The Texas SEAL's Surprise--A Clean Romance

by Cari Lynn Webb

The door to Dr. Carrillo’s office opened. Abby stepped outside.

  Wes pushed off the tree and started toward her as if she was and would ever be his only priority. His main concern. He forced himself to slow down. “Everything okay?”

  “Good.” Abby slid her sunglasses on and grinned. “Looks like I am having a March baby.”

  Wes was a March baby too. Inconsequential really. And not information his passenger required. “That’s a good month.”

  Abby’s eyebrow arched over her round sunglass lens. A smile twitched in the corner of her mouth. “Why is that?”

  “It just is.” Wes shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. The curls that had escaped her bun absorbed the sun and bounced against her neck. He’d never seen blond hair like hers, never been so very distracted by a woman either. He had to stop letting Abby sidetrack him. “March is not the harshest part of winter or the hottest part of summer. You won’t have to worry about missing the age cutoff for kindergarten.”

  “All very good points,” Abby said as she laughed and climbed into the truck.

  Wes walked around the vehicle to the driver’s side and shook off his awkwardness. What was wrong with him? Kindergarten cutoff. Come on, man. “Shouldn’t take long at the restaurant-supply store, then we can have an early lunch before we head back.”

  “Lunch isn’t necessary.” Abby lifted the cracker basket as if she had all she needed to sustain her.

  But lunch was very necessary, both for her and for his own personal reason. He could’ve had the restaurant supplies delivered. Although, then he couldn’t have followed a possible lead on his brother. He started the truck and backed out of the parking space. “Did Dr. Carrillo say anything about eating?”

  Abby looked out her window and away from Wes. Her voice slightly disgruntled. “She told me that it’s best to eat every few hours for morning sickness.”

  Wes silently thanked the good doctor. “The Four Fiddlers Tavern has the best soft pretzels with smoked cheddar-cheese sauce around.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She leaned on the console, closer to him. “I’m something of an expert on soft pretzels.”

  “Want to make a bet that these are the best you’ve tasted?” His words slipped out before he could pull them back. Drivers didn’t make bets with their passengers. More like potential boyfriends made the kind of bet he wanted to make with Abby right now.

  Retreat. This was not good. And not the direction he wanted to be heading.

  She never hesitated. “I’ll take that bet. If I win, then you have to let me help you rewire the general store. If you win and those are the best pretzels I’ve tasted, then I’ll cook dinner for you.”

  Either way, he won. He got to spend more time with her. He should refuse to accept the bet. Tell Abby that he’d changed his mind and course-correct. “You told me you can’t cook.”

  “I said I wasn’t a chef.” She drummed her fingers on the console. “But I can cook a few things. Grandma Opal shared her recipes, and I mastered a few.”

  No deal. “I have one condition.”

  Her fingers stilled.

  “You can’t rewire anything with me unless you have proper work shoes.” He grinned. Practical was not part of Abby’s wardrobe. Now she’d back out and save them both. “No sandals. No fancy half boots. No flip-flops.”

  “Fine.” She settled into her seat. “I’ve been wanting to get real cowboy boots. You can take me shopping. I don’t know where to find the best ones.”

  His grin fell. He’d gone from Abby’s driver to her personal shopper in less than a block. If he wasn’t more careful, he’d be more than her friend by the time they got back to Three Springs.

  Wes parked at the restaurant-supply store, jumped out and walked inside. His order was waiting at the pickup counter.

  Minutes later, and certain his focus was back, Wes took a seat across from Abby at a square table near the front window of the Four Fiddlers Tavern. The waitress breezed by to take their orders and quickly moved on to the other tables filled with hungry patrons. It wasn’t long before the waitress returned with their drinks and a large plate of soft pretzel bites with smoked cheddar-cheese sauce.

  Abby picked up a pretzel. Wes stopped her before she dunked the pretzel into the melted cheese. “Wait. I never did ask what recipes of your grandmother’s you mastered.”

  Abby pushed his hand aside and dipped her pretzel in the sauce. “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. I was just curious.” Something he had to stop being when he was around her. Her business wasn’t his business.

  Locating his younger brother was his business.

  He popped a cheesy pretzel into his mouth and scanned the crowded bar. The tavern was the first substantial, albeit unexpected, lead in his search for his brother that he’d had in a long while. One more scan of the patrons for a familiar horseshoe tattoo on the back of a neck and a six-foot-four-inch burly stature that was even harder to conceal, confirmed that his brother was not among the crowd. Wes put his disappointment aside.

  He returned his attention to Abby. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I’m still deciding.” She picked up another pretzel and dipped it into the sauce. “But they’re really good. You weren’t wrong.”

  He watched her devour several more pretzels. Pleased the color had returned to her cheeks. And that the spark was back in her gaze. He couldn’t remember when a woman had intrigued him like Abby did. Or made him so very interested in prying. Like now. “Where’s the baby’s father?”

  Abby swallowed her pretzel and took a sip of her lemon water. All the while she watched him, assessing and probing.

  He dipped a pretzel into the sauce and lifted one shoulder, keeping his voice mild and indifferent. “I’m just starting a conversation with a friend.”

  She wiped her hands on her napkin, then wiped off her mouth. “I’ll tell you about my ex if you tell me why we’re really here.”

  Her challenge was clear. He picked up another pretzel and held it between them. “You don’t like the tavern’s buttery take on soft pretzels?”

  “These are a delicious bonus.” Abby snatched the pretzel from his fingers. “And you aren’t stalking the chef for the secret ingredient to replicate them at the Owl. We aren’t here for these. Or for you to win our bet.”

  Interesting turnabout. She seemed as in tune to him as he was to her. Now he had to decide how much to reveal. How much would satisfy her curiosity. How much would satisfy his. He wasn’t certain he’d ever want to stop learning about her. He shouldn’t have started this. Shouldn’t have stepped into the water. Suddenly he wasn’t interested in backing out either. “My brother. I thought he might be here. He isn’t, by the way.”

  She lowered the pretzel. Concern automatically showed in her expression. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “Almost three years ago.” Wes stirred his straw around in his soda, disturbing the ice the same way the anger and hurt stirred inside him. It’d been a brief text exchange about a month prior to Wes’s return home. Nothing specific. Only his arrival date and a quick inquiry about their mom. Not even a real conversation. “I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.”

  “Yet you’ve been looking for him all this time.” Questions swirled through her probing gaze. Yet she held herself back.

  Wes nodded and stopped himself from revealing his other failed search attempts for his little brother. What was it about Abby that made him want to confess more than he’d ever revealed to anyone, even Boone? That made him think Abby was someone he could lean on. That she would want to become his ally.

  But he’d never invited anyone into his confidence. He wasn’t about to start now. He couldn’t trust his own family. How was he supposed to trust a stranger?

  “What about your parents?” Abby asked. “Have they talked to your brother?”

 
“My mom passed away.” Exactly one day after Wes had returned stateside. As if she’d been waiting for him. For that one last look. She’d been unable to speak, but she’d touched his cheek, held his gaze: hers peaceful, his tormented. Wes brushed off the salt stuck to his fingers, but not the grief fused in his throat. He still missed his mom every single day. Still had so much he wanted to tell her. So much he should have told her. “I never really knew my father.”

  “Your brother is the last of your family.” Abby crumpled the paper napkin in her fist. Determination was clear in everything she said. “You must find him.”

  The search for his brother was about much more than a lost family connection. Those were details he refused to share.

  Wes tipped his thumb toward a group of men gathered around the tall bar tables. The branded labels on their hats and shirts indicating their long-standing and deeply established affiliation with their motocross sport. Their helmets, riding gloves and other gear resting on the benches were even more proof. “My brother, Dylan, competed in motocross since middle school. He lived for it. It was his only passion. There’s a three-night motocross tour happening here on the outskirts of town this weekend.”

  “You should ask if anyone knows your brother.” Abby studied the crowd. “Maybe they’ve seen him on rides in other towns.”

  Wes was convinced his brother’s friends might lie to protect him. Wes had been careful not to make his search for Dylan public, afraid his brother’s allies would alert him and his brother would move even further off the grid. As it was, Dylan’s disappearance was hard to trace. “It was a long shot, but thanks for humoring me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Abby reached across the table and held his hand.

  Wes stared at their joined hands. Took in her sincerity and the steadiness of her touch. How simple it would be to link his fingers around hers. Hold on tighter. For much longer. But she wasn’t his. Wouldn’t ever be his. He pulled his hand away and picked up his soda glass to have something else to hold. But all he really wanted was her hand back in his. “I’m not done searching for him.”

  Abby nodded. She picked up her fork and dunked a pretzel crumb to the bottom of the dipping sauce bowl. “My ex, Clint Rhodes, is in Santa Cruz, most likely with his girlfriend.”

  Wes forgot about his own worries and focused fully on Abby. “Even though you are having his child.”

  “Clint had another girlfriend while I was also his girlfriend.” Abby dropped her fork and pushed the pretzel platter away. “I think it’s called double-dipping and is frowned upon by most people.”

  It was more than frowned upon. A different kind of anger stirred inside Wes. On Abby’s behalf. He had words for her ex—words not for polite company. Words his mother would most likely frown upon. But appropriate all the same.

  “I found out I was pregnant the same day I saw Clint making out with this other woman on our front porch.” A flush of resentment washed over her face and through her voice.

  “And he knows about the baby?” Wes asked. Aware he was repeating himself. But he kept tripping over that one boulder-size detail.

  “Clint knows about the baby.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. Straightforward. Clear-cut. She added, “Clint also has my cell number and address in case he changes his mind about being a parent.”

  “Or if he wants you back.” Her ex had let his child go. And he’d also let Abby go. What kind of man was he? Not the kind Abby deserved.

  Wes knew that like he knew exactly how many seconds he could hold his breath without releasing any bubbles—a hundred and forty-four—and that he’d struggle to walk away from Abby if she loved him. Given the lingering anguish on her face, she’d loved her ex-boyfriend.

  “Taking Clint back is not, nor will it ever be, an option.” Abby sipped her water and lifted her chin. “But I would like my child to know his or her father.”

  “Agreed.” Wes worked to keep the bitterness from his own tone.

  He hated that Abby’s child might end up making the same useless and wasted wishes Wes had as a kid. He’d always wished for his dad to change his mind and come home. For his dad to want to know his own sons. Wes had wanted to believe if his father had simply met Wes and Dylan, surely then, he wouldn’t ever want to leave again. That old, bitter hurt knotted inside his chest. “But you can’t make someone be a parent.”

  Abby spread her napkin over her lap. “That’s why I’m going to be everything my child ever needs.”

  Like his own mother had been to Wes and his brother. He couldn’t understand why Dylan had rejected that loyalty and left his mother when she’d become too sick and had walked away when it got too hard. Dylan had sold off the house, the land and every connection to his mom and brother. Even after all their mother had done for them growing up. Okay, their childhood hadn’t been perfect. Rarely easy. But their mom had done her best to provide a home for her boys. In turn, Wes had gone into the military after high-school graduation to help provide for their family, leaving what little money his mother had saved for his brother to use for his own college career. Wes continued to send money home to keep the ranch running and the bills paid. He’d tried though failed to accept what had happened.

  Old hurts. New hurts. He just hurt most days. Except sitting here with Abby, he hurt a little less.

  The waitress brought their lunch orders: a bacon cheeseburger for Wes, a turkey club sandwich for Abby.

  Abby waited for the woman to leave, then asked, “Did you ever look for your father?”

  Wes shook his head and pressed the top half of the bun onto his hamburger. “He gave my mother his parents’ ranch and some money. In return, she promised not to bother him again. I honored her word and never contacted him.”

  “Your father never came back?” He was sure it was shock that had Abby’s mouth dropping open and her lunch remaining untouched. “Not one time?”

  “Not once, no matter how many stars I wished on.” And there had been countless for many years straight.

  “When did you stop wishing?” She slipped a piece of crispy bacon from her sandwich and took a bite.

  Wes stretched against the tall back of his chair. The solid wood spindles pressed against his spine as firm and unyielding as that tangle of complicated emotions inside him. But he’d been well trained in compartmentalizing. And he quickly and precisely sealed the door on the past. Lingering along memory lane accomplished nothing.

  He set his burger on the plate and considered Abby. “I stopped wishing around the time I learned Santa Claus wasn’t real. Wishes were useless. My mom was the one person I could always rely on.”

  “Her love was all you needed.” Her voice cracked on the last words.

  Wes wiped his hands on his napkin and reached across the table. He wrapped her hand in his own. “You’re going to be enough for your child too.”

  “I really want to be.” She curved her fingers around his and held on. One extra beat. One extra breath. “I’m going to do my best.”

  Wes squeezed her hand, ignored the warmth of her touch spreading through him, then quickly moved on. There would be no more like this. No more sharing and impromptu hand-holding. It served no purpose. She was not looking for a replacement father for her child. Even if she was, he wasn’t that guy. Good fathers stayed for the long haul. And as soon as Wes located his brother and his inheritance, he would be gone. He ignored the tiny frisson of regret skimming over him and dipped his chin toward Abby’s sandwich. “That can’t be your best effort with your lunch. Especially if you’d like your own miniature salted-caramel pecan pie or dark chocolate pecan toffee, you’ll need to feed junior more than that.”

  “I never saw pecan anything on the menu.” She reached for the plastic-coated menu in the stand with the condiments.

  “It’s not here.” He lifted his burger and tipped his head toward the window. “It’s around the corner at the Second Cake Bakery.”
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  “I want that toffee.” Abby picked up half of her sandwich. “And Tess’s favorite is pecan pie.”

  Their lunch plates cleared and the bill paid, Wes held open the door of the tavern for Abby. She slipped on her sunglasses, and they walked side by side around the corner. Then she paused and frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” Wes stopped and faced her, checking her coloring and posture, worried her morning sickness had returned. “Do you need to sit down? Are you light-headed? Queasy?”

  “I’m annoyed.” Abby pointed over his shoulder, her frown dipped into a grimace.

  Wes shifted and noticed the massive banner stretched across the main street of Belleridge. “I didn’t realize this weekend was also their annual craft fair. It’s quite large and well attended if you like craft fairs.”

  “It’s their fifty-fourth year for their annual craft show,” Abby grumbled.

  Wes glanced back at her.

  She raised her arms out to her sides. “I can’t compete with that.”

  “You were thinking about holding a craft fair over Labor Day weekend in Three Springs.”

  “I was considering it. You can scale and grow a good craft show. Draw in people from all over the state.” She motioned to the crowded sidewalk and dozens of people erecting booths and tents. “Case in point. This craft show and the motocross event most likely infuse the local businesses with profits to help sustain them through the slow-tourism months. I must have an event like this.”

  “This is fifty years in the making,” Wes argued. “It’s okay to start slow and small.”

  “Not if I want to make a mark and secure this job.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “The event needs to be a big success.”

  Wes rubbed his chin. “What’s next on your idea list?”

  “Fortunately, I have several.” Abby reached for the door of the Second Cake Bakery. “And a meeting with Corine Bauer tomorrow morning to run through the budget and my presentation.”

  “You’re sure it has to be a big, splashy, take-the-town-by-storm idea?” Wes kept his eye on the glass-covered display of chocolate truffles, three-layered cakes and other decadent treats inside the colorful bakery.