by Jan Hudson
"Oh, darlin', I was scared to death you weren't coming back. I love you. And I’ve missed you so much." he murmured as he continued to hold her close to him.
"Spider, I don't want my money to come between us. I’ll give it all to charity if it bothers you."
He pulled back and looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "That's the craziest damned thing I've ever heard. Darlin', I've told you a dozen times, I don't give a hoot if you have more money than Donald Trump. If it doesn't bother you, it doesn't bother me."
"Are you sure? I've got a hell of a bundle."
He threw back his head and laughed. "I love you, sugar. Money, warts, and all."
She pursed her lips. "I don't have any warts."
He laughed and kissed her again. "I've got a couple. Are you willing to marry me?"
"On one condition. Will you please back off a little and stop being so overprotective? Will you ask me before you charge in and make my decisions for me?"
"I promise I'll do my very best. And if I forget, you have my permission to remind me with a baseball bat."
She smiled. "Then, yes, I’ll marry you."
"Hot damn!" He picked her up and strode down the hall toward his bedroom.
"What are you doing?" she squealed as he dragged her sweater over her head.
He unzipped her jeans. "I'm about to make love to you all night and into next week."
Her eyes narrowed and her fists went to her hips.
His hands stilled and he cleared his throat. "If that's okay with you, sugar."
She studied the ceiling a moment, then grinned. "It is. I've been dreaming about red satin sheets."
Epilogue
As Spider drove the Silverado home, Anne sat snuggled next to him. "I think the rodeo this year was even better than last year's," she said, stifling a yawn. "Don't you?"
"Ummm," he replied. "Are you sure you didn't get too tired?"
"Positive. Don't fuss so." She patted his thigh. "And this year I bought the championship barrow. They said it was the highest price ever paid."
He laughed. "Sugar, for the last five raises, nobody was bidding against you but me."
"Why did you do that?"
"I thought you were getting a kick out of it. Besides, you need the tax deduction."
After he'd wheeled the black pickup into the driveway of the suburban house, Anne poked the button of a remote-control unit and the double doors of the garage went up. He pulled in beside a blue Mercedes and helped her out of the cab. Arm In arm, they walked through the house, a sprawling ranch style with a swimming pool, and into the den. The LeRoy Neiman football painting hung on one wall and the wooden Indian stood by the fireplace.
"You know." she said, looking around the comfortably furnished room, with its high-beamed ceiling and oversize furniture, "sometimes I miss living at the Pawn Parlor."
Spider laughed and rubbed her big tummy. "We couldn't bring up Scooter here in a pawnshop."
She laid her hand over his. "I feel like such a blimp. How can you still love me when I'm so fat?"
He kissed her nose. "Darlin', I'd love you if you weighed six hundred pounds and had green hair."
"My money really hasn't been a problem, has it?"
"Nah," he said. "I told you it wouldn't bother me. How many husbands have a wife who'd give them a football team for Christmas?"
She laughed. "Harmon nearly croaked. He's taking his job of managing my affairs very seriously. And he loves living near Washington again. Vicki says he seems ten years younger."
They walked to the large master bedroom, which sported high ceilings and another fireplace. Amid the tastefully appointed furnishings sat a king-size brass bed with red satin sheets and a fake-fur spread. He sat on the side of it and drew her into his lap, holding her close and rubbing her belly.
"I’ll be glad when Junior has his birthday. I've got a terrible hankering for his mama."
She pressed his head against her breast, ran her fingers through his thick hair, and caressed his cheek. She touched the familiar spider earring, an eighteen-karat gold one, and kissed his forehead. "I've got a terrible hankering for his papa, too. Does it bother you very much?"
"Nah, I’ll live. You want a glass of milk or something, sugar?"
She shook her head, then stiffened in his arms.
"What's the matter, darlin?"
"I'm not sure, but I think I just had a labor pain."
"Omigod!" Spider sprang to his feet with Anne in his arms and started running through the house.
"Spider Webb! What are you doing?"
"I'm taking you to the hospital."
She laughed. "Put me down, you idiot. I'm not even sure it was a labor pain. And if it was, it will be hours yet. I have to pack my bag and call the doctor.”
He ran back into their bedroom and laid her down on the fur spread. "Don't move. I’ll pack your bag. Where is it?"
"In my closet. I'll get it."
His wild blue eyes narrowed to thin slits beneath his black slashing brows, and he held up his hand in a signal to stop. "Don't you move a foot off that bed. I’ll handle this."
She smiled as he strode around the room, dragging things out of drawers and cramming them into her suitcase. He was still overprotective—he would probably always be—but her heart was filled almost to bursting with love for him.
With his father assisting and muttering obscenities at the doctor every time his mother had a labor pain, William Andrew Webb, Jr. was born in Cypress Creek Hospital at 6:43 am. Twenty-two and a half inches long, he weighed eight pounds and four ounces, had blue eyes, a full head of black hair, and a wicked smile that the doctor declared was only a gas bubble. The nurses said he had the strongest lungs and the biggest hands and feet of any baby in the nursery.
