What a Woman Wants. Tori Carrington
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Baby.
Mother.
Father.
Holy cow.
Propping his elbows on his desktop, John scrubbed his face with his hands.
First in community college law-enforcement classes, then at the fire-department academy, he’d learned how to save lives, protect lives, even take a life if it came down to it. But never in his thirty years had anyone ever talked to him about creating a life.
He grimaced. Okay, there was the botched attempt his father had made when he was ten. It had been all John could do not to laugh as Walter Sparks had awkwardly paced in front of him, where he sat on the bottom bunk in the room he shared with Ben, reciting a speech John was sure he’d used at least four other times with his older brothers. Remembering it now, he thought that with eight kids of his own, his father should have been a pro at relating just how children came into being. But he hadn’t been. Most of John’s knowledge about sex had come from his older siblings and his peers.
And the greatest lesson he’d learned had come from Erick. When you got a woman pregnant, you married her.
Something brushed against his leg and he started. He pushed his chair back to stare at the black-and-white firehouse cat. “What do you want, Spot?”
If one was to believe the stories circulating around town about the feline that thought she was a dog, she had a habit of showing up on the doorsteps of those most in need of help, no fires necessary. And it was there she stayed, seemingly for no reason at all. Then, when the crisis went away, so did the cat.
Dusty Conrad’s wife, Jolie, believed the stories. She even credited the cat for helping to bring her and Dusty back together last autumn.
Of course John didn’t buy into any of the stories. Not even Jolie’s, although Jolie was one of the most levelheaded people he knew. He patted the cat on the head, then scooted it toward the door before his allergies kicked in. “Go on now. Why don’t you go see what ol’ Ed has for you.” He gestured toward the door and the counter behind, where Ed Hanover had taken over for George Johnson. Ed was always eating something or other.
John absently plucked the papers from his desk, read the fax number he’d been given over the phone, then dialed it and laid the papers in the document holder.
He imagined what his father might say at the news that his youngest had gotten a “good” girl pregnant. He could practically envision him tucking in his shirt, hiking up the waist of his slacks and then saying, “a Sparks always lives up to his responsibilities.”
Of course his many memories of his father saying that had come as a result of some minor infraction such as Ben’s being an hour late delivering his newspapers. Or his own promise to shovel the neighbor’s walk in the dead of winter. Certainly nothing that even neared the magnitude of this.
Still, his father’s words made a lot of sense. Had he planned on being a father? Unequivocally, no. Did that change things one iota? Again, no.
He leaned back in his chair, rocking slightly. Well, then, it only stood to reason that this particular Sparks should live up to his responsibilities, didn’t it?
He sprung from his chair as though it had catapulted him. No way. He couldn’t believe he was even contemplating such an option. No, not an option. It didn’t even near possibility status, as far as he was concerned.
He paced one way, then the other, but stopped when he caught himself tucking in his short-sleeved shirt and hiking up his pants.
What would Darby expect him to do?
The mere thought of her made his stomach pitch toward his feet. Not because she was pregnant, although that detail didn’t exactly have a small impact on him. No. Just thinking of her made him long for something he’d never known he wanted. Something he couldn’t quite define. Filled him with an unnamable something that made him want to hop in his SUV and head straight out to her house.
He decided to do just that.
Pressing the button to forward his calls to his cell phone and plucking his hat from the desktop, he headed for the door. He still didn’t have a clue about what he was going to do or say. But he suspected he’d figure it out by the time he got there.
Chapter Three
T he four-bedroom farmhouse on the outskirts of town sat nestled in the middle of the Promised Land Farm, 150 acres of ripe farmland that had just been plowed and planted. Having been raised in an apartment over the Laundromat in downtown Old Orchard, Darby usually took great satisfaction in her home, her surroundings, living the life she’d always longed to but never had until she married Erick.
Right now, however, she just wished the world would stop spinning for thirty seconds.
No, ten. That was all she needed. Just enough time to find the patience she usually had for the people who tried to help her out since Erick’s death but somehow managed to make life even more of a challenge.
She’d returned home after her doctor’s appointment to find that the teenage girl from up the road had left the pen gate open when she’d fed the animals. Everything from a llama to a miniature horse was left trampling all over the crooked rows of corn Old Man McCreary had planted last week. And now Erin had let Billy the Goat into the kitchen, the dinner potatoes were boiling over, Lindy was on Darby’s heels with nonstop questions, and somewhere in the house the cordless phone was ringing, even though Darby couldn’t for the life of her remember where she’d left it.
“Mom, do babies really come from mommies’ stomachs?” Lindy’s latest question nearly sent Darby skidding across the tile as she tried to keep Billy from devouring the blue-and-white checkered tablecloth. She tugged on the full-grown goat’s collar, and he in turn tugged on the tablecloth, sending the dinner placements crashing to the floor.
Darby sighed, nearly backing into Lindy. “Yes, sweetie, babies really do come from mommies’ stomachs.”
She swallowed hard. There wasn’t even a remote chance that her six-year-old daughter was talking about her own mommy, or the brother or sister who was on the way.
She tousled the girl’s blond curls as she bent over to retrieve the plastic cups. She’d learned long ago that while plastic might not be the most refined choice, it was the most practical. And the latest mishap only served to prove the point.
“But…” Lindy began.
Darby began stacking the plates and gathering the silverware, then leaned over and switched off the heat under the pan of potatoes. “Lindy, you remember when Petunia had her colt last year, don’t you?”
From the corner, where Erin was ineffectually pulling on Billy’s lead, came a laugh. Then Lindy said, “Mom, Petunia’s baby came out of her butt.”
Darby snapped upright, finding the imagery on top of everything else a little much. She wasn’t going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole. The girls were six. She’d explained where babies come from when Petunia gave birth and wasn’t quite up to another run-through just now. Not considering she’d be coming awfully close to describing the circumstances that had led to her own current pregnancy.
“It did not come out of her butt, stupid,” Erin said, giving up trying to control the goat and planting her hands on her hips.
“What did we agree about name-calling, Erin?” Darby asked.
“Dummy,” Lindy said to her sister, then stuck out her tongue.
Darby put her hand on Lindy’s head and turned her in the other direction. “Go see if you can find the phone before it stops ringing, okay?” As soon as one twin was out of the room, she turned to the other. Completely oblivious to her mother, Erin opened the back door and gave Billy a swift kick to the hind leg. The goat brayed and darted outside.
“Erin!” Darby gasped, appalled at her daughter’s actions.
“Whoa