The Baby Notion. Dixie Browning

young fireman slogged over to the utility truck, his boots making almost as much noise as the rumbling thunder. “Ma’am, you don’t want to be hanging around here with that storm coming up. I heard tell you’re expectin’, and I know for a fact that it don’t take much to upset a woman when she’s in the fam—”

      Priss stood slowly. “You heard what?”

      Glancing from Priss to Jake and back again, he said, “I think it was Miss Ethel that said—I ran into her at the post office this morning when I went by to mail-order me some—that is, she said you were by that baby place out on the highway this morning, and—”

      Priss said a word Jake didn’t think ladies even knew, her face about three shades pinker than her car. Shifting his position, he moved in beside her and slung an arm casually over her shoulder. Like she’d been doing it all her life, she leaned into his side.

      Jake cleared his throat. “Son, you don’t want to put too much stock in town talk. Some folks got nothing better to do than flap tongues.”

      Priss nudged closer to her newfound protector. “Miss Ethel never told a true story in all her life,” she declared, and the fireman nodded nervously. Sweating under his heavy gear, he backed toward the utility truck.

      Jake figured it was time to change the subject. “Maybe we’d better get on with those phone calls, Priss.”

      The lady was not to be distracted. “I know how it happened. Miss Agnes told Miss Minny about—well, about something I was thinking about doing, and Miss Minny must have told Miss Ethel, and by the time Miss Ethel found somebody to pass on the story to, she’d got it all mixed up, as usual.”

      The fireman’s gaze dropped to her flat stomach just before he swung up into the driver’s seat, and Jake decided things had gone far enough. “Come on now, honey, before that lightning gets any closer. I hope you stuck in a decent pair of shoes while you were packing.”

      “Shoes?” She blinked, having apparently forgotten that his arm was still around her, practically welding her to his side.

      Reluctantly, Jake gave her some space. “Those, uh, things you’re wearing are right pretty, but I wouldn’t want you to get a charley horse trying to walk in ’em.”

      “My Jellies are perfectly comfortable, but thank you for your concern.”

      “Jellies. Uh-huh.”

      Priss knew he was just trying to be kind to her, and she appreciated it, she really did. Only she was having trouble hanging on to what little bit of pride she had left, and Jake’s kindness was distracting. Under the circumstances, even noticing the way he made her feel when he touched her was downright unnatural.

      She could hardly go to Faith’s, and by now the hotel was probably full. She’d have to call a cab and head for Dallas, because there was no way she was going to sleep in some chintzy little motel with airplanes taking off right over her bed.

      Jake started gathering up her parcels just as a streak of lightning split the sky wide open. “Come on, honey, you need a friend and I’m offering my services.”

      “I have plenty of friends, thanks.” She had Faith. And Rosalie, who was in Dallas visiting her sister. And the preacher and his wife, because she had paid for an exterminator to deal with the cockroaches that had infested the parsonage. They’d been too embarrassed to talk about it until she’d found out about it accidentally.

      And of course, her kids at the hospital, because she read to them a couple of times a week. And she’d come to know a few of the staff there.

      Reaching for her wooden chest, she said, “That sounded real rude, didn’t it? And here you came all this way out of the kindness of your heart.”

      Jake let it pass. It wasn’t his heart he’d been thinking about when he’d set out to pick her up that afternoon, although he had to admit it might’ve given an extra thump or two back there when she’d been hanging on to him like trumpet vine on a fence post.

      The first drops of rain drilled down like a hail of bullets just as he reached through the open window of his dusty pickup and opened the passenger door. Ever since it had been kicked in by a riled-up stallion, the latch didn’t work half the time. “Come on, get in,” he said, tossing her things into the jump seat. “Give me your car keys.”

      Without a single protest, she handed them over, then climbed into the truck while he raised the top of her convertible and locked the doors. He was wet by the time he climbed in beside her, switched on the ignition and backed out of the parking lot.

      Out on the highway, he cut her a quick glance. She had a defeated look about her that worried him. In fact, this whole business was beginning to give him a spooky feeling, like trouble was about to blindside him and there wasn’t a blamed thing he could do about it.

      Part of it was the way she looked—part of it the way she smelled, all clean and sweet and womany. Part of it was the way she felt when she huddled up beside him, hanging on to his arm, letting him protect her.

      And part of it was because she was a broody female and he was a horny male, which was a downright dangerous combination.

      All things considered, Jake decided that this hadn’t been one of his better ideas. The minute he discovered that every time he laid a hand on her, certain reflexes kicked in, he should’ve tipped his hat and walked away.

      Now that it was too late, he had an idea that Miss Barrington, fancy pedigree and all, was going to be more of a handful than he’d bargained on.

      Priss’s social skills, never particularly high, were at an all-time low by the time they finally passed Buck’s Texaco and Barbecue and headed out of town. She told herself it was only because she had never been burned out of her home before. A thing like that could knock the starch out of anybody.

      But it wasn’t only the fire. Part of it had to do with the man beside her. With his hat pulled down low on his forehead, he looked grim and dangerously masculine—more like Clint Eastwood than Clint Black. She couldn’t believe she had let herself be talked into going home with a perfect stranger just because both the hotel and the motel were full.

      And in his truck, too—not even her own car. Not that she felt much like driving, even if she could. The way her luck was running, she’d have wrapped her car around a telephone pole before she even got past the city limits.

      “Is it very far?” Suddenly she was bone tired.

      “Few more miles.” He’d been saying that ever since they passed the last stop sign on the way out of town. “The garage has probably picked up your car by now.” He’d called right after he’d checked the hotel and motel.

      “Where exactly did you say it was?”

      “Your car?”

      “Your home.”

      “Oh. The Bar Nothing. It’s up the road about half a dozen more miles.”

      “Is that what you call it?”

      “Is that what I call what?”

      “Your home. The Bar Nothing?” Priss knew she was chattering, she couldn’t help it. She always chattered when she was nervous.

      Clint Black Eastwood shot her a cool glance. “That’s what it says over the main gate.”

      She twisted the bangles on her arm. Her mother would have called them gaudy. Her mother thought anything more colorful than basic black, worn with pearls and a touch of gold, was gaudy, which was why Priss had sort of gone overboard after her mother died. It had driven her father wild.

      She stared at the big booted foot on the accelerator and wondered if Jake thought she was gaudy. She wondered if he thought she was sexy. Goodness knows she tried to be, not that it had ever done her much good. Her father had ruined her chances with the entire male population of New Hope, first with threats, then with promises.

      According