Having The Cowboy's Baby. Judy Duarte

nights she’d spent with him in his cabin.

      Once she was seated beside him, he sang the song he’d written about the two of them, wondering if she’d connect the dots, if she’d guess that she’d inspired the words and music.

      When the last guitar chords disappeared into the night, she clapped softly. “That was beautiful, Ian. I love it. But I have to ask you something. Did you write that song about...us?”

      “No, not really,” he lied. “When you left, I got to thinking about lovers ending a good thing for all the right reasons. And the words and music just seemed to flow out of me. I guess you could say the song almost wrote itself.”

      He wasn’t about to admit that the words had actually come from his heart. He’d become so adept at hiding his feelings, especially from a woman who’d become—or who was about to become—an ex-lover, that it was easier to let the emotion flow through his guitar.

      “You really should do something with that song,” Carly said. “In the right hands—or with the right voice—it could be a hit.”

      No one knew that better than Ian. With one phone call to Felicia, the song would strike platinum in no time. But then, before he knew it, every agent and musician in Nashville would be knocking on his door, insisting he come out of retirement and write for them. And there’d go his quiet life and his privacy.

      “Would you please let me sing that with you as a duet at the Stagecoach Inn on Saturday night?” Carly lifted the platter of brownies in a tempting fashion. “If you do, I’ll leave the rest of these with you.”

      A smile slid across his face. He’d always found Carly to be tempting, especially when she was determined to have her way. Sometimes he even gave in to her, but this time he couldn’t be swayed. “I may have one heck of a sweet tooth, but you can’t bribe me with goodies. It won’t work.”

      She blew out a sigh and pulled the platter back. “Don’t make me ask Don Calhoun to play for me.”

      That little weasel? Surely she wasn’t serious. “The guy who hit on you that night we stopped at the Filling Station to have a drink on our way home from the movies in Wexler?”

      “Don went to school with me, and we sometimes performed together at the county fair.”

      Ian clucked his tongue. “Calhoun’s a jerk. I saw him watching you from across the room. And as soon as I excused myself to go to the restroom, he took my seat and asked you out.”

      “Like I said, Don and I are old friends. But if it makes you feel better, I told him no and let him know that you and I were dating.”

      But they weren’t dating anymore. And, old friends or not, the guy was still a tool.

      “What’s the deal at the Stagecoach Inn on Saturday night?” Ian asked.

      “They’re having a local talent night. Our gig would just be a few songs—thirty minutes at the most. Will you please sing with me?”

      “Now it’s playing and singing?”

      She held out the brownies, offering him the entire plate, and smiled.

      But it wasn’t the brownies that caused his resolve to waver, it was the beautiful blonde whose bright blue eyes and dimples turned him every which way but loose. He’d had all kinds of women throw themselves at him, and he’d never lost his head, never forgotten that there were some who weren’t interested in the real man inside. But there was something about Carly Rayburn that reached deep into the heart of him, something sweet, something vulnerable.

      “Damn it, Carly. I’ll do it. But just this once.”

      “Thanks, Ian. You won’t regret this.”

      She was wrong. They were going to have to practice together every evening from now until Saturday. And he was already regretting it.