Make Mine a Bad Boy (27 page)

Leaning as far toward him as the seat belt would allow, Hope tried to justify her decision. “She wants a baby so desperately, Colt. If you could’ve seen all those home pregnancy tests she’d hoarded, it would’ve broken your heart. And with us, all it took was one time with one faulty condom.” She looked out the windshield, but saw nothing. “And maybe that’s why it happened. Maybe it’s God’s plan. I’d be like a surrogate mother. It would even have her genes.”

Colt just sat there with a hand hooked over the steering wheel and his gaze riveted to the stoplight. It changed to green, but still he didn’t go, not until a car honked behind him.

“Have you told her?” he asked, once they were moving again.

“No. She’s been disappointed so many times, I want to be sure.”

He nodded. “Good. I think you should wait until you’re further along.”

“So you think that’s what we should do?”

“We?” He glanced over at her. “Am I now in the equation?”

Suddenly exhausted, Hope leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. “If you can figure out another option, Colt, I’m willing to listen.”

It seemed like they drove for miles before he finally spoke.

“No. I can’t think of a thing.”

A
STIFF WIND
blew through Jones’ Garage, making the concrete floor Colt sat on feel even colder than it was. Still, he wasn’t ready to go back to Shirlene’s. Not even for a blazing fire and a steamy cup of coffee. He needed the comfort of being wrist-deep in crankshafts and carburetors, pistons and rods.

Working on a motorcycle was almost as soothing as riding one, and after the doctor’s visit, Colt needed all the soothing that he could get. He wasn’t freaked out about the confirmation of Hope’s pregnancy. Even without it, he’d come to terms with her having a baby. What upset him the most was the idea of giving that baby away. Which was crazy. As much as he might want to deny it, Hope was right. He was a motorcycle bum. A rich motorcycle bum, but a bum just the same. A bum who enjoyed his freedom and the open road. A bum who had no place in his life for a child.

So why did he feel as if someone had kicked him in the solar plexus with a steel-toed boot? Probably because, while staring at the diagram of the different stages of fetal
development, the baby had suddenly become something more than just a big mistake.

It had become a small miracle.

His miracle.

Pumpkin Seed.

The words were more than just a silly name to tease Hope with. They held part of the past and a piece of the future. And damned if he didn’t struggle with the thought of giving Pumpkin Seed away, even if it was to his own sister. A sister he would walk through fire for. A sister who wanted a child more than anything else in the world.

“Hey. Where’s your cool chopper?”

Colt glanced up from the Knucklehead to see Jesse standing in the doorway of the garage, looking more ragged than usual. Today he wore a plain white T-shirt. At least, it had started out white. Now it looked worse than the rag sitting on the floor by Colt’s knee. Jesse’s hair was sleep-mussed, but his eyes were alert as they tracked around the garage.

“I delivered it,” Colt said. “Where’s your coat?”

“I ain’t cold.” Almost as soon as the words were out, he shivered.

Shaking his head, Colt pointed to the leather jacket hooked over a tire jack. “Put it on.”

“I ain’t—”

“Put it on,” he ordered, before he turned back to the bike. He thought the kid would continue to argue, but instead, a few minutes later, he appeared on the other side of the bike with the jacket hanging off his bony shoulders.

“You ain’t fixed it yet?”

Great. All Colt needed was another person thinking he was incompetent.

“No, I haven’t fixed it yet.”

Jesse flopped down on the other side of the bike, but he leaned in close enough for Colt to see his freckled face between the teardrop gas tank and the front tire. “I ain’t gonna wait around for the money forever, you know.”

“Speaking of which… what did you do with the money I gave you?”

“That ain’t none of your business.” Jesse swiped at his nose.

“It is if you want to see any more.”

His face grew more belligerent than usual. “I gave it to my mom.”

“Is this the same mom who homeschools you, even with two jobs?”

There was a long pause before the kid answered. “My big sister homeschools me while my mom works.”

Kenny had mentioned that Jesse had a sister, so it seemed feasible. “Then you should be home studying instead of hanging around here.”

“It’s recess.”

Colt couldn’t help but laugh. “Fine, but don’t touch anything. I don’t want you messing anything up.”

The kid snorted. “Like I could make this bike any uglier.”

The morning went by quickly. Colt probably should’ve sent the kid home, but the kid’s constant questions about motorcycles took his mind off his own problems, although after about an hour Jesse’s questions brought him full circle.

“You got kids?”

Colt swallowed. “No.”

“How come?”

“Because,” he hedged.

The answer didn’t suffice. “Because you don’t want any?”

It was funny how kids could get straight to the heart of things. He hadn’t wanted kids. At least, he thought he hadn’t. But now he wanted one. One tiny little seed.

“No, I want kids.” He stopped working and wiped his hands off on the rag. Through the opening in the bike, he watched Jesse’s face scrunch up in thought.

“How many?”

He got to his feet. “I don’t know.”

“Four’s a good number.”

Shaking his head, Colt walked over to the soda machine. “Yeah, four is a nice even number.” He dug through his pocket for some change.

“You got a wife?” Jesse came over to stand next to him. Colt hadn’t realized how small the kid was until that moment. As he studied him, he readjusted his first age estimate. The kid couldn’t be more than eight or nine—too young to be wandering around by himself.

“No, I don’t have a wife.” His gaze narrowed. “How old are you?”

“Old enough.” He punched a button on the machine as if the money Colt had put in was for him. When the grape soda rolled out, he grabbed it up. “My sister’s real pretty.”

Colt crossed his arms and glared down at the kid. “Stop stalling and answer the question.”

He popped the top. “Twelve.”

Colt lifted an eyebrow.

“Ten.” He took a deep guzzle, then burped loudly. “And Mia’s really nice. Well, sometimes she’s nice. When she ain’t yellin’ at me about doing my homework.”

“Speaking of homework,” Colt searched his pockets
for more quarters, but only came up with three linty nickels and five pennies, “I think it’s time for you to get back to yours.”

“I ain’t ready.”

“Too bad.” Colt moved toward the office. “After I get some caffeine, I’m driving you home.”

Shooting him a belligerent look, Jesse tipped up the can and guzzled the drink.

“Hey, Colt,” Tyler greeted him as he stepped inside the small office. “How’s the bike coming?”

“Not well.” He handed him a dollar. “Could you give me some quarters?”

“So you still think it’s going to make it to the corner?” Tyler opened up the cash register and exchanged the money.

Colt wasn’t so sure anymore, but he refused to voice his doubt. “It will take some time, is all. But right now, I’m going to drive Jesse home.”

Tyler laughed. “That kid is a pistol, isn’t he?”

“More like a pain in my butt.”

Unfortunately, by the time he and Tyler got back out in the garage, the pain-in-the-butt kid was nowhere to be found and Colt’s leather jacket hung back over the tire jack.

“Looks like he had other plans,” Tyler said.

Colt pulled the keys to Shirlene’s Navigator out of his pocket with every intention of going after the boy, but before he could, a long motor home pulled up in front of the station.

He glanced over at Tyler, who had a big grin on his face.

“The old man got in last night, but he swore me to secrecy. Said he wanted to surprise you.”

Colt felt a lot more than surprised as Tinker, Tyler’s daddy, stepped down from the driver’s side. A wall of unexplainable emotions welled up inside him, and something that felt a lot like tears filled his eyes. Luckily, he had a strong wind to blame them on.

“If I hadn’t just had my eyes checked,” Mr. Jones drawled around the huge lump of tobacco in his mouth, “I would think they was playin’ tricks on me.”

“No, sir.” Colt stepped forward and stretched out his hand to the man who, despite a balder head, had changed very little over the years. “A sharper set of eyes I’ve yet to run into.”

Tinker walked past the hand and enfolded Colt in a bear hug. “You ain’t gonna get away with that, Colt Lomax. Not after you practically lived in my garage.”

Tinker Jones had gotten shorter, or maybe Colt had gotten taller. But it didn’t matter if he’d shrunk a good three feet, it was comforting to be enveloped against a body that smelled like Ben-Gay and Josie’s fried onions.

“How you doin’, boy?” Jones whacked him twice on the back before he eased away. His kind eyes pierced right through Colt. And with raw emotion clogging Colt’s throat, it was difficult to get the words out.

“Good, sir.”

What was the matter with him, anyway? Yeah, Mr. Jones had been like a father to him, but that didn’t mean he had to get all weepy-eyed. He was Colt Lomax, the kid who never cried, even when he had something to cry about. But damned if he could get a handle on the feelings that welled up inside him.

“Come on. Let’s get out of this wind.” Mr. Jones ushered Colt in front of him. “Hell, no wonder I don’t want to
live here. The summers are too hot and the winters could blow you plum away.”

“Well, you better not head out on the road until after the holidays or your grandkids and Missy will have my hide,” Tyler said, as he started to follow them back into the garage. But his father stopped him by tossing him the keys to the RV.

“Ty, I was hopin’ you’d give her a once-over. After thousands of miles of road, she might need a little pamperin’.”

Tyler’s gaze locked with his father’s for only a second before he nodded. “Sure thing, Daddy. I just made some coffee; you and Colt help yourselves.”

Once they were inside the office, Mr. Jones took the lopsided chair next to the cluttered desk and pointed to the chair opposite. “So what’s goin’ on with you?”

“Same old.” Colt remained standing, leaning a shoulder on the doorjamb in as casual a manner as he could muster. “Business is good, but I spend a lot of time on the road.”

“I’m not talkin’ about business, boy. I figured you were doin’ all right when you had that big old motor home delivered to my doorstep.”

“I didn’t—”

Mr. Jones held up a hand, a hand that had guided Colt toward the straight and narrow, even when he fought against it. “Don’t give me that, boy. Who else would be pigheaded enough to think he owed me something? Besides, I never entered no sweepstakes for an RV.”

Colt pushed away from the doorway and walked over to the front windows. “I do owe you. You were the one who gave me a job at twelve when no one else would. The
one who taught me all about engines. And the one who bought my books when I started those satellite college courses. Some stupid motor home doesn’t repay that.”

“Any debt you owed me was paid in full, son, the moment you succeeded. That’s all a man ever expects from his kids.” The chair squeaked. “So let’s dispense with the bullshit and get onto the reason you look like someone shot your best huntin’ dog.”

Colt laughed. “I never owned a hunting dog.”

“No, I guess you didn’t. You had enough on your plate without addin’ an animal. This isn’t about Shirlene, is it?”

“No,” Colt said, even though his sister played a part. After years of trying to give her everything she needed—or wanted—he had finally stumbled upon something he couldn’t bring himself to give away. Not even to her.

“Then I guess that leaves Hope.”

Colt whirled around and stared at the old guy. “What?”

“Not what.” His bushy white eyebrows lifted. “But who. And you heard me the first time.”

“I heard you, but that doesn’t mean I understand what she has to do with my hangdog look—not that I have a hangdog look—but if I did, she wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”

Tinker shook his head. “You still playin’ that game, boy? Because at thirty-two, it has to be gettin’ old.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”

A grin split Tinker’s face, showing off the wad of tobacco. “Sure you do. It’s the game where you act like you don’t like Hope.”

Oh, that game.

“After growing up with three brothers, I know it ain’t easy for men to put their feelings in words,” Tinker
continued. “Which is why we do stupid things to get our girl’s attention—like poppin’ wheelies and doin’ handstands.”