Somethin' Dirty: Country Fever, Book 4 (2 page)

“I’m going to get stretch marks.”

“Price you gotta pay.”

“Will you pay for a tummy tuck too?”

That last remaining coal of warmth he held for Miranda blackened and died. He set his jaw. “My offer stands as is.”

She met his gaze, and he saw all of the things she might have been to him. Now he just wanted her body to grow and protect the baby he wanted more.

Finally, she nodded. “Deal.”

“Shake on it. I’ll have my lawyer draw up papers this afternoon. Until then, I’ll accept your word that you won’t do…” he waved at the room surrounding them, “…this.”

Miranda extended a hand, and he slipped his into it, squeezing her fingers firmly. “I promise.”

“Good. Now get dressed, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot. I can’t bear for my child to be in this place a moment longer.”

Lyric straightened her little body like a board, arms rigid.

“Ahh, shit.” Neither of them could have been asleep more than five minutes and now she was gearing up for the colic scream.

He gained his feet and positioned her high on his shoulder as he did a rotation of the living room.

With one hand around the dark, fuzzy head of his daughter, he wondered why he hadn’t planned this better. Lyric couldn’t have come at a worse time for a rancher. Of course, he hadn’t planned it at all.

Lust had claimed his senses, but it wouldn’t happen again. One little bundle was enough in his life.

He patted Lyric’s back the way his ma did when the child had colic. Thank God Ma came by daily to help out or his ranch would have gone to hell right quick.

Heading down the hall to Lyric’s bedroom, he wore the same path back and forth, and finally circled the pretty pink room he’d painted for her. His footsteps grew heavy and his eyelids felt like two sacks of grain.

He’d taken Lyric to the pediatrician two weeks ago, only to find out that some babies had colic and some didn’t. Lyric was one of them who did.

“Shh-shh-shh.” He shushed into her ear in rhythm to his footfalls.

She bowed her back and screamed louder. Each wail etched itself deep into his heart, flaying his nerves in the meantime.

“Shh-shh-shh.”

She gulped for air, filling her lungs to let loose again.

He cupped his hand over her velvety head and nuzzled between her eyes. “Sweet Lyric, it’s okay.” The song he’d written rose up inside him, bubbling out of his lips without thought.

He hadn’t sung it for many months. The words poured out, and he slowed his pace to accompany the beat of the song—a song about a newfound relationship, and how only one lyric was important enough to be sung.

“I love you,” he crooned into his daughter’s ear.

Her cries mellowed, and her sturdy legs quit churning against his chest. He continued on, singing the same verse. Around and around the room he walked, patting her back, singing his own brand of lullaby, until Lyric went boneless in his hold.

His eyes drooped, and he swayed with fatigue. A glance at the window revealed a slim band of light on the distant horizon. Too soon that sun would rise, and he’d have to slip into his T-shirt, Wranglers and boots and head out for another back-breaking day on the ranch. He couldn’t ease off on the workload now—he needed the money more than ever to put Miranda through college.

And the woman had transferred from the community college to an expensive university, damn her.

Griffin stopped walking and sank into the rocking chair with the baby clasped tightly to his chest. He had been rocked in this chair by his mother, and his grandmother had rocked her children in the old hickory chair too.

Lyric didn’t have a mother in her life to rock her, but Griffin vowed not to let that weigh into the equation. If he could help it, Lyric would be a happy and well-adjusted child.

“I can’t wait to buy you a pair of cowgirl boots,” he whispered.

She jerked. Her arms flailed outward at the rasp of his voice, and she issued an eardrum-bursting shriek again.

Griffin put his lips against her ear and started singing to her. All the while he rocked and sang, he wondered how it would have felt to share this responsibility with a good woman.

Nola flipped down the visor and adjusted her sunglasses against the glare. The last of the spring frost slicked the land, disguising the hills and mountains of Wyoming as marshmallows. Some people called the land pretty, but the sun’s position during her commute to work made for a difficult drive.

There were so many other routes into Reedy, but this was the fastest, and she couldn’t waste a minute.

She’d gotten out of bed late again.

A glance at the clock on the dash told her that her father wouldn’t kill her today for being late to work. If she didn’t get behind a slow truck, she’d make it with two minutes to spare.

Filling in by answering phones at his optometry office didn’t exactly inspire Nola to get up in the mornings, but it was money in her pocket. If she was going to hit that goal of moving to Nashville to pursue her singing career, she needed dough.

Of course, her daddy had offered her a long-term position in his office, but she couldn’t think of anything more annoying than watching people squint at eye charts and giving them opinions on the new frames they’d chosen.

She slowed as she came into Reedy, cursing as she hit the single red light. The little town had a quaint charm to it, but she was ready to get out. Move on with her life. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be in danger of falling victim to some cowboy and living the country life forever.

Her sister, Molly, wanted nothing more than to snag a cowboy. She even worked in the hat and boot shop, hoping it would help her meet Mr. Silver Buckle.

No, that wasn’t for Nola. At twenty-five, she was caught in the middle of worlds—too young to settle down and too old to keep dreaming without acting on it. If she wanted this career as a country music singer, she had to jump.

She navigated her economy car off Main Street and into a parking lot where she could pay by the week. Well, Daddy paid.

She climbed out, careful to position her high-heeled boots so she didn’t slip on the dew-covered asphalt.

Her father’s vehicle was three spaces down, gleaming from a fresh wash. He was maniacal about clean cars—inside and out—and was found in the garage most weekends detailing it.

If he’d already run through the car wash, it meant he’d been at the office for quite a while, probably leafing through the files to ensure she’d done her job correctly.

As she passed his vehicle, she noticed a smudge of dirt on the door—mud thrown by a passing car. She rubbed her thumb over it to remove the dirt, then fished in her purse for a tissue to clean her thumb.

She glanced at her watch.
Annnd, now I’m officially late
.

At least her father would be content with his clean vehicle. She just needed one more bit of ammunition—a special breakfast treat to smooth over the fact she was late.

Sighing, she headed down the sidewalk toward the office. Reedy was just waking up. Most of the shops weren’t open yet, which meant Molly was sleeping in. Sisterly irritation wove its way through Nola.

She stopped off in the coffee shop for a Chai tea and a fresh honey bun, which put her seven minutes late. So by the time she reached the office, her father was already trying to talk to the first patient and answer the phone at the same time.

“Sorry, Daddy,” she said, rushing forward. She pulled the phone from his hand and gave him both the tea and paper bag. She dropped a kiss to his cheek. “Stopped to get you breakfast.” Into the phone, she said in her sweetest voice that dripped of helpfulness, “Good morning, Dr. Brady’s office.”

Her father stared at her for a long minute, his red brows climbing toward his receding hairline like caterpillars searching for homes. Then with a tilt of his head, he asked the patient to follow him to examination room one.

Looking around the office, despair filled Nola. All she wanted to do was use her voice to entertain people. Since the age of three, she’d vowed to become a country music singer. Now her voice was wasted speaking with insurance companies.

It’s only temporary
.

Nola sank into the office chair, taking information from a new patient over the phone and typing it into the computer. When the call ended, she flopped back, staring at the ceiling, wrists dangling toward the floor.

“I have to get out of this town.”

Chapter Two

“Here comes Nana,” Griffin said to Lyric. She flapped her arms and cooed from her pink bouncy seat on the floor.

The whine of his mother’s car engine grew louder as she wound up the long drive to his ranch. Six years he’d lived up here, and he adored that driveway. Each corner he rounded, he grew more excited to see the house he’d built, like a kid peeking into store windows at new toys.

He ran his fingers through his hair. Two cups of coffee already hummed in his veins, and he’d gotten five consecutive hours of sleep last night. Lyric’s colic seemed to be on the run.

At least he hoped so. The world looked prettier through eyes that weren’t so sleep-bleary.

When his mother entered, he had a fresh mug of coffee poured for her, the same way he enjoyed it—black.

A moment passed while she shed boots and coat. He looked up as she appeared around the corner between kitchen and mudroom.

He sucked in a breath. She looked…distraught.

She dropped her teary gaze from his immediately and bent to talk to Lyric. “How’s Nana’s little baby girl this morning? Your daddy’s hair isn’t sticking up today. Must mean you slept well.”

He stared at his mom’s blotchy throat, half covered by her shoulder-length white hair. Alice Turner never flushed unless she’d been crying. The last time he’d seen her cry had been at his grandmother’s funeral.

“Did someone die?”

She jerked upright, all the blood draining from her face.

He reached her in one step. Grasping her arm, he steadied her. “Sit down. No, not on the bar stool. It’s too high. Here at the table.” A table he’d hand-built from white oak. He and Miranda had christened it properly. In fact, it was entirely possible that little Lyric was conceived on it.

His ma slid into the seat and stared straight ahead at the wall.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting adjacent to her.

“I had a quick doctor’s appointment this morning to go over the results of some tests.”

He drew his brows together. “What kind of tests?” His mother was all alone—his dad had taken off in Griffin’s early childhood. So Griffin was all she had now.

She carefully wove her fingers together—long and beautifully shaped fingers that reminded him of warm caresses. When she met his gaze, he felt it like a fist in the gut. He hunched forward and grabbed her joined hands.

“Tell me.”

It had to be something bad. His happy-go-lucky ma never wore anything but a smile.

“I have a lump, Griffin.” Her voice faltered, and his stomach plummeted ten stories. The world made a slow revolution as his shocked mind fought to absorb what she was saying.

She went on. “It’s breast cancer. I need a m-mastectomy.” She broke down completely.

With a huff of emotion, he leapt out of his chair and enveloped her in his arms, shielding her with his strength the same way he cradled his baby girl.

“Cancer treatments…chemo.” She choked. “Losing my hair.” The last ended on a wail. She pressed a hand to her head, and flossy white strands clung to her fingers.

He covered her hand. “We’ll get through it. I swear we will. You’ll be strong and when you’re not, I’ll be strong for you.”

At that, she gave a sniffling laugh. “You’re stubborn enough to do just that, Griffin.”

He squeezed her tighter. God, how was he going to get through this? He didn’t only need her around for his sanity but she was his support system. She couldn’t very well take care of Lyric after surgery or make bottles between throwing up from chemotherapy.

His mother sniffed loudly, and his selfish thoughts vanished—smoke in a stiff breeze. This wasn’t about him. He’d begged Miranda to have this baby—Lyric was his responsibility. Somehow he’d do it all—run a ranch, raise his daughter and care for his sick mother.

“God, Ma, I’m so sorry.” He planted a big kiss on her cheek. She reached up to cradle his jaw.

“I know. Here I sit with a tumor in my breast and I can’t help but worry about Lyric.”

Damn, not you too
. He released her and grabbed a box of tissues from a shelf. He sat again as he pushed the box toward his ma. She withdrew two and blew her nose.

Studying her face, he found himself drinking in her features, memorizing the crinkles around her dark brown eyes—eyes like his. What if he never saw her again?

“Stop looking at me like that. I’m not dead yet.” Amusement tinged her voice, and he shook his head. She had an uncanny ability to read him.

Lyric cawed, and they both turned to look at her.

“Get my grandbaby out of the seat. I need to hold her.”