Mikayla checked out, and then Amy had a really good idea.

      “Of course, we have to go to Daisy’s Donuts,” Amy said, linking her arm with Mikayla’s. “A gooey treat and a fabulous icy decaf something or other. To celebrate an A-OK on the little one,” she added, gently patting Mikayla’s very pregnant belly.

      Mikayla laughed. “Lead the way.” She’d been to Daisy’s a few too many times since she’d arrived in town, the call of lemon-cream donuts and crumb cake irresistible. It wasn’t as if she was going to crave salad, so Mikayla let herself have a decadent treat when she really wanted one.

      She was sure the baby appreciated it.

      * * *

      “Jensen Jones, you listen to me! I want you out of that two-bit, Wild West, blip-on-the-map town this instant! You’re to fly back to Tulsa immediately. Do you hear me? Immediately! If not sooner!”

      Jensen shook his head as his father ranted in his ear via cell phone. Walker Jones the Second was used to his youngest son doing as he was ordered by the big man in the corner office, both at home and at Jones Holdings Inc. But Jensen always drew the line where it needed to be. When his dad was right? Great. When Walker the Second was wrong? Sorry, Dad.

      “No can do,” Jensen said, glancing around and wondering if he was headed in the right direction for Daisy’s Donuts. Apparently, that was the place to get a cup of coffee in Rust Creek Falls. Maybe even the only place. “I’ve got some business to take care of here. I should be back in Tulsa in a few days. Maybe a week. This negotiation is going a bit slower than I thought it would be.” Translation: it wasn’t going at all. And Jensen Jones, VP of New Business Development at Jones Holdings, wasn’t used to that.

      His father let out one of his trademark snorts. “Yeah, because you’re in Rusted Falls River or whatever that town is called. Nothing goes right there.”

      Jensen had to laugh. “Dad, what do you have against Rust Creek Falls? The land out here is amazing.” It really was. Jensen was a city guy, born and bred in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and he liked the finer things in life, but out here in the wilds of Montana, a man could think. Breathe. Figure things out. And Jensen had a lot to figure out. He hadn’t expected to like this town so much; hell, he’d been as shocked as his father was that three of his four older brothers had found wives in Rust Creek Falls and weren’t coming home to Tulsa. This was home now for Walker the Third and Hudson. Even jet-setter Autry had come to visit, fallen madly in love with a widowed mother of three little girls and moved the lot of them to Paris to finish a Jones Holdings negotiation. But Autry had made it clear he’d bring his wife and daughters back to Rust Creek Falls when his deals were done.

      But just because Jensen liked the wide-open spaces and fresh air didn’t mean he’d settle down here. As the youngest of the five Jones brothers, each one a bigger millionaire than the next, he’d always had something to prove. Now three of his brothers had become family men and had given up their workaholic ways. Autry used words like balance. Walker the Third wanted to invest in an ergonomically correct toddler-chair company for the day care business he’d added to the Jones Holdings lot. And Hudson knew the middle names of all his nieces and nephews. Middle names! This, from three of the formerly most confirmed bachelors in Tulsa.

      “What do I have against Rusted Dried-Up Creek?” his father repeated. “I’ll tell you what,” he added in one of his famous Jones patriarch bellows. “That town is full of Jones-stealing women! There are sirens there, Jensen. Just like in the Greek myths. You’d better watch out, boy. One is going to sink her claws into you and that’ll be the last your mother and I will see of you. Jones Holdings can’t operate remotely! I want my sons here in Tulsa where they belong. If not all, then you. You’ve always been the one I could count on to listen to reason.”

      His poor father. The man hated not getting what he wanted. And it was rare. His mother said the man-stealing in Rust Creek Falls couldn’t be helped, that there was something in the water—literally. Apparently, at a big wedding a couple years ago, some local drunk had spiked the punch with an old-timey potion or something and no man was safe from the feminine wiles of Rust Creek Falls women. Especially the millionaire Jones brothers.

      “Dad, I assure you, I’m not about to fall for anyone. The last thing on my mind is marriage. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” He wasn’t exaggerating for his father’s sake, either. Jensen was done with love. So there would never be a marriage.

      “Yeah, I think that’s what Autry said right before he proposed to that mother of seven.”

      Jensen rolled his eyes. “Three, Dad. Three lovely little girls. Autry is very happy with Marissa. So is Walker with Lindsay. As is Hudson with Bella.”

      His father made a noise that sounded like a harrumph. “They were happy running Jones Holdings right here in Tulsa until those women got to them! Just come home now. I’m thinking of buying a major-league baseball team. You can help me decide which one.”

      “I’ll see you in a few days, Dad,” Jensen said. “Speaking of buying pricey things—what are you getting Mom for your fortieth anniversary?” Forty years was something to celebrate. Hell, five years was something to celebrate.

      “That woman will be the death of me!” Walker the Second bellowed. “I—Oh, Jensen, my assistant is signaling me that Nick Bates from Runyon Corporation is on line two. Time for a takeover. Get home quick or I’ll come get you myself. And I’m not kidding.”

      Before Jensen could say a word, a click sounded in his ear.

      Now it was Jensen’s turn to harrumph. His parents’ anniversary was in two weeks and his mom and dad were barely speaking. There had always been rifts among the Jones boys and their parents over the years, but Walker the Second and Patricia Jones had always been such a strong team, bossy and snobby and trying to order around their sons as a united front. Now there were cracks in the forty-year marriage. Lately, Jensen had heard the strain in their voices, seen it on their faces, and once he’d caught his mother crying when she thought she was alone in the family mansion. Of course, she’d refused to acknowledge those were tears and insisted she was just allergic to their cook’s “awful perfume.”

      As the youngest, Jensen had always fought for his brothers’ respect and his parents’ attention and had barely been noticed in the big crew. But he was the one who’d watched his brothers grow up one by one and go their own ways, even if that way was the family business. The five Jones brothers might as well be living and working on different continents for how close they were, and that included Walker and Hudson, who lived here in town and worked together, though they had gotten more brotherly, thanks to their wives.

      But Jensen was the one who cared about family dinners and holidays and birthday celebrations, insisting, even as a teenager, that his older brothers come home for his big sports games. When he was seventeen, his parents had taken him to a therapist, insisting that Jensen be cured of “caring too much,” that it would make him soft when family in the Jones world meant business.

      He still cared. And his parents still didn’t get it.

      But there was one thing his father would get his way on. Jensen would be coming home in a few days—once he finally convinced the most stubborn old coot in Montana to sell a perfect hundred acres of land to him for a project very close to his heart. The man, a seventy-six-year-old named Guthrie

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