A Baby for the Texas Cowboy

by Sinclair Jayne

But she couldn’t take her eyes off Anders. Kane hopped down; Anders leaned toward the bull, looking down, and seemed to be waiting for something.

  He’s good.

  One of the best.

  He knows what he’s doing.

  Somehow none of those reminders comforted her.

  It was silly because it wasn’t like she was his girlfriend or wife. She had very little skin in the outcome, right? But tonight, it sure felt like she did.

  She held her breath as Anders dropped down on the back of the bull and disappeared.

  *

  Anders straddled the top of the chute and stared down at Bone Breaker, who seemed intent on showing him why he was a one hundred percent bull before he even nadded up and dropped down.

  Rank bull.

  And the one he’d wanted.

  He was in first place going into tonight, and he intended to stay there.

  Eyes on the bull’s broad back, Anders adjusted his gloves, his helmet, his vest. His mouth guard was in. He’d tied his boots on. He’d taped one shoulder that had a muscle pull and wrapped his left hamstring and the wrist of his hold hand that had the same issues. But mostly he was healthy. And lucky.

  Living his dream, the only career he’d ever wanted. Bull rider and cowboy.

  He breathed in and out, touched the tattoo on his shoulder of a wolf, symbolizing his family—all of them including his father, mother and brother who’d died years ago but remained in his heart—and in the star that celebrated his state: the Lone Star State. His ritual always finished with the tat on his forearm. Carpe diem. All of them were covered up by his thick shirt and the protective vest. The ritual was for him. Private.

  Then he dropped down. Kicked his feet back, let his thighs grip the bull to get a feel for the energy. He wrapped his hold hand and adjusted his seat, rocked back and forth to get the center of gravity. He watched tapes before his rides, but not nearly as obsessively as many of the others.

  He felt if a bull rider tried to set a trap for a bull—outthink it, essentially—the only one falling in the trap would be the rider.

  He nodded. The best sound in the world, the slide of metal, and the game began.

  Bone Breaker launched out of the chute. Dropped his head and kicked near vertical and then spun to the left. Anders was ready, nearly floating above the bull, eyes on the shoulders, hand held high to counter the shifts and spins. He was perfect until he got a tick behind and then it was sheer will that kept him seated. He would not let go. He would not give up. He muscled back to his center of gravity, just as Bone Breaker, sensing victory, dipped low again, nearly tossing Anders forward over his head, and then the bull reared his head back.

  Anders was ready. He’d already begun countering the move and the massive head missed him. He saw the light before he heard the bell. The crowd drowned out everything but his own sense of triumph.

  And then he had to look for a clear exit. Bone Breaker spun right and Anders released, using energy stored in his tensed thighs to launch himself left toward the arena fencing. Bone Breaker ran and bucked a few more times as if still pissed and showing who was boss.

  Me tonight, my man.

  Anders hurtled to the top of the fence, waved to the crowd and dropped down backstage.

  Kane was there. Other riders. Hugging. Slapping. Bone Breaker hit 47 points. Higher than Anders had earned for his ride. Still, sticking the full eight was always a cause for celebration as was a score in the nineties.

  He had time to get his helmet off and mouth guard out. Then it was the winner’s circle, pictures, a check, more pictures. Another buckle. All of it good. But not why he rode.

  He wanted to ride.

  He needed to ride.

  Freedom.

  For some reason the word Whiskey had uttered, dead serious, before she rocked his world a few months ago at his brothers’ double wedding popped in his head.

  Was that why he rode? Freedom?

  He wasn’t sure that was it. He’d always wanted to be a bull rider like his oldest brother Axel, who’d only got two years on the tour before quitting to come home and raise him after their father’s unexpected death.

  Axel’s sacrifice and truncated career always burned an ache in his chest. Every win was one Axel hadn’t had a chance at because he was a good brother and an even better man. A man Anders aspired to be.

  He spoke to the crowd, thanked the AEBR, the sponsors. His family. God. Then he was more than ready for a shower and to head to his truck and drive home to Last Stand.

  It was late.

  But he wanted a few days at home, not in a hotel room, and definitely not with a woman whose name he wouldn’t remember in a couple of days.

  He was tired of that.

  He hadn’t been with a woman since hooking up with Whiskey at Axel and August’s weddings.

  He tried to push the vision of her—naked in the moonlight, dancing to music from his truck radio in his favorite stand of oaks on the western part of the ranch near the swimming hole and the largest limestone cropping—away. But it stubbornly stayed in his head, mocking him.

  She’d looked like a forest nymph when she’d danced and a mermaid when she’d swum. And a goddess when she’d rode him—letting him get so close but not tipping over until he’d been mindlessly begging, and then she’d gotten serious. They’d made love all night. He’d barely been able to move when he drove her back to her bike. He’d invited her to stay the night at the bunkhouse with him—something he’d never done with a woman, but she’d smiled mysteriously, kissed his cheek and ridden off on her damn motorcycle like a gorgeous, sexy, temporarily sated Valkyrie.

  He’d hoped to get her out of his system with the impulsive hookup, not make his obsession worse.

  He’d seen her more than a few times in the intervening weeks, working the sponsor events. She’d been friendly but not flirty.

  It was what they’d both wanted, what they’d agreed on. But it had poked his pride that he didn’t catch her sneaking looks. That he hadn’t seemed special.

  So why was he still thinking about her—especially now as the tour was in its final weeks?

  Maybe he’d head to Last Stand tomorrow morning instead. He could find a woman tonight. Easy enough, especially for him on nights when he placed high. He wasn’t scheduled to hit the tour bar to mingle with fans, but if he showed up, management would love it. Fans would be even happier.

  And if he buried himself in another woman, perhaps he’d get the taste and feel of Whiskey out of his mouth. But the idea held no appeal.

  Damn.

  He really needed to move on.

  A few days on the ranch—riding, doing chores, hanging out with his brothers and their wives and his new nephew Diego—was exactly what he needed to break the spell of the copper-haired, whiskey-colored eyes and sultry smile of the wedding witch who’d seduced him as much as he’d seduced her.

  He strolled back to the locker room, waving off his escort. Kane and a few of the others had watched the short ceremony and were waiting for him. They were all making plans, and he let the conversation swell around him. The edge of the adrenaline was beginning to flatten. If he got a thermos of coffee and something to eat, he could hold off the crash for the four-hour drive.

  He was so intent on what he had to do—quick shower, change, stow his gear in his truck because he’d checked out of the hotel, stop at a diner—he didn’t notice the flash of coppery red and the sensuous slide of the body he’d not been able to get out of his dreams for months now until Whiskey blocked his path.

  The conversation around him died. No one moved.

  Hella awkward. And Anders didn’t do awkward, and he definitely didn’t do public scenes.

  Tension cracked through him, but perversely his body relaxed though his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth.

  “Anders, could I talk to you for a moment?”

  Chapter Three

  Her low, slightly husky voice rolled over him, stirring up heat and me
mories of her warm, taut, creamy skin under his hands and his mouth.

  Hell no. He wasn’t that good an actor.

  “Whiskey.” His heart kicked up hard and fast. What was up with that? He dug deep for his usual calm and tipped his hat he’d put on to go to the winner’s circle. “Good to see you, darlin’.”

  Her gaze narrowed and seared him like a flank steak. “I just need a minute. Maybe a few more. Depends on you.”

  There were a few muttered ribbings about his prowess and stamina and reputation.

  Men acting like boys.

  “Pretty busy, Whiskey. Heading home tonight.”

  “Won’t take long,” she said tightly, her gaze not leaving his for the full ten seconds it took him to engage his brain. “Alone,” she added, looking at each of his friends who flanked him.

  “Darlin’, you can say what you need to say here.”

  “Cut the darlin’. I’m not looking to dance.”

  He heard a few snickers.

  “We’ll catch up to you later, Anders,” Kane, the only civilized rider and friend he apparently had, said.

  “Whiskey,” Anders began cautiously, wishing himself miles away. Public confrontation had never been part of their deal. Resentment flitted down his spine and settled in his churning gut.

  “Alone,” she repeated, and that gauntlet drew out a few whistles. Anders felt someone rock his shoulder and another hip-checked him.

  What was up with that? He stared at her nearly uncomprehendingly. She was the one who had wanted to keep their hookups private. He never shared details like that with anyone, and he could see why she wouldn’t want tour staff and other riders to know the two of them had burned up the sheets more than a few times.

  She already had men stumbling over each other to get to her. If it got out that she’d hooked up, they’d only be more determined.

  He got it. He’d agreed. He’d played it cool. So why was she breaking the rules now?

  “You can talk to me here or call me later. I’m heading home. Long drive. My brothers are expecting me.”

  Screw the shower. He’d get in his truck now. His appetite was long gone.

  “Whiskey!” One of the riders who looked like he’d started celebrating early sauntered up holding a bottle of Jack. “Do your thing. You know, waving the bottle in the air and spinning it around and pouring a shot on your…”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Jason?” Anders lunged forward and clapped his hand over the bull rider’s mouth.

  Whiskey’s famous move had been a one-off, a dare that had been memorialized on YouTube to hundreds of thousands of views. He knew. He’d been the cowboy who’d been on the receiving end of that shot. It had been good, sexy fun at the time, but not the brand of his long-term reputation.

  He tried to signal to Whiskey that she should go. They could talk later. Never was even better. She looked so hot in her leathers and the cropped, rust-colored biker jacket, he salivated.

  “Sure.” She seized the bottle from Jason’s fingers, flipped it around and around a few times like she was a gunslinger, tossed it up, caught it and rolled it across her upper body.

  “Who wants a shot?” she asked.

  Anders looked around for cell phones.

  “We played that game out, sweetheart.”

  “You don’t want to talk in private, fine. Listen,” she hissed, her dark, honey-colored eyes the hue of her namesake liquor sparked yellow fury.

  Dread washed through him with the same fierce intensity it did when the chute would spring open and the bull would lurch out and Anders immediately knew he was in trouble.

  She eased the stopper and tilted the bottle over his head.

  “What the hell?” He jumped away but not quick enough to avoid a dousing.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  He stood there, dripping, reeking of booze, and stared at her.

  “Just thought you should know, but I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.” Her furious gaze raked his face. “Don’t worry. I’m not asking for a damn thing. I don’t need your money.” She sneered the word. “And I don’t want you. Just thought it was the mature thing to let you know that, biologically at least, you’re going to be a father. Congrats.”

  *

  Tinsley barely remembered walking out of the arena to her bike. Impotent tears burned her eyes like fire.

  “Don’t you dare cry,” she hissed at herself in a voice eerily reminiscent of her mother’s when she was angry at Tinsley’s behavior.

  Why had she thought she should tell him? He was such a jerk. He couldn’t even spare a minute of his oh-so-precious time to talk to her.

  She banged open the vendor exit door with the flat of her hand. There. It was done. She’d told him. She’d said the dreaded word aloud. Pregnant. That made it officially real. Anders knew. So did a big chunk of the tour. Big deal. She was quitting.

  She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  She was never going to see any of those idiots again.

  “Tinsley, there you are. Tell me you are not avoiding my texts.”

  August Wolf—her soon-to-be ex-boss because no one found a whiskey shot pourer with a short denim skirt and huge baby bump sexy no matter how good their flair—leaned against her bike.

  She liked August. He was a respectful boss who’d given her tremendous independence, but he was Anders’ brother, and Anders had just dug himself a hole to the other side of the earth. No coming back from that.

  Good, because I don’t want him.

  And she was deeply wishing she’d kept her mouth shut and ridden off on her bike to have a huge cry and a sulk before figuring out this new, unwelcome phase of her life. Alone.

  “Are you writing me a note?” She stopped short and blinked.

  August Wolf, entrepreneur who’d turned a college freshman chemistry class challenge in his freshman dorm into a multimillion-dollar enterprise including microbreweries all across the west, gastro-brew pubs, historic hotels and event spaces, a distillery and now a winery in the Texas Hill Country, grinned.

  “I figured you’d be pissed if I parked my ass on your bike.”

  Yes.

  “No. Do you ride?” she asked politely, struggling to rally her rioting emotions—chiefly fury and humiliation—into some semblance of control.

  “More of a Jeep off-roading or sports car kinda guy, but never say never.”

  He paused, his gaze assessing.

  “The tasting room is close to being repaired. I need to get it opened,” he said, watching her closely. “The tour’s going to wrap up soon and you’d be back in Portland, but I’m hoping Texas is a better lure.”

  She’d actually seriously considered taking on the role of the tasting room manager of his Verflucht vineyard. The job included strategizing branding, growth management, social media and event planning.

  All in her wheelhouse.

  But that was before she accepted that the spotty periods, vivid dreams, vague nausea, and bigger boobs meant a baby.

  “And if Texas doesn’t appeal, I’m hoping a significant raise and even better benefit package can get me the yes I want.” August removed an envelope from an inner pocket of his expensive-looking jacket.

  Her galloping heart rate was finally starting to slow, and her stomach—still feeling sloshy with bile and nothing else—was no longer threatening to erupt, although that too would have served Anders right.

  “August,” she began and then looked back toward the arena. Nothing.

  Dumb girl.

  Was she expecting Anders to race after her?

  Why would he?

  He was free.

  She was the one trapped.

  Once again her words that night clapped back at her.

  “You ran with my Cowboy Wolf Whiskey. Sales are off the charts. The events you planned for the Four Wolfs Distillery are legend. I want that for Verflucht. I need it,” he said. “The vineyard is on land that has been in the Wolf family since before the Revolution. The tastin
g room is in my hometown. I need a win, Tinsley.”

  She shifted her weight. That word need hit too close to home for her at the moment.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” she said, finding it harder to resist his ask than she’d anticipated. August had been a good boss. Organized. Open-minded. No games. Meticulously fair. He expected an employee’s best, but he always gave more than one hundred percent. His company provided good pay and benefits—something she could no longer ignore.

  “Here. Read this. Say yes.”

  She took the envelope like it was contagious. “Small town in Texas, right?”

  “Nothing is Texas is small, darlin’.” August smiled. He had one dimple. Anders had two, plus the cleft in his chin. And Anders’ entire face lit up when he smiled, and he had laugh lines that had flipped Tinsley’s tummy before he’d even said hello to her the first time.

  How could she be such a clichéd sucker for laugh lines?

  She still wanted to slap herself. Instead she opened the envelope.

  “Seriously?” She stared at August. “You’re nearly tripling my salary.” And more benefits, including a retirement plan.

  Tinsley’s impulse was to say no. Her mouth even formed the word, but something stopped her. The money and benefits were excellent. She was going to need those very soon. Also the job offered her a lot of independence and creativity. She would be the first tasting room manager. She would create the experiences, build the staff, help to brand the wine and the tasting room, invent the traditions.

  She’d worked with August for more than a year, and after their initial meeting where she’d shared her thoughts on how she and the other bartenders should handle the sponsor events, he’d left her alone and given her free rein. She’d started selling the hell out of it, and her bonuses had racked up.

  “The position of tasting room manager also comes with a two-bedroom apartment above the tasting room.” August said, clearly trying to read her expression.

  One number gave her pause.

  “Two-year contract,” she murmured.

  “Minimum. Non-negotiable. We need that time to build the brand and the experience and to get a trained staff. And I won’t lie. I’d prefer you think longer term. Verflucht is going to expand. I need someone smart, visionary, someone with incredible people skills, not afraid of responsibility and hard work and kicking ass when necessary.”