Wrangling His Pregnant Cowgirl: Beckett Brothers Book Three

by North, Leslie

  Beckett Brothers

  Wrangling His Best Friend’s Sister

  Wrangling His Sexy Assistant

  Wrangling His Pregnant Cowgirl

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, AUGUST 2019

  Copyright © 2019 Relay Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Leslie North is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Romance projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.

  Cover Design by LJ Mayhem Covers.

  www.relaypub.com

  Blurb

  Scout Beckett has always wanted to run a ranch, not just work it under the purview of his older sibling. He wants to do something different from his family’s horses and beef cattle: he wants to own a dairy farm. To this end, Scout has been working on one as a foreman, and his mentor had always promised it would be Scout’s after he passed. But when the owner dies, he wills it to his city-slicker granddaughter instead; leaving Scout in charge of a farm that will never be his.

  Stella has worked for a nonprofit for years, helping to feed starving children in third-world countries. When she comes home for the funeral to say goodbye to her grandfather, the only stability she’s ever known, she finds herself falling into the arms of sexy cowboy Scout when shared loss and simple comfort turns to a night of passion before they each go their separate ways.

  But three months later, Stella returns to the ranch, faced with the stipulations of her grandfather’s will: she must stay for the better part of the year, or lose the ranch to charity. Not only that, but she has to tell her one-night stand that he’s going to be a daddy. When the shock of her pregnancy wears off, Stella vows to ride out the will’s rule and get back to her old life as soon as possible.

  But as Stella slowly remembers why she’s always loved the place she’s come back to, Scout has to decide if he’s okay with never owning the land he works. Is having a family enough? Or will he pass on love and passion for a farm of his own?

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  (Beckett Brothers Book Three)

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  End of Wrangling His Pregnant Cowgirl

  Thank you!

  About Leslie

  Also by Leslie

  1

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t wait longer?”

  “I’ve already waited over half an hour,” Scout hissed to his oldest brother, Bran. “Everyone’s here. We can’t stand out here forever.”

  Bran eyed Hunter, Scout’s other older brother, and it took all of Scout’s patience not to tell them both to go to hell. He’d been managing everything on George’s farm for a very long time. It made sense that he’d end up having to manage George’s funeral as well. And if the old man’s only living relative couldn’t manage to show up on time? Well, he couldn’t fix that.

  He leaned over to the pastor and whispered, “Let’s go ahead and begin.” Pastor Johnson nodded and called everyone back together.

  They were gathered on a low bluff that ran along the edge of George’s property. Behind them lay acres of fields where the dairy cattle grazed during good weather. In front of them, they could see the Sulphur River as it ran west to east across North Texas.

  “Friends,” the Pastor began. “We have come here today to lay to rest one of our own. George Steadman was a great man, a veteran, a member of our community for over eighty years…”

  As the pastor continued, Scout’s gaze traveled over the heads of the circle of people who stood listening to the memorial service. Coming across the field was a tall redhead wearing a black dress that flowed behind her in the breeze. Her hair was in a twist of some sort, tendrils of curls drifting around her face. She wore a pair of black cowboy boots with silver embroidery, and a silver cuff bracelet on one slender wrist. Her flame-red hair and porcelain skin provided all the contrast the somber black needed. She was her own best embellishment.

  “Let me guess,” Hunter murmured in Scout’s ear. “That’s the granddaughter.”

  “Yeah,” Scout replied as the pastor said something about returning to God’s bosom. “That’s her—Stella.”

  Hunter didn’t say anything else, but Scout kept his eyes on Stella as she speed-walked across the field. When she finally arrived, slipping in between Nadine Lewis and Bran’s wife, Ava, her cheeks were flushed, and Scout had nearly forgotten why they were all standing around here in the first place.

  “And now, I’d like to ask Scout Beckett, George’s longtime foreman, to say a few words on behalf of the family.”

  Texting back and forth with Stella about the arrangements, Scout had asked her if she wanted to speak at the service, but she’d said she didn’t, so he’d gone ahead and written something up himself. It was the least he could do for George, who had given him a job and a home for the last six years.

  Scout felt Bran give him a reassuring pat on the back. He stepped forward to stand next to the pastor, who smiled encouragement. As he began to speak, he couldn’t help looking at Stella, who stood ramrod straight, tears gently rolling down her cheeks.

  He gave her a small smile, and her gaze told him to go ahead.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone,” he said. “I wasn’t even done with my Ag degree from A and M when I applied to be George’s new foreman.” Everyone laughed softly. “All I really knew was that I wanted to run a farming operation, and I didn’t want to go to work for my older brother—no offense, Bran.”

  “None taken,” Bran replied cheerfully. The group laughed again.

  “But George went and took a risk on me. He hired me right out of school, he spent way too much time teaching me what I needed to know, and then he stepped back and let me find my footing. And that was classic George. He was patient with his employees, with his family, and with the animals. He was always willing to teach, and to let you learn. Even when it cost him a pretty penny like I did that first year.” Scout saw Stella laugh that time, and it was like a weight coming off his chest.

  “Toward the end,” Scout’s voice grew somber. “I spent time with George at his bedside. And he told me what he wanted most after he was gone—for people to know he had a good life, he loved what he did, and he loved who he did it for.” Scout paused, fixing his gaze on Stella. She smiled through her tears and nodded f
or him to continue. “And mostly, he was excited to see Betty and David again. He missed them for a very long time. So let us say goodbye to George, but most of all, let us say safe travels. We’ll see you again, old man.”

  He reached over and took one of the silk satchels that held George’s cremains. He lifted it to the sky and said a quick prayer. Then he turned and opened it, letting the contents flow out into the breeze and down to the river below.

  Pastor Johnson said “Amen” and then nodded to Stella to take her turn. Scout stayed by her side as she released more of the ashes into the wind, followed one by one by the others there. When everyone in attendance was done, Scout announced that there was a reception back at the house, and then he took Stella’s arm and walked her home.

  * * *

  Scout stood in the living room of the big Victorian farmhouse. The structure had served the Steadman family for three generations, added onto and remodeled over and over again. Scout was hoping it would serve his family for another three. He knew Stella had no interest in owning the farm, and he had the money and the paperwork ready to make her an offer to buy. He watched as she greeted neighbors and townspeople, impressed with how many she knew even though she’d only spent summers with her granddad growing up.

  “So do you know much about George’s granddaughter?” his sister-in-law Ava asked as she sipped on a glass of punch instead of beer or wine. She was still nursing her youngest, baby Janelle.

  “I met her a few times,” he said, holding a beer that he suspected had gotten warm by now. “She does some kind of nonprofit work in foreign countries, so she’s not been around much. She’d come once every year or two, and George would be like a teenage girl getting ready to go to prom. He was crazy about her.”

  “Aw, that’s so sweet,” Ava replied.

  “What’s so sweet?” Scout’s other sister-in-law, Kit asked as she arrived and handed the baby over to Ava.

  Scout stared at Janelle, who smiled all gummy and drooling. He didn’t really get the whole appeal of babies, but he had to admit Janelle was pretty cute as far as babies went. She had his brother’s nose, and her mama’s eyes, and a bunch of curly wheat colored hair that made her look a little like a Muppet.

  As Ava filled Kit in on the conversation, Scout studied Stella more carefully. He could see the strain around her mouth, and her skin was at least one shade paler than it had been when they’d first walked into the house.

  “Excuse me,” he told Ava and Kit, setting his beer bottle on a nearby table. He made his way through the scattered groups of people eating, drinking, and talking in respectfully low tones.

  “Well, there’s Scout now,” Mr. Anderson from the neighboring sheep farm said when Scout approached him and Stella.

  Scout lightly put his hand on Stella’s back to let her know he was there and ready to help. “I’m wondering if I could borrow your companion here, Mr. Anderson?” he asked, smiling at the other man.

  Stella stiffened slightly at his touch, but then she relaxed back into it, exhaustion coming off her in waves Scout could feel.

  “Of course,” Mr. Anderson replied. “Stella, it was so good to see you. We all hope we’ll get to see more of you in the future.”

  Stella bussed the older man on the cheek, and then Scout leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Come with me for just a sec.”

  She followed him out of the room and down the hall to the eat-in kitchen at the back of the house.

  Scout pointed to the kitchen table. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he suggested. Stella’s response was to collapse into one of the chairs, leaning her elbows on the table.

  “When did you last eat?” he asked, making his way to the pantry.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been traveling for twenty of the last twenty-four hours. My connection in Istanbul was cancelled so I was rerouted through Cyprus. It took eleven extra hours, and I didn’t think I’d make it in time.” She looked up at him with a weak smile. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

  “Well,” he said, “I wish I’d waited a little longer. I’m sorry you missed the first few minutes.”

  “It’s okay.” She fiddled with the salt shaker. “I made it for the part that mattered.”

  He walked to the table, carrying a platter of crackers, cheese, and grapes. Setting it down, he sat in the chair across from her. “Eat. You look like you could use it.”

  She slowly took a cracker and a slice of cheddar and began to nibble. Her gaze wandered to the back door. Scout’s followed. Along the edge of the doorframe were tiny marks, beginning about two and a half feet above the floor and progressing upward, each one half an inch, an inch, sometimes more above the previous. He looked back at Stella and saw tears fill her eyes.

  Growth marks, he realized. They were the marks of how she’d grown. Stella hadn’t visited often in the six years he’d been working for George, but in that moment, he realized she’d grown up here. She’d visited often enough to mark her height—and love her grandfather. And now she faced the end of everything she’d known with the old man. Of course she was sad. Of course she was.

  “Hey,” he told her gently, bringing her gaze back to him. “Would you like me to finish up the reception? Everyone will understand. You’ve had a pretty rough couple of days.”

  She sniffed, then took a deep breath, giving her head a small shake. “No, it’s okay. I wasn’t here as much as I should have been, the last few years. Grandpa died without family nearby. This is the last thing I can do for him—send him off the way he would have wanted.”

  “Okay, then.” Scout smiled at her. “We’ll go back out there and get it done, then if you need afterwards, we’ll build a fire, grab my best bottle of whiskey, and fall apart together.”

  She laughed softly. “It’s a deal,” she said, holding out her hand. He shook it, trying not to notice how perfectly it fit in his, how soft her skin was. She was grieving, and it was his last job for George to help her through that.

  2

  By ten p.m., when the final visitors left her grandfather’s house, Stella was running on fumes. Going on nearly a day and a half with no sleep, she’d passed the point of exhaustion and moved on to delirious.

  The rhythm of grief was something new for her because, for all the suffering and despair she’d seen in her work in third-world countries, she’d never experienced it first-hand. Her father, George’s son David, was nothing more than a photograph to Stella. Even if he had stuck around long enough to see her born, his drug habit would have made him an entirely unsuitable parent. He’d died when Stella was still a tiny child.

  But George had always been there. He’d offered to give her mother a place to live, money for medical bills, any kind of support she’d needed. Mirabelle had been far too much of a free spirit for that, she didn’t want to be tied down by anyone or anything, but she had at least allowed George and Stella to get to know one another, sending Stella to the farm every summer and most long holidays as well. Her grandfather had provided the greatest stability Stella had as a child, and now she was devastated to realize she’d taken him and it so much for granted.

  “You about ready for that whiskey?” Scout asked as he came into the kitchen carrying a tray full of empty glasses.

  “If I have whiskey, I’ll never get this mess cleaned up,” she replied, gazing at the stacks of dirty dishes and decimated platters of food.

  “You don’t have to,” he told her, setting the tray down. “Jean Anne will be back in the morning—she’s been coming for a couple of hours most days of the week since your granddad got sick. She specifically said to leave everything. The rest of the house is so clean, she won’t have anything else to do. She’ll get this squared away in no time.”

  Stella thought about the bed waiting in the room upstairs that had always been hers. Her mother had moved so often, going from apartment to apartment and job to job, that Stella had always thought of her room at George’s as home. Her real home. And while it was painful without him, it was also nice t
o be here.

  “Okay,” she told Scout, noticing how his blue eyes looked so serious and kind, “You win. I’ll leave it all for Jean Anne. I hope I can go to sleep. I think I’ve reached that point like little kids do, where I’m so tired, I might have insomnia.”

  “And that—” Scout said, taking her hand and tugging her gently toward the back family room, “is why I keep talking about whiskey.”

  She didn’t protest as he led her to the comfortable room with its wooden plank floors, faded throw rugs, and big chenille sofas. The fire had been lit, and she suspected he’d done it so she’d be more comfortable. He let go of her hand, and she immediately missed the warmth of his calloused fingers.

  “Just have a seat there, and let me get you my secret sleep aid,” he said, walking to the wheeled bar cart.

  He poured and mixed for a few moments, then brought her a glass full of cloudy gold liquid, garnished with a cherry.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Just drink,” he ordered, smiling broadly.

  She shrugged and lifted it to her lips, too tired to argue.

  “Ooh, that’s good,” she exclaimed as the tangy alcohol hit her taste buds.

  “Whiskey sour,” he said, settling next to her on the sofa, not too close, but not at the far end, either. She appreciated that he wasn’t creepy, or formal, either.