“Then that’s exactly what you need to do, and, honey, I reckon the sisters won’t mind you washing the car on Saturday.” She smiled at him.

He could have easily drowned in her dark-brown eyes. Their gazes caught, and he tipped up her chin just slightly so he could kiss her. The first one was soft and sweet, but then they deepened until they were both panting for air. He held her close for another few seconds and felt like he could conquer anything—even a psych eval—if she was there every evening when he got home.

Chapter Twenty-One

Getting used to a different bedroom and a smaller house was more difficult than Ginger thought it would be. Although she was ready to get away from those killer stairs in the Banty House, she still didn’t sleep well that first night. She dreamed all night that Lucas was back and he was furious with her for getting pregnant. He threw things and cussed so loudly that she thought for sure his voice would break the dirty windows in the apartment. He said that since it was too late to get rid of the thing, she’d have to give it away.

She told him to go to hell, stormed out into the night, and found a park bench, where she curled up and went to sleep. In the dream, Sloan drove up in his truck, and they were driving away when she awoke. When she finally opened her eyes and glanced around the room, she let out a long whoosh of air. The dream had been so real. She immediately curled up in a ball with her hand over her stomach to protect the baby. Then she heard Sloan whistling and pots and pans rattling together and caught the aromas of bacon and coffee. He had come to rescue her in the dream, but in real life, too.

She swung her feet out of the bed and padded across the hall to the bathroom in her bare feet. Her faded and worn nightshirt barely reached her knees and had stretched just about as far as it would go over her belly. Her reflection in the mirror showed dark circles under her eyes, but her hair still looked pretty dang good. She washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face, then went toward the kitchen.

“Good mornin’,” Sloan said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?” He filled a mug with coffee and handed it to her. “It’s decaf. I stopped drinking caffeine when I came home. It seemed to add to my jitters.”

“I’ve been using decaf when I can get it”—she blew on the top of the cup and took a sip—“and no, I didn’t sleep too good, but then, I never do when I’m in a new place.”

“Give it a day or two.” Sloan took a pan of muffins from the oven and set it on the table beside a plateful of bacon.

“You don’t have to wait on me,” Ginger said. “We didn’t talk about rent or bills last night. I should pay my half.”

“The house and land were handed down to me by my granny, so there’s no rent. The utilities are paid for through the company funds, so don’t worry about all that,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“It’s complicated, but this place is actually Baker Oil Company. I don’t have a formal office, but I do have a lawyer and a CPA who take care of things for me. I meet with them about once a month over in Hondo to sign papers,” he explained as he buttered a muffin and put it on her plate.

“But . . . ,” she started to argue.

He shrugged. “How about we make a deal? You get free room and board for making supper for us and helping with housework. I like a clean house, but I hate to dust. I could hire someone to clean for me, but I don’t want people in my house that’ll go out and tell what kind of toilet paper I use or whether I have steaks or chicken in my freezer. I figure those things are nobody’s business but mine.”

“I don’t like to dust, either, but what you suggest is sure enough a fair deal.” She took a bite of the muffin and a sip of her coffee. “What about breakfast and dinner? I’ll be here until about eight o’clock, but I’ll be at the Banty House at noon, then back here at supper when I’m working for them.”

“I like to make breakfast, so that’s my job,” he said. “Besides, when the baby gets here, there’ll be times when you’ll be up with night feedings, so I imagine it’ll be nice for you to have it fixed for you. Anything else?”

“Yes.” She reached for another muffin. “Can I have the recipe for these? I’ve got a collection of Betsy’s, and I’d like to add this to my book.”

Sloan pushed back his chair and went to the utility room. She expected him to return with a recipe card or maybe a cookbook, but he set a box on the table in front of her. “Use this. The recipe is on the back. It says to add an egg and some milk. Stir and bake at three hundred fifty degrees for twenty minutes. There’s a whole selection of things like this in the pantry if you ever want to whip some up for yourself.”

“I reckon that recipe is simple enough that I can master it.” She finally smiled.

“If I can follow it, I know you can,” he said.

“And if I have trouble, I’ll just yell at you.” She ate a fourth piece of bacon and finished off her coffee. She stole glances over at him. A tiny dot of toilet paper was stuck to his chin where he’d cut himself when he shaved that morning. His dark hair was combed straight back, and his shoulders were squared off, even when he sat at the table. Military was written all over him. She was glad that he had the chance of a job doing what he loved, but suddenly a jolt of pure fear went through her. She had thought she would faint when he had defused that bomb in the hospital, and he would be doing that all day every day if he went to work for the military.

“Hey, what’s the matter? Are you okay? Is it the baby?” He reached across the table and laid a hand on hers.

“I’m not askin’ for anything, honest,” she whispered, “but what happens to me and Martha Belle if . . .” The words wouldn’t come out of her mouth.

“If what?” Sloan asked.

“You’ll be working with bombs all day”—she gulped a few times before she could go on—“and what if one of them blows up?”

“Honey, I won’t be working with live bombs. I’ll be training guys on how to identify different explosive devices and how to disarm them, but I shouldn’t be in any danger,” he told her. “And if you’ll put my name on the birth certificate, then everything I have will go to the baby if I did die.”

“Do you even know what you’re saying? That’s crazy talk,” she said.

“Why is it? You’re naming the baby after Granny, and I have no children, so the company will have to go to someone. I can’t think of anyone better than someone who’s named after my granny.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s just money. That ain’t nothing but dirty paper with dead presidents on it.”

“You’ve known me less than a month, and this baby isn’t biologically yours,” she said.

“Want to know a great big secret? One that no one in the whole world—not even the sisters in the Banty House—knows.”

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“My daddy couldn’t have children. Granny told me that he had a high fever as a child. Doc Emerson said that it could have made him sterile, and so they did some tests when he was in high school. Sure enough, Doc Emerson was right. My dad fell in love with my mama when they were still in school, and she knew about the problem. They married young and thought about adopting, but Daddy wanted his baby to have my mama’s DNA. So they went through a fertility clinic, and here I am. If they ever did a DNA test on me, they’d find that my father was number seven-two-eight-six. Blood don’t always mean family.”

Ginger was stunned speechless for several minutes. She’d thought that he looked just like the picture of his father that was hanging on the living room wall. When she could speak, she asked, “How did you find out about that?”

“Granny told me on her deathbed, because with all this new DNA testing going on, she was afraid I’d find out on my own. She didn’t want me to think my mama had been unfaithful to my daddy. She said I was the product of my father’s undying love for my mama and that there had never been a child who’d been more wanted than I was.”

After the dream she’d had just before she awoke that morning, she could hardly wrap her mind around that much love. “Do you ever wonder about your father?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “My daddy was my granny’s son for all I care.”

“Do you want children of your own?” she asked.

“Martha Belle could be mine if you will let her be. Maybe someday she’ll have a sibling or two. Who knows what the future might hold?” he said. “But I do know what the present holds. We’ve got about thirty minutes to get ready and go to work. You don’t want to be late on your first day, and I don’t want to have to rush with washing the car.”

Ginger got up, carried her dirty dishes to the dishwasher, and then went to her room to get ready for work. She stopped and placed her hands on the rail of the baby bed. “Your biological father is dead, and I don’t even know if he’d want a child if he was alive, and a man I met only a few weeks ago is asking me to name him as your father. It would be a lie, but it would secure your future forever. What do I do?”