To Claim His Own. Mary Baxter Lynn

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      “That’s no excuse,” Patrick flared back, a muscle in his jaw working overtime.

      “Still, that’s probably what attracted him to Uncle Sam.” Emma shivered again. “No telling what he did for them.”

      “We’ll never know,” Patrick said. “But then, I don’t give a damn. I just don’t want to ever lay eyes on the s.o.b. again.”

      Emma sighed deeply. “It’s a good thing I never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

      When her sister had hooked up with Cal Webster, Emma had been in Europe studying. By the time she’d returned, the marriage was over and Webster had disappeared.

      “The first time your sister brought him home,” Patrick was saying, “I knew he was bad news. He was cocky and arrogant even when he didn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of.”

      Knowing this conversation had dredged up painful memories, Emma crossed the room and placed a hand on her dad’s arm. “It’s okay. Like you said, he’s probably just passing through, then he’ll be gone on another assignment, no telling where.”

      “That had better be the case,” Patrick said with twisted features and venom in his voice.

      Before Emma could say anything else, Logan cried out. Turning, she ran to the pallet and dropped to her knees beside him. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said with a smile. “Mommy’s here. And so is Papa.”

      “Hey, fellow,” Patrick said, making his way to his grandson where he placed a hand on the child’s head and tousled his dark hair. “Be a good boy for Mommy today, and I’ll take you to get an ice cream cone tonight.”

      “Ice cream,” Logan repeated, a grin on his face.

      Facing Emma, Patrick said, “I’ll see you two later. I have a meeting in about five minutes.”

      She nodded. “Keep me posted.”

      Patrick’s features remained twisted. “That goes without saying.”

      Once he was gone, Emma clutched Logan so tightly to her breast that he began to whimper. “Sorry, son, didn’t mean to hurt you.” She tweaked him on the chin, then placed a hand on his forehead, which felt cool and free of any fever.

      “Mama,” he said with his toothy grin.

      “Oh,” she said wide-eyed. “I hear Mickey’s truck.”

      “Truck,” Logan mimicked, his grin increasing.

      “That’s right, which means Mama has to go. You stay with Janet, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

      As if on cue, her helper came around the corner and took the baby, whose lower lip began to tremble. “Oh, honey, it’s okay. Janet will play with you.”

      Logan kicked his legs, then looped his arms around Emma’s neck and gave her a gooey kiss on the cheek. Emma laughed with joy as she walked outside.

      

      Cal wasn’t sure this was a good idea at all. In fact, it was probably insanity at its highest level. Still, he’d made up his mind to go through with this bizarre plan, and he wasn’t about to change it now. Besides, it was too late. He was already parked in front of his ex sister-in-law’s nursery, his truck loaded with plants.

      He was sweating as though he’d been chopping wood, to his chagrin. Albeit the spring day was hotter than usual, but he shouldn’t have been wet with sweat. Dammit, he was nervous. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation. He’d been in the worst hellholes one could imagine, and here he was about to face an innocent woman and he couldn’t function.

      Only he knew she wasn’t just any woman. She was his son’s guardian.

      Dammit, he had to get hold of himself or he couldn’t even get out of the truck, much less rein in his splattered emotions. Losing control was not something he had patience with. That could get him dead.

      That sudden trek back into the past brought on a curse as Cal lunged out of the truck, making him aware that while he might be out of the jungle physically, he had a long way to go before he was out mentally.

      He’d hold that thought and dissect it another time.

      Right now, he had other fish to fry. Grabbing his clipboard, Cal made his way around the front of the vehicle. When he saw Emma coming toward him, he pulled up short.

      While she was not nearly as attractive as Connie had been, it was obvious they were sisters. Both had the same shaped face and eyes, though their eyes were different colors. And the mouth—there was a resemblance there, too.

      But that was where the likeness ended. The closer Emma came, the closer he stared with far more interest than necessary, especially since he had sworn off women.

      Most Southern women he knew would never be caught dead without makeup. Emma Jenkins was the exception, and it served her well. Her skin appeared soft and radiant and wrinkle-free, though he knew she was in her mid-thirties. You go girl, he thought; buck the status quo.

      But it was the way she was dressed that really captivated his attention. She had on a pair of bright-purple overalls with loose-fitting straps. Underneath was a skimpily-cut T-shirt that hugged her well-endowed breasts and left a smidgen of her ribs bare. He’d bet his last red cent that she was braless. On closer observation, she didn’t need one.

      Those breasts were upright and perky….

      Whoa, cowboy! It had been a long time since he’d noticed a woman’s breasts with any interest whatsoever. And he wasn’t about to start with her—his ex-wife’s sister. God forbid.

      Cal dragged his eyes off her chest and back to her face. Unlike Connie, she wasn’t beautiful in the true sense of the word, nor was she as blatantly sexy. Yet in her own right, she was lovely. And classy.

      She was tall—he’d guess five feet eight—with dark hair worn in a short, bobbed style, which accented her creamy skin and full lips. But it was her eyes that held him spellbound. They were a unique color—Windex-blue—and surrounded by an abundance of sooty lashes.

      “Mickey, it’s about time you got here.” She paused, a frown marring her brows. “You’re not Mickey,” she added inanely.

      “No, ma’am,” Cal drawled, “I’m not.”

      “Where’s Mickey?” she asked bluntly, her eyes giving him the once-over.

      He wondered what she was thinking. If he were to hazard a guess, he probably wouldn’t like it. In no way would he come near measuring up to her expectations, remembering his reflection in his mirror this morning.

      His hair was too long and his jeans and T-shirt both had holes in them. And his face—well, that was another story altogether. He knew he looked drawn and disheveled—not at all pleasing to the eyesight. But give him time, he told himself. When he had to, he cleaned up real well. He just hadn’t had the time or the inclination to do so.

      “I understand he’s now on another route. I read about the vacancy in the paper.”

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