how Emily, the heroine in my story, feels about her baby’s quilt. Knowing how much love her mom put into each stitch would make her cherish it. It’s nothing fancy. And it’s not the sort of thing the worldly, sophisticated Justin Sloan would value. At least not until she shows him how. After all, as we know from every THAT’S MY BABY! title, it’s the little things that count.
Best wishes,
Contents
Chapter One
Justin Sloan’s mood was as black as the storm clouds churning in the Western Illinois sky. His car had a dead battery. In a fit of rebellion, which he was rapidly coming to regret, he’d left his cell phone recharging in his fifty-second-floor condo in Chicago. And since he hadn’t had the foresight to throw rain gear into his trunk along with his fishing pole and a spare T-shirt, he was about to get soaked to the skin. Those clouds were too leaden to hold back their moisture for long.
The wind shifted and danced, fanning the tall grasses and wildflowers as he continued his trek along the narrow country road. According to his map, the town of Hancock was ten miles from the little bridge he’d just crossed, a good thirty miles closer than the freeway exit he’d taken to reach the fishing spot a client had told him about. Spending a Saturday making long looping casts into a secluded stream had sounded like a fine idea when he’d been staring at the ceiling above his bed at 6:00 a.m. Five hours later, he almost wished he’d fought his insomnia with a run along the shore of Lake Michigan instead.
Almost.
The same edginess that had prompted his escape from the city still stirred in his gut. He’d had to get out. Get away. The need had felt too urgent to question. He wasn’t even questioning it now. It had been there ever since he’d left last night’s celebration dinner—a dinner given in his honor—and still hadn’t quite eased.
The road ahead took a gradual rise over the gently rolling land and made a dogleg turn to the right. His glance narrowed on a house to the left.
The modest old farmhouse sat back from the road, a relic from the turn of last century and painfully austere. It stood ghostly white against the charcoal-gray sky, its stark appearance unrelieved by any hint of decoration except a single window box overflowing with blooms of bright-red. The porch was a utilitarian square, the railings utterly plain. But the land surrounding it burst with every imaginable shade of green. Nearest the road, row upon row of brilliant emerald plants glowed jewellike against dark, loamy earth. Farther back, miles of corn merged on a large square of land planted with what looked to be a vegetable garden. A windmill, its blades spinning madly, guarded a tidy utility shed and a chicken coop.
Relieved to know he wouldn’t have to walk ten miles in the rain to get to a phone, he set his sights on a woman disappearing into a greenhouse and jogged across the road and up the property’s long graveled driveway. Thirty feet from the building, he slowed his pace. The young woman had appeared again. With her calf-length blue dress tangling around her legs, she headed for a long rack of plants.
Slender as a willow branch and just as supple, she bent to hurriedly tuck a flat of plants under each arm and headed for the greenhouse once more. Wisps of flaxen hair had escaped the braid that dangled nearly to her waist. The wind whipped those gleaming strands into a halo around her head, but it was the way the gusts of air plastered the shapeless garment to her body that had most of his attention as he moved toward her.
The thought that she was probably half his age immediately jerked his attention from her intriguing curves. Mentally disrobing the farmer’s seventeen-year-old daughter wasn’t likely to make the farmer eager to lend him a hand. Considering the bolt of lightning streaking against the wall of black in the distance, he wasn’t interested in jeopardizing his welcome.
“Is your dad around anywhere?” he called, an instant before a crack of thunder shook the windows in the house behind him.
It was hard to tell which caused her footsteps to falter when her head jerked up—finding a large, male stranger in her yard, or the jarring boom that sent a covey of wrens screaming from the sweeping arms of the walnut tree shading the house. She’d been so focused on her task that she hadn’t even noticed his approach.
That task obviously took precedence. Ignoring him, she dropped her hand from where it had flattened at her throat and, with her hair streaming across her face, disappeared into the greenhouse.
“Great,” he muttered, looking around for signs of someone who might be a little more cooperative.
There wasn’t anyone outside that he could see. There weren’t any lights on in the house to indicate anyone was inside, either. Wondering if someone might be in the greenhouse, he looked through the plastic-covered windows that had already fluttered loose in places. The milky material rustled in the wind, echoing the snap of the blinding white sheets billowing on the clothesline. There were no shadows to indicate a human inside. The only other form of life seemed to be the chickens who were abandoning their wire enclosure for the white clapboard coop.
A flash of pale blue streaked from the greenhouse.
In no mood to wait until she decided to acknowledge him, he moved with her.
“Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but my car won’t start. It’s not far from here,” he explained when she’d kept going without giving him so much as a glance. “Is your dad around?” he called. “All I need is a jump.”
She hurriedly lifted two more flats of tiny green plants from the rack near the vegetable garden. “My father doesn’t live here.”
She finally looked up. Justin didn’t know which caught him more off guard, the velvet soft quality of her voice, her faint accent, or the angelic
