Darlene Graham - Lone Star Rising

He sent up a silent prayer to just keep it coming, keep it coming.

Then things seemed to go into slow motion.

The next pain gripped Robbie even more intensely than the others. To Zack she seemed like an angel under his hands, spreading her wings in silent, intent submission, as a tiny dark head steadily slid out against his cupped palm. With his free hand he grabbed a corner of the receiving blanket to steady the slippery baby. The head rotated, revealing a darling pinched little face, then easily, slowly, powerfully, the shoulders, one then the other, followed. The rest of the tiny body appeared as if materializing from heaven.

Perfect! She was perfect!

Dear Reader,

At the start of THE BABY DIARIES series, I observed that babies seldom arrive when it is convenient. To prove my point, I decided to have the baby in this story arrive on Zack Trueblood and Robbie Tellchick’s first date!

This couple seems to have everything kind of backward. People usually fall in love, get married and then experience labor and delivery together. But Zack and Robbie are the kind of people who forge ahead with courage and do whatever they have to do, even if that means facing down a murderer.

By the time the two of them finally admit they can’t live without each other, they’ve caught the murderer, and eventually they get the marrying part done, too.

So here we are again, traveling the remote winding roads of the beautiful Texas Hill Country to the historic town I’ve named Five Points.

And while I’m sure there are real arsonists and thugs and corrupt politicians in this world, this small town and these quirky characters are pure fiction.

As always, my best to you,

Darlene Graham

P.S. I love to hear from my readers! Drop me a line at P.O. Box 72024, Norman, OK 73070 or visit www.darlenegraham. com and send an e-mail. While you’re there take a peek at the third book in THE BABY DIARIES trilogy, Lone Star Diary, coming July 2006 from Signature Select Saga.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for Ray, the whistling carpenter, the original “man from Texas” in my life.

No daughter could ask for a better father!

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DEAR DIARY,

I feel like a fool for even writing the words Dear Diary—a woman my age (37!), a pregnant mother of three who definitely has better things to do with her time than scribbling in a diary like some teenager.

But I promised my sister Markie that I would start a diary again, just like the three of us did when we were young. Markie said to call it a journal if it made me feel better. Whatever I call it, she claims writing out my feelings will help me, heal me, give me focus, put me in touch with my deepest desires and blah, blah, blah. I don’t know about all that, but God knows I could use a little diversion.

So here goes.

Dear journal, or diary or whatever, allow me to introduce myself. Roberta McBride Tellchick. Bankrupt widow. Mother of three boys with yet another on the way. Freckle-faced, redheaded middle sister. The one sandwiched in between two smart, vivid brunettes like a piece of pale cheese.

What can I possibly have to write about here? My sister has no concept of what it is like to walk in my low-heeled shoes. She’s caught up in an exciting, glamorous life in Austin and has recently gotten herself blissfully married to the gorgeous man of her dreams.

Okay. That’s not fair. Markie’s had some serious pain to deal with in her life, and I have to say, I’m very proud of the way she handled herself. I mean, giving a baby up for adoption when she was only seventeen! And then seeing him again out of the blue when he’s all grown up. Markie claims writing in her baby diary kept her sane while she endured all that pain so long ago. She says it’s in our blood, this urge to write everything down. She says I’m not supposed to censor my feelings on these pages or worry about what anybody else thinks.

Okay. I have just had the day from hell.

I look like I’ve got a beach ball stuck under my shirt and I didn’t have time to wash my hair before I went to work. I’m exhausted because I have to go to work at dark-thirty, which is the way of it when you’re a lowly waitress in a diner that specializes in the monster Texas breakfast. We have to get in there and help Parson—that’s been old Virgil’s “real” name ever since he was in the Navy—roll out the biscuits and chop up the home fries.

Nattie Rose, the other waitress at the Hungry Aggie, told me I don’t have to come in early if I don’t want to. She is too kind, that Nattie Rose. Has a real heart of gold, even if she does cake on the eye makeup worse than Tammy Faye Bakker. I told her that I am grateful for the job, and I am not going to start slacking off my very first week. Especially since I’ll be taking off to have the baby in only five short weeks. It’s ridiculous for me to be working at all in my condition. I know that. But Danny left me and the boys with nothing, and I do mean not a thing. It looks like the farm is gone for good now, not that I’m sorry to be away from that place, away from the terrible memories.

I try my best not to relive the fire, but sometimes your mind just insists on rolling the video anyway, you know? It’s been almost four months now and I still don’t have the report from the local fire marshal. What’s the holdup?

At least I finally started getting the social security checks, thank the Lord, but that money barely covers groceries and rent. It’s not enough for those new Nike tennis shoes my oldest is suddenly needing. Not enough for the extras I’ll be needing for this baby. I’m still holding out hope for the insurance money on the barn.

I don’t want to waste paper and ink on my problems. I find it’s actually easier to focus on something trivial like my hair. When I woke up and looked at the clock this morning, I had no choice but to twist the mess up on top of my head and clip it up into a treetop. But since my hair’s the kind that has a mind of its own, by noon I’d developed a frizzy little orange halo around my face. Very, very cute.

But what does it matter how I look when—now who on earth could be ringing my doorbell? The boys know it’s too late to be having any kids over.

WHEN ROBBIE opened the door, the first thing that registered were Zack Trueblood’s dark eyes, traveling over her face, then widening with what she imagined to be involuntary shock—or was it disgust?—when he came to her hair. But he rearranged his expression quickly enough. “Hello, Mrs. Tellchick.”

“Hello, Zack.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Again his gaze slid to her hair, then slammed back down to the porch boards, then flicked up to her face, once again composed and polite. Robbie thought it was decent of him to skip her pumpkin-shaped midsection.

But when he looked once more at her hideous hair, she gave him a level gaze and patted it. “It’s easy, you know. I just stick a fork in the toaster and I’m done.”

The corner of his mouth lifted a little then, but he didn’t actually smile. His expression said he was here on serious business. Oh, Lord help me, Robbie thought. She was in no mood for this. But a bad feeling in her gut told her this was some kind of follow-up visit about the fire.