6

Bulwark, Texas, First of December

He’d been back from Andraste for four days, and she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him. And that annoyed her. Which was absurd. It wasn’t as if she had seen him on a daily basis before he left, so why would she expect it to be different now?

Darla slammed her car door. “Because everything’s different now,” she muttered, “and you need to tell him. Before Tuesday.”

Because Tuesday was the start of Bobby’s next seven-day baby-making obligation.

And he wasn’t needed anymore.

She placed a hand on her midriff, her mind conflicted. Her wish for Christmas was granted. So why did she feel so … hollow?

Gah!

Darla hurried into the clinic and went about her normal arrive-at-work routine. Minus the coffee — she’d had her new one-cup-a-day allocation at home.

Mindy was behind the reception desk as usual and about to greet the woman, Darla instead stared at the small Christmas tree with its blinking lights on the corner of the desk. The tree always came out on the first of December.

Be careful what you wish for.

“Hey, Darla,” Mindy greeted.

Darla pushed her thoughts aside and forced a smile. “Morning! What’s the day like?”

Saturdays could go either way. She hoped for a full day. It would take her mind off things. Keep her from wallowing over the muddle of her own making.

“Not so bad.”

Darla reached for the tablet and made her way to her office. Even the new Darla J. Miller, CNM , lettering on her door did not lift her spirits. When she had accepted Lee’s partnership offer, the woman had not lost time opening a second clinic in a neighboring town, and as of a month ago, Darla ran the Bulwark practice with the help of Mindy and the three nurses who split their time between the two clinics, depending on the workload.

She walked over to her desk and placed the tablet down on one side. And stared in confusion at the gift bag placed in the center of her desk. It was a shimmering blue color with matching tissue paper.

It wasn’t her birthday. Not for many months.

She lifted the bag. It was light. A brown envelope rested among the tissue paper with her name sprawled across the center in black ink. She opened it and extracted a square card with an illustration of a cardinal and holly berries set on a blue background, and a red number one on the top left corner.

Darla flipped it over.

Thought of you when I saw this. Dream of me when you wear it.

B

B?

Her heart stuttered.

Bobby!

It struck her that she’d never seen his handwriting. And the absurdity that she didn’t know her baby daddy’s handwriting forced a shaky laugh from her. She traced her finger over the black script. Never in a million years would she have guessed that the artistic cursive came from Bobby’s work roughened hand.

But think of the magic those hands created. Think of when his palms stroked over your skin, caressing your body, seeking, finding sensitive areas. And his fingers, his clever, clever fingers as they teased and tweaked and pinched and rubbed, making you burn with desire.

Her breasts grew heavy, her nipples hardened, and she clenched her thighs together. A small moan escaped.

Stop . You are in your office. Your place of work, for goodness’ sake.

Darla forcefully pulled herself back in her present. But her fingers trembled as they grasped the ends of the tissue paper, tugging it from the bag. She laid the fragile package down and pulled the soft wrapping open.

“Oh,” she gasped, staring at the exposed contents in shocked delight.

Much like she had traced over his beautiful words, she ran her fingers over the silk material in awe. And when she lifted the scarf, revealing the vibrant blues and pinks of the large hydrangea flowers, tears filled her eyes.

Bobby had been thinking of her while away on vacation.

And he wanted her to dream of him when she wore it at night.

She pressed the silk to her face, breathing deeply, hoping for a whiff of the citrus-infused earthy smell she associated with Bobby. “Silly girl,” she mocked, carefully folding the material.

Unless it was from an airport gift shop, a last-minute purchase before he boarded his flight. After all, the hydrangea was the national flower of Andraste.

Remember, he’s not to be trusted. Bobby Bell turned his back on you once before and can do it again.

She folded the scarf and placed it back on top of the tissue paper and wrapped it with sharp, choppy moves.

Her movements stilled.

Dream of me when you wear it.

“Your boyfriend was waiting outside when I arrived,” a woman spoke from the doorway. “I hope it’s okay if I let him in? He was so eager to surprise you.”

Darla jumped. It was her new nurse assistant, Meredith. The middle-aged woman had moved to town at the beginning of the month, making a fresh start after her husband of twenty-six years passed away.

Shoving the scarf into the bag, Darla rounded her desk. “No problem,” she muttered, opening her bottom drawer. She dropped the bag and rammed it shut with her leg as something Meredith said registered. “Boyfriend?” she snapped.

Meredith gave her a surprised look. “Tall handsome blond cowboy? He said he was your boyfriend?”

“He said he was my boyfriend,” Darla parroted.

Her nurse nodded, her eyes growing rounder. “Did I do something wrong? He seemed so sincere. And very charming.”

Darla huffed. “No. It’s fine.”

When Bobby laid on the charm …

Well, even the hardest of hearts would melt, never mind a middle-aged woman recovering from the loss of her husband.

It was a couple of hours before she had a chance to pick up her cellphone. She found the messaging app and typed:

Boyfriend?

His reply came after several minutes’ delay:

Your assistant asked who I was. Boyfriend was the most innocuous label I could come up with.

Darla pondered the simple explanation. It sounded plausible.

Thanks for the scarf. It’s pretty.

You’re welcome. I saw it in a boutique when I took my mum shopping. The colors caught my eye, and you came to mind.

She bit her lip as a flash of shame washed over her. Not a last-minute thought, then.

Not sure if I’ll dream of you …

But you’ll think of me when you wear it …

He added a wink emoji.

Damn him. She would.

His next text came before she could respond.

Maybe you can wear it when I visit next week? Tuesday, right?

Now was the time to let him off the hook.

To tell him he needn’t visit her again.

But the idea of never hearing his knock on her door, never letting him into her apartment, never having him in her bed again, never feeling him slide over her, in her, was unbearable.

Another message popped up.

Maybe you can wear the scarf … and nothing else?

A flash of desire zinged through her, and she pictured Bobby’s expression when she opened the door wearing the scarf and nothing else.

She jumped at a knock on the door. Her office door. Darla shoved her thoughts aside and hurriedly typed:

Next patient arrived. Till Tuesday.

She’d tell him then. Of the baby, that is, and not what his suggestive texts did to her.

*

Dream of me when you wear it.

And she did.

After she skillfully wound the silk around her head, protecting her newly treated blonde tipped hair.

And after she slipped between the silk sheets wearing nothing but the scarf.

And after her hands wandered, trying desperately to recreate the skill of his hands, but failing miserably, her climax nothing but a sad imitation of the real thing.

But when Bobby Bell entered her dreams, it was a confusing discordant mishmash, always ending where he walked away, leaving her clutching a baby to her chest, staring at his retreating back with tears running down her face, wondering how her broken heart would ever heal.

*

Darla woke exhausted, her pillow damp, her mood foul. And she wanted nothing more than to stay in bed and wallow in the misery of her own making. But it was the last Sunday of the month, and it was the one day her mother expected her ass to be in the pew and attend the family dinner afterwards.

She slipped from the bed and padded to the bathroom. And caught sight of her naked form in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall beside the door. Naked except for the damned scarf. She yanked it off and flung it aside. The silk fluttered to the floor, a gorgeous wave of floral abundance.

She scowled at the material, shifted her eyes, and scowled at her image. “He’s a scoundrel. A breaker of hearts. A knave , not a knight. Best you remember that, girl.”

Even her shower, followed by a breakfast consisting of coffee and toasted bagel, did not lessen her cranky demeanor. She marched out her door, down the stairs, and out to her car with fresh resolve.

Bobby Bell was her baby daddy. Nothing more.

They would co-parent their child, his or her wellbeing central to their relationship, while remaining civil to each other.

There would be no personal interaction.

No flirting, no touches, no kisses, and most definitely no sex.

Her car beeped as she approached, the door unlocking. Reaching for the handle, she noticed the flyer under her windshield wiper. She moved closer and tugged it free.

And frowned.

It was an envelope. With her name on it. Same as yesterday.

She flipped it over. It was sealed. Using her finger to coax it open, she ripped the envelope in her rush. This card depicted a white number two with red candy cane stripes in the center.

Her belly somersaulted as she read the words written in his beautiful script:

Love your new hairstyle.

Darla spun about, her gaze scanning her surrounds.

No Bobby. No sign of his truck. And the slight dampness of the envelope indicated it had been placed a while ago.

She read the message again, a smile forming.

Bobby loved her hair.

Her smile dimmed.

Was he stalking her?

Narrowing her eyes, she took a slower and more thorough look around. A lone jogger heading down the road. An older couple walking their dog. A child riding a bicycle.

Her car beeped, startling her. It had auto locked. Cursing silently, she found her keys, pressed the unlock button, and climbed behind the steering wheel. She placed the card on the passenger seat beside her purse.

A new smile ghosted across her lips, and she couldn’t stop the surge of pleasure. Bobby loved her hair.

Darla shifted into reverse and looked in the rearview mirror. “You’re in so much trouble, girl,” she told herself, backed out her parking bay, and drove her pregnant self to church.

*

The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, the kaleidoscope of colors shimmering over the worn wooden pews. She had grown up attending this church, but the familiar sights and sounds of people gathering, greeting each other, finding their places in the pews, did nothing to calm her nerves. As the congregation settled, a palpable sense of anticipation filled the air, but the weight of the pregnant (no pun intended!) silence created a heaviness in her chest.

Darla watched her mother step up behind the pulpit. Strange how the woman had so much time for her flock, showering them with grace and forgiveness, yet she ruled her family with an iron fist. There was no place for mistakes, for breaking the rules, going against the tide. Her mother’s voice soothed the fears of many as she spoke of faith, love, and community, but for Darla every word was a reminder of the road ahead — one laden with judgment. She knew going down this path would create friction within her family. An accidental pregnancy she might’ve gotten away with, but a planned one, especially when she had no plans on marrying the father, would not be accepted with a smile.

She moved her hand to her midriff.

You are loved and wanted, little one.

Pushing aside her troubled thoughts. Darla looked up.

Right into the eagle stare of Pastor Norma.

A flash of dread surged through her. Had her mom caught her furtive move? The pulpit offered a clear view across the entire church. She resisted squirming and left her hand in place. Holding her mother’s gaze, she lifted her chin in a silent dare. The woman looked away first, giving Darla a sense of victory. Her father, seated beside her, shifted his gaze between her and his wife, and murmured, “Are you two at loggerheads again?”

“Not yet,” she muttered.

His only reply was a deep, beleaguered sigh.

Darla tilted her head and laid it on his shoulder. In turn, her father brushed a kiss across her forehead and patted her still bent arm. She gave a sigh of her own, knowing no matter what, she had the support of her daddy.

Lunch passed in the normal raucous Miller style, and Darla focused on participating, hellbent on avoiding any manner of conflict. It was exhausting, and she couldn’t help giving a big fat yawn.

Of course, it didn’t escape the notice of Momma Miller. “You getting enough sleep, Darla?”

“Yes, Momma,” she replied.

“Humph! That skinny white boy visiting again?” her grandfather boomed from across the room.

All eyes turned to her, and before she could catch herself, the words tumbled from her mouth, “Bobby’s not skinny.” Indeed, a lot of hard muscle covered his trim frame.

Someone giggled. Maybe one of her nieces from the corner where the teenagers clustered.

She wasn’t one to blush (that was Bobby’s thing), but Darla felt the heat spread across her chest and neck, flooding her face. So much for flying under the radar. And Bobby parking a street over to avoid anyone seeing his truck outside her apartment building was for nought.

“Bobby?” her mother asked, her tone calm. Too calm.

“Why would you hook up with Bobby Bell again?” her brother asked.

His wife shushed him.

“You seeing Bobby Bell, Darla?” her mother asked.

Darla squared her shoulders. “It’s over.” But he’s the father of your grandbaby. So what you gonna do about that? she almost added, but today was not the day to drop her bombshell. Besides, Bobby deserved to hear the news first.

Her mother’s brows disappeared beneath her hair. “He was in church today. Sat at the back. Came in late” — she sniffed — “left early.”