“I was only thinking out loud.” Lil tightened her grip on the phone. She’d been hoping out loud, really. The easiest thing would be for Adriano to simply say that he didn’t want to be a dad and good luck in the future. The baby was complication enough. She didn’t need a man in the picture.
But she did have to at least tell him.
“I don’t know what to say,” Lil admitted. Did you simply blurt it out or did you lead with some small talk first? Maybe something about the weather before segueing into “Hey, guess what? It’s also about to start raining babies!”
Bea crouched beside her, patting her arm. “It will all be okay. People love babies.”
Her cousin didn’t do consoling naturally, but at least she was trying. She was one of the Spencer cousins, and that branch of the family always had been reserved.
As for Lil, she’d always been told she was Aunt Franny come again. Wild, rambunctious—a pistol.
Lil was going to be a mother now. Wild and rambunctious were no longer on the menu.
“I’m not ready for this.” And she really wasn’t. Telling Adriano, her family—hell, having a baby—she needed more time. To adjust, to do… something.
“Ready or not, it’s happening.”
Bea was right. No more time to wallow. Time for action.
Lil stiffened her spine, called up her contacts on the phone. “Okay.”
And sat there, staring at the screen.
She had to tell him, yes, but what happened after she told him?
Please make this easy. Just ask to see the baby during the summer or something. Or not at all.
That one would be hard to explain to her future child, but better than trying to co-parent with someone who might not even be living in the States in a few years.
“What are you going to say?” Bea asked.
Lil wished Bea would simply tell her exactly what to say. Could you outsource a pregnancy announcement? Or was that bad form, especially when you were announcing it to the father?
“Well, I might go with ‘Hi, been thinking about you. Oh yeah, by the way, I’m having your baby.’”
Bea shook her head. “Well, at least I know you’re feeling better if you’re making jokes.”
“It’s either that or cry.” And she wasn’t a crier. “I guess I’d better make this call.”
She brought up Adriano’s number, put the phone to her ear, and steadied herself for the most nerve-racking few minutes of her life.
“Hello?”
As his voice, so deep, so rich, hit her ear after all this time, her stomach dropped and her heart kicked, every nerve in her body going on high alert.
And she realized this call was going to be much, much worse than she’d thought.
CHAPTER TWO
Adriano Silva wriggled his fingers within his glove, testing his grip on the rope once more. Wriggled and tightened again. Mentally checked the pressure in his palm and knuckle joints, comparing against the memory of other rides. Yep, nice and secure.
He punched down his own fingers with his free hand, his forearm bared by his rolled-up sleeve, the muscles straining beneath his skin. Not quite there. He punched his fist again. There. There it was.
He looped the free end of the rope back over again. Time to check his seat.
The bull beneath him jumped sideways in the chute, pinning Adriano’s leg against the fence. Adriano ignored the pain, concentrated on keeping the bull quiet until that chute swung open.
“Easy. Easy, King Snake,” the flank man called to the bull.
The bull settled again, but the tension… the tension flowing between him and Adriano was thick, electric. Adriano set his free hand on the gate, lifted and set himself down. No, too much to the right. Again, he reseated himself. Just a hair too far back.
He heard the gate man’s short exhale of impatience and ignored it. Adriano would take exactly the time he needed to make certain he was properly situated for this ride. Not one second more and not one second less.
He tried once more. There. There was where he wanted to be.
It was time.
One last check of his hat—couldn’t lose that—then Adriano gave a sharp nod to the gate man. The gate swung open…
And they were out, over a thousand pounds of angry bull charging out of the chute, Adriano clinging to its back.
Immediate snap left, Adriano only half a moment behind the bull. Arm high, chin tucked.
Snap right now, but Adriano was with him. Spur forward and back, forward and back.
More, a little more. He needed this bull to give him more if he was going to score high enough to final.
A high kick, the bull’s back legs rising higher than Adriano’s head. Spur forward, spur back. Hang on.
More of that please. And please God, let me stay on.
The bull went into a slow spin, kicking high with each revolution. Yes, yes. The bull did his best to slingshot Adriano off while Adriano did his best to hang on.
Hang on. Arm up. Spur forward. Spur back. Keep right on him.
A grunt left Adriano’s throat every time the bull landed, the toll of hanging on needing some kind of release.
The horn. The horn was blowing. Adriano slipped his hand free and dismounted, the bull still twisting with rage.
Adriano landed in the dirt on his feet, his head spinning at the sudden lack of movement. He went for the fence even before he could form a thought. He had to get clear, let the bullfighters do their work.
But King Snake was done for the day, loping out of the arena like a man leaving work when the whistle blew.
It was over. Adriano had survived, injury-free. A smile grabbed hold of his mouth even as his heart continued to pound. It had been a good ride. Better than good.
The crowd agreed—they were cheering, on their feet and screaming. He took a deep breath, the adrenaline beginning to ebb, and waved his thanks. It was always nice to have an appreciative crowd.
Shorty, one of the bullfighters, jogged over to him and handed Adriano his rope, slapping his back as he did. “Hell of a ride.”
It had been. Now to see if the judges agreed.
“Ho,” the announcer boomed, “we’ve got the judge’s results right here—eighty-three! That puts Adriano safely in the final round.”
The announcer’s excitement echoed Adriano’s own. He punched the air as the crowd roared its approval.
He could hit some good money here—if he kept it together for the short go. Another win and he’d rise one, maybe two more slots in the overall rankings.
If things kept on as they were—and they would—he’d finish in the top ten this year. Next year he’d take home the championship.
That had been his plan from the moment he’d stepped off the plane two years ago. He’d seen America break better riders than him—the money and the fame were heady drugs. But it wouldn’t break him. He was ready for it.
The fame he could do without, but the money… for a poor kid from Brazil, the money was insane. And the more he made, the more he wanted to make.
Not for himself, but for all the family he’d left behind: his mother, his brothers and sisters, his nieces and nephews. The more he made, the better he could make their lives.
Especially his mother’s life. She deserved her last years to be comfortable ones.
He only prayed he could make it back home in time to spend her last years with her.
Next year, if he took the championship, he’d have more than enough money to return and set up his own ranch. That was his mantra these years in exile: a few years more, a few dollars more. It kept him going when the homesickness was at its worst.
Adriano looped his rope over his shoulder and left the arena, walking past the pens with waiting bulls, down a grim cinder block hall toward the locker room, his chaps smacking his legs with each step. He loosened his protective vest, shrugged out of it, welcoming the freedom from its weight.
His heart slowed and the triumph fled with the adrenaline, leaving hi
m feeling hollow. That was always how it happened—eight seconds of a great ride, a few minutes more of the crowd’s appreciation… but then there was the next ride, just around the corner, waiting for him. Always that next ride.
A few years more, a few dollars more.
But now only one year more if he kept his focus, stuck to his plan. And a lot more dollars.
He walked into the locker room and into a more muted celebration. The other bull riders shook his hand, slapped his back, and then turned back to their own waiting, focusing on their own next ride.
Adriano made his way over to his fellow Brazilians, about ten men huddled together in a corner, all wearing a typical cowboy posture—heads bent, hats shading their eyes, thumbs hooked into their belt loops, speaking together in muted Portuguese. They were in the same boat he was, riding here in the States to make a better life for those back home. The Brazilian riders stuck together since no one else understood what being the outsiders in the American rodeo circuit was like.
“Hey, Silva.”
Adriano gritted his teeth, came to a halt. He put on a false, slightly dim smile and turned to face Colby Crane.
While the American and Brazilian riders mostly kept to themselves, there was a friendliness between them. At least most of them. But not Crane.
The American rider was tall and blond with a pearly-white smile in a square jaw—a poster-perfect cowboy. He certainly had all the buckle bunnies falling over him, even though his smile always looked like it was wrapped in barbed wire. At least to Adriano.
Crane had given Adriano the nickname of “Slick Eddie” back when Adriano had first joined the circuit. Adriano had explained that “Eddie” wasn’t his name, and when Crane had continued to call him that, he’d realized: the point hadn’t been to give Adriano a nickname. The point had been to piss Adriano off.
So Adriano tried very hard not to let Crane piss him off.
“Crane,” Adriano drawled back, playing up his accent.
“Kind of funny you’d do so well riding a bull named Snake, huh?” Crane didn’t laugh, but his smile stretched, showing his teeth.
Adriano got the implication but kept his expression blank, questioning. He shrugged, shook his head. “Okay.” As if he didn’t understand what Crane had said and was repeating the only English he knew. And he wouldn’t make the mistake of asking Crane what he’d meant.
Crane’s smile sagged. Adriano shrugged again—you won’t bait me, no matter how hard you try—and turned back to his countrymen. The circle opened enough to let him in.
“You’re right to ignore him,” Miguel Barros said in Portuguese. Barros had been on the circuit longer than any of the other Brazilians and acted as a mentor. Most of them spent their time off at his Texas ranch if they couldn’t make it back home.
Adriano took a breath, forced his limbs to be loose, and told his heart to settle down. “He was only trying to rile me.”
He had to be focused on his next ride. No matter how it galled him to pretend he didn’t understand, when he’d rather shove Colby’s teeth down his throat than shrug it off. But beating the shit out of Crane wouldn’t earn him any money. This next go-round could.
“He’s only jealous,” Miguel went on. “He wishes he could ride half so well.”
If he trained as hard as I do, he might.
Playing with the buckle bunnies as often as Colby did came with a price—late nights and late mornings. Less time to train. When Adriano slept with women—and he did; he wasn’t a monk, and being a bull rider had benefits beyond the money—it was only for the evening. Come morning, the lady was always gone and he was up just as early as the day before, training just as hard.
Besides, he couldn’t fall for an American girl, not when he intended to return to Brazil. Only one woman had ever tempted him to go beyond a night together, but she’d made it clear that their interlude was only that—a fleeting moment that had ended.
He might think on her, a sliver of regret piercing his heart as he did, but she wasn’t part of his plan. Riding the best bulls in the world, making as much money as he could while he did, that was his goal. His temporary American dream.
“It’s not luck,” Adriano grumbled. “I work hard. Harder than he does.”
“I know,” Miguel said, his gaze kindly. “It was quite a ride. You ready for the next one?”
“Yep.” Grim, determined. Nothing would distract him.
“Best of luck then.”
Adriano nodded his thanks and went to his gear bag, squatting down to set his vest, rope, and gloves inside. He rose, rolled his sleeve back down, and began to undo the buckles of his chaps, keeping every motion slow, deliberate, in order to clear his mind and calm his heart.
He stripped off his chaps, folding and laying them in his gear bag, then straightened.
The bag at his feet began to vibrate. His phone.
He shouldn’t answer. Not in the middle of the locker room.
Unless it was one of his family members calling from Brazil. They were the only ones who usually called. Perhaps something had happened to his mother.
He rooted in the bag for his phone. It buzzed in his hand, the screen flashing a number he didn’t recognize.
Not Brazil. Not about his mother then, thank God.
But who?
“Hello?”
A beat of silence in which his heart slowed.
“Hey, Adriano?”
His heart picked up again—he knew that voice. “Yes, it’s me.”
He stepped out into the hallway, keeping his head bent so that no one could see his expression.
“It’s Liliana.” Hesitant. Almost afraid. “Liliana Merrill.”
He released a breath. Liliana. It really was her.
The one woman who’d tempted him to forget the plan and fall hard.
He’d wanted so badly to call her since Vegas. Never had a woman haunted his fantasies like she did. But what would he tell her? Come meet me? He had no apartment, no place of his own. He lived in hotel rooms. And it had been clear from the beginning—their fling was just that. Quick and hot and meant to end when they left Vegas.
But there had been many a night alone in his hotel room that he’d wished for her in his arms. Or in the shower. Or bent over a desk.
He shook those fantasies loose. “Hey, Liliana.” He kept his voice low, level.
Maybe she was in town. Maybe that’s why she was calling. Another fantasy tried to slip back in, but he pushed it away.
“Um, how have you been?” Her voice was too cheery, edging toward unnaturalness.
He frowned. With the hesitancy and the unnaturalness, something was wrong. She wasn’t calling because she was in town. So what was it? “Okay. How have you been?”
“Fine,” she said too quickly. “Actually… you remember Vegas? The National Finals Rodeo?”
How could he forget? The intensity of those days with her was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. “Yes.” His voice lowered. “I do.”
A short, small inhale from her, buzzing across the line. So she remembered too. “Well…” There was a scuffling in the background, as if someone was in the room with her. “Look, there’s no great way to say this.” Defiant and strong, a definite turn from her earlier tone. “I’m pregnant.”
The world fell away, the hallway, the noise from the crowd, the smell of dirt and cattle, the harsh fluorescent lights—all gone. Just him and that truth.
He was going to be a father.
He’d never known his father. Not truly. Adriano and his siblings had grown up in Mato Grosso do Sul on the ranch where his mother was a housekeeper. His father had worked in the state capital of Campo Grande, coming home only a few weeks a year. He’d died when Adriano was eight, leaving Adriano as the man of the family.
Adriano remembered strong arms, a wide smile. Occasional letters or pictures sent to them. That was all. Nothing more.
He’d never known his father as a son should. And he’d always felt the loss.
But I must go back home. He sagged against the wall, cold and rough against his back. This more than upended his plan—it blew it to bits.
The baby had to come with him. Lil was independent, headstrong. Perhaps she didn’t want the child?
“You’re keeping the pregnancy.” He’d meant it to be more of a question, but he wanted her to say yes so badly it came out closer to a statement.
“Yes.” With that word, she locked the both of them into… something.
“I’ll be on the next flight,” he said. Just as defiant and strong as she’d been. He could come up with a new plan on the flight. One that still had him returning to Brazil next year—only with his child as well.
“Whoa, wait.” Her panic trilled across the line. “I didn’t want you to… Where are you?”
“Texas.” What did it matter where he was? Even if he were in Antarctica, he’d still come. This was his child.
She released a long slow breath, as if he’d said something crazy. “You don’t need to come all that way. Maybe we can discuss some of this over the phone. Like how involved you want to be in the baby’s life and such.”
The placating tone set his nerves on edge. And her bit about how involved he wanted to be made his teeth grind together. “Do you really want to discuss the future of our child over the phone?”
She made a noise of exasperation, one that rasped along his ear. “No, but the baby isn’t due for another six months. I don’t need you here right this second. There’s nothing to do.”
He’d liked her independence in Vegas—he’d never had to worry that she’d form an attachment to him or what they’d shared. In a lover, he’d appreciated such independence.
But in the mother of his future child, he liked it less. “Don’t argue.”
She actually gasped. He didn’t care—they’d start as he meant to go on.
“Look, if you want to do this in person, let’s meet at your place,” she said.
“I don’t have a place. Not here in the States.” Another wrinkle to consider. What was to be done with the baby during his last year here? Something else to consider on the flight over.
Her Bull Rider's Baby Page 2