“Please tell me that’s from eating too many French pastries,” Grace said.
“Are you…?” Pepper reached over and touched Brindle’s belly.
Brindle turned away. “Stop!” Ugh. How could she ever have thought this would be easy?
“Brindle…?” Morgyn looked worried.
“Honey,” their mother said, wide-eyed. “Are you…?”
Brindle’s eyes teared up as she nodded. Their mother opened her arms and pulled her into them. “It’s okay, honey.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Brindle whispered.
“No, baby girl,” her mother whispered. “There’s no reason to be sorry. We love you, and we’re here for you.”
Tears slipped down Brindle’s cheeks, and she quickly wiped them away, too overcome with emotions to speak.
“Holy crap, Brindle,” Axsel said with shock, but not with judgment, and she loved him for that.
Sable crossed her arms, staring at Brindle, and said, “Whose French ass do I need to kick?”
Just as she opened her mouth to try to respond, Trace’s handsome face appeared through the crowd, and Brindle’s mouth went dry. He casually draped an arm around Sable, flashing his panty-melting smile, his ever-present Stetson firmly in place. In the space of a second, Brindle’s gaze drifted to his broad, muscular chest and biceps earned from working on his family’s cattle and horse ranch. His tight jeans defined the formidable bulge behind his zipper that she knew intimately. She breathed harder, knowing just how good his hard body felt pressed against her, his thick thighs nestled between her legs. She swallowed a needful sound.
“I’m in for some French ass kicking!” Trace announced, tearing her from her fantasy.
Her strappingly large cowboy was as arrogant as ever. His dark eyes landed on her, and the air around them sizzled and sparked, unleashing the rush of desire that had always consumed them. Her pulse raced. She was sure she was going to pass out.
“Mustang, you’re back!” The nickname he’d given her long ago rolled off his tongue like liquid heat. He stepped forward, arms open, and his gaze drifted lower. He stopped cold, the air between them chilling.
Brindle put her hand protectively over her stomach, stumbling backward. She’d thought she could do this, but seeing his desire for her replaced with something dark and traitorous did her in. She struggled to hold back tears as she said, “I can’t do this right now.” She looked away, trying futilely to regain control. Her heart was shattering inside her chest. With one last glance at her parents, she said, “I’m exhausted. I’m going home. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
She pushed past Trace and hurried toward the barn doors.
WHAT THE FUCK just happened? Trace tried to put together the pieces of his fracturing world. He felt like he’d stepped on the prongs of a rake and the handle had smacked him in the face as his Mustang stormed away. Only the pain was lower, burning right in the center of his chest. He took off after her, running out of the barn and into the crowd, and spotted her rushing toward the parking lot. He caught up and grabbed her arm, spinning her into him. Her pain-filled eyes shot up to his like lightning, and the pieces of the last few months started falling into place. Fuck, Brindle. What have you done?
“Don’t!” she cried, tears flooding her cheeks.
“You were supposed to come back at the end of August,” he seethed through gritted teeth.
She clenched her jaw, glaring at him with the same ferocious stare that had first drawn him in. She had the darkest brows and lashes of any natural blonde he’d ever seen, a slim, upturned nose, and lips that made his cock weep. She was just a little thing, but she was as feral, stubborn, and untamable as he was. She could bring him to his knees with a glance or a single sugarcoated sentence, and don’t get him started on her touch…
“That’s why you stayed in Paris for two extra months? You got knocked up by some French asshole?” The accusation hurled from his lungs, anger and hurt slamming into him. “What the fuck, Brindle?”
She tried to pull out of his grasp, but he held tight. He’d been trying to hold on to her forever, but they weren’t a hold-on-tight type of couple. They weren’t a couple at all, and he knew that all too fucking well.
“What don’t you get, Trace?” She tore her arm free and hollered, “That I’m pregnant and it’s not yours? Even a big arrogant cowboy like you can understand that.”
It’s not mine hit him with the force of a freight train. Holy hell. He didn’t want a kid, and he definitely didn’t need a kid. But knowing Brindle was carrying another man’s child fucking gutted him. He could do little more than stare as she stormed away, her words, It’s not yours, driving into him like a dagger over and over again.
Chapter Two
TRACE BLEW THROUGH the crowd, his shoulders slamming into everyone he passed. He ignored their angry slurs and the people calling after him. It was all white noise to Brindle’s wrathful confession. He couldn’t process it, and he didn’t even try as he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the table where his older brother Justus—“JJ”—, the owner of a local pub, was bartending. Trace was the fourth son in a family of five children, preceded by Jeb, Shane, and JJ, and followed by their only sister, Trixie. And right now it would take a hell of a lot more than one of them to calm him down.
“Dude, what the…?” Justus snapped as Trace guzzled the whiskey.
“I heard Brindle’s pregnant,” he heard a girl in the crowd say. Several gasps and comments followed. The Oak Falls gossip train was already off and running.
He spun around, and Trixie, who was afraid of exactly nothing, glowered at the chick who must have said it and snapped, “Shut your hole. Don’t spread shit you don’t know anything about.” When more people began murmuring about Brindle being pregnant, Trixie laid into them, too. Even dressed in a far-too-short and -sexy costume, his sister was a badass.
Trace stormed away from the lights and the crowd. He tipped the bottle to his lips again, needing to numb the pressure in his chest. As the lights fell away behind him, he took another swig and kept walking. Jeb and Shane caught up a few minutes later, falling into step on either side of him.
“Go away,” he seethed, and took another swig.
“Whoa, bro.” Jeb reached for the bottle.
Trace smacked his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch it.”
Jeb and Shane exchanged concerned looks Trace wasn’t in the mood for. Trace ran their family’s ranch with Shane and Trixie. He could deal with Shane’s shit tomorrow. Jeb, an artist who worked with stone, wood, and metals, ran The Barn, a custom furniture shop. Come tomorrow, he’d be on to his next project and not breathing down Trace’s neck. All Trace needed was to get off his radar tonight.
Shane grabbed the sleeve of Trace’s leather jacket, hauling him into the shadows beside the barn. Trace shoved him away. Jeb’s eyes narrowed, and he closed the distance between them, stopping only inches from Trace. The Jericho men were all evenly matched, standing over six feet tall, with dark hair and eyes and strong, athletic builds. Except right now Trace had fire in his veins, and nothing would stand in his way. Not even the well-meaning brothers he’d go to war for.
“I know you’re hurting,” Shane said angrily, “but if you think I’m going to make up for you dragging ass tomorrow, you’re wrong.”
“I’m not fucking hurting,” he lied, and sucked down another mouthful of whiskey. “And you’ve never had to cover for me a day in your life.”
“Bullshit, you’re not hurting,” Jeb said. “You’ve been talking about Brindle coming back since the day she left.”
“And she came back with a little more in her pants than you’re used to,” Shane added with a fucking smirk.
Trace thrust the bottle in Jeb’s direction. As Jeb took it, Trace pushed forward, shoving Shane backward. “Shut your damn mouth, asshole.”
“Got the bottle away from you, didn’t I?” Shane said with an arrogant smirk.
Trace muttered, “Asshole” and strode away.<
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“Wait, bro.” Jeb caught up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Talk to me. What’d Brindle say? Is it true she’s pregnant?”
“Yeah, it’s true.” He folded his arms over his chest, grinding his teeth. “And it’s not fucking mine.”
“She’s sure?” Jeb asked.
“This is Mustang we’re talking about. When have you ever known her to make shit up?”
Brindle was as honest as she was hardheaded, and Trace loved that about her. They’d been making out since she was thirteen years old, when she’d first dared him to kiss her. At fifteen, he’d had an inkling that she was too young to be kissing, but she’d pushed and challenged, flaunting her sweet little body and taunting him with her sassy mouth and those sexy lips that made it hard for him to think straight. He’d learned real fast that when Brindle set her mind on something, there was no dissuading her. He’d wanted to kiss her so badly that just the idea had made him hard, but he’d forced himself to hold back. Then she’d pushed him to the brink, questioning his manhood, and his control had snapped. He’d gotten his first taste of the girl who would own him forever. And holy hell, what a taste that had been. That single kiss had opened the floodgates of raging desires for both of them. They’d spent years sneaking out at night, riding the rapids of teenage lust and discovering just what each other’s bodies were made for. But the rebel in each of them was too strong to deny, and their on-again off-again relationship had been fraught with as much angst and drama as lust and for him, at least, something much bigger.
Through it all, one thing had never changed: No matter who else’s arms they’d fallen into or how many fights they’d had, they always circled back to each other.
Until now.
“Whose is it?” Shane asked.
Trace’s hands curled into fists, still grinding his teeth together.
“Didn’t you ask?” Shane pushed.
Trace scoffed, telling himself to man up and move on. “Why would I do that? That’d mean I gave a shit.” Lying wasn’t his strong suit, but the alternative made him a pussy. He snagged the bottle out of Jeb’s hand, and when Jeb moved to grab it, Trace shot him a threatening stare. “Don’t.”
“Come on, Trace. Let’s go to the barn and beat on the heavy bag,” Jeb suggested. They had a full gym in their supply barn. “Work off some of that anger.”
“Fuck that,” he said as he strode toward the crowd. “I’ve got a much better way to work it off.”
Ignoring his brother’s shouts, he returned to the party, scanning the familiar faces of women he’d gone out with, usually to work off anger from a fight with Brindle and guys with whom he’d played football, ridden horses, and gotten drunk. Their faces all blended together, because the only person he wanted to spend tonight with was pregnant and probably in her apartment with the father of her baby.
“Trace!” Trixie hollered from a few feet away, where she was talking with Morgyn Montgomery and their friend and go-to event planner Lindsay Roberts.
He kept walking.
Trixie caught up to him and took hold of his arm. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he ground out.
“Well, I wouldn’t be if I were you,” she said vehemently.
Finally, someone who wasn’t trying to calm him down. He glanced at her as he moved through the crowd catching wind of gossipy whispers. His fingers curled tighter, and he stared down a group of girls talking about Brindle until they silenced.
“I’m serious,” Trixie said, pulling his attention back to her. “I mean, a baby is serious shit. What will you do? Marry her?”
He stopped cold at the thought of Brindle marrying the father of her baby.
“Morgyn said Brindle didn’t tell them whose baby it was, but it’s not like we don’t know. You two—”
“Well, she told me. It’s not mine.”
Trixie’s jaw dropped. “Damn…”
Trace put the bottle to his lips, guzzling more whiskey, his mind reeling back to the night before Brindle left for Paris. There was never any question whether they’d see each other that night. On some levels they were that connected, one look was all it took for heat to consume them, and it was all they could do to get to someplace private before tearing off each other’s clothes. That night they’d gone out for drinks and ended up tangled between the sheets. They always had great sex, but that night their connection felt different, magnified. He’d hated that she was leaving, but he’d learned early on in their relationship that Brindle wasn’t into commitments, and if he wanted Brindle, he had to play by her rules. Rule number one was clear: Don’t push a Montgomery girl into a corner or she’ll come out fighting. Rule number two he’d learned after making a few mistakes: If he wanted to be with her, she had to believe he didn’t want a commitment any more than she did.
He was so damn in love with her, he’d wanted her any way he could have her, even if it included six weeks apart while she went to Paris. Besides, he’d reasoned that if there wasn’t a commitment, no one could get hurt, so he’d kept his thoughts about her trip to himself. But the night before she left, he was meeting his brothers to ride horses before sunrise, as they often did, and as he’d gotten ready to leave Brindle’s apartment, she’d said she would miss him. He remembered thinking, Says the girl who planned a solo trip away for weeks on end. But before he could respond, she’d corrected herself and said she’d miss this, meaning the sex, and he’d said, We both know that once you’re overseas I’ll be a distant memory. She’d half-heartedly said it wasn’t true, and the sting of the truth had caused his spiteful response. Don’t sweat it, Mustang. There are plenty of warm bodies around to keep me company while you’re gone.
So much for not getting hurt.
He’d been an idiot to pine for her while she was away. She’d obviously been typical Brindle, the untamable wild child, while she was gone.
He spotted Jeb and Shane making a beeline toward him and uttered a curse.
“See ya, Trix,” he said, and moved deeper into the crowd. His gaze landed on Heather Ray, a buxom blonde with a reputation for being easy. Just as his brothers caught up to him, he put his arm around Heather and said with more than a hint of innuendo, “What do you say we get out of here?”
She turned, her smile lighting up her green eyes. “I’m in.” She flicked her chin, sending her blond hair over her shoulder as they strode away from his brothers.
“Trace!” Jeb hollered. “Don’t do this, man!”
With Heather pressed against his side, Trace raised his other hand, flipped his brothers—and everyone else for that matter—the bird, and kept on walking…
Chapter Three
BRINDLE SAT IN front of her makeup mirror Sunday morning applying concealer to try to hide the puffy dark crescents under her eyes. Her phone had rung off the hook half the night—but not from the one person she wished would call, which was why she’d been awake and upset the other half of the night. She still couldn’t believe the first place Trace’s mind went when he saw that she was pregnant was that it was someone else’s baby. She and Trace had been through more than their fair share of drama, but to say something so cruel after she’d been faithful to him even when they were taking breaks from each other? That had been heartbreaking. She hadn’t planned to lie about the father of her child, but Trace’s accusation had cut so deep, she hadn’t been able to stop herself.
She probably should have expected something like that from him, given the hurtful things he’d said the night before she’d left about there being plenty of warm bodies around to keep him company. She’d made the mistake of telling him she’d miss him when she was in Paris, but the disbelief in his eyes had hurt too much, and she’d quickly reworded her confession for fear of losing him altogether. Saying she’d miss the sex wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the complete truth. She’d been terrified that while she was in Paris figuring out if the overwhelming emotions she felt for him were true, lasting, forever love, or something else, Trace would realize they’d gotten
stuck in a holding pattern for years and he was done with her altogether. She knew she wasn’t an easy woman to be with. She was stubborn, opinionated, and according to her sisters, she liked sex way too much. She also had high expectations of any man she was with. He needed to be strong enough not to get jealous at every little thing. A man who didn’t want to tie her down but wanted to run wild with her. She loved creek parties, hanging with friends, dancing, and doing the unexpected. There was too much fun to be had to ruin it with visions of white weddings and picket fences. And by fun she didn’t mean sleeping around. Trace had that area covered. He was just as willing to try new things as she was. Her hot cowboy was the perfect combination of animalistic, domineering, passionate, and loving. Like her, he could change directions on a dime, and he never tired of parties or going out dancing.
But what she’d realized during those first few weeks in Paris when she was painfully lonely for him was that it was being with Trace—the man who was just as willing to let her drag him to the dance floor as he was to sneak off into an alcove and make out whenever the urge struck—that made those things so fun. It was laughing together, finishing each other’s sentences, and sharing inside jokes. It was the fact that she could rest her head on his shoulder in the middle of a crowded bar and he’d press those magnificent lips of his to her temple and never let anything happen to her. Which was why she had stupidly hoped that absence might make his heart grow fonder and he’d be on the same page as her by now and have decided that he wanted only her.
Her gaze moved to the framed collage of photos on her dresser, with pictures dating all the way back to when they were teenagers. Every year she added more pictures. There were photographs of them laughing, kissing, riding horses, at creek parties, and at community events. Her eyes drifted to the strip of pictures stuck to her mirror with a smiley-face sticker. Those were taken in the photo booth at the last county fair. In the top picture they were giving each other bunny ears. In the next she was sitting on Trace’s lap, her arm around his neck, and she was making a face at the camera while he kissed her cheek. He was always touching and kissing her, driving her out of her mind. The third picture was a blur of the back of her head, caught mid-make-out. Trace wasn’t just her lover and best friend. She knew now that he was her other half, and in many ways, her better half. She’d probably known it all along, but when she was home, in the thick of it all, she hadn’t been able to separate the commitment-phobe Brindle everyone expected—even her—and the Brindle who just might want a commitment after all.
Wild, Crazy Hearts Page 2