A Mother's Wish / Mother To Be: A Mother's Wish. Karen Templeton

      Winnie looked at Annabelle, who’d been pretending not to listen. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing,” she said, but, sadly, dispensing advice was not part of Annabelle’s job description.

      The village of Tierra Rosa, Winnie thought as her truck wound up, then down, the curved main drag like a roller coaster on downers, was oddly charming, in a Tim-Burton-gone-Southwest kind of way—a cross between an old Spanish settlement, a set for a fifties’ Hollywood Western and a trailer park. To add to the confusion, she mused as she spotted the cafe, was the occasional bank or church or police department building that was pure Sixties blah.

      “No, baby,” she said to the dog as she got out, leaving the truck windows at half-mast since the temperature had inched up to maybe fifty or so, “you have to stay here.” After a moment of looking bereft, the dog sighed and sat. Annabelle was nothing if not flexible.

      Then, the breeze zipping right through the persimmon-colored velvet blazer that had seen her through any number of Octobers, Winnie started toward the cafe and was hit by a wave of nervousness so strong she half expected to pass out. The moment she pushed through the glass door, however, the pungent aromas of coffee and griddle grease, the sounds of breakfast orders being barked to the cook, the crush of animated early-morning conversation, wrapped around her, both soothing and unsettling in their familiarity.

      The place was nearly full, patrons squeezed around a half-dozen randomly placed tables, into as many bright-red booths. Hand-painted bougainvillea vines snaked underneath a heavily beamed ceiling, the bright pink flowers vibrating against deep-blue walls. The kitchen was open to the dining room, framed by an enormous mural depicting vintage pickups traveling along piñon-dotted mountains.

      Nope, definitely not in Texas anymore, she thought, recovering from the onslaught of color. Her nostrils flared at the top note of roasted chili peppers seasoning every deep, calming breath, like Elektra had taught her before she gave birth, although as Winnie recalled when the time came they didn’t do her a damn bit of good. Then her gaze snagged on Aidan, rising out of his chair, and she thought, Not gonna do a damn bit of good now, either.

      He dwarfed the tiny table in front of him, the light streaming in through the window beside it bouncing off all those angles and muscles and things practically hard enough to hear, making his white shirt—open one button too far—downright glow. Some people might think the jeans rode a trifle too low, too. Winnie couldn’t decide if she was one of those people or not.

      Aidan angled his head slightly, his frown only accentuating the Celtic warrior/cowboy thing he had going with the wild hair, the beard shadow. Not that he was scuzzy—oh, my, no—but he was—

      “If you don’t mind?” he said, the frown deepening.

      Sorely in need of some manners, Winnie thought irritably, winnowing her way through the maze of tables and chairs toward him, remembering why she was here. Reminding herself that Aidan had the upper hand. And that if she’d had any sense she would’ve left her hormones back in the truck with the dog.

      However, the closer she got, the more she could see past the muscles and the too-low jeans and the sheer oh-my-God-ness of the man to the pain-pretending-to-be-annoyance in his eyes. A look she’d seen plenty, in various permutations, over the years as she’d poured yet another cup of coffee or set down a piece of pie or a serving of fresh-made meat loaf and whipped potatoes and gravy. This realization did not make her less nervous, exactly, as much as it somehow gave it a different color.

      Although she somehow doubted she’d look back on her years of indentured servitude to her grandmother with anything resembling fondness, there was nothing like working in a diner to hone a person’s ability to read people. The men, especially, hard-wired to believe they were impervious to things like sorrow and heartbreak.

      She’d even been able to dispense the odd parcel of advice, now and then, when she’d known enough of the particulars to feel on sure footing. But this time, when something too formless to be a real thought suggested she might be able to help Aidan, too, she nearly laughed. Not only did she know nothing about the man, but how in heaven’s name was she supposed to help somebody else when her own life felt about as solid as a half-set Jell-O salad?

      Except then it felt like a pair of hands gently pushed her into the seat in front of him, and she sighed, resigning herself to this being one of those times when the angelthought said, Do this, and you said, Okay, I’ll try.

      “You look different,” Aidan said, like it was gonna bug him to no end until he figured out why.

      Suddenly ravenous, Winnie picked up the laminated menu with hands she refused to let shake and said, “It’s daylight.”

      “No, it’s not that, it’s…you’re wearing makeup.”

      Winnie batted her eyes over the top of the menu. “So?”

      “You weren’t last night.”

      She shrugged. “End of the day. And I wasn’t expecting company.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but whatever. “Trust me,” she said, scanning the column of breakfast specials, “I’m doin’ you a favor. But good news—no bunnies were harmed in the making of this mascara.” Her selection made, she slammed down the menu. “So. What made you change your mind?” she said, taking no small pleasure in the look of surprise that crossed his features, just as the waitress—small, blond, fine-featured, grinning—appeared.

      “Hey, Aidan…haven’t seen you in here for a while.”

      “No, I suppose not,” he said, not returning her smile, and Winnie briefly considered kicking him under the table. Except then the blonde gave Winnie a bemused shrug and a “watcha gonna do?” eye roll. And a light smack on Aidan’s shoulder with her order pad. She was still young enough to look good under fluorescent lighting—and in tight black jeans—but old enough to smack ornery customers with her order pad. Winnie liked her immediately.

      “You gonna introduce me or what?”

      Aidan frowned at Winnie. Like it had just occurred to him that maybe taking her someplace where people knew him hadn’t been the smoothest move in the book.

      “Thea, this is Winnie Porter. Winnie, Thea. Are the eggs fresh?”

      “Considering they came from your chickens, I assume so. Salsa’s fresh-made, too.”

      Aidan waited until after she’d taken their order and zipped back to the kitchen before he finally said, “What makes you think I’ve changed my mind?”

      “Other than you giving the definite impression last night that you were hoping the mother ship would snatch me up?”

      “That’s assuming they’d be interested in reclaiming you.”

      “Brother. Your wife was clearly a saint.”

      “No argument there,” Aidan muttered, his gaze drifting outside as he sipped his coffee. He appeared to be looking at Annabelle, who was looking back. Winnie waved and the dog barked, although you couldn’t really hear it through the glass. Then Aidan said, “Even so, I’m sorry I came down s’hard on you,” and her gaze swung back to his.

      But only for a moment. “You had cause,” she said, lowering her eyes to spread her napkin on her lap, then upending the sugar dispenser over her coffee, watching the stream of white crystals disappear into the lake of dark, steaming liquid. Frankly, she needed more caffeine like a hole in the head, this being her third cup in less than an hour, but some days were like that.

      She set the sugar dispenser back between them, stirred her coffee. “So, what?” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze, aching for him whether she wanted to or not. “Is this some kind of trial? The number of correct answers determine whether I get to see Robbie or not?”

      “It’s not that cut-and-dried,” he said, looking none too comfortable himself.

      “No,” Winnie said, lifting the heavy cup and taking a sip. Grimacing, she added more