by Joanna Wayne
Chapter Three
Macabre kicked his way out of the creaky gate with a vengeance that sent adrenaline exploding through Cannon’s veins.
One. Two.
The bull bucked wildly. The rope dug into Cannon’s gloved hand. His lucky Stetson went flying. Bad omen.
Three. Four.
The crowd’s cheers mingled with the thunderous stamping of the bull’s hooves and the frantic beating of Cannon’s heart.
Five.
Cannon’s body shifted and began to slide. Instinct took over. He struggled to hang on, leaning hard, fighting to shift his weight.
Macabre’s fierce back hooves propelled the animal’s powerful muscles, twisting and spinning the two-ton mass of fury. The rope slipped. White-hot pain ripped through Cannon’s shoulder.
He was on the ground. The rank breath of the snorting bull burned in his own nostrils. Flying dirt blinded him. He blinked, covered his head with his hands and rolled away.
Shouts from the rodeo clown echoed though the arena, but the bull didn’t back off. It swerved and came back at Cannon.
Cannon rolled in the opposite direction. The crowd gasped in unison as one hoof came so close to his head that Cannon could feel the vibrations rattle inside his skull.
Then the bull turned and went after the clown. Cannon owed Billy Cox big-time.
He picked himself up, grabbed his hat and waved it to the crowd as he scrambled back to safety. Cox was safe, as well. Only then did Cannon check the results.
Seven seconds.
Disappointment burned inside him. One more second and he would have scored big. He’d drawn Macabre, the most vicious of the bulls on tonight’s docket. The animal that could have put Cannon in pay dirt.
Already December, one of the last of the rodeos in what had been a great year for Cannon. Still, he could have used that prize money. Like most rodeo addicts who loved bull riding, the day would come when he’d have to retire. He’d need mucho cash to do that right.
What was a cowboy without a ranch?
“Bad luck,” one of the other riders said.
“I’d say good luck,” another said. “You could have been leaving here in an ambulance tonight.”
“Seven seconds on Macabre should be worth ten on any of the other bulls in the chute tonight.”
Cannon acknowledged the comments with a nod and a shrug. Nothing else was needed. They all knew the disappointment of losing to a bull.
“Mighty tough way to make a living.”
The voice was unfamiliar, gruff, but with a rattle that came with lots of years of living. Cannon turned to see who’d spoken.
Reality sent a shot of acid straight to his gut. As if tonight hadn’t already been bad enough.
“What are you doing here?” Cannon asked.
“I came to see my son ride,” R.J. said. “No law against that, is there?”
Probably should be. “You’ve seen me,” Cannon said. “Now what?”
“We need to talk,” R.J. said.
Cannon wasn’t interested in pretending he had any fatherly feelings for a man who hadn’t given a damn about him when he could have used his help. And he wouldn’t play any part in the old man’s search for redemption before he died.
Actually, he’d figured R.J. was already dead by now. Or maybe everything he’d said about the inoperable brain tumor at the bizarre reading of his will had been lies. He wouldn’t put anything past R. J. Dalton.
“I know you have no use for me,” R.J. continued. “I probably deserve that. We still need to talk. And I have someone you should meet.”
“Look, R.J., you had your say at the reading of your will. I wasn’t interested then. I’m still not. I don’t play games.”
“Looks like you were playing a potentially deadly one tonight.”
“That’s work, not a game. And it’s my business.”
“So is what I have to tell you.”
“Then spit it out.”
“Okay. You think I’m a lousy father. I agree. But unless I miss my guess, you’re about to get the chance to prove you’re a hundred times better at it than I ever was.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You will in a minute. Come with me.”
Crazy old fool. Cannon couldn’t even begin to guess what kind of absurd scheme he was working now. He leaned against the wooden railing that separated the contenders from the rest of the arena as R.J. ambled off without looking back.
Every muscle in his body complained silently, aches and pain seeping in like the bitter cold of a West Texas winter morning. He craved a hot shower, a couple of over-the-counter painkillers with a six-pack to wash them down.
Then he’d plop on the lumpy mattress back at the motel. No place like home, and a lonely motel room was as close to home as he’d been since he’d finished his tour of duty with the marines.
But something had brought R.J. clear out to Abilene to talk to Cannon. Doubtful the old coot would just turn around and drive home without saying whatever he’d come to say. Might as well get it over with.
Cannon followed in the direction R.J. had gone. He spotted him a couple of minutes later, standing near the wooden bleachers. A stunning young woman stood next to him, cuddling a baby in her arms.
Surely R.J. didn’t have the testosterone to father another child at his age. And even if he had, why would he think Cannon would give a damn?
The woman turned toward him and attempted a smile that didn’t quite work. Her gaze shifted from him back to the sleeping baby.
R.J.’s words about his getting a chance to prove himself as a father echoed through his mind. If he thought Cannon was going to raise this baby for him he was nuts. So was the infant’s mother.
A more troublesome angle struck him. Surely, R.J. wasn’t insinuating Cannon could have fathered this baby.
He studied the woman. Fiery red hair that cascaded around her shoulders. Deep green eyes. Not a woman a man could easily forget, yet she didn’t stir any memories for him.
“I’m Hadley Dalton,” she said as he approached. “Your half brother Adam’s wife. And this is Kimmie.” She held up the baby for him to get a better look. The infant stretched and rubbed her eyes with her tiny balled fists, but then settled back to sleep.
So this was Adam’s child. Cannon exhaled, releasing the dread and the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Cute baby. You and Adam did well.”
“But that’s just the thing,” R.J. said. “It’s not their baby. You’re her dad, or at least some woman down in Houston claims you are.”
Macabre’s hooves couldn’t have packed a bigger wallop.
Chapter Four
Cannon took a long swig of the cold beer. It did nothing to ease the shock or to relieve the aches in his joints and muscles. R.J. and Hadley sat across the booth from him in the nearby café where they’d gone to finish their discussion. The infant slept in Hadley’s arms.
The confusion he’d felt back at the arena was growing worse instead of better. “I don’t even know anyone named Brittany Garner. I definitely didn’t have a child with her. She evidently has me confused with someone else.”
“She seemed pretty sure about her facts when she dropped Kimmie off with us,” R.J. said.
“She could be just trying to get money out of you,” Cannon said. “If she knows anything at all about me, she knows I’m not worth conning.”
“She’s a detective,” Hadley offered. “Surely she wouldn’t be working a con.”
“Anyone can have business cards printed,” Cannon said. “That doesn’t prove she’s a cop.”
“She’s a cop all right,” R.J. assured him. “Your half brother Travis is a homicide detective himself in Dallas. He had her checked out. She’s legit and apparently good at her job.”
She might be a detective, but Cannon wasn’t convinced he’d slept with her. “How old is this woman?”
“Looks to be in her late twenties,” R.J. said. “’Bout your a
ge. Sky-blue eyes. Tall. Thin. Strawberry-blond hair. Damned good-looking if that helps jog your memory.”
It didn’t. “Awful young for a detective,” Cannon commented, not that it mattered. He was twenty-seven himself and he’d already finished a stint with the marines and made a name for himself on the rodeo circuit.
“How old is Kimmie?” he asked.
“Three months, according to Brit Garner,” R.J. said.
Cannon went over the basics in his mind. Kimmie was three months old. This was the first week in December. If Kimmie was his, she would have been conceived about a year ago. That would have meant he had to be in Houston last December.
The big Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo was always in March. He’d participated in that, but didn’t recall being in Houston any other time. Of course, he might have passed through on his way to somewhere else. He’d have to check his calendar.
He wasn’t into one-night stands, but that didn’t mean he’d never given in to temptation. He definitely hadn’t been in a relationship then, or any time in recent memory. Have a few good times with a woman and she was ready to pick out furniture and run your life.
A one-nighter with a gorgeous Houston detective that he didn’t remember. Extremely unlikely.
“You can get a paternity test,” Hadley said. “That’s the only way you can know for sure if you’re Kimmie’s father.”
“A paternity test.” He sounded like a nervous parrot. But he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around the possibility that the baby sleeping in Hadley’s arms could be his.
“I hear they’re easy to get these days,” R.J. agreed. “If you’re short of cash, I can front you the money.”
“I’m not the father,” Cannon insisted, but his stomach had twisted into a huge, gnarly knot.
Kimmie began to stir. She stretched and yawned and then tried to poke her entire fist into her wide-open mouth. Hadley moved her to her other shoulder, but the baby continued to fuss.
“She’s hungry,” Hadley said. “Would you like to hold her, Cannon, while I get her bottle from the diaper bag?”
Hold that squirming ball of life? Not a chance. A puppy, he could handle. But this was a real live baby.
“I wouldn’t know how,” he said.
“I s’pect you better learn,” R.J. said. “Not only how to hold her, but also how to feed her and change her and even bathe her—that is, if she turns out to be yours.”
R.J. was already a believer. Cannon could tell by that knowing look in his eyes even though his pupils were half-hidden by the bags beneath them and the loose skin that drooped over his lids.
Kimmie started to cry. Cannon’s muscles bunched. The prospect of fatherhood struck him with raw fear, the kind of paralyzing fright he’d never felt when climbing atop a bull.
“Maybe you should stay at the Dry Gulch Ranch while you have the paternity testing done,” Hadley suggested. “There’s plenty of room since R.J. is the only one actually living in the original ranch house now. The rest of us have built our own houses on the Dry Gulch now.
“I’d be close enough to help you with Kimmie if you’re at the ranch, but I can’t stay here. Adam and I have two young daughters of our own who need me.”
Stay at the Dry Gulch and then owe his worthless biological father for the favor. The prospect was repulsive. But what other options did he have? He couldn’t walk out of here tonight with a baby in his arms and no idea how to care for her.
He had six days before his next rodeo, time he needed to get over his sore shoulder. But what if the paternity test proved it was his baby. Then what? Drag Kimmie around in a saddle blanket?
The baby had a mother. Detective or not, she’d have to take over the parenting chores until the kid was old enough to at least tell Cannon why she was crying.
Great attitude. If he wasn’t careful he’d rival R.J. for the Worst Father of a Lifetime award.
Cannon finished his beer while Hadley fed the baby. “How many times a day do you have to do that?”
“About every four hours during the day. Kimmie has a healthy appetite. She goes longer between feedings at night.”
“She takes a bottle at night, too?”
“She sleeps through most of the night but wakes up around five in the morning for a feeding. The good news is she goes right back to sleep after that, and usually doesn’t wake up again until about eight.”
No wonder the mystery detective was ready to hand the infant off to him. She was probably sleep deprived. Only what kind of mother would trust a man like him with their child?
Either Detective Brittany Garner had no idea what he was like or she was one totally irresponsible mother.
“I need to go to Houston and talk to Detective Garner,” he said. “I hate to ask, Hadley, but if you’d watch Kimmie just for another day or two, until I can get the paternity test and sort all this out, I’d really appreciate it.”
“You want me to take her back to the Dry Gulch Ranch?”
“Just for a few days.”
“I can manage that.”
“But no more than a few days,” R.J. cautioned. “If Kimmie turns out to be your biological daughter, then she’s your responsibility. Yours and the mother who dropped her off like a stray kitten.”
R.J. was a fine one to give advice on parenting. Cannon was willing to bet he’d never in his life changed a diaper or gotten up at five in the morning to poke a bottle at a crying infant.
If the test came back positive—which he was almost certain it wouldn’t—Cannon would at least make a stab at being a dad. There had to be a book that would help.
Sure, parenting by the book. About like a guidebook could teach a man how to stay on a mad, bucking bull for eight seconds.
“Are you driving back to Dallas tonight?” Cannon asked.
“We’re flying back,” R.J. said. “Tague Lambert, one of our neighbors, flew us down in his private jet. He’s waiting at the small airport just west of town.”
“So if you’ll just take Kimmie with you, I’ll drive to the ranch when I finish my business with Brit Garner,” Cannon reiterated.
“You can fly back with us,” R.J. offered. “Get the testing done in Dallas, might even be able to schedule it for tomorrow. Then you can wait until you have the facts to contact Kimmie’s mother. You can use one of the vehicles at the ranch to take care of business.”
“I don’t go anywhere without my pickup truck,” Cannon said, dismissing the offer. The less time he spent around R.J. the better.
The conversation dried up and died while his mind searched for reasons this baby couldn’t be his and why some woman was trying to screw him over.
Once Kimmie had her fill and spit the nipple from her tiny, heart-shaped lips, Hadley set the almost empty nursing bottle on the table and shifted the baby in her arms. “Don’t you want to at least hold her and say hello before we go?”
Cannon shook his head, though he figured it made him look like a jerk. “I’ve never held a baby before. I’m afraid I’d do it wrong and hurt her.”
“You won’t.” Hadley stood and walked to his side of the booth. “Stand up and hold out your arms. I’ll show you how to cradle her.”
He stood, but kept his arms to his sides. “I don’t think I should....”
“Nonsense.” Hadley handed the baby off to him.
He took her reluctantly, standing stiffly while she fit the baby into his arms.
Kimmie’s eyes fluttered, eyes the same general color as his, only lighter. Cannon’s breath caught in his throat.
The infant was practically weightless, but not still. She squirmed and started to fuss as if she knew he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. At least she was smart.
Cannon touched her chin with a fingertip. Her skin was as soft as silk. She made a gurgling noise and kicked and swung her little arms like a wind-up toy.
Her short, chubby fingers somehow caught and wrapped around the one he’d used to touch her cheek. An emotion he didn’t recognize s
hot through him and settled in his heart.
He had never been more afraid in his life.
* * *
BY THE TIME Cannon returned to his hotel room, the shock had worn off enough that the aches and pains had checked back in. He headed straight for a shower, shedding his clothes as he went. For the first time he noticed the rip in his jeans and the dirt stains blotching his Western shirt.
Stripped naked by the time he reached the bathroom, he glanced in the mirror. The area around his rib cage was already turning an ugly shade of purple.
Macabre was no doubt sleeping comfortably in his stall, probably dreaming of what he’d do to the next sucker crazy enough to climb on his back.
Cannon turned the knobs on the shower until the spray was steamy hot. He stepped in and let the water sluice over his head and run down his aching body.
He closed his eyes, but the relief he’d hoped for didn’t come. Instead, an image of Kimmie rocked his mind. Could she possibly be his daughter? He racked his brain trying to remember his schedule for last December.
Nothing stood out. His life was a steady stream of rodeos and towns he barely saw except for the arenas where the action took place. After years on the circuit, they ran together like gravy ladled over a plate of biscuits and sausage.
He remembered the big events. Dallas. Austin. Houston. San Antonio. Phoenix. Las Vegas. Hell, he even made it up to Montana on occasion. It all depended on the points he needed and how big the purse was.
There had been women. Not that many, but a few. Never married ones, at least not knowingly. And he stayed clear of the underage buckle bunnies who hung around the arenas and flirted shamelessly with any cowboy who’d give them the time of day. Plenty did. They could get a man in big trouble.
More to the point, he kept a supply of condoms handy—just in case.
The way he saw it, there was damned little chance that Kimmie was his daughter.
So why had he felt that quake deep in his gut when Kimmie had accidentally latched on to his finger? Couldn’t be because he had some kind of secret longing to father a child.
He had his future all planned out. His winnings from the rodeo were his ticket to making it happen. A kid would put the skids on his dreams faster than a bull could clear the chute.
