The Cowboy's Christmas Proposition. Silver James

A found baby? Who loses their baby? Oh, wait, she thought sarcastically. She was headed to a casino. People addicted to gambling did dumb things. Like losing their kids. Still, what did the band’s bus have to do with the situation? Good thing she was less than five minutes away. She’d be able to satisfy her curiosity quickly. Unable to resist, she hit her overhead emergency lights but without sirens. Traffic stopped on the highway to let her exit the truck stop and she gunned her engine.

      The tour bus wasn’t hard to miss. It was one of those custom motor coaches that cost more than most people’s houses. Why people would call such a lavish vehicle a bus was beyond her comprehension. She’d worked event security a few times. Spoiled musicians and Hollywood people just irritated her.

      She rolled up on the scene and notified Dispatch. Settling her Smokey Bear hat on her head, she stepped out of her cruiser, adjusted her weapons belt on her hips and strode toward the knot of people gathered around the open door of the motor coach.

      A dark-haired woman was arguing with a tall man dressed like a cowboy holding a bundle in his arms. As Quin walked up, she overheard him say, “Forget it, Jolie. You can’t have her.”

      Quin sighed. Was she walking into another domestic, only without backup this time?

      “I just want to hold her,” the woman pleaded. “You let Cassie hold her. Besides, I’m a nurse. I should check her, make sure she’s okay.” The woman peered down at the bundle and cooed.

      Someone dramatically cleared his throat and the entire group turned to look at Quin. She inhaled, set a stern expression on her face and trudged toward them. “I’m Trooper Kincaid,” she announced. “What’s going on here?”

      Everyone started talking at once. Quin’s piercing whistle silenced them—all except the baby, who was now crying. The guy holding the infant shifted positions, patting its back as he sort of did this dip-and-sway thing with the kid on his shoulder. The wails turned to little sobs and after a hiccup, the baby cooed, settling its head against the cowboy’s chest.

      “I’m Deacon Tate,” the cowboy explained.

      Of course he was. Quin would have banged her head against the side of the bus if she’d been standing close enough. “Is that your baby, Mr. Tate?”

      “Not exactly.”

      “Care to explain?”

      “Someone left her on my bus.”

      “There was a note,” a beautiful blonde added helpfully.

      “And Max found her,” a redhead explained.

      An older man wearing a plaid flannel shirt covering a paunch that hung over his belt buckle offered a little wave. “I drive the bus,” he explained.

      Quin closed her eyes. She hadn’t had enough caffeine to deal with groupies and good-ol’-boy bus drivers, much less stars too handsome for her taste. When she opened her eyes, no one had moved. She pointed at the driver as she pulled out a notebook and pen. “You. Tell me your full name and what happened?”

      “Max, ma’am. Max Padilla. After the concerts, I hang around backstage until the after-party starts to break up. Then I come out and warm up the bus. It’s a diesel so it runs rough on cold nights if I don’t. Plus, I like to get the heat goin’ in the back so the guys are warm, you know?”

      Holding on to her patience, Quin prompted, “The baby?”

      “Well, yeah. I was gettin’ to that. So anyway, I came out to start the bus and there was the usual stuff stacked up around the door.”

      “The usual stuff?”

      “Yeah. Flowers and...” The man stared at his boots. Was he blushing? “And stuff that girls—fans—leave for Deacon and the boys.”

      “Stuff. What kind of stuff?”

      A guy who looked Asian leaned forward. “We get love notes and T-shirts and—”

      “Bras and panties,” a younger version of Deacon Tate explained.

      Why her? She was so close to end of shift. Quin made a pointed notation in her book: Stuff! She looked up, pretending Deacon didn’t steal her breath. “And?”

      When Deacon’s younger clone opened his mouth, Deacon himself cut him off. “Shut up, Dillon. There was a basket tucked in with all the stuff.” He glanced through the bus doors, and Quin noticed a wicker basket for the first time. “Little Noelle here was inside all bundled up in blankets with her diaper bag.”

      “You know her name?”

      Another man, just as handsome as Deacon but with darker hair and eyes—because she’d just realized Deacon’s were blue—stepped closer, an envelope in his hand, and introduced himself. “I’m Chance Barron.”

      That was a name she was familiar with. The Barron family attorney. Just jolly. Her night kept getting better and better. “And you are here why, Mr. Barron?”

      “Deacon is my cousin. My wife, Cassie, and I were here for the concert.”

      “I’m Jolie Barron,” the brunette added. “I’m an RN and I can check her over if my big goof of a cousin-in-law will give me a chance to hold her.”

      So these were not groupies. Quin studied everyone in the group of people standing around. Tates and Barrons were easy to categorize. That left the motley crew likely making up Deacon’s band the Sons of Nashville. Yippee. She wondered if she could call this in and let Cleveland County handle it. As she mulled over that idea, another police vehicle rolled to a stop next to her cruiser. Chickasaw Tribal Police. The casino and surrounding area were technically tribal land. Maybe she’d just let them have it.

      “The note that came in the basket states the child’s name is Noelle and that she belongs to Deacon,” Chance continued as the tribal cops approached.

      She took the proffered piece of paper and read it before handing it to the nearest tribal officer. Quin arched a brow at the country music superstar. “How often does your...” She didn’t want to say “baby momma.” Considering who she was dealing with, she had to proceed cautiously. “Has this happened before? Your child being dropped off like this?”

      “No.” Deacon’s voice was one step above a growl. The baby fussed and he automatically soothed her. “I’m not irresponsible, Trooper Kincaid. I don’t have any children.” He paused, then added, “That I know of.”

      Quin glanced at the Chickasaw officers and one shrugged. “Unless she’s Indian, we don’t have jurisdiction. You’re state. Up to you to place her with DHS.”

      The Department of Human Services—the foster care system. Quin knew what that was like. She’d been in the system as a kid. She was reluctant to sentence a baby to Child Protective Services but she didn’t have much choice. She keyed the portable radio mic clipped to her shoulder. “Adam-109, Dispatch. Notify DHS of an emergency pickup notice for an infant, my location.”

      Dispatch’s response was drowned out by loud objections from the Tates and Barrons. One voice rose above all the rest.

      “DHS can’t have her. According to the note, she’s mine.”

       Two

      What the heck was he thinking? Deke knew this baby wasn’t his. Or was she? He took precautions, though there was always a chance something might go wrong. Without knowing who the baby’s mother was, he wouldn’t be able to say for sure one way or the other. If he had any sense at all, he would hand her off to the female trooper—and why had he never noticed how sexy a woman in uniform could be? This one nipped at him like one of those yappy little ankle-biter dogs. He glanced at her, assessing the expression on her face. Okay, make that a Doberman.

      Noelle cooed and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. He