Drive-By Daddy. Cheryl Anne Porter
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down the brim of his white Stetson. Yep. He should have turned around somewhere on the long sandy drive out here and gone the other way, especially when he’d seen all the cars. Hell, he shouldn’t even be here. Maybe he never should have even left Phoenix. But here he was. And so was Darcy.
Tom felt like a fifth wheel. She didn’t want to see him. She’d made that plain the other day in her hospital room. But now that everyone was staring at him, he didn’t have any idea what to say. Except, “Howdy.”
Still, no one said anything. He could hear little Montana crying. But no one moved. Tom focused on the big-haired, well-groomed older woman who’d answered the door, removing his hat and holding it in one hand, fiddling with the brim. “I’m here to see Darcy Alcott. That is, if she’s up to seeing another visitor right now.”
“Well, she sure enough is. Come on in. I’m her mother. You can call me Margie. Everyone else does.”
Tom nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. I will.” He stepped inside, and nodded to the folks facing him. “Howdy,” he repeated, with a duck of his head. “I’m Tom Elliott. I—”
The room exploded with noise. “That’s Tom Elliott?” “That’s his name?” “He sure is tall.” “And handsome.” “I have to get back to the Bugle office.” “Is he the one who stopped and—?” “Shhh, Freda. Don’t say that out loud.” “I have to get back to the Bugle office.” “Yes, he is.” “Well, I’ll be.” “He doesn’t look like he’s from Michigan.” “Montana, Barb. Montana.” “I have to get back to—”
“We know, Vernon. The Bugle office,” Darcy said, standing up. She extricated herself from the crowd and waved him into the room. “Come in, Tom, and sit for a while. Mother, perhaps you could get him some iced tea? And maybe see Vernon out? He has to get back to the Bugle office. Freda, if you’ll just hand me Montana, perhaps you ladies might want to get those flowers out of your cars before they wilt—the flowers, that is. Not your cars.”
It apparently didn’t hurt to be specific with this group. Having gotten their marching orders, everyone acted on Darcy’s instructions. As Tom watched from the safety of the entryway, they crossed each other’s paths and went their directed ways. Darcy got her baby back and, in the next instant, the room cleared. Doing his part, Tom opened the door and stepped aside, allowing the various ladies to pass by him, nodding at each one as they did. Some skinny older man in a shiny suit left with them. Margie Alcott headed for the kitchen.
And finally…they were alone. Tom stared at Darcy, who stood in front of an Indian-print recliner with her baby in her arms. She looked great. And tired, the poor kid. But great. Great enough to make his heart beat faster. Great enough to have him driving an hour from Phoenix, just on the off-chance that she might want to see him one more time. And now…here she was, staring at him, waiting. At a loss as to how to get the conversational ball rolling, Tom finally decided on the obvious. “I’m impressed. You really know how to clear a room.”
She grinned at him. “Being a teacher makes you bossy.”
“I expect it does.” He nodded toward the bundle in her arms. “Mind if I take a look at her? Or has she been pawed over enough for one day already?”
“Oh, she probably has. But I think she’d like to see you. Come sit on the sofa with us. I haven’t gotten to look her over yet myself, if you can believe that.”
“I saw the crowd. I can believe that.”
Darcy turned to the dark-blue leather sofa to her left and sat down at one end, carefully placing her child on the middle cushion. As she did, Tom stepped into the living room and crossed it, thinking how friendly it was between them today, as if she’d never told him to go away and not come back. But she seemed pleased to see him, and he was glad for that. Really glad.
Because he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. After all, this was the first time he’d seen her when she wasn’t in a crisis—or in the hospital. He’d never noticed her slender, shapely legs. Or how tanned her arms were. Or how her black curly hair glimmered with red highlights as the sunlight streamed in through the big picture window behind her. How much prettier she was than the open vista he could see out there, the cactus-dotted desert, the blue sky, and the distant shadows of the dark mountains. But most of all, he noticed that her warmth and graciousness made his pulse go into overdrive. Made him feel silly and young and ready to whoop out loud.
Keeping his love-choked emotions on a tight rein, Tom carefully sat down at the sofa’s other end and put his Stetson on the coffee table in front of him. He shifted slightly, turning to put an arm along the sofa’s spine, as he watched Darcy unfold the baby from her receiving blankets. Then…there she was, Montana Skye Alcott, an alert, cuddly baby girl, dressed in white booties and a long thin gown with ducks on it. She waved and kicked and made faces and grinned and blinked and yawned. Tom felt his chest swell with pride. This baby was his—whether or not he could ever call himself her father.
“She’s pretty cute, huh?”
Tom looked up and met Darcy’s gaze as she leaned over the baby, bringing her curl-framed face very close to his. His grin faded and his gaze settled on Darcy’s lips. All he’d have to do to kiss her would be to inch forward a bit…But Tom swallowed that notion and just nodded. “Yeah, she sure is. You make awfully pretty babies, Miss Alcott.”
Darcy sat back, looking embarrassed. “Thank you. You want to hold her?”
Tom’s heart fluttered. “I’d love to, if you think it’s all right. I’ve held babies before. Lots of times. For Sam—”
Darcy chuckled. “It’s okay Tom. I don’t need a resume. I have no doubt that you’re much better at this than I am.” She picked her daughter up and placed the child in his arms.
Tom thought he would die from feeling the exquisite fragility of the tiny girl he held. She fit right in the crook of his arm. He couldn’t breathe. He was afraid to. He might hurt her. And he couldn’t believe how he was acting. He’d held lots of babies. But this was different. The baby in his arms bore his name. It was that simple. She was his. And so was her mother. Full of wonder, he looked over at Darcy…and saw the hesitant look on her face. His heart thumped. “What’s wrong? Am I doing this wrong?”
Shaking her head, she put a reassuring hand on his arm. “No.” But her voice sounded tight. “You just somehow look…right holding her. That’s all.”
“You sure? I can put her down. I—”
Darcy squeezed his arm. He wanted so badly to reach over and kiss her and tell her how much he loved her, to tell her she didn’t ever have to be scared or alone again. “No, Tom. You’re fine. Really. I mean it.”
He exhaled. “Okay. If you’re sure.” Then he concentrated for a moment on Montana Skye, noticing her thick dark hair. Like her mother’s. Her dark eyes. Like her mother’s. The baby flailed the air with her teeny little fists. Tom smiled, caught Darcy again staring at him. “She’s going to give this old world a bunch of hell, you know it?”
“I fear it,” Darcy told him. “And that would make her just like me, poor kid. Tilting at windmills.”
“I’ll bet that doesn’t pay much.”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Cervantes.”
And there it was. That quick, educated mind of hers. Everything about her was a turn-on, a surprise. Tom beamed at her.
But Darcy suddenly looked down at her lap and exhaled sharply. Tom sobered as he gently rubbed Montana’s arm…not much bigger, it seemed, than one of his fingers. “What is it, Darcy? What’s wrong?”
She looked over at him. “Everything. And none of it’s your fault. And that’s why…look, the other day, at the hospital…well, I just want to say I’m sorry about my behavior, Tom. I don’t know what came over me. But you certainly didn’t deserve it.”
Tom smiled at her. And she was nice, too. Really nice.