The Cowboy and His Baby

by Jessica Clare

  Maybe she was just sleeping in. He’d probably tired her out. Biting back his proud smirk, he focused on the cattle ahead of him as they herded them toward a nearby pasture. He wasn’t going to think about sex while working. He wasn’t. He had to focus, because if he let the cattle drift away, Jordy’d never let him hear the end of it.

  He still thought about Annie, though. Annie with her soft red hair spread over the sheets. The freckles that he’d kissed. The way she’d sighed when he’d touched her breasts—

  A horse rode up next to him and a cowboy hat smacked him in the arm. “Where’s your fool head, idiot?” Old Clyde bellowed at him. “You’re letting the damned cattle wander everywhere.”

  Dustin glanced around. One or two had split off from the group, but the dogs were rounding them up. “It’s fine, Clyde. They’re rejoining the herd.”

  “It’s fine for Jordy, maybe. It’s not fine for you.” He scowled at Dustin from atop his horse, the pinto as calm and unruffled as ever. That was Clyde for you—all scowls and barking conversation, but the best damned trained animals of any ranch he’d ever been on. “Where’s your head?” the old man demanded again.

  “Hey, I heard that,” Jordy called from across the way. He was on the other side of the cluster of cattle, making sure no one wandered on his end.

  “Of course you heard it. I wasn’t being quiet!” Clyde bellowed, and then smacked Dustin with his hat again. “Pay attention, boy. If you’re just gonna sit around and daydream, you can go back to the ranch.”

  “I’m fine,” he promised, grinning. He was more than fine. He was great, really.

  By lunchtime, though, he was less great.

  No texts from Annie. He’d have settled for a damned smiley face, but she hadn’t even sent that. Frustrated and tired of waiting, he texted her, instead. You up?

  No response.

  The afternoon passed with excruciating slowness. Dustin flipped between worry—was she okay? Was something wrong?—and anger. Was she blowing him off now? Had he come on too strong and she’d decided it was too much for her? He sent another text, and another.

  When he got out of the shower, she still hadn’t responded, so he tried a different tactic.

  DUSTIN: If you’re there, respond to this please, or I’m calling you.

  I’m here, came the immediate reply. I just don’t want to talk to you. Leave me alone.

  He frowned to himself, sitting on the edge of the bed and absently patting Moose’s big head as he texted. What’s wrong?

  ANNIE: You should know.

  He should? I’m not a mind reader, sweetheart. Tell me what’s bothering you.

  ANNIE: I think the thing that’s bothering me the most is that I don’t understand people as well as I understand animals. I just don’t understand why you’d think this is okay.

  DUSTIN: What do you mean?

  ANNIE: You know what I mean. Now leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you ever again.

  He texted her again. No response. Cursing aloud, Dustin called her this time.

  His number had been blocked.

  He didn’t get it. What had changed since he’d left her this morning? Irritated, he got dressed, shoving his feet into his boots before throwing on a T-shirt. “Come on, Moose. We’re going into town.”

  A half hour later, he pulled into town. The Painted Barrel Hotel was lit up as usual, but when he went up to Annie’s room, there was no answer. Frustrated, he headed down to the front desk. Constance, a nice older lady who knew Clyde from back in the day, was behind the desk. “Hello young man,” she told him sweetly. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Hi, Constance. I’m looking for Annie Grissom. She’s not answering her door.”

  She typed on the computer with one finger, peering at the screen. “Oh, she checked out earlier today. She was with all those movie people. They’re done now, you know.”

  “I know,” he managed politely, and gave her a winning smile even though he felt like snarling. He made polite conversation with her for a few minutes more, then excused himself and went back to his truck.

  Dustin drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking.

  His number had been blocked. She didn’t leave an address. She really, really didn’t want to talk to him. He didn’t understand what he’d done wrong. Normally he was the one chasing a woman, but it seemed every time he got close to Annie Grissom, she pushed back.

  Was last night a lie, then?

  He’d lain in her bed with her in his arms, and he’d felt . . . happy. Whole. Complete. For the first time in his life, he saw decades rolling past, with Annie in his arms. They’d train dogs or whatever she wanted to do. He’d move out to Los Angeles if she really wanted that, or maybe he could convince her to go on his boat once he bought it. They’d get a house together. Start a family. It didn’t matter that they’d been moving fast.

  When things were right, you knew. You just knew.

  He’d known Annie was right for him.

  That’s why none of this made any sense. It felt like betrayal. It left him hollow inside and wondering if he’d read everything wrong.

  Dustin tried her number again, desperate. Still blocked. Swearing, he wanted to fling the phone against the dashboard, but he didn’t. He buried his hands in Moose’s thick ruff and thought hard.

  Facebook. Of course.

  He looked up Annie Grissom. There were dozens of Anne, Ann, and Annie Grissoms on Facebook, but none were his Annie. He found one with a dog picture and when he saw a California city, he took a chance and sent a friend request. And waited impatiently.

  Finally, he just sent her a message.

  Annie, I don’t know what I did wrong, but I want to talk to you. Did I hurt you? Scare you? That wasn’t my intent. Last night was special to me, and I thought it was to you, too. Please unblock me so we can talk. I’ll be waiting—Dustin.

  He refused to believe that she’d just completely block him out. She wasn’t that heartless.

  * * *

  • • •

  Annie rented a car at the airport so she wouldn’t have to deal with the airline’s dog policies—there were too many scary stories in the news for that sort of thing—and she drove back to Los Angeles.

  It was a long, horrible drive and she pretty much cried the entire time. She stopped once at a chain pharmacy to get a morning-after pill, cried some more, and ignored the withering looks the old cashier gave her. Right now, she was feeling a bit like the whore of Babylon, and who was to say she didn’t deserve it?

  She’d been messing around with another woman’s boyfriend, after all. And that made her cry even more, because she’d liked him so much that she’d wanted him to be the real thing. Now, though, she just felt used.

  She took the pill and tried not to feel like the world’s worst seductress. It wasn’t her fault, she reminded herself. Dustin was the big fat liar in this situation. He’d really had her snowed, too. He’d seemed so nice and fun and genuine.

  She was terrible at reading people, apparently.

  The bitchy blonde at the store had been so pretty, too. She’d looked perfect, with artfully curled hair, expert makeup, and big boobs. Her skin had been tanned and flawless, without a single freckle. It was enough to make a pasty redhead vomit in envy.

  She didn’t, though. She just kept driving. Of course Dustin had a gorgeous, perfect local girlfriend. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to go out in public with Annie. She hadn’t pushed it, either, because she just loved staying in, and wasn’t she an idiot?

  “I hate men, Spidey,” Annie told her dog, glancing in the rearview mirror at him. “Except you. You’re all right.”

  He just panted and gave her a happy look, clipped into his seatbelt harness in the back seat. Spidey was happy to be done with the movie at least. She was attuned to his moods, and he’d be
en calmer ever since they’d left the presence of the others. She’d found a small bare spot on the inside of one of his front legs and realized that he’d been stress-licking it and she’d been too wrapped up in Dustin to realize it.

  So now she was a bad pet parent on top of being a bad judge of people. It just got worse and worse. By the time she hit the East LA Interchange, she hated Dustin and hated herself. She vowed she wouldn’t speak of this to anyone ever again. Not Katherine. Not her mother.

  No one.

  Wyoming was done. Finito. That part of her life was over. She never had to see Sloane or anyone from the set of The Goodest Boy ever again.

  She certainly never had to see Painted Barrel or Dustin Worthington ever, ever, ever again.

  After two days of driving and lots of breaks, she pulled up into the driveway of the tiny house in Culver City. Her mother’s car was there, and she suppressed a tiny sigh of frustration at the sight. Well, there was nothing to be done about that, either. Annie glanced over at Spidey. “We’re home, boy.”

  For better or for worse.

  * * *

  • • •

  Every day, Dustin watched his phone like a hawk. She’d call, he knew. She was angry over something, but at some point she’d tell him what she was so pissed about and then they could talk it through. She’d let him back into her life. She’d tell him where she’d gone. She’d answer the message he’d sent her on Facebook.

  Something.

  Anything.

  But a week passed. Then two. Then three. Even though Dustin still had feelings for her, something hardened in his chest. He didn’t like that he felt like a fool. That she’d used him and ditched him. Maybe she had regrets over their night together, but it wasn’t his damn fault. She’d wanted sex as much as he had.

  If she wanted to cut him out of her life, though, that was fine. He didn’t need a sweet redhead with freckles and a happy smile. He was probably better off alone anyhow—no one to tie him down.

  Sometimes things worked out for the best, even if they didn’t feel like it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Weeks Later

  You’re going to give your mother an ulcer,” Kitty Grissom said, slurping down her third mimosa of her Mother’s Day brunch.

  “Are you sure it won’t be the drinks that do that?” Annie teased her mom, but she wasn’t drinking her own plain orange juice. Something about the taste was making her stomach upset, so she sipped water, instead.

  “Very funny,” was all Kitty said.

  “Darling, at least your daughter takes you out for brunch,” Kitty’s friend Vivian declared, her (fourth) martini sloshing as she waved her arm around. “My sons won’t even call me. It’s dreadful. Positively dreadful. I mean, I got them their first jobs in this business. You would think that they’d be grateful! Instead, they act like I’m a pariah of some kind.”

  “My daughter is wonderful,” said Honoria, who was nursing an enormous glass of wine. “Except she had those babies and got fat as a blimp. Now she’ll never get a role. What’s the point in living in Hollywood if you don’t want to work in the industry?”

  All three women murmured agreement as Annie stared at the menu.

  “She has a great point, sweetie pie,” Kitty said to Annie. “When does your next movie start?”

  “I told you, Mom. It got shelved. There’s already a St. Bernard movie shooting that they feel it’s too close to and they don’t want to compete. Something else will come up.”

  Kitty reached over and smacked Annie’s arm, her heavily made-up eyes widening. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Right. Sorry. Kitty.” She rolled her eyes while the other two women tsked.

  For Mother’s Day, Annie had offered to take her mother out to brunch, just the two of them. It had turned into brunch at The Ivy, no less, so they could do some celebrity spotting (her mother’s favorite pastime) and her mother’s best friends had shown up as well. Now they were all in the process of getting day-drunk and well, Annie couldn’t really complain. They were all mothers, after all, and it was Mother’s Day. So she was now picking up the tab for three soon-to-be-soused women at a restaurant that was more than she’d budgeted for. But that was okay.

  Funny how not a lot mattered when you were depressed.

  Six weeks had passed since she’d run away from Painted Barrel. She’d been in hiding, avoiding her phone, avoiding email, avoiding Facebook, until enough time had passed that Dustin’d stopped contacting her. Of course, then she was just hurt that he’d stopped altogether, which was silly of her. She told herself that she’d gather her thoughts in LA for a week or two, find Spidey a new home, and then fling herself into her next movie, training her new project and forgetting all about a cowboy with a laughing smile and fantastic shoulders.

  Then, her next movie was canceled a week before she was supposed to acquire her newest dog. In a way, it was a blessing. She hadn’t yet found a home for Spidey. It wasn’t for lack of interest—he was an adorable Boston terrier and she had the names of several families that were looking for a well-trained family dog to add to their home. But Spidey was sweet and loving and he understood that she was sad. He curled up next to her and slept so sweetly at her side that she spent most nights hugging him (and crying a little). If she didn’t have to give him up, that was all the better.

  Her mother didn’t understand, but Kitty rarely understood these sorts of things. Her life (and that of her two best friends, Honoria and Vivian) was entirely focused around Hollywood and movie roles. All three were well-connected enough that they got walk-ons in all sorts of movies, just enough to make ends meet. They hustled. They schmoozed. They networked. And when one found a good lead, she made sure to share it with the others. They’d all had so much plastic surgery that they got roles for women ten to fifteen years younger than they actually were. Kitty was pushing fifty but liked to think she could get parts for “soccer mom” or “office professional” or even “aging hooker” as long as no one looked too closely. All three friends had their faces plumped with so much filler that they had apple cheeks and plastic expressions and they were the epitome of Hollywood clichés . . . but they were happy, so who was Annie to complain?

  “Darling,” Vivian cooed at Annie. “If you need work, my daughter’s friend is in one of those period pieces. The sixties. They’re going to be shooting a Woodstock scene and I’m sure you’d work for ‘hippie number three’ or something along those lines.” She gave Annie a beaming smile and finished her martini.

  “I’m fine, thanks. I think I’m just going to take a bit more time off work and figure out what my next steps are.”

  They all three stared at her like she was growing another head.

  “Next steps?” Honoria asked, with a little shake of her purple hair. “What next steps are these? You need to stay in the game. Do you need a new agent? I can get you in touch with someone.”

  “No, I’m fine. Truly.” The waiter arrived with their lunches, saving Annie from having to make excuses. They didn’t understand wanting to pick projects, not when they chased down every movie they could. It was less about the money for them and more about the glamour of seeing yourself on camera for those rare fifteen seconds or so. Annie wasn’t sure if she envied them or pitied them. They loved their lives, after all. They were living their dreams. So what if it seemed like a messy nightmare to her?

  The waiter set down Annie’s eggs in front of her, and suddenly the smell hit her like a wave. Next to her, Kitty had a bowl of fresh fruit, and the scent of bananas and cantaloupe seemed overwhelmingly powerful. It mingled with the eggs, and a cold sweat broke out on her brow.

  Oh no. She was going to vomit.

  Annie bolted from the table, her hand clapped to her mouth, and wove through the crowded restaurant. Luckily, she made it to the bathroom before puking her guts up. After a few rounds of dry heaves, she felt better. She wa
shed her face, composed herself, and went back out to the table with a faint smile on her face.

  All three women were staring at her. Kitty and Vivian were looking at Annie with horror, and Honoria had a knowing smirk.

  “Sorry,” Annie said, sitting back down and pushing her eggs away. “I think there was something in the orange juice that upset my stomach.”

  “It’s not the orange juice, honey.” Honoria cast a smug look at Kitty. “I used to get sick at the smell of eggs all the time when I was pregnant with my Carmen.”

  “Oh, I’m not pregnant,” Annie said quickly.

  “Have you had sex, darling?” Vivian asked.

  Annie blinked. “I . . . I don’t know that it’s anyone’s business.”

  Kitty gasped. “Oh, Annie. Was it a director? Sloane?” Her eyes widened. “Is he cheating on his wife? This is wonderful. He’s got another movie coming up and I bet we can all get roles in it—”

  “Mo—Kitty, no,” Annie protested, shuddering in horror at the thought of sleeping with Sloane. “I didn’t sleep with anyone in the film crew. Jesus.”

  “A local, then,” Honoria said. When Annie’s cheeks grew hot, Honoria gave a smug nod. “Told you both.”

  “Oh Annie, you didn’t.” Kitty looked disappointed. “Locals are just a mistake.”

  Boy, she knew that. “I’m really not pregnant, everyone. I promise.”

  Honoria reached into her purse and pulled out a box. “Here. I’ve got pee sticks. Go take one in the bathroom. It’ll tell you if you’re pregnant.”