How To Hook A Husband (And A Baby)

1

"Bang, bang! You’re dead!"

Blowing on his imaginary pistol, Dustin Donovan shrieked with glee and crawled behind the couch as fast as his scraped-up, five-year-old knees could carry him.

Wendy Wilcox, his baby-sitter, next-door neighbor and dearest buddy affected her scariest voice. Oh, no, I ain’t, you biscuit-eatin’ sidewinder. And I aim to come after ya, so ya better watch out, she shouted to him from behind the chair-and-blanket tent they’d built in the middle of her living room.

No! Dusty giggled, and from where Wendy sat she could hear him clumsily trying to disentangle his father’s cowboy boots from her light linen drapes.

She sighed. No matter. The drapes could be cleaned. Nothing was more important to her than hearing the joy in her young neighbor’s voice. He was only just now beginning to trust since his mother had left him and his father over three years ago.

In her peripheral vision she could see Dustin’s sunny face peeking at her from behind the couch, his finger pointed in her direction, poised to shoot when the opportunity arose. He was such a beautiful child. Sweet, fair-haired, bright. The perfect combination of two striking parents.

Too bad neither of them had the sense the good Lord gave a rock. Shaking her head she blew a small puff of exasperation between her lips. Some people just didn’t know when they were well-off. She’d give anything to have a marriage and a lovely little boy like Dusty.

But alas, she thought dramatically, so far it hadn’t been in the cards for a fading wallflower such as herself.

Reaching into the breast pocket of her postal uniform for a handkerchief, she thrust it through the tent’s opening and waved it at Dusty. Hey, sagebrush breath, she called, and watched him drop back behind the arm of the couch, giggling all the while.

What do you want, Dances With Polecats? he asked suspiciously. It was his Indian name for her.

I want to make a treaty with you, you crazy milkmustached cowpuncher.

No! he screamed, and skedaddled across the living room to the relative safety of Wendy’s armchair.

There’s chocolate milk in it for you.

Silence.

Wendy grinned and fought her way out of the lopsided tent. She knew how much he loved chocolate milk. And I just rustled up some peanut butter and jelly rations. A tough customer like you must be pretty hungry. Again, silence. Plus, I got us some chocolate chip cookies…

Dusty groaned. Okay, he agreed, standing to clump noisily across the floor where he settled down next to Wendy at her coffee table. Pushing his father’s cowboy hat back on his silky, golden head, he propped his oversize boots out in front of him and pointed a grubby forefinger up at her. But we’re not done yet, he informed her, hoping that they could take up where they’d left off.

Wendy knew that as far as Dusty was concerned, they could play till the cows came home. He’d made it perfectly clear--on more than one occasion--that there was no place he’d rather be than at her side, pelting her with questions or playing a wild game of some kind. Preferably a game that involved running and shouting. The knowledge of his youthful devotion gladdened her heart. Somehow, having Dusty so nearby made the pain of not having a child of her own easier to bear.

Elbows propped on her coffee table, they dug into their sandwiches and chocolate milk, eating in a comfortable silence born of mutual trust and love. Wendy had moved into the small New Hope, Texas, neighborhood just before Dustin’s mother had taken off, and ever since they’d met, he’d been her little shadow. She knew she was probably serving as some sort of substitute mother and it made her happy that she could focus her own unused maternal instincts on him.

Every so often, Dusty would mumble some cowboy-type phrase of appreciation for the good grub, and Wendy would nod in stoic Indian fashion. Tossing Dustin a small package of cookies, she reached for a pile of books and magazines that she’d bought at the New Hope bookstore earlier that day. She’d been so busy…what with Dustin’s last-minute visit…she hadn’t even had time to open them yet.

Wendy?

Hmm? she asked, flipping through the latest copy of Metropolitan magazine. The blurb on the cover blared, Do You Have What It Takes To Snare A Man? She shrugged. Obviously not, or she’d have done it by now. Perhaps this article would tell her what she’d been doing wrong.

Where does chocolate milk come from?

Brown cows.

Dusty frowned thoughtfully, not sure if she was teasing.

Oh…

Wendy winked at him, then allowed her gaze to wander back to the book titles that were stacked in front of her. I’m Okay…We’re All Okay, So Why Am I Still Single? one book wondered. Another posed the question, Are You Everybody’s Friend, Nobody’s Lover? Yep, she sighed dramatically. That one hit the nail on the head. Then there was How To Be Irresistible to Every Man, Every Time. Gracious. She didn’t want to be irresistible to every man. Just one. Nothing fancy. Just some likable lug to father a couple chubby little babies and mow the lawn once in a while. And bring her roses…

She ran her fingers over the title of her personal favorite, How to Hook a Husband. Hopefully, with all this advice from renowned specialists in their fields, she would have a man in no time. Because, if the article she’d found last week in the recycling bin down at the New Hope post office where she was postmistress held even a speck of truth, she had to do something drastic if she was ever going to have a family of her own.

Women over thirty—it had gloomily prophesied—had little or no chance of ever tying the knot. And Wendy was only a little more than a month away from the big Three-Oh.

The big Three-Oh-No.

Gadzooks! she thought, taking a big swig of her chocolate milk. She’d better get a move on. Time was running out.

Travis Donovan pulled to a stop in his driveway and cut the engine of his large, American-made, four-wheel-drive pickup. Thrusting his hands through his hair he absently studied the ceiling of his truck and inhaled the leftover scent of BambiAnn Howe’s cloying perfume.

Damnation. That woman had more moves than a World Federation wrestler in training. Normally he’d have been more receptive to her vigorous and thoroughly creative maneuvers, but not tonight. Tonight he was beat. Wanted nothing more than to spend a few minutes wrestling with his five-year-old son, then off to dreamland. He’d had a grueling week and Friday had been a long time in coming. Thank heavens tomorrow was Saturday. Maybe he could persuade Dusty to sleep in. Yawning, he unhooked his seat belt and let it slide into its holder. Next week would be just as tiresome. Luckily, he’d managed to wrap up the remodel job on the New Hope Hotel, and would be able to start the job on the run-down post office come Monday.

His eyes strayed next door to Wendy’s place. He’d have to tell her that he’d be over there on Monday. As postmistress she’d probably be glad to hear that. Hell, she’d been harping on him about needing more space in the back room for months now. No doubt she’d be thrilled with the addition that had been planned.

Travis and Wendy owned two homes that sat side by side at the back of one of New Hope’s newest cul-de-sacs. Travis was especially proud of the houses on this street, as he and his crew had done the lion’s share of the work on the project. Attractive, stylish middle-class houses with brick columns and arched windows, the houses were trendy, similar to a degree, yet nicely managed to reflect the owners’ personalities.

Funny how Wendy’s yard was adorned with so many flowers. He hadn’t thought she’d be the type to go in for something so frivolous. His glance swept the shadows of her landscaping and landed on her picture window. Several lamps illuminated his son and Wendy as they gamboled around her disheveled living room. Travis grinned. Thank God for good old Wendy. He owed her big-time for all the evenings she’d taken care of Dusty recently. Which reminded him. He had to get on the stick about replacing his nanny. Ever since Kathy had left for college last month, he’d been up the creek without a sitter.

He watched as Dusty threw his arms around Wendy’s legs and hung on, dragging along behind her as she made her way to the kitchen, then back to the living room. She was a good egg, that Wendy. Maybe she wasn’t all that goodlooking, but she was pretty cool with his boy. Salt of the earth. The kid practically idolized her. Maybe he’d pull out all the stops on that remodel for her. Build her some fancy shelves or something.

Hunching thoughtfully over his steering wheel, Travis watched the two at play. Yep, she was nice enough, but personally, he couldn’t see the dazzling attraction his son had for her. For a moment he allowed his eyes to follow her as she moved around the room. She was no bigger than a young boy, really. Far too thin for his taste and—the breast man that he was—she lacked the main ingredient to capture his attention for any length of time. He smirked to himself as thoughts of the voluptuous BambiAnn jiggled and bounced briefly through his mind. Squinting at Wendy, he figured that she was probably just about as different from BambiAnn as a woman could be.

Wendy’s mousy brown hair was ruler-straight and she always wore it in a severe bun coiled tightly at her nape. Usually a pencil or two could be found stabbed into the OliveOyl-type knot. And her face—without a trace of makeup, which was the norm for her—looked no older than a teenager’s. The glasses that rested heavily on the tip of her delicate nose were huge and thick with tortoiseshell rims. They were far too overpowering for her gamine features. She reminded him of one of the geeky, tagalong kid sisters that one of his friends in high school used to gripe about all the time. Yeesh.…Definitely not for him.

But worse by far than her size, or her hair, or even her glasses, was the ugly postal uniform she wore day in and day out. Patches and pockets and blue regulation fabric that would make even the ultrafeminine BambiAnn look like a frump. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Wendy wearing anything else.

And those shoes. Good Lord. Those hideous black clodhoppers had to weigh a ton.

Travis knew that Dusty wanted him to fall madly in love with Wendy and make her his mommy. But, dagnabbit anyway, as much as he hated to disappoint the little squirt, when hell finally froze over and he decided to make the idiotic mistake of getting married again, it wouldn’t be to one of the boys, like Wendy.

Deciding it was time to give poor Wendy a much needed break from his active son, Travis hopped out of his truck and bounded across her yard. As he drew nearer, he could hear his son’s giddy laughter. He knew that the punch-drunk hilarity that wafted out to greet him signaled that it was way past bedtime for one staggering bundle of energy. Travis smiled to himself at the infectious sound. Dusty was the only good thing that had come out of his debacle of a marriage to Elly Mae. Peering through the darkness, he located the doorbell and alerted Wendy to his arrival.

Dusty, Wendy pleaded patiently, peeling the small boy from around her waist, let go.

You ain’t gettin’ away that easy, you yellow-bellied cactus head! Dusty giggled and tightened his grip.

Wendy laughed. Cactus head? She picked the boy up and threw his light frame over her shoulder. Who you callin’ a cactus head? she asked, playfully thumping his bottom.

You! he crowed. Bobbing along upside down, he returned the thumps to her bottom as she made her way to the door.

Flipping on the porch light, she peeked through the peephole and then unlocked the dead bolt. Just as she’d suspected, it was Travis. It was about time, she thought disgruntledly. A quick glance at the clock on the hall table told her that it was after midnight. This was his fourth date this week. Whatever she apparently lacked in social skills, he seemed to make up for, in spades. The man had more dates than a Christmas fruitcake. Shaking her head, she pulled open the door and found him standing there, looking for all the world like Brad Pitt after a rough ride with Thelma and Louise. She allowed Dusty to slide to the floor and stood back to make room for Travis.

Come on in. She motioned, pushing her glasses up on her nose so that she could better sniff the air. Good heavens, she said, wrinkling her nose in disdain. You smell like the toilet-water counter at the five-and-dime.

Travis dimpled as he caught his son midair and swung the noisy child up onto his back. Yeah, BambiAnn gave it her best shot tonight, but I told her I had to get home to you. He winked devilishly.

Oh, please, spare me the details. Turning, Wendy led them to the living room where she began gathering up Dustin’s belongings and stuffing them into his knapsack.

Dad! Dad! Dusty shouted, interrupting joyfully. We built a tent in the living room and I had chocolate milk for dinner.

Travis lifted his cowboy hat off his son’s head and slid it easily onto his own thick brown hair. No kidding? Sounds like you had a good time. Did you tell Wendy thank you?

‘Course. Dusty rolled his eyes. ‘Bout a million times.

Travis looked at Wendy, who nodded in verification. If there was one thing she admired about her wild-man, womanizing, devil-may-care neighbor, it was the way he was raising his son. It was evident that he loved the boy to distraction. It seemed to be the only thing, as far as she could tell, that he actually cared about.

Good. Travis nodded and set Dusty on his feet. Give Wendy a hand straightening up, will you? It looks like a bomb went off in here. Scratching his head, Travis stared in wonder at the living room, and then at Wendy. He grinned easily. Hey, I’m really sorry about doing this to you so often over the past few weeks. I’m working on getting a new, permanent sitter for Dusty, but these things take time.

I don’t mind, really, Wendy said, shrugging lightly. I love the company. Sinking down onto the couch, she began stuffing napkins and cookie wrappers into the brown bag that had held their peanut butter and jelly rations.

Travis stretched tiredly, then joined her on the couch. With a little prodding, he finally had his son folding the tent blankets and dragging the dining room chairs back to the table.

Man, am I tired, or— Travis stared intently at the coffee table in front of him —what? he asked distractedly.

Wendy felt her stomach sink. The books. Damn. She should have known better than to leave them out for all the world to see. Before she knew it, the entire population of New Hope, Texas, would know that she was on a quest. A quest to become engaged before she turned thirty. It was humiliating. Travis would undoubtedly tell someone and the word would spread like wildfire. They had a lot of the same friends. People would find out. She sighed.

On the other hand, what difference did it make? It was no secret that she was pretty much of a flop in the ingenue department. She didn’t exactly have dates knocking down her door the way Travis did. On a good day, his driveway did more business than a convenience store. She ought to know. Sometimes the overflow blocked her driveway.

Lifting his eyes, he arched a skeptical brow and smirked. How To Hook a Husband? He chuckled and reached for the stack of books and magazines. What the hell is this? You’re. hunting for a husband? Hooting at the ceiling, he pushed his hat back and let the laughter flow.

Reaching over, Wendy snatched her precious books from his arms and stuffed them under the pillows that supported her elbow.

It’s not funny, you big Neanderthal, she huffed defensively. Smacking