Drive-By Daddy - Cheryl Anne Porter Mills & Boon Silhouette

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suddenly thought he knew how a young bull felt when it was sent alone into the auction ring for everyone to gape at and paw over. “You have?” he asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

      “We certainly have. Honey, you’re a hero around these parts. Just who the heck are you?”

      “Tom Elliott, ma’am. From Montana. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Now, would it be all right for me to see—” What had one of them said Darcy’s last name was? Then, and blessedly, it came to him. “—Mrs. Alcott, please?”

      “She went home already, mister.”

      The voice came from behind him. Tom pivoted to see a pretty Hispanic girl with a thick ponytail standing there. She smiled and repeated, “Mrs. Alcott already went home. She worked until 2:00 p.m. and then left for her bridge club meeting.”

      None of what this girl said made sense—even despite the corroborating nods and murmurs of the others with her. “Bridge club? She left for a bridge club meeting?” Then he focused on what else she’d said. “She worked today? But she just had a baby.”

      Tom suddenly wondered if he’d stepped into the psychiatric ward. Then one of the nurses cleared things up. “Mrs. Alcott is Darcy’s mother. She’s a volunteer here. You want Darcy…Miss Alcott. Well, Professor Alcott, actually.”

      Professor? Tom could only stare at her. What she’d said left more questions than answers. “I see. Well…Professor Alcott, then. May I see her, please?”

      “Oh sure, honey. Will you look at me—standing here jawing when I should be working.” She picked up a form of some sort and scanned it. “Let me check the schedule. Yep. Marty—that’s the neo-natal nurse—just picked the baby up and took her back to the nursery.” She put the form down and leaned toward Tom…conspiratorially. “We’ve got to keep a close eye on that baby—she’s already got a mind of her own, as I’m sure you know.” Then she straightened up and reached for the phone. “Just let me buzz Darcy’s room and see if she wants a visitor.”

      While they waited for Darcy to pick up, Tom stared at the folks still crowded in silent wonder around him. “Howdy,” he finally felt compelled to say. “How’re y’all doing?”

      Everyone nodded, said they were fine, glad to meet him, enjoyed the article in the paper about him, nice flowers, loved his white hat. Just as Tom was sure he’d be asked for his autograph, the nurse hung up the phone. “She says she’s decent. You can go on down.” She pointed to a hallway right in front of him. “Room 234. On your right.”

      Tom nodded his thanks. “I appreciate it, ma’am.” He turned to his crowd of admirers. “Good day to you.”

      They variously waved, said goodbye, and began to disperse. And Tom made his escape. Only to realize he might be walking into a bigger hornet’s nest than the one he’d just left behind.

      And it all had to do with Miss Alcott and her daughter, who’d apparently been born out of wedlock. While sympathetic to Darcy’s plight, and what the implications were for her, Tom still had to fight a silly grin that said there was hope. He had a chance.

      3

      WITH TWO PILLOWS fluffed behind her, Darcy tugged her hospital robe and then the covers around her. She smoothed the sheets as best she could, given her remaining soreness. He’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming. She folded her hands in her lap, looked toward the doorway, and pasted a smile on her face. And waited.

      The curtains. Darcy’s eyes widened guiltily. The curtains were still yanked closed. Dear God. She just knew he’d seen her standing there at the window, watching him. Great. Did she have time to hobble over there and open them before he—she turned back to the doorway. Her breath caught, her heart thumped excitedly.

      There he stood.

      Well, she assumed it was him in the doorway. All she could see was a white Stetson, a body comprised of flowers and balloons and streamers, and then long legs encased in denims…and dusty boots. The flowers parted. It was him. “Howdy, Darcy.”

      Her belly twitched. Smile, Darcy. She smiled…acted nonchalant, pleasantly surprised. “Why, hello. How nice to see you. What beautiful flowers those are.” And groaned inside. Could I sound more like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood? My, what big flowers you have. Come in, dearie, and let me gobble you up. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” Or ever again.

      Just as she feared, his gaze riveted on the closed curtains. “You weren’t? You sure about that?”

      Only through sheer will did Darcy’s smile and her gaze remain steady. At least with the curtains drawn he couldn’t so readily see the heated blush blooming on her features. Speaking of blooms… “Oh. Come in. Please. Set down your load—the flowers. I mean the flowers.”

      He did. He came in, put the flowers on the bedside tray stand and pushed the wheeled cart aside. “You’ll need a vase for those roses, I suspect. I should have thought of that.”

      “No problem,” Darcy chirped. She grabbed her pitcher of ice water from the nightstand next to her and held it out. “Here. Put them in here.”

      His blue eyes mirrored his uncertainty. “You sure? What if you want a drink of water?”

      “Oh, well, I’ll just have rosewater, I guess.” Idiot, idiot, idiot.

      He unwrapped the roses, handling them awkwardly. “I’ve never done this before.” He plunked them in the ice water. Then those blue eyes narrowed in her direction. “You okay, Darcy? You sound a little hyper.”

      “Hormones,” she blurted. And wanted to bite her tongue off.

      He nodded, completely calm and accepting. “I expect so.” Then he gestured to the tacky molded-plastic chair beside the bed, as much as asking her permission to sit down. “You mind?”

      “No. Please do. You made all this effort. You may as well sit a while.”

      And then he did, removing his Stetson, running a long-fingered hand through his black hair…Darcy watched, remembering how comforting and reassuring those hands were. Then, perching his Stetson atop his bent knee, he met her gaze. Darcy swallowed. “I hope you like roses. I didn’t know—”

      “The roses.” She put a hand to her bosom. “Of course. I love roses. They’re wonderful. Thank you. And the baby spray. It’s beautiful. All those balloons and streamers. I don’t know what to say.”

      His frowning expression considered the circus-in-a-ceramic-cradle on the bedside tray with the ice-watered roses. “Neither do I, mostly.” Then he swung his attention back to her. “I’m not doing this very well, am I? Let me start over. Uhm, how are you today?”

      Darcy, who thought he was doing just fine, didn’t like herself any better for being so excited that he was here. After all, wasn’t she through with men? He was just being nice, given the unusual circumstances under which their lives had collided, and wasn’t the least bit interested in her, nor her in him, despite the flowers and this visit. She took a deep breath and said, “I’m fine.”

      He nodded, looking around the flower-littered room. “Looks like you have a heap of thoughtful friends and family. That’s nice.”

      “Oh. Those. Well, my mother does. I don’t live here anymore.” She then remembered she did live here. “Well, I mean I do. For now. I’m just visiting.” Visiting? She’d be here for a little over a year before she went back to Baltimore and to teaching. “Well, more than visiting, I suppose.” She realized she was babbling. “And you? How about you?”

      “I don’t live here, either. I’m just visiting.”

      That wasn’t what she meant, but still Darcy nodded. “You’re from Montana. Yes. I remember.” Could this be more awkward? Sure, it could. Some nurse could come in about now and want to check her sutures.

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