even before she told him she was pregnant. I have strong feelings for you, Mik, but I am who I am, and I’m not ready for any of this. Sorry.
Who needed a lying, cheating, no-good rat sitting in the corner chair?
“That is what friends are for, my dear,” Amy said, flicking her long auburn hair behind her shoulder. “And honestly? I might have ulterior motives of finding out what goes on at these appointments. One day I hope to be sitting exactly where you are. Okay, maybe no woman loves putting her bare feet into those metal stirrups...”
Mikayla laughed. Amy would make an amazing mother.
And so would she. Mikayla had had to give herself a few too many pep talks over the past several months, that she could do this, that she would do this—and well.
There was a gentle knock on the door and a tall, attractive man wearing a white lab coat entered the room with her chart and a warm smile. He introduced himself as Dr. Drew Strickland, an ob-gyn on temporary assignment here from Thunder Canyon, but he let Mikayla know he would absolutely be here through her delivery.
Fifteen minutes later, assured all was progressing as it should with the pregnancy, Mikayla sat up, appreciating the hand squeeze from Amy.
A minute after that, her resolve was blown to bits. The doctor’s basic questions were difficult to answer, which made her feel like a moron. He asked if she was staying in Rust Creek Falls long-term, because he could recommend a terrific pediatrician here and a few out in Kalispell if she didn’t mind the drive. But Mikayla wasn’t too sure of anything.
She felt as though her empty ring finger was glowing neon in the room. No partner. No father for her baby. No family for the little one. Just her. A woman who had no idea what the future held.
“Will the baby’s father be present for the labor and delivery?” Dr. Strickland asked.
Were those tears stinging the backs of her eyes? Hadn’t she cried enough over that louse? When she first held on to hope that Scott would come around for her and the baby, she’d pictured him in the delivery room—or tried to, anyway. Not that she’d actually been able to imagine Scott Wilton there for the muck or the glory. Another reality check—which helped her rally. She and her baby would be just fine. She blinked those dopey tears away and lifted her chin.
“Nope. Just me.”
“And me,” Amy said with a hand on her shoulder. “Here if you need me. I’ll even coach you through Lamaze, not that I’d know what I’m doing.”
Mikayla smiled. “Thank God for girlfriends. Thank you, Amy. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Between Amy and then Eva, her landlady at Sunshine Farm, Mikayla had truly comforting support.
“You know what?” Mikayla added, nodding at the doctor. “I might be on my own, but I have great friends, a very nice doctor, and I’m going to be a great mama to my little one. That’s all I need to know right now.”
Dr. Strickland beamed back. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Mikayla smiled. Why did she have a feeling the doc had been waiting for her to come to those conclusions?
“See you in two weeks for the ultrasound,” the doctor said. “Call if you have any questions. Even if it’s after hours, I’ll get back to you right away. That’s my promise.”
Feeling a lot better about everything than she had an hour ago, Mikayla and Amy left the exam room. Mikayla checked out, and then Amy had a really good idea.
“Of course, we have to go to Daisy’s Donuts,” Amy said, linking her arm with Mikayla’s. “A gooey treat and a fabulous icy decaf something or other. To celebrate an A-OK on the little one,” she added, gently patting Mikayla’s very pregnant belly.
Mikayla laughed. “Lead the way.” She’d been to Daisy’s a few too many times since she’d arrived in town, the call of lemon-cream donuts and crumb cake irresistible. It wasn’t as if she was going to crave salad, so Mikayla let herself have a decadent treat when she really wanted one.
She was sure the baby appreciated it.
* * *
“Jensen Jones, you listen to me! I want you out of that two-bit, Wild West, blip-on-the-map town this instant! You’re to fly back to Tulsa immediately. Do you hear me? Immediately! If not sooner!”
Jensen shook his head as his father ranted in his ear via cell phone. Walker Jones the Second was used to his youngest son doing as he was ordered by the big man in the corner office, both at home and at Jones Holdings Inc. But Jensen always drew the line where it needed to be. When his dad was right? Great. When Walker the Second was wrong? Sorry, Dad.
“No can do,” Jensen said, glancing around and wondering if he was headed in the right direction for Daisy’s Donuts. Apparently, that was the place to get a cup of coffee in Rust Creek Falls. Maybe even the only place. “I’ve got some business to take care of here. I should be back in Tulsa in a few days. Maybe a week. This negotiation is going a bit slower than I thought it would be.” Translation: it wasn’t going at all. And Jensen Jones, VP of New Business Development at Jones Holdings, wasn’t used to that.
His father let out one of his trademark snorts. “Yeah, because you’re in Rusted Falls River or whatever that town is called. Nothing goes right there.”
Jensen had to laugh. “Dad, what do you have against Rust Creek Falls? The land out here is amazing.” It really was. Jensen was a city guy, born and bred in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and he liked the finer things in life, but out here in the wilds of Montana, a man could think. Breathe. Figure things out. And Jensen had a lot to figure out. He hadn’t expected to like this town so much; hell, he’d been as shocked as his father was that three of his four older brothers had found wives in Rust Creek Falls and weren’t coming home to Tulsa. This was home now for Walker the Third and Hudson. Even jet-setter Autry had come to visit, fallen madly in love with a widowed mother of three little girls and moved the lot of them to Paris to finish a Jones Holdings negotiation. But Autry had made it clear he’d bring his wife and daughters back to Rust Creek Falls when his deals were done.
But just because Jensen liked the wide-open spaces and fresh air didn’t mean he’d settle down here. As the youngest of the five Jones brothers, each one a bigger millionaire than the next, he’d always had something to prove. Now three of his brothers had become family men and had given up their workaholic ways. Autry used words like balance. Walker the Third wanted to invest in an ergonomically correct toddler-chair company for the day care business he’d added to the Jones Holdings lot. And Hudson knew the middle names of all his nieces and nephews. Middle names! This, from three of the formerly most confirmed bachelors in Tulsa.
“What do I have against Rusted Dried-Up Creek?” his father repeated. “I’ll tell you what,” he added in one of his famous Jones patriarch bellows. “That town is full of Jones-stealing women! There are sirens there, Jensen. Just like in the Greek myths. You’d better watch out, boy. One is going to sink her claws into you and that’ll be the last your mother and I will see of you. Jones Holdings can’t operate remotely! I want my sons here in Tulsa where they belong. If not all, then you. You’ve always been the one I could count on to listen to reason.”
His poor father. The man hated not getting what he wanted. And it was rare. His mother said the man-stealing in Rust Creek Falls couldn’t be helped, that there was something in the
