Drive-By Daddy: Drive-By Daddy / Calamity Jo

Yeah, well…she was tired. It’d been a long convoy home with the Buckeye Bridge Beauties following in their cars, all of them loaded down with the flowers and plants from Darcy’s hospital room. “Well, what did you want me to say, Mother? I have no intention of dropping my baby. I would die first.”

“Well, thank heavens, it’s not required. I’m just nervous for you, that’s all. So don’t be testy. Just sit here. Freda, move that pillow for her, will you? Yes, that one. Good.” Then, over her shoulder, “Close that door, can you, Barb? We’ll get the flowers inside in a minute. Thanks. I know, but Darcy insisted on wearing these old maternity shorts—I just hate them—and I don’t want her to catch cold.”

Forget the shorts. Darcy hated being talked about like she wasn’t in the room. “A cold, Mother? In Arizona? In May?”

Her cheerfully oblivious and proud mother obviously chose to ignore Darcy’s questions in favor of overseeing her…with Montana in her arms…being lowered into the big, soft and overstuffed recliner—one Darcy stood no chance of getting out of without the able assistance of a construction-grade crane. “Thanks for helping, Barb,” Margie Alcott said. Then she straightened up and beamed at Darcy. “There, baby. All settled. Is there anything I can get—Jeanette, hand me that afghan to put over Darcy’s legs.”

“I don’t want the afghan—”

Jeanette Tomlinson bunched the knitted blanket around Darcy’s legs. “I just love this afghan,” the older woman said, a good-natured twinkle lighting her blue eyes. “I’ve told your mama that one day I’m just going to steal it from her.”

“Make that day today, will you?” Darcy coupled her words with a smile, but it was forced. Mrs. Tomlinson’s eyebrows rose. And Darcy felt sorry for herself. All she wanted was to be left alone for just a bit to get to know her daughter.

But just then, Barb Fredericks leaned over Darcy and gently tugged the baby’s blanket back. “Oh, she’s the prettiest black-haired little girl, Darcy. Now, what state did you name her after, honey? It was something with an M, wasn’t it? Missouri, maybe?”

Darcy stared soberly at the short, dark-haired woman whose only child was Vernon, the 50-year-old editor of The Buckeye Bugle. He still lived at home with her. “No. Not Missouri,” Darcy corrected. “But close. Michigan.”

“Darcy,” came her mother’s warning. “It’s Montana, Barb. Montana Skye. With an E.”

Barb turned to her friend Margie. “With a knee? What’s wrong with her knee?”

Not believing any of this, Darcy put her free hand to her forehead and rubbed. But before the ladies could get going on that tangent, a voice came from near the sofa. “Well, will you look at this. Isn’t it the cutest thing?”

They all looked. Freda Smith—sitting on the over-stuffed leather sofa and rooting through the big bag of helpful gifts the hospital had bestowed on Darcy—was holding up a typical, ordinary, everyday four-ounce glass baby bottle for all to see. Looking grave and judgmental, she glanced Darcy’s way. “We didn’t have these when Johnny was a baby 48 years ago. All we had to use were breasts.”

Amidst the collective gasps of embarrassment coming from the remaining bridge club members, Darcy…suddenly highly amused and truly loving every one of these ladies…assured Freda. “Women today still have breasts, Freda.”

“But are you using them?”

Darcy couldn’t resist. “Sure. Watch.” She began tugging on her maternity top’s buttons.

That cleared the room. The ladies bolted for the dining room around the corner, squawking about iced tea and calling home and how hot it was outside already. In the relative quiet of the abandoned living room, Darcy finally got to relax and look down at her daughter. “Your mother’s a stinker, Montana. But that may be the only thing that gets us through, kiddo.”

Wrapped from her head to her toes in swaddling blankets, Montana yawned and frowned and made awful faces…and dropped off to sleep. “Great,” Darcy said to the otherwise empty room. “I’m such a fascinating conversationalist. I’ve either driven everyone away—” She tried not to think of a tall cowboy in a white Stetson. “—or I’ve put them to sleep.” She smiled down at her tiny daughter and cooed softly, “My lectures on Chaucer have the same effect on my students, baby girl. Yes, that’s right. Your mama’s boring.”

Boring? I wish. Darcy thought about her upcoming car trip to Baltimore in January, a little less than eight months away. The child-care concerns she’d have once she got there. The effect of cold weather on a baby used to Arizona warmth. The demands of her new job. The grading. The paperwork. The seemingly endless classes she had to teach. The faculty give-and-take. The trying to pull her life together after her leave-of-absence, one she’d had to take after only one year at the university. It was a miracle she still had her position there. The new apartment she’d have to find since her upstairs one in the city only had one bedroom.

It all crowded in on her now, along with the alleged independent life she was supposed to be building for herself. All that—and on the same campus as Hank Erickson. Montana’s real father. Feeling defeated and overwhelmed, Darcy leaned her head back against the recliner’s dense padding and closed her eyes. Heighho, Silver. Where’s the real Lone Ranger when you need him?

The doorbell rang, startling Darcy into sitting upright and staring dumbly at the closed door. From around the corner, her mother called out, “Stay there, Darcy, I’ll get it.”

Under her breath, Darcy mumbled, “That’s a good thing, Mother, because I can’t get out of this chair.” But what she was thinking, as she busied herself with rearranging Montana’s soft blanket around her little face, was, Oh, surely I didn’t conjure the man up. And I mean my Lone Ranger. Not the Lone Ranger. Well, either Lone Ranger, actually.

Darcy looked up when her mother rounded the corner from the dining room. Barb, Freda, and Jeanette, all holding glasses of iced tea, were close on her heels. As one, all four of them headed for the door. And they all avoided looking at Darcy. Sudden dread filled her. Oh, this can’t be good.

“Well, I wonder who this could be,” Margie Alcott chirped.

Her mother’s voice, so falsely cheerful, told its own story, saying it would be just like Marjory Elaine Alcott to do exactly what she’d threatened yesterday—have Freda’s son use his sheriff/bloodhound skills to track that cowboy down. Johnny Smith could do it, too. It wasn’t as if Darcy’d been dumb enough to actually tell her mother that Tom Elliott had paid her a visit. But she supposed that anyone at the hospital could have done so. And probably had. They loved her mother. And were afraid of her.

So, yes, it could happen, Darcy knew. And here was the result—her mother had found the cowboy and then she’d invited him out here today. If she did, then I have to kill her…if I can get out of this chair.

At that point, her mother opened the door and stared outside. “Why, look. It is Vernon Fredericks. Hello.” She turned to Barb, the man’s mother. “Look, Barb. It is your son. Vernon. The town’s most eligible bachelor. I cannot believe he is here. On this day of all days.”

It was worse than Darcy’d feared. Her mother wasn’t using contractions. Darcy made a face of despair. Oh, dear God, not Vernon Fredericks.

“Why. What a nice surprise. Hello, son. How ever did you find me?” It was spreading. Now Barb had lost the ability to use contractions. Her stiffly repeated words sounded as if she were an amateur actor reading her lines from cue cards she’d never seen before.

Darcy slowly shook her head. Yep. Going to have to kill them…all four of them.

From outside, on the shaded verandah, a man’s whining voice said, “But you told me to come out—”

“Why, Vernon Fredericks, you silly ass—I mean man, you silly man. Now, we did no such thing and you know it. Come in, come in.” Holding her iced-tea glass out carefully, Margie Alcott snatched the skinny fellow in off the porch, closed the door behind him, and then turned him to face Darcy. “Look. Darcy’s home with her new baby.”

“I know. You told me she would be.” He was thoroughly bewildered, that much was obvious, as he looked from one woman’s face to the next. He was also balding and sweating and wearing an ill-fitting shiny suit.

Here was Bachelor Number One, Darcy had figured out. Taking pity on him—he really was a nice, if timid, man—she gave him a little wave and a smile. “Hello, Mr. Fredericks. It’s nice to see you again. I enjoyed your story about me yesterday in the newspaper.”

“You can call him Vernon. It’s okay.” This from bright-eyed, sweetly smiling Freda Smith. But the red-faced and unresponsive man himself had to be shoved forward by his mother. “Go say hello to Darcy, son. And remember to make a fuss over the baby.”

Thus pushed, the older man…more than twenty years Darcy’s senior…stumbled forward across the thick carpet and fell, landing—amidst gasps and shouted warnings from all sides—on his knees in front of Darcy. Startled awake by all the noise, no doubt—and by her mother’s whisking her up and out of harm’s way—Montana began screaming.

It was absolute chaos. Iced-tea glasses were plopped down everywhere. Helping hands reached out, taking the baby, helping Vernon to his feet, helping Darcy struggle awkwardly out of the chair, everyone shouting and blaming each other, all—

The doorbell rang again. Everyone froze. Except Montana, who apparently saw no reason not to continue flailing her arms and airing out her lungs. Stiff and sore and clutching at Jeanette’s arm, Darcy sought and found her mother, who was bouncing and rocking her granddaughter and eyeing Darcy guiltily. But Darcy wasn’t about to let her off the hook. “Would this be Bachelor Number Two?”

Margie pursed her lips and raised her chin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Darcy Jean Alcott.”

“Oh no?” Darcy pointed to Vernon. “Explain him.”

The doorbell rang again. Margie immediately handed Montana off to a thrilled Freda and stalked toward the wide entryway of her spacious ranch home. “I have to answer the door.”

And then, with everyone hushed and waiting in the living room, she opened the door to the Arizona heat. And just stood there. Then, planting a hand at her waist, she said, “Well, I’ll be.” She turned around to the group. “Will you look who’s here? It’s the Lone Ranger.”

OUT ON THE verandah, Tom pulled down the brim of his white Stetson. Yep. He should have turned around somewhere on the long sandy drive out here and gone the other way, especially when he’d seen all the cars. Hell, he shouldn’t even be here. Maybe he never should have even left Phoenix. But here he was. And so was Darcy.

Tom felt like a fifth wheel. She didn’t want to see him. She’d made that plain the other day in her hospital room. But now that everyone was staring at him, he didn’t have any idea what to say. Except, “Howdy.”

Still, no one said anything. He could hear little Montana crying. But no one moved. Tom focused on the big-haired, well-groomed older woman who’d answered the door, removing his hat and holding it in one hand, fiddling with the brim. “I’m here to see Darcy Alcott. That is, if she’s up to seeing another visitor right now.”

“Well, she sure enough is. Come on in. I’m her mother. You can call me Margie. Everyone else does.”

Tom nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. I will.” He stepped inside, and nodded to the folks facing him. “Howdy,” he repeated, with a duck of his head. “I’m Tom Elliott. I—”

The room exploded with noise. “That’s Tom Elliott?” “That’s his name?” “He sure is tall.” “And handsome.” “I have to get back to the Bugle office.” “Is he the one who stopped and—?” “Shhh, Freda. Don’t say that out loud.” “I have to get back to the Bugle office.” “Yes, he is.” “Well, I’ll be.” “He doesn’t look like he’s from Michigan.” “Montana, Barb. Montana.” “I have to get back to—”

“We know, Vernon. The Bugle office,” Darcy said, standing up. She extricated herself from the crowd and waved him into the room. “Come in, Tom, and sit for a while. Mother, perhaps you could get him some iced tea? And maybe see Vernon out? He has to get back to the Bugle office. Freda, if you’ll just hand me Montana, perhaps you ladies might want to get those flowers out of your cars before they wilt—the flowers, that is. Not your cars.”

It apparently didn’t hurt to be specific with this group. Having gotten their marching orders, everyone acted on Darcy’s instructions. As Tom watched from the safety of the entryway, they crossed each other’s paths and went their directed ways. Darcy got her baby back and, in the next instant, the room cleared. Doing his part, Tom opened the door and stepped aside, allowing the various ladies to pass by him, nodding at each one as they did. Some skinny older man in a shiny suit left with them. Margie Alcott headed for the kitchen.

And finally…they were alone. Tom stared at Darcy, who stood in front of an Indian-print recliner with her baby in her arms. She looked great. And tired, the poor kid. But great. Great enough to make his heart beat faster. Great enough to have him driving an hour from Phoenix, just on the off-chance that she might want to see him one more time. And now…here she was, staring at him, waiting. At a loss as to how to get the conversational ball rolling, Tom finally decided on the obvious. “I’m impressed. You really know how to clear a room.”

She grinned at him. “Being a teacher makes you bossy.”

“I expect it does.” He nodded toward the bundle in her arms. “Mind if I take a look at her? Or has she been pawed over enough for one day already?”

“Oh, she probably has. But I think she’d like to see you. Come sit on the sofa with us. I haven’t gotten to look her over yet myself, if you can believe that.”

“I saw the crowd. I can believe that.”

Darcy turned to the dark-blue leather sofa to her left and sat down at one end, carefully placing her child on the middle cushion. As she did, Tom stepped into the living room and crossed it, thinking how friendly it was between them today, as if she’d never told him to go away and not come back. But she seemed pleased to see him, and he was glad for that. Really glad.

Because he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. After all, this was the first time he’d seen her when she wasn’t in a crisis—or in the hospital. He’d never noticed her slender, shapely legs. Or how tanned her arms were. Or how her black curly hair glimmered with red highlights as the sunlight streamed in through the big picture window behind her. How much prettier she was than the open vista he could see out there, the cactus-dotted desert, the blue sky, and the distant shadows of the dark mountains. But most of all, he noticed that her warmth and graciousness made his pulse go into overdrive. Made him feel silly and young and ready to whoop out loud.

Keeping his love-choked emotions on a tight rein, Tom carefully sat down at the sofa’s other end and put his Stetson on the coffee table in front of him. He shifted slightly, turning to put an arm along the sofa’s spine, as he watched Darcy unfold the baby from her receiving blankets. Then…there she was, Montana Skye Alcott, an alert, cuddly baby girl, dressed in white booties and a long thin gown with ducks on it. She waved and kicked and made faces and grinned and blinked and yawned. Tom felt his chest swell with pride. This baby was his—whether or not he could ever call himself her father.

“She’s pretty cute, huh?”

Tom looked up and met Darcy’s gaze as she leaned over the baby, bringing her curl-framed face very close to his. His grin faded and his gaze settled on Darcy’s lips. All he’d have to do to kiss her would be to inch forward a bit…But Tom swallowed that notion and just nodded. “Yeah, she sure is. You make awfully pretty babies, Miss Alcott.”

Darcy sat back, looking embarrassed. “Thank you. You want to hold her?”

Tom’s heart fluttered. “I’d love to, if you think it’s all right. I’ve held babies before. Lots of times. For Sam—”

Darcy chuckled. “It’s okay Tom. I don’t need a resume. I have no doubt that you’re much better at this than I am.” She picked her daughter up and placed the child in his arms.

Tom thought he would die from feeling the exquisite fragility of the tiny girl he held. She fit right in the crook of his arm. He couldn’t breathe. He was afraid to. He might hurt her. And he couldn’t believe how he was acting. He’d held lots of babies. But this was different. The baby in his arms bore his name. It was that simple. She was his. And so was her mother. Full of wonder, he looked over at Darcy…and saw the hesitant look on her face. His heart thumped. “What’s wrong? Am I doing this wrong?”

Shaking her head, she put a reassuring hand on his arm. “No.” But her voice sounded tight. “You just somehow look…right holding her. That’s all.”

“You sure? I can put her down. I—”

Darcy squeezed his arm. He wanted so badly to reach over and kiss her and tell her how much he loved her, to tell her she didn’t ever have to be scared or alone again. “No, Tom. You’re fine. Really. I mean it.”

He exhaled. “Okay. If you’re sure.” Then he concentrated for a moment on Montana Skye, noticing her thick dark hair. Like her mother’s. Her dark eyes. Like her mother’s. The baby flailed the air with her teeny little fists. Tom smiled, caught Darcy again staring at him. “She’s going to give this old world a bunch of hell, you know it?”

“I fear it,” Darcy told him. “And that would make her just like me, poor kid. Tilting at windmills.”

“I’ll bet that doesn’t pay much.”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Cervantes.”

And there it was. That quick, educated mind of hers. Everything about her was a turn-on, a surprise. Tom beamed at her.

But Darcy suddenly looked down at her lap and exhaled sharply. Tom sobered as he gently rubbed Montana’s arm…not much bigger, it seemed, than one of his fingers. “What is it, Darcy? What’s wrong?”

She looked over at him. “Everything. And none of it’s your fault. And that’s why…look, the other day, at the hospital…well, I just want to say I’m sorry about my behavior, Tom. I don’t know what came over me. But you certainly didn’t deserve it.”

Tom smiled at her. And she was nice, too. Really nice. He saw the glint of gathering tears in her eyes. His chest tightened. “Don’t worry about it. In fact, I probably owe you an apology, Darcy. Because you were right. I was sitting there in your hospital room wondering what the hell I’d just done. I mean, giving your baby my name. I never even thought about how it would be for you.”

Wiping at her eyes, she cocked her head at a questioning angle. “What do you mean…for me?”

“I mean you being an Alcott and her being an Elliott. She will have all those questions you brought up. I realize that now.”

“No, she won’t.”

Tom frowned. “She won’t?” Acute disappointment ate at him. “Oh, I see. You changed her birth certificate, right?”

“No. I didn’t. I didn’t call the nurse. I just…well, I decided to have her go by Alcott. Your name’s still on her birth certificate. But I thought it would be easier for her—at least, at first—if her last name was the same as mine.”

Some of Tom’s disappointment eroded, but not all of it. “I see. Makes sense.”

“You don’t like that, do you? You thought I’d call her Montana Elliott.”

He’d hoped she would. But he just shrugged. “Doesn’t much matter if I do or don’t like it. She’s not my baby. She’s yours. You’ll do what’s right for her, I expect, Darcy.”

She exhaled raggedly. “I wish I could be as sure of that as you sound.”

Tom shifted the wriggling baby in his arms and frowned. “What do you mean? You’re a smart woman. Educated. You got yourself this far. You must have a good head on your shoulders.”

“Well, except for where love is concerned.”

He couldn’t argue with that. But he tried. “Maybe. But that doesn’t have anything to do with loving your daughter. You’ll be a fine mother to Montana, and I admire that in you.”

Darcy smiled, looking grateful. She started to say something else, but the front door opened and in blew the three other older ladies, their arms full of flowers…including the roses that he had brought Darcy. And then, from the other way, came Margie Alcott with that promised glass of iced tea.

Tom gently, carefully handed the baby back to Darcy and stood up, reaching for his hat. “I expect I ought to go. I don’t want to overstay my welcome. And it looks like you have—”

“Oh, pooh.” Margie Alcott waved at him to sit back down. “Here. You didn’t even have your tea yet.” She put it in his hand. “Now, sit right back down and have your visit with Darcy.”

Tom looked Darcy’s way, wanting her approval. “It’s just easier to go along with her,” she assured him. Tom grinned and sat down, only then realizing that Margie was still talking to him.

“When I get my bridge club gone—well, I suppose they’ll want to be introduced to you first. Anyway, once they’re gone I want you and Darcy to go into her bedroom and—”

“Mother!”

Tom didn’t know where to look. Certainly not at Darcy, who was laying the baby in her receiving blankets on the sofa cushion. So he settled for taking a huge swig of the tea. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. Or how much he genuinely liked iced tea. Enough to scrutinize it carefully for several moments.

“Oh, Darcy. I don’t mean like that. For heaven’s sake. I was talking about that baby crib in there.”

“What about it?”

To Tom’s ear, Darcy sounded downright suspicious. He chanced a peek at her. Sure enough, her eyebrows were lowered.

“Well, I never could get it all put together right.”

“But you told me you had.”

“I know. But there were too many parts, and I couldn’t figure out where all of them went. And I didn’t want you to worry. But now I’m half afraid to lay that precious baby in it for fear it’ll collapse around her.”

Darcy sank back against the leather sofa’s thick pillows. “Oh, dear God, Mother. Don’t say things like that.”

“Well, it’s the truth. So I thought I’d get Tom here—” She turned to him. “By the way, it’s nice to meet you.” All he got to do was nod before she continued. “So I thought I’d get Tom, as long as he’s here, to take a look at it for us and make sure it’s safe for Montana. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

Tom saw his chance and jumped in. “I think it is. I’d be glad to troubleshoot for you.”

Darcy rolled her head. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve put up a crib or two in my time before.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. Remember I said Sam had five babies?”

“You know a Sam who had five babies?” That was from Margie Alcott.

Tom turned to her. “Yes, ma’am. Sam’s my older sister. Samantha. She taught me a thing or two about babies and their contraptions along the way.”

Margie Alcott’s eyes lit up. “She did?”

“Mother. Stop it right there.”

Tom looked at Darcy. “What’s wrong?”

She looked tired, but she was grinning—and shaking her head. “If I were you, I wouldn’t say another word, Tom.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you do, you’ll find yourself Eligible Bachelor Number Two.”

6

DARCY SAT CROSS-LEGGED on her twin bed with her mother next to her, who cuddled a sleeping Montana in her arms. They silently, companionably watched Tom trying to wrestle into submission an ornately carved, stubbornly constructed baby crib.

From her viewpoint, though, Darcy figured—even if she didn’t know him—she’d be happy to buy a ticket, climb the bleachers along with a throng of women, find her seat, eat her popcorn, and just watch him…oh, say…reconstruct a building, for example. Or put together a puzzle. Or paint a brick wall. Or rewrite, by hand, the entire phone book. Mud wrestle. It didn’t matter…as long as he was naked, of course.

It was true. The man was perfectly constructed, a work of art himself. Clothes couldn’t hide that, any more than she could hide, from herself, that she wanted him. Wanted him bad. Well, who wouldn’t? It’s not fair. Just look at him. The man’s physique screamed Take Me Now!