Kathie DeNosky - His Baby Surprise

No matter how many times he witnessed it, Tyler was filled with a humbling sense of wonder, as well as a twinge of regret. Since he didn’t intend to have children, he’d never have a moment like this to call his own.

This baby boy’s father was one hell of a lucky man. And the jerk wasn’t even here to realize it.

A mist clouding his eyes, Tyler examined the squirming infant. Ten fingers. Ten toes. He grinned. An impressive sprinkler system.

But as Tyler looked more closely at the boy, his smile faded and the blood drained from his face. A tiny dimple dented the infant’s chin, and a telltale cowlick at his forehead parted his thick black hair.

Ty thought back to that night in Chicago. The one and only night he and Lexi had—

He stared in awe at the miracle he held, his gut clenching as realization hit him. The resemblance was more than coincidental. It was undeniable.

Tyler Braden had just delivered his own son.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Wayne Jordan, for answering my endless questions.

lives in deep Southern Illinois and enjoys dining out, factory outlet malls, traveling through the southern and southwestern states and collecting Native American pottery. After reading and enjoying Silhouette Desire for many years, she is ecstatic about being able to share her stories with others as a Silhouette author. She often starts her day at 2:00 a.m. so she can write without interruption, before the rest of the family is up and about. You may write to Kathie at P.O. Box 2064, Herrin, Il 62948-5264.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

“What’s wrong now, Martha?” Tyler Braden asked, sighing heavily.

He picked up a patient file from the top of the well-worn counter. In the three days since his arrival in Dixie Ridge, Tennessee, Ty had learned a very important lesson about Nurse Payne. Whatever thoughts she had, she freely shared.

“Are you gonna wear your Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes every day of the week, Doc?”

Ty opened his lab coat to look down at his white shirt, striped tie and charcoal dress slacks. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

Martha looked at him over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses as if she thought he might be a bit simpleminded. “Around here, folks don’t get gussied up like that unless they’re gettin’ married or buried.”

Ty arched a brow. “What would you suggest I wear, Martha?”

She patted the thick, gray bun at the base of her neck—a gesture he’d quickly come to recognize as Martha’s preamble to a lecture. When she walked around the counter to stand in front of him, her gaze raking him from head to toe, he had to fight the urge to reach down and make sure his fly was closed. A quick glance south of his belt buckle assured him it was.

“First of all, you need to lose the tie and white shirt. They make you look like you’re about to choke.” Martha looked thoughtful. “Doc Fletcher wears sports shirts, but you ain’t as long in the tooth as Doc, so a T-shirt or sweater would suit you best.” She pointed to his crisply pressed slacks, the creases razor sharp. “And while you’re at it, you might want to buy yourself some jeans and save those for church.” She shrugged. “Course it’s up to you. But I’m warnin’ you. Folks around here don’t care too much for somebody puttin’ on airs.”

“But I’m not—”

“If you don’t want to know, don’t ask.” Having pronounced judgment, Martha walked back around the counter and picked up the ringing phone. “Dixie Ridge Health Clinic.”

Ty bit the inside of his cheek to keep his epithet to himself. When he’d first phoned Dr. Fletcher to discuss temporarily taking over the clinic, the older man had warned him about the crusty nurse.

“Old Martha will be your most valuable asset, but she’ll also be your worst critic. Be sure to stay on her good side.”

But mere words could never have prepared Ty for the reality of Martha Payne. With a pleasant, grandmotherly face and the voice of a drill sergeant, she ran the clinic like a well-oiled machine. Serving as both receptionist and nurse, she demonstrated an efficiency that astounded Ty as much as her outspokenness irritated the hell out of him. Since his arrival, he’d been subjected to lectures ranging from his waste of gauze and tape to the appropriate way of answering the clinic phone. Now it appeared her opinions were taking a more personal turn.

Ty had noticed a quiet reserve about the patients. But preoccupied with their symptoms and complaints, he’d assumed it was because they didn’t know him. He’d never dreamed it could be because of the clothes he wore. Pulling at the knot of his tie, he yanked it free and stuffed it into the pocket of his lab coat. Thank God, when his six months here were finished, he’d head back to Chicago and not have to listen to Martha reiterate his shortcomings.

Fifteen minutes later Ty bid farewell to Harv Jenkins with a reminder to take his medication regularly, then walked up to the reception counter. “Is that it for the day?”

Martha shook her head and shoved a chart across the counter. “Freddie Hatfield just brought Lexi in. Her water broke and contractions are two minutes apart. She’s in the birthin’ room and I’d say it won’t be too long before it’s showtime.”

“Has she had any problems during the pregnancy?” Ty asked, scanning the chart. Dr. Fletcher had made few notations aside from the patient’s weight and blood pressure.

“Nope. I’ve known Lexi Hatfield all her life and she’s always been as healthy as a horse.”

“Has she expressed any concerns about the delivery?”

“Nope.” Beaming, Martha rounded the end of the counter. “She’s doin’ pretty good for a first-timer. But Freddie couldn’t get past the front door.”

“Nervous wreck?” Ty asked, following Martha down the narrow hall leading to the infirmary.

“Unless it’s a matter of life and death, Freddie Hatfield avoids this place like a bachelor avoids a widow’s convention.” Martha shook her head and laughed. “Always has been delicate. Faints dead away at the smell of antiseptic.”

Delicate?

Ty frowned at Martha’s description of Fred Hatfield. Of all the terms he thought she might use to describe a man with a weak stomach, delicate wasn’t among them.

A low moan from the infirmary broke through his musing. While Martha went to check the patient, Ty entered the locker room to change clothes.

All in all, he’d had a pretty good day, he decided, pulling on the blue scrubs. He hadn’t seen anything more serious than Harv Jenkins’s sore joints, and anticipated a routine birth.

Rotating his shoulders, Ty found much of the tension that had plagued him in recent weeks had begun to dissipate. Now if he could just get the nightmares under control….

Shaking off the guilt and regret, Ty scrubbed, plastered a smile on his face and shouldered open the door to the birthing room. He wasn’t about to let the tragic events that led to his being here intrude on his good mood.

“Where’s Freddie?” the patient asked.

Martha laughed. “Where do you think?”

“Over at the Blue Bird.”

A tingle raced the length of Ty’s spine at the patient’s familiar soft southern drawl. Only one woman’s voice had ever affected him that way. He glanced over at the bed, but Martha blocked his view. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear—