Melissa Senate - The Maverick's Baby-In-Waiting

These hundred acres would be perfect for the crisis distribution center he was planning on. The man who’d been like a second father to him had died in a flash flood while volunteering not too far from here, and Jensen wanted to honor his memory, as did his brothers, in a way that would help the area and community. Davison Parkwell had been a very close friend of his father’s once, but the two had had a falling-out and his father had refused to talk to him, let alone about him, in the past five years. Walker the Second hadn’t even gone to Davison’s funeral. But Davison had been there for Jensen in ways his father hadn’t been, as a Boy Scout leader, a coach of his baseball team, a mentor. His dad had always been too busy, but Davison and his wife, who’d died years before him, hadn’t had children and they’d doted on the Jones boys, particularly Jensen and Gideon, the two youngest, in any way they could. Not with money, which they’d all had in truckloads, but with time . Whenever Jensen had had a problem, his heart and mind all messed up over a girl or a coach making him feel like dung or because he’d learned that all the Jones money couldn’t buy what really mattered in life, he’d sought out Davison Parkwell, who’d listened and comforted and had taught him that riding out in the country could soothe a lot of ailments. He’d been right. Saddling up and taking off always managed to clear Jensen’s head.

Maybe he’d go for a ride once he’d squared things away with Barnes. Anything to get his mind off Mikayla Brown, her brown eyes and her very pregnant belly.

But right now, Jensen was going to pay it back and pay it forward—just the way Davison would want. Victims of natural disasters, such as the Great Flood in Rust Creek Falls a few years ago, wouldn’t have to wait for supplies and food and fresh water or shelter; they’d have a place to go right here.

Jensen glanced at the run-down farmhouse at the edge of the land. Peeling paint. Rotting posts. A barn that looked like it might collapse any day. What the hell? Why wouldn’t Guthrie Barnes, clearly having financial issues, sell the land? Jensen was offering a small fortune. The old-timer had hung up on his assistant twice and told Jensen no on the phone once already.

Two old dogs with graying muzzles ran up to Jensen, and he gave them both a pat, waiting a beat for Barnes to come out. He didn’t. Jensen walked up the three porch steps, the middle of which was half-gone, and knocked on the front door. He was surprised he didn’t punch a hole right through it.

Barnes opened the door but didn’t step out or invite Jensen in. “I had you come out here face-to-face so I could make myself clearer than my previous noes have been. Obviously, you rich city types don’t care what people like me have to say. You just keep coming, run roughshod. Well, you’re not going to bulldoze me, Jones. My answer is no . Now go back to New York or wherever it is you come from.”

With that, he slammed the door in Jensen’s face. A piece of rotting wood fell off and landed on Jensen’s boot.

“Well, guys,” he said to the dogs, “that didn’t go well.” He peered in the window, but the old man shoved the curtains closed. He took another look at the falling-down house and shook his head. Stubborn old coot.

Jensen got back into the truck. This was the perfect land for the crisis distribution center and shelter. The perfect site. And his assistant had made clear to Barnes what Jensen’s plans for the land were. The man had not been moved.

Frustrated, Jensen drove back to Walker’s house, surprised, as he always was every time he saw the place, how magnificent it was—a luxury log cabin nestled in the woods. I could live here , he thought, breathing in the pine and listening to the blissful quiet, broken only by the sound of a wise owl, a coyote or crickets.

His brother and his wife weren’t home, and as Jensen walked around, he was drawn to a photo on the gorgeous river-rock mantel over the huge stone fireplace in the living room, a picture of the Jones family at his brother’s wedding last year. I’m gonna get you people together in two weeks for the party whether you like it or not , he thought, tapping on the frame.

He moved down the mantel, looking at the many pictures. Happy family after happy family: his brother Hudson and his wife, Bella. Bella’s brother Jamie Stockton, his wife, Fallon O’Reilly Stockton, and their triplets—the ones having the party tomorrow. His brother Walker and Lindsay. His brother Autry with Marissa and their three little girls in front of the Eiffel Tower. A shot of Gideon with a girlfriend, though they’d probably broken up by now. And then there was a picture of Jensen, alone. As usual, these days.

Something twisted in his gut, and he turned away from the mantel. Sometimes, usually late at night when he couldn’t sleep, he’d get the unsettling feeling that life was moving on without him. His brothers were getting married, settling down. Then there was him, the bachelor without the plus-one, since he was afraid that even asking the women he dated to accompany him to events made them think things were more serious than they were. He wasn’t interested in serious. Might never be again.

From the time he was knee-high, his parents had drummed it into his head that people would try to take advantage of him because of his money and family name. He’d vowed he would never be fooled. He could remember Davison dismissing that kind of talk with a wave of his hand and saying, “It’s better to have loved and lost,” and all that. But was it? What the hell did Jensen have to show for loving Adrienne? A million-dollar loss. His trust stolen. His heart broken.

He didn’t trust women anymore. Stupid and sad of him, maybe, but it was true.

A beautiful brunette with soulful brown eyes and a very pregnant belly came to mind again. Dammit. Why couldn’t he shake the thought of her? He didn’t know a thing about Mikayla Brown, what her situation was, if she had the support of family, if she had a significant other. Was she on her own? Why did he even care?

All he knew was that he couldn’t get her off his damned mind. Which was why he’d steer clear of town and Mikayla Brown until he got Barnes to agree to the land deal, then hightail it out of Rust Creek Falls.

Chapter Three

Y our baby will be soothed to sleep in this must-have bouncer that features gentle vibration and sweet lullabies.

Mikayla’s gaze moved from the description on the box to the price tag. Two hundred ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. Her heart plummeted. Baby Bonanza, a baby-supplies emporium in Kalispell, was supposed to have reasonable prices, but last week, when she’d driven out here to buy a crib, she’d been shocked by the cost and had to start a layaway account. She certainly couldn’t afford this bouncer. Unless she took the packs of diapers, pajamas and onesies and the infant car seat and snap-in stroller base out of her cart.

Well, she already had a built-in bouncer that featured vibration and sweet lullabies: herself. There was a rocker right in her room at Sunshine Farm, and she’d hold her baby against her chest, gently rock the little one and sing Brahms’s “Lullaby” herself. Who needed a bouncer for three hundred bucks?

I wish I could buy you everything , she said silently to her baby. She didn’t have much in savings, and since her job at the day care had ended in June, she’d been unemployed for a couple months. Trying to get a new job when she was seven months pregnant seemed foolhardy, but she really had no choice. Perhaps she could find a job where she could bring her newborn.

Right. Because every workplace wanted a crying baby interrupting things.

You will figure it out, Mikayla. Trust in yourself.