Serving Trouble (Second Shot 1)

She nodded and started talking, explaining about her stupid ex, the way he’d left, how her water broke too soon. By the time she started describing Morgan’s final days, tears streamed down her father’s face as he stood over the stove. She explained why she needed to repay the hospital and doctors while he plated their breakfast.

She’d told him everything by the time he set the dishes on the table. Almost. She’d left that night in Noah’s barn years ago, or how she’d fallen for him this time, out of the story. And she skimmed over the depth of her depression after losing Morgan.

“Josephine.” He withdrew a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes, but the tears continued to fall. “I’m sorry you felt you had to hide this from me.”

“I thought I could do it on my own,” she said, her voice shaking. “And I didn’t want to return home a failure.”

“Things would have been different if your mother had lived. I wouldn’t have fought to control you.” He shook his head. “But I can’t change the past. I wish I could, but . . .”

“Me too.” She wouldn’t hand back the few weeks of Morgan’s life. Not for the world. But if she could go back, she’d hold on to her heart and stay away from Noah’s barn and his bed. She’d listen to her fear—­she couldn’t handle the aftermath—­instead of pushing back against it.

“But this time”—­he covered her hand with his—­“you’re not alone. I’m here. And Noah is a good man.”

“He is,” she acknowledged slowly. “But he’s not ready to love me. He knows about Morgan . . .” Her father flinched at the sound of his late wife’s name even though she’d already told him that she’d named the baby after her mother. “And I don’t think Noah is ready for . . . for . . . what could happen.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he father said firmly.

“You can’t make him love me,” she said. “And there’s a chance I’ll lose this baby too. The thought of something so far beyond his control terrifies him. I know it scares me. So much.”

“You can’t let fear prevent you from living,” he said. “And neither can Noah.”

“It’s not that simple. There are other factors.” She stabbed the eggs with her fork. She couldn’t expose Caroline. Sure, Josie had been through hell and heartbreak. But Caroline had endured much worse.

“Either you talk to him or I will,” her father said.

“No—­”

“Look at what you’ve survived, what you’ve overcome,” he said. “I know grief. It’s not easy. But you’re strong enough to move past it. And so is Noah. If you love him, go talk to him.” Her father looked her straight in the eyes. “Don’t let the person you love run away because he’s afraid—­or you are. Trust me, every day counts.”

She set her fork down. She thought of how Morgan had felt in her arms . . . how her mother had breathed life into their home . . . and how her father had looked at her mother, his usually reserved expression so filled with love . . .

“You’re right, Dad. I’ll go talk to him.”

And this time I won’t let him push me away for “my safety.”

She refused to let a madman with a chip on his shoulder keep her from being with the man she loved. And if Noah pushed her away again? If he refused to love her back?

She’d survive. Her father was right. She couldn’t hide behind fear that she couldn’t handle the outcome—­not when it came to her relationship with Noah, or her baby.

Chapter Twenty-­Three

FIGHTING FOR LOVE, or even a second chance to say those words and demand to know how Noah felt—­not his determination to keep her safe, but what was in his heart—­required finding him.

He wasn’t at the bar. She’d stopped by and found April in charge. And he wasn’t at the house. Josie had said hello to his dad before heading back to the parking area where her Mini stood beside his truck. Holding tight to her determination, she marched across the gravel and headed for the barn door.

The kittens greeted her as she flipped the light switch. Overheard, the fluorescents illuminated the mechanical bull in the corner.

“Ouch!” She glanced down and found a pair of kitten-­sized claws digging into her Converse sneakers. The stupid shoes were too old and worn to protect her feet from a playful fur ball.

“Crying with pain?” a familiar voice jeered. “I haven’t touched you yet.”

She looked up and froze, her gaze locked on the shotgun’s long barrel. It was the second time she’d had a gun pointed at her in Noah’s barn. But the man holding the shotgun was twice Caroline’s size. And he wasn’t a crazy former marine. She knew him.

“Travis,” she said slowly. “Please put the gun down.”

“It figures you’d be here,” he said without lowering the weapon. He stood on the faded cushion, the bull at his side like a mechanical sidekick. “Always with him, aren’t you? At the bar. In his barn.”

Always with who? Noah?