Having the Cowboy's Baby Read online

  So, since he could no longer inherit or purchase the Rocking M from his granddad, buying the Leaning R was the next best thing.

  “You know that song you were just playing?” Carly asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Would you sing it for me? From the beginning?”

  Ian had written it right after she’d left the ranch the last time, after they’d both come to the decision that it would be best to end things between them. And while Carly had seemed to think their breakup had been permanent, he hadn’t been convinced. She usually came running back to the Leaning R whenever life dealt her a blow, so he’d known she’d return—eventually.

  Not that he’d expected her to fail. Hell, she had more talent than her mother and—from what Ian had seen and heard—more heart than either of her parents. And he suspected that, deep down, what she really yearned for was someone to love and appreciate her for who she really was.

  Ian wasn’t sure that he was that man, though.

  Then again, he wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t, either.

  He reached for his guitar, then nodded toward the empty chair on the porch, the one she used to sit on during those romantic nights she’d spent with him in his cabin.

  Once she was seated beside him, he sang the song he’d written about the two of them, wondering if she’d connect the dots, if she’d guess that she’d inspired the words and music.

  When the last guitar chords disappeared into the night, she clapped softly. “That was beautiful, Ian. I love it. But I have to ask you something. Did you write that song about...us?”

  “No, not really,” he lied. “When you left, I got to thinking about lovers ending a good thing for all the right reasons. And the words and music just seemed to flow out of me. I guess you could say the song almost wrote itself.”

  He wasn’t about to admit that the words had actually come from his heart. He’d become so adept at hiding his feelings, especially from a woman who’d become—or who was about to become—an ex-lover, that it was easier to let the emotion flow through his guitar.

  “You really should do something with that song,” Carly said. “In the right hands—or with the right voice—it could be a hit.”

  No one knew that better than Ian. With one phone call to Felicia, the song would strike platinum in no time. But then, before he knew it, every agent and musician in Nashville would be knocking on his door, insisting he come out of retirement and write for them. And there’d go his quiet life and his privacy.

  “Would you please let me sing that with you as a duet at the Stagecoach Inn on Saturday night?” Carly lifted the platter of brownies in a tempting fashion. “If you do, I’ll leave the rest of these with you.”

  A smile slid across his face. He’d always found Carly to be tempting, especially when she was determined to have her way. Sometimes he even gave in to her, but this time he couldn’t be swayed. “I may have one heck of a sweet tooth, but you can’t bribe me with goodies. It won’t work.”

  She blew out a sigh and pulled the platter back. “Don’t make me ask Don Calhoun to play for me.”

  That little weasel? Surely she wasn’t serious. “The guy who hit on you that night we stopped at the Filling Station to have a drink on our way home from the movies in Wexler?”

  “Don went to school with me, and we sometimes performed together at the county fair.”

  Ian clucked his tongue. “Calhoun’s a jerk. I saw him watching you from across the room. And as soon as I excused myself to go to the restroom, he took my seat and asked you out.”

  “Like I said, Don and I are old friends. But if it makes you feel better, I told him no and let him know that you and I were dating.”

  But they weren’t dating anymore. And, old friends or not, the guy was still a tool.

  “What’s the deal at the Stagecoach Inn on Saturday night?” Ian asked.

  “They’re having a local talent night. Our gig would just be a few songs—thirty minutes at the most. Will you please sing with me?”

  “Now it’s playing and singing?”

  She held out the brownies, offering him the entire plate, and smiled.

  But it wasn’t the brownies that caused his resolve to waver, it was the beautiful blonde whose bright blue eyes and dimples turned him every which way but loose. He’d had all kinds of women throw themselves at him, and he’d never lost his head, never forgotten that there were some who weren’t interested in the real man inside. But there was something about Carly Rayburn that reached deep into the heart of him, something sweet, something vulnerable.

  “Damn it, Carly. I’ll do it. But just this once.”

  “Thanks, Ian. You won’t regret this.”

  She was wrong. They were going to have to practice together every evening from now until Saturday. And he was already regretting it.

  Chapter Three

  Carly couldn’t believe how talented Ian was on a guitar—and how good they sounded together. Of course, that hadn’t made practicing with him any easier. In fact, over the past few nights, each session seemed to have gotten progressively harder to endure than the last, with this being the most difficult yet.

  The air almost crackled with the soaring pheromones, the heady scent of Ian’s woodsy cologne and the soft Southern twang of his voice as they performed on the front porch of his cabin. Still, she sang her heart out.

  As the music flowed between them, the words of the love songs they’d chosen taunted the raw emotion she’d once felt whenever she’d been in his arms. And it seemed to be truer now than ever, since this was their last chance to practice before singing at the local honky-tonk.

  “Let’s try ‘Breathe’ one last time,” Ian said. “Then we can call it a night.”

  “All right,” she said, but she feared that if she sang the sexy lyrics of that particular song once more time, she’d refuse to call it a night until she’d kissed the breath right out of her old lover. And then look at the fix she’d be in.

  She stole a glance at the handsome cowboy and caught a sparkle in his eyes. The crooked grin tugging at his lips suggested that he knew exactly what he’d done. And that he’d planned all along to suggest the Faith Hill hit as their wrap-up tonight.

  Darn him. He probably thought that after singing about the heated desire they shared she’d be more likely to suggest one last night of lovemaking—for old times’ sake. But she couldn’t do that, even though the idea was sorely tempting.

  She had half a notion to scratch that particular song from their list. And she would have done it, too, if they hadn’t sounded so good together.

  When the song ended, she reached for the glass of water she’d left on the porch railing and took a sip.

  “We should be ready for tomorrow night,” Ian said, as he placed his guitar back into its case.

  Had she been wrong about his intentions?

  It appeared so, and while she should be relieved, she tamped down the momentary disappointment.

  “Thanks for agreeing to sing with me,” she said again.

  He didn’t respond, which suggested that he still wasn’t happy about being forced— No, not forced. She’d only encouraged him. But he’d given his word, which meant he’d follow through on the commitment.

  Carly glanced near the front door, at the spot on the wooden flooring where Cheyenne lay curled up asleep. She would have stooped to give the puppy an affectionate pat before leaving, but she hated to wake her.

  Instead, she tucked her fingers into the front pocket of her jeans. “I think we’re going to knock ’em dead at the Stagecoach Inn.”

  “You might be right,” Ian said, “but keep in mind that it’s only a one-shot deal.”

  That’s what they’d agreed to, but she hoped it was actually their first of many performances. She kept that to herself. A
t this point, there was no need to provoke him any more than she had.

  Once he performed with her, she knew the audience would convince him that they were a perfect duo. And then maybe Ian would finally come to the same indisputable conclusion she had—that their amazing chemistry went beyond the bedroom and was destined to light up the stage.

  * * *

  Ian had been in more than his share of honky-tonks during the early days of his career, and the Stagecoach Inn was no different than the others.

  Once he crossed the graveled parking lot, climbed the wooden steps and opened the door, the smell of booze and smoke, as well as the sounds of a blaring jukebox and hoots of laughter, slammed into him, taking him back in time to a place he no longer wanted to be.

  He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the people mill about and chatter among themselves.

  When he’d been known as Mac McAllister, one of Felicia’s Wiley Five, he’d worn his hair long. A bristled face had given him a rugged look he’d favored back then.

  Hopefully, no one would recognize him now that he’d shaved and cut his hair in a shorter style. He was also dressed differently, opting for a white button-down shirt and faded jeans, rather than the mostly black attire he’d worn on stage before.

  It wasn’t until a couple came up behind him that he finally stepped inside the honky-tonk. With his guitar in hand, he made his way across the scarred wood floor to the bar, which stretched across the far wall. In the old days, when he’d played with the Wiley Five, he’d relied on a couple of shots of tequila to get him through the performance. But that wasn’t his problem as he headed toward the bar tonight—his throat was just dry.

  He was also annoyed at Carly for forcing his hand—or maybe he was just plain angry at himself for rolling over and agreeing to perform with her. He didn’t normally do anything he didn’t feel like doing.

  So why had he agreed to do it for her?

  Why here? Why now?

  And why had she asked him to meet her here instead of riding over together? Something didn’t quite seem right. She might say she hadn’t played her daddy, but that wasn’t true. And while she might think she could wrap Ian around her little pinky, too, that definitely wasn’t the case. After tonight, it wouldn’t happen again.

  The thirtysomething bartender, a busty brunette in a low-cut tank top, leaned forward across the polished oak bar and offered him an eyeful. “Can I get you a drink, cowboy? It’s happy hour. Draft beers are two for one.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not looking for a deal.”

  “Ooh. Big spender. I like that in my men.”

  Ian liked his bartenders to keep quiet and do their job. Instead of serving the patrons, this flirty brunette ought to be seated on the other side of the bar, tempting the male customers to buy her a drink.

  “I’ll have a root beer,” he said.

  Her eyes widened, and her lips parted. “Seriously?”

  “You got a problem with my order?”

  “Nope.” She straightened and her smile faded. “Coming right up.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the door, wondering where Carly was. He doubted she’d be late. The performance was too important to her.

  The busty barkeep set a can and a frosted mug in front of him. “Do you want to run a tab?”

  “Nope.” He placed a ten dollar bill on the bar, then took a swig of his soda pop.

  “That’s a shame. I was looking forward to serving you all night.”

  As the brunette turned to get Ian’s change, Carly, who’d apparently just arrived, eased in beside him. She was wearing a brand-new outfit—at least, as far as he could tell. And with her makeup done to a tee, she was just as beautiful as ever, although he preferred to see her without all the hairspray and glitz.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said.

  “I haven’t been here long.”

  She laughed, her eyes sparkling. “I’m just glad you showed up.”

  Ian reached for her hand and held it tight, his thumb pressing against her wrist, where her pulse rate kicked up a notch. “I said I’d be here, Carly. And while I’ll admit I’m not happy about doing it, when I give my word about something, I keep it. So if you had any real doubts, you don’t know me as well as you think.”

  Her glimmering eyes widened, and her lips parted. He wasn’t sure if it was his words or his touch setting her emotions reeling. Either way, he didn’t mind. There were a few things she needed to get straight about him. He was loyal and honest to a fault. But he wasn’t anyone’s lapdog.

  He released her hand, his own heart rate pulsing through his veins, his own emotions swirling around in a slurpy mess. What was it about Carly Rayburn that set him off like this?

  “I’m sorry for pushing you,” she said, “but this is going to be fun. You won’t be sorry once you see how people react to the two of us singing. Besides, we practiced—and we sound good together.”

  They had practiced. And they did do well. Carly had a beautiful voice, maybe even better than Felicia’s. It had a sultrier edge to it, a sexy, intoxicating sound that the fans were going to eat up. Hell, Ian could listen to her talk or laugh or sing all night long.

  “What time are we supposed to go on?” he asked.

  “Around nine o’clock—give or take a few minutes. Do you want to find a table? Or would you rather sit here at the bar?”

  He glanced at the bartender, who was laying down his change, her eyes and her sullen expression focused on Carly.

  “I’d be more comfortable at one of the booths in the corner,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  This time, he didn’t give her a chance to argue.

  * * *

  Carly followed Ian as he made his way through the crowd to an out-of-the-way spot in the back. She hadn’t meant to push him or to anger him. No matter what he might think, she wasn’t that type of woman. But in this case, she felt she was doing him a favor.

  She supposed she was doing herself one, too.

  The only way the two of them could strike up any kind of romantic relationship again, one that might even prove lasting, was if they could perform together. Once they did, he’d see that he was meant to pursue a career in music, same as she. But even then, a commitment might be questionable. Carly was used to strong men. And Ian seemed so...quiet and unassuming. Perhaps he just needed a little push now and then to help build his self-confidence.

  She’d struggled with that herself until Braden’s mom encouraged her to sing in the Sunday choir one summer. And it had done wonders for her.

  Yes, all Ian needed was to see that there was a future for him as a singer and musician—one that was more exciting and profitable than working someone else’s cattle for the rest of his life.

  Of course, when Ian had grabbed her hand this evening, when he’d admonished her for not trusting him to be a man of his word, he’d certainly given her reason to doubt her initial assessment of him.

  Sure, she knew he was a good man, an honest one. And there was no question he was an amazing and considerate lover. She wouldn’t have gotten involved with him in the first place if that hadn’t been the case. It’s just that they’d hit this fork in their road, and he wanted to go a different direction than she did.

  She wouldn’t claim it hadn’t hurt her to end things between them, but it had been for the best. Really.

  Now, as they sat in silence in a darkened corner booth, Ian’s expression somber, she knew she had to think of something to say, something to change his mood. But before she could give it any thought, a blonde cocktail waitress stopped at their table.

  “Can I get y’all a drink?” she asked.

  Carly would have ordered a glass of wine, but her tummy had been bothering her again. Not as badly as it had in San Antonio, but she didn’t dare risk a bout of nausea
before performing. “I’ll have a lemon-lime soda.”

  “You got it.” The cocktail waitress looked at Ian and smiled. “How about you?”

  “I’ll have a shot of tequila—Patrón or the best you have.”

  Now that was a surprise. Ian never drank—at least, Carly hadn’t seen him drink. But apparently, she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought.

  “I didn’t realize you liked tequila,” she said.

  He didn’t respond.

  Maybe he was just taking the edge off his nerves. She probably should have been a little more understanding, but there was only one way to kick a little stage fright, and that was to perform right through it.

  He remained quiet, his expression intense, until the waitress brought his drink. Carly expected him to grimace at the taste, but instead, he threw it back as if it were the sweet tea he sometimes favored.

  Okay, so maybe he hadn’t always been the teetotaler she’d thought he might be. But if a stiff shot eased his nerves, that was fine with her.

  Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long. Just before nine o’clock, Earl Tellis, the owner of the Stagecoach Inn, took the stage, following two cowboys who played the fiddle.

  “Folks, we have a real treat for y’all tonight. Most of you know Rosabelle Rayburn, who owned the Leaning R Ranch and who was one of the finest women in these parts. Well, her great-granddaughter, Carly, and her foreman, Ian, will be singing for you now. Come on up here, you two.”

  “You ready?” Carly asked as she slid out from the booth.

  Ian, who’d corralled his empty shot glass with both hands, grumbled like a bear coming out of his cave in the spring. But like he’d said, he’d given her his word that he’d sing with her tonight.

  A rush of guilt and regret swept through her, sending her tummy on a roller-coaster ride. Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have pushed him to do something that made him uncomfortable. But it was too late to backpedal now. So she headed to the stage as Ian joined her, his guitar in hand.