Brenda Novak - A Baby of Her Own

“Which is all the more reason we’ll have to go out of town. Somewhere far away.”

“How far?”

“California, at least. Isn’t California the sex capital of the world?”

“That’ll be expensive. What’s wrong with Boise?”

“It’s only a two-hour drive from here!”

“Exactly. It would save us plane fare, and it’d be just as good as going halfway across the country. Big-city valley people aren’t interested in small up-country towns like ours. What are the odds of running into Joe Schmoe Donor from Boise out here in Dundee?”

Joe Schmoe Donor? Delaney liked the sound of that. Joe Schmoe created a generic, anonymous image, and donor carried with it the connotation of something freely given. She was only looking for a donor. Maybe she could do this, after all.

“We don’t get Boise people up here very often,” she mused.

“My point exactly. Boise is plenty far away. And even if you do run into your man later, here or anywhere else, he’ll be none the wiser.”

“He might suspect if I’m pregnant at the time.”

“Why would he? Why would he assume he’s the only one you’ve slept with? Heck, for all he knows you might’ve gotten married.”

“O-ka-ay,” Delaney said, drawing the word out and feeling more eager to trust Rebecca on this than she probably should. “I’ll buy that.”

“Good. So, are we going to do it?”

A gust of cold air and a few flakes of snow blew into the Honky Tonk along with Billy Joe and Bobby West. Although they were brothers, they didn’t look much alike. Bobby was wiry and thin; Billy Joe was almost as big as a house. Like Rebecca, Delaney had known them since grade school. She’d grown up with the men in this town and doubted she’d suddenly find herself wildly attracted to one of them. If she waited for love to strike, she could spend the next fifty years alone.

“Okay,” she said at last, straightening her spine. “We’re going to do it.”

“We are?” Rebecca’s brows shot up.

“Definitely.”

Her friend looked skeptical. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why? I can break the rules when I want to.” Delaney nervously tucked her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ears. “I’ve just never wanted to before.”

“Then, let’s go.” Rebecca stood, gathered her cigarettes and lighter and slung her purse over her shoulder.

“Tonight?” Delaney squeaked, terror seizing her heart and nearly sending her into cardiac arrest.

“Why not?”

“You haven’t finished your drink.”

“Considering our agenda, I think I’d better leave the rest, don’t you?”

She started toward the door, but Delaney called her back. “Wait! I’m—I—I just need a couple of days to get used to the idea,” she managed to say. “And…and…you talked about timing.”

Rebecca propped one hand on her hip. “The timing is good. I know because we’ve been on the same cycle for the past few months.”

“But—”

“That’s what I thought,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. Piling her things on the table, she scraped her chair across the wooden floor and sat down again.

“What?” Delaney demanded.

“You’re not going to go through with this. It’s just a dream.”

“I’ll do it!”

“No, you won’t. We grew up two houses from each other. I’ve known you since I was seven, and you’ve never done anything wrong in your life. You’re like…you’re like Abraham Lincoln. Didn’t he walk some ungodly distance to return a penny? The store clerk probably thought he was an idiot.”

“I wouldn’t walk very far to return a penny. I’d just leave an extra one the next time I was in.”

Rebecca smacked the tabletop. “Ugh! See what I mean?”

The jukebox was playing one of Garth Brooks’s older hits as Billy Joe and Bobby West ambled over. Standing at the table dressed entirely in denim and wearing a pair of silly good ’ol boy grins, they tipped their black felt cowboy hats when Delaney and Rebecca looked up, then dragged over two chairs from the next table.

“Howdy, ladies.”

Delaney couldn’t help it; she frowned when they sat down. She could spend the rest of her life throwing darts and playing pool with Billy Joe and Bobby, or she could go to Boise and do something about getting what she wanted most.

Summoning all her courage, she stood. “We were just leaving, boys.”

They blinked at her in surprise—and so did Rebecca.

“Aw, come on,” Billy Joe said. “We just got here.”

“Are we going where I think we’re going?” Rebecca asked uncertainly.

Delaney nodded, then prayed she wouldn’t lose her nerve. One night. It would only take one man and one night, she told herself.

But there was another small problem. Delaney had stretched the truth a bit when it came to her sexual experience. When Booker Robinson had tried to get down her pants, she’d slugged him—probably the only aggressive act of her life. He’d been embarrassed about the black eye and had tried to take revenge by bragging that he’d gotten more than he had. Delaney hadn’t bothered to contradict him. It helped her seem less different from the other girls at school, less alone. And on prom night, Tim Downey had gotten so drunk he’d passed out before he so much as kissed her good-night. She’d had to drive him home.

In fact, Delaney was still very much a virgin.

CONNER ARMSTRONG KNEW what fun was. He’d spent a good portion of his thirty-one years trying to destroy himself with good old-fashioned reckless living, but he doubted he was going to find any excitement here. That, of course, was why the old man had sent him to Boise. Clive Armstrong was trying to teach him a lesson, trying to force the illegitimate son of his adopted daughter to straighten up at last—and Conner figured the only way his grandfather thought he’d be successful was to remove all temptation.

He glanced around the small hotel bar, which was nearly empty, and frowned, figuring it just might work.

Hell, who was he kidding? It had to work. Conner had run out of second chances, and although he’d never admit it to Clive or anyone else, he secretly embraced the challenge his grandfather had placed before him. He was ready to grow up, deal with the past, move on. He’d been ready for some time, but old habits died hard.

A work-roughened man with big hands and a whiskery jaw came in through the street entrance. Shaking off the snow clinging to his hat and clothes, he settled at the bar next to Conner, then nodded. “You new in town?”

He was wearing a dirty pair of Wranglers, a red flannel shirt over long johns, and no coat. Because of his ruddy appearance and seeming indifference to the cold, Conner took him for a local.

“What gave me away?” Conner asked.

His new friend ordered a beer and pushed his cowboy hat back on his head. “You look like a city fella.”

Shrewd dark eyes flicked over Conner’s turtleneck sweater, his jeans, faded but clean, and his pristine leather hiking boots. “You come up to go skiing?”

“No.” Conner considered telling him what he’d really come to Idaho to do, then decided against it. He hardly looked the type, and didn’t want to get laughed out of town on his first night.

“Where ya from?”

“Napa Valley wine country.”

“Where?”

For a moment, Conner had forgotten that he’d been relegated to the American equivalent of Siberia. “California,” he said.

“That explains it.”

“What?”

“You look like a Californian. Must be the tan.”

Conner didn’t have California to thank for the tan; he had his old UC Berkeley buddies, who’d just accompanied him to the Caribbean. But he wasn’t too grateful, because he probably had his affiliation with those same people to thank for the lifestyle that had brought him to this point.