"For crying out loud, Storm." Donetta Presley glared and marched right up to him. Survival instincts almost convinced him to retreat a step.

Thank God he didn't follow through. It would be a sad day in Houston if the men in his former Texas Ranger company got wind of Storm Carmichael shaking in his boots at the advance of a beautiful, ticked-off redhead. With her platform shoes adding four inches to her height, he only had to tilt his head slightly to meet her seriously annoyed eyes.

"I will not let a customer walk out of here with wet hair!" Darla Pam looked relieved to hear that. "And you can't just come in here and start bossing everyone around," Donetta added.

"The court order in my pocket says otherwise." He'd tried to discuss this away from gossiping ears, but she'd been too stubborn to budge. "You're holding a pair of three's against a full house, darlin'. You either close up this shop, or I'll have to arrest you."

Donetta's jaw dropped. The two older ladies gasped and moved right up beside her. At least, Cora did. Darla Pam stood a half a pace behind, clutching Cora's arm, her wet hair clearly forgotten since she was about to be a first hand witness and the originator of a juicy morsel of gossip to dine on at her ladies club.

"Storm Carmichael," Cora snapped. "I'll have you know I have the ear of both your mama and your sister. And they would not want to hear about your behavior. If you've any notion of arresting Donetta, you'll have to arrest all of us."

Ah hell. He'd predicted it would happen, and this was only the tip of the iceberg. "If that's the way you want it, Miz Harris." He said it quietly, deliberately.

Darla Pam let go of Cora's arm and scuttled backwards. Cora stood her ground. Storm had to admire her courage and loyalty. As the live-in housekeeper out at the Slade ranch, Cora often took care of his niece, Tori. He didn't have a single doubt that this was a woman he'd want at his back--and watching over his sister and her family.

Donetta turned and quickly removed the curlers from Cora's hair, tossing them on the seat of the dryer chair. She finger-combed the curls, then slid her arm around the older woman.

"Cora," she said softly. "Storm's not going to take anyone to jail. But I think it'd be best if you both do as he asked and go. There'll be no charge for my services." She reached in the drawer of the station closest to her and pulled out two scarves, retrieved purses and passed the items to the women.

Darla Pam lit out the door as though a posse was on her tail. That's when it sank into Donetta's brain that she was well and truly in a fix.

Her skin turned clammy as the nausea she'd been battling gave a final, critical warning. The room grew hotter by the second as though someone had turned on the furnace.

Giving Cora a quick hug, she said, "I'll call you. Later." Then she bolted for the bathroom.

Some joker must have had himself a good laugh when he named this pregnancy malady morning sickness, Donetta thought. Over the past week, it had been morning, afternoon, and night sickness.

How could something so miraculous and tiny make a person this miserable? If she'd been a horse, some kind Samaritan would have taken one look at her and put her out of her misery.

When she was fairly certain the worst of the bout was over, she sank onto the cold tile floor and leaned her back against the wall--right next to the damned handicapped toilet that the contractor hadn't installed according to code.

This salon was her dream, her means of security. Hadn't she learned a good enough lesson from her ex-husband about the consequences of allowing someone else to control what was most important to a person?

Yet that's exactly what she'd done. She'd trusted her contractor, Judd Quentin, to take care of paperwork she should have followed up on herself.

If this building had been a living, breathing person, Donetta thought, she never would have allowed the pretty exterior and charm to speak for itself. She would have dug clear down past the footings, using her bare hands if need be, until she found the safety guarantee tag.

Her throat ached all the way up to her ears, and the need to cry nearly overpowered her. She'd been on the verge of tears all week, and hadn't understood it. Well, as of this morning she'd gotten her answer--two pink stripes on a white stick.

And a red tag on her salon's glass door.

She swallowed hard, tried to go inside herself, to that secret place where carefully erected internal walls formed a dam, safely holding back the rivers of silent tears she'd collected but never shed.

For almost twenty-two years, she'd been able to slip in at a moment's notice, fade away beneath the shelter of protection she, alone, had built, where vulnerability no longer existed, and will replaced weeping.

Why was it suddenly so difficult? The entrance was right in front of her; the memory of when she'd first discovered the power of escape was burned in her mind.

They'd lived in a trailer park not too far from the elementary school. Mom was drinking. She always drank. That's why she couldn't get a job. Cybil Presley wanted Donetta to be someone, to get them out of the dump they were living in. To her mother, appearances and a pretty face were more important than getting good grades or joining after-school sports programs. And to Donetta's regret, even as a little girl she'd had the type of looks that drew automatic compliments.

Cybil wanted Donetta to enter beauty contests like the ones that Tracy Lynn did, but Donetta had stubbornly resisted, for once glad that they didn't have money.

Her dad had been a partier as well, but his drinking and gambling made him seem adventurous. Donetta had loved that man with every fiber of her being.

"Who's my girl?" he would ask.

"I am!" And he'd hoist her onto his shoulders and run down the narrow, barren streets of the trailer park, their laughter echoing off the concrete and aluminum siding of the dented mobile homes.

And then one day he left and never came back. She'd been sure her heart was broken, and she'd cried for days.

Until Cybil got sick and tired of the tears. The vicious slap had stunned her. But it was the nasty words that had made her bleed.

"You silly brat. Crybaby. He's not coming back for you. He isn't even your father!"

That day was the last time Donetta had allowed anyone to see her cry, the day she'd learned to close off the tears.

Her first lesson in not trusting anyone or anything at face value.

Too bad she'd had to learn the painful lesson twice--with the man she'd thought was her father, and with her ex-husband.

She'd never found out who her true biological father was. Perhaps that was why the Carmichael family had become such an important entity in her life. They'd accepted her constant presence in their home, opened their arms and their hearts without reservation, made her feel as though she mattered. They'd given her a place she could at least pretend to belong when her young world had been so sadly adrift.

There were only a handful of people Donetta trusted completely. Storm's mother, Anna was one. Sunny Carmichael, Tracy Lynn Randolph and Becca Sue Ellsworth were the others-- three girlfriends she'd known since elementary school who were closer to her than true sisters. The Texas Sweethearts, they called themselves.

They didn't know about the pregnancy yet. Oh, she would tell them. Just as she would tell Storm.

After she at least had a free moment to get used to the idea herself.

The staccato rap of knuckles against the bathroom door made her jump. Without having the decency to wait for a response, Storm walked right into the ladies' room as though he had an engraved invitation.

She didn't even have the energy to yell at him. Was it normal to be heaving up her toenails every hour? At this rate, she'd have to be dead three days to start feeling better.

She wanted to go upstairs and crawl under the bed, pretend this day had never happened. She wanted to find her backbone, for pity's sake.

"Staring daggers at the pot won't budge it, Slim." He angled his head, stepped closer. "You sick?"

"No," she drawled deadpan. "I'm having tea with Lady Bird Johnson." She reached up and flushed the toilet. "I bet if you look real hard in your precious penal code book you'll find that it's illegal for a man to come barging into the ladies' room."

"I knocked."

She gave an indelicate snort.

"And the law doesn't apply when there's only one bathroom," he added. "Then the facility is coed."

"Great. Ally McBeal comes to Hope Valley."

He ignored her flippant remark, frowned and shoved one hand in his pocket. "So, what's wrong with you?"

"Stress, probably. It's been a train-wreck of a day." She pinched the bridge of her nose to staunch the eye-watering burn in her tear ducts.

"That dog won't hunt, darlin'. The Donetta Dawn Presley I know would eat an armadillo before she'd admit to hugging the porcelain over a bad hair day."

"Well maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do . . . darlin'. Or maybe I've just got the damned flu."

She needed to head this conversation in a different direction. She wasn't in any shape to spar with him, to hold her own. She fully intended to tell him about the baby--she would never keep that information, or his child, away from him--but first she needed to get used to the idea herself, needed time to think things through, to make sure that she handled him carefully.

And Donetta knew better than to underestimate Storm's easy-going charm and hypnotic green eyes. If he put his mind to it, he could pry information out of a stone.

Now was not a good time to inform him of his impending fatherhood.

Guess what, pal? You've just put the mother of your child out of business!

Before she could stop them, tears welled in her eyes, stinging her nose, aching in her throat. Oh, God, Donetta. You've made it this far. Hold it together. Don't do this. Please, please, don't do this.

All these years . . . not even her ex-husband's fists could draw tears.

Yet even as she looked up at Storm's stunned face, fought like mad to find that river of strength that had served her well for almost twenty-two years, the dam broke.

Storm jerked his hand out of his pocket. He felt as though he'd been sucker-punched by a ham-fisted nun collecting donations for her parish. Shock, confusion, and a sudden adrenaline pumping need for code three backup slammed through him.

Donetta Presley never cried.

In two steps, he was squatting in front of her. "Hey," he said softly. "Come on, now darlin'. We'll make it right."

That, evidently, had been the wrong thing to say.

The tears spilled down her cheeks in rivulets the likes of which he'd never seen.

Utter panic clawed deep in his gut, the heart pumping, what-the-hell-do-I-do-now kind of panic universal to a good many of his fellow males. For a split second, her eyes were as wide and startled as he was certain his own were, and for the life of him, he couldn't determine whether he was witnessing mortal embarrassment or heartrending anguish.

Before he could even begin to analyze, she slapped her hands over her face, locking him out.

Out of the four women in the Sweetheart group his sister had formed, Donetta was the tough one. She had the clichéd redhead's temper, led with her chin, and despite her innate siren looks, she'd been the tomboy who was rarely without her prized basketball, and who'd just as soon slug you if you dared feel sorry for her. Adding a little more confusion to her mix of contradictory traits, she'd also been the peacemaker and mediator of the foursome.

But damn it, he was dealing with the grown woman now.

And as far as his own behavior was concerned, he'd only been taking his cue from her.

Ever since they'd spent the night together, she'd given him major hands-off signals, told him flat-out 'thanks, but no thanks. Be a pal and back off.' He didn't like it, but he'd obliged her.

So, how the devil was he supposed to know how to act when she kept changing the rules of conduct on him?

From the book Surprised By A Baby
by Mindy Neff Harlequin American Romance
ISBN 0-373-75002-1 - December 2003
Copywrite by Mindy Neff

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