Wild, Crazy Hearts

by Melissa Foster

  “To be honest, I was in shock more than frightened. Fear came a little later, when I thought about telling you guys.” She could time her periods like clockwork, and when she missed one, she was more than a little concerned. A week later, she was fairly certain she was pregnant. But even still, the positive tests had delivered a good dose of shock.

  Her mother placed her hand over Brindle’s on the railing and said, “How did the father take it when you told him? That must have been awful, hearing he didn’t want to be involved.”

  She shook her head, not wanting to lie, so she told the truth. “We never pretended we’d be anything more than we were.” Then she said, more to herself than to them, “I never meant to hurt Trace.”

  They didn’t say anything for a long moment, and she couldn’t look at them, because she knew Trace was like a son to them, just like his parents treated her like a daughter. She stared at the gazebo in the distance, where she and Trace had brazenly made love in the moonlight on her eighteenth birthday.

  Her father put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against his side. He kissed her temple and said, “You and Trace have always had a complicated relationship. But your friendship has never wavered. He’ll come around, pumpkin.”

  “And if he doesn’t, we’ll send Sable over to pull his head out of his ass,” her mother said with a smile.

  “Why does everyone want to hurt the innocent people in all this?” Brindle asked. “I’m just as much to blame as the father of my child, and for Trace’s anger.”

  “Sweetheart, they’re not innocent. Baby making takes two,” her father said. “And if you want the truth, Trace was a damn fool not to chase you down and get on that plane or haul your ass off it.”

  “Oh, Cade,” her mother said. “That’s such a man thing to say. Trace knows our baby girl better than that. If he’d gone after her, Brindle would have pushed him even further away.”

  Chapter Four

  THE LATE-AFTERNOON sun beat down on Trace’s back as he tore another board from the old storage shed and hurled it onto the pile of rotted wood. Fucking Francois, Jean-Pierre, or whatever the fuck his name is. He grabbed another board, set his boot against the wall beneath, and let his rage fuel his efforts as he stripped it from its tethers and flung it aside. Goddamn Paris. He tore through board after board, trying to shake the image of Brindle fucking some other guy, which he’d conjured way too clearly last night. His nightmares were filled with images of Brindle and a faceless, nameless asshole walking around Paris, holding hands, making out in the streets, tangled up in the sheets, her hands all over him.

  He threw another board as Shane rode up on a horse. Trace took off his cowboy hat and wiped the sweat from his brow as his brother dismounted.

  “You’re not answering your phone,” Shane said, eyeing the pile of rubble.

  Trace gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with his brother’s shit. “So?”

  “So, what was that all about last night? Leaving the party with Heather?”

  Trace grabbed another board. “What the fuck do you care?” He’d always wondered if Shane had a thing for Heather, which made her an even better choice to leave the party with. Trace tugged at the board, his muscles straining as he tried to wrench the board free.

  “Because you’re being an idiot.”

  He released the board and grabbed a hammer. “Fuck off, Shane. I don’t need a lecture.” He hammered the other side of the board to loosen the nails, then tossed the tool aside and ripped the board from the studs.

  “No, you need to tear apart the shed we planned to take down together in the spring, because that’ll make things so much better,” Shane said sarcastically.

  “Let it go, Shane.”

  “That’s kind of hard to do, man. You and Brindle have been together forever.”

  “Correction,” he ground out, grabbing the hammer and pounding loose another board. “We’ve been fucking forever.”

  Each of the Jericho brothers had a different way with the ladies. Jeb was a seriously private dude, mysterious when it came to dating and known around town for his artistic talents and overprotective nature. Shane was a gentleman who liked to have fun, but he kept his mouth shut about his trysts, though he had no problem sticking his nose into his siblings’ affairs. Justus was a flirt, but wary of gold diggers, and Trace was the playboy every woman wanted to claim to have been with.

  “You’re an asshole,” Shane said.

  Trace dropped the hammer and closed the distance between them. “I’m the asshole?” he hollered. He glared at Shane, sending his brother backward as he pushed forward. “She gets knocked up by some guy she just met, and I’m the asshole?”

  “You had years to make her yours, and you dicked around with other women every time you two fought.”

  Shane tried to force Trace back by puffing out his chest, but Trace planted his feet, refusing to budge, and seethed, “You have no idea what I did or didn’t do.”

  Shane scoffed. “Doesn’t every damn person in this town? You aren’t exactly discreet.”

  “People don’t know shit.”

  “Don’t they? Or is that you we’re talking about?” Shane’s eyes narrowed. “What are you afraid of, Trace?”

  “Nothing. Ever,” he fumed, his hands fisting by his sides.

  “Bullshit. Something’s held you back from committing to the only woman you’ve ever really wanted. Afraid you’re not man enough for her? Afraid you’ll get hurt? Because whatever it is, you screwed up. You weren’t man enough to make her yours, and now you’re pouting like a child.”

  Trace’s fist connected with Shane’s jaw before he had time to blink, knocking his brother flat on his back. Trace’s chest heaved as he stumbled backward, grinding out, “Shit. Fuck. Goddamn it.”

  Shane rubbed his jaw as he pushed to his feet. He picked up his cowboy hat and drilled a finger at Trace as he said, “You better get your head out of your ass. That was your one shot. Next time I’ll tear you apart.”

  “Dream on, and while you’re at it, how about fucking off?”

  “It’s time for you to grow up, bro.” Shane’s lips curved up in an amused smile and he said, “Stop being selfish—”

  “Selfish? I give everything I have to this ranch. Dad never has to worry about shit getting done.”

  The ranch had been passed down through two generations. Their father suffered from arthritis and did what he could. But he’d taught Trace and his siblings well. They’d been raised to work hard, herding cattle, calving, and working their fingers to the bone practically since they could walk, getting up before dawn, taking care of chores before and after school, and knowing better than to gripe. In addition to being Oak Falls’s go-to cattle ranch, they’d earned a reputation for their horse-training expertise. The joke around town was that the Jericho men could finesse the wildness out of a horse as well as they could charm the panties off women. Though Jeb and Justus had followed their passions elsewhere, there were only two things Trace had ever wanted beyond the ranch—one of them required too much time away from the ranch and the other was pregnant with some other dude’s baby.

  “You just don’t get it.” Shane held his gaze as he said, “Selfish, as in how do you think Brindle feels right now? The whole town is talking about her.”

  “This pregnancy was her choice.”

  “Was it? Her choice, I mean?”

  Shane paused, and Trace knew he was giving his words time to sink in. He had no idea if her pregnancy was a choice or not. For all he knew she was in love with the French asshole who got her pregnant.

  That thought burrowed deep into his gut, burning like a disease.

  “At some point all this anger is going to wear off, and you’re going to be left with only the hurt. Trust me, when that happens, no amount of faceless, nameless fucks will take it away.” Shane mounted his horse and said, “You should have thought about giving Brindle everything you had, and then maybe you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
<
br />   That had been all he’d thought about since the moment Brindle told him she was going to Paris. “If I’d tried to fence her in, she’d have jumped the rail faster than I could tell her not to.” She’d nixed any thoughts he’d had about revealing those feelings when she’d made it clear that it was the sex she’d miss while she was gone, not him.

  Shane scoffed. “You’ve never met a filly you couldn’t tame. Like I said, man, what are you afraid of?”

  As his brother rode off, Trace said, “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

  He picked up the hammer and set to work tearing apart the rest of the shed.

  Hours later, as the sun set and the rubbish pile grew, his hands burned, a sheen of sweat soaked his shirt, and he was still chewing on nails. But his brother’s words were still pummeling him. How do you think Brindle feels right now? The whole town is talking about her.

  Where the hell was the father of her child? Why wasn’t he with her when she told her family? Why wasn’t he there, front and center, shutting down rumors and showing his face to the people who loved her? Trace had been protecting Brindle since he was fifteen years old, and the idea of anyone talking shit about her made his gut roil.

  But she was no longer his to protect.

  She never was.

  “Bullshit.” He dropped the hammer and headed for his truck.

  BRINDLE PASSED THE mirror on the way into her bedroom, catching sight of her messy bun, cutoffs, fluffy bootie slippers, and the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt with UNTAMABLE written across the front of a wild horse, which Trace had given her for her twenty-third birthday. Except for the fact that she couldn’t button her shorts, she looked like her old self, though she sure didn’t feel like her old self. She felt discombobulated, like she didn’t know how to fit into her old life anymore. She wasn’t a liar, and yet in the space of one rebellious moment that’s what she’d become. And then her sisters had started in on her, driving that guilt even deeper. She’d escaped their scrutiny with the excuse of having to unpack and clean her apartment. She’d changed into comfortable clothes, and she’d had every intention of getting to work, but she’d gotten sidetracked by her guilt.

  She shoved a spoonful of strawberry ice cream in her mouth, surveying the open suitcases on her bed and floor. There were clothes strewn over the mattress and dressers and bags all over the floor. She’d been so distracted when she was leaving Paris, she’d accidentally left behind the gifts she’d bought for everyone—including Trace, the big bastard. It was all too much to deal with. Shoveling another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, she turned on her heel and headed back to the living room. She flopped onto the couch beside the stuffed dalmatian Trace had won for her at the last county fair.

  She kicked her feet up on the coffee table, knocking off an empty pizza box, and eyed the open bag of chips, the box of cookies, and a bottle of water. If she didn’t get control of herself, she’d gain fifty pounds with this pregnancy.

  With this heartbreak.

  Ugh! This sucks.

  She set the ice cream container on the table and picked up the dalmatian, absently touching its ears and remembering how much fun she and Trace had had at the fair. Reed and Grace had just reconnected after a decade apart, and Brindle remembered talking to Grace about the play she was working on with the drama club. Grace had said she’d help, and Reed had immediately offered to build the sets without even being asked. Brindle had made a comment to Trace about how nice it was that some guys made time to help, and Trace had said, Darlin’, I’ve got a ranch to run. But if you want to spend the time we have together building sets instead of our other extracurricular activities, that can be arranged. She’d nixed that idea and promptly changed the subject. She liked their extracurricular activities, but that was just one more thing that had gotten her thinking that maybe she wanted more than he wanted to give.

  She sighed and debated calling Morgyn. She needed to talk this shit out before she said or did anything else to make matters worse.

  A knock at her door sent her heart to her throat. Maybe Trace had gotten his head on straight and was coming over to apologize. You’d better have an apology on those sexy lips, or you’ll be kissing your way back out the door. She pushed to her feet, hoping they could clear up their misunderstanding and move forward.

  She pulled the door open, and there he stood, Stetson firmly in place, looking hot as ever, except for the anger in his eyes as he barreled forward, pushing her backward with his massive chest. So much for an apology…

  His dark eyes shifted as they passed the bedroom, and his jaw clenched. He smelled rugged and manly as he set those angry eyes on her and fumed, “Where is he?”

  “Not here,” she lied as her back met the wall.

  “Do you love the fucker?” he seethed, his big body hulking over her.

  Yes, more than anything, was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t like the way he was yelling at her. “Why does it matter? Why do you care?”

  He ground his teeth together, and Lord help her because his muscular thighs pressed against her, and his body heat ignited her traitorous hormones. Despite how angry she was, she wanted to tear off his filthy clothes and get lost in him the way she always had.

  “Because I’m your…” His eyes searched hers, and she saw him struggling with his words.

  “Because you’re my what, Trace? What exactly are you?”

  He put his hands beside her head on the wall, boxing her in as his dark eyes drilled into her. But he didn’t have an answer, and that hurt even more than if he’d just said he was her friend, and more rebellion poured out.

  “He was just looking for a fuck,” she said spitefully. “Not a lifelong commitment, and nothing says forever like a bun in the oven.”

  His eyes dropped to her belly, his hips pressing into it. He shifted back slightly, relieving the pressure but keeping the connection as he lifted his eyes to hers. She swore she saw a flash of hurt in them seconds before they turned nearly black, and his hands landed on her hips, holding on to her like he always had. Like she was his to protect. There were so many conflicting emotions rushing through her, she was drowning in them. Her whole body arched forward, reaching for him, and it was all she could do to try to force that desire away.

  “What kind of guy leaves a woman to deal with this shit on her own?” he growled, his chest heaving against hers. “I don’t want a kid right now, but I’d do right by you no matter what. The guy needs his ass kicked.”

  He didn’t want a child right now.

  I was so stupid to think you’d want us.

  Hurt swamped her, and she struggled to keep those emotions in check, but the hurt broke free anyway. “That’s just what every woman wants. Someone to stand by her out of duty, not love.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Damn it, Brindle. Answer the question. Where is he? I want to see the guy face-to-face.”

  She lifted her chin, willing herself to say, Look in a mirror, but all that came out was, “Let it go, Trace.”

  His fingers curled tighter over her hips, and he touched his forehead to hers, his hat brushing the top of her head. “I can’t,” he said in a low voice full of emotion, sending rivers of heat skating beneath her skin.

  Neither one of them moved. She wasn’t even sure she was still breathing as her hands moved to his sides, and she slipped her fingers into his belt loops. He sighed with relief, and it made her heart squeeze.

  “Mustang,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Talk to me, darlin’.”

  “We don’t talk,” she said, struggling to keep her tears at bay.

  He pushed one arm around her waist, holding her tighter, and brushed his scruff along her cheek, the way he always did right before he drove her out of her mind, and said, “That’s bullshit.” He moved his lips beside her ear and said, “I know all your secrets, Brin.”

  Her stomach sank. Not all of them…

  He pressed his lips to her cheek, and she closed her eyes as he said, “Tal
k to me, wild one.”

  “Trace…” she said half-heartedly. She should let go of his jeans and move out from within the confines of his strong arms, but there was no place else she’d rather be.

  He threaded his fingers into her hair, angling her face up beneath his, and just that small, familiar motion, which usually was the start of them ending up naked, made lust simmer inside her. He stared into her eyes and said, “I’m not letting you do this alone. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You don’t want a baby.” She slammed her eyes closed, wishing she hadn’t said it but knowing she needed to.

  “OPEN YOUR EYES,” Trace demanded. When she did, hurt and anger warred in them, shocking his heart into overdrive. He wanted to kill the motherfucker who had abandoned her and made his stubborn, brave girl look fearful.

  “That has nothing to do with this,” he said emphatically. “You’re my best friend, my lover, and my feral mischief maker. If you think for a single second that I’m not going to stick by you when that assfuck is too weak to do the right thing, you’re wrong.” Positioning her face so he had her undivided attention, he said, “I’ve got you, Brindle Montgomery. I’ve always had you, and I always will.”

  He didn’t think as his mouth descended on hers, taking what he’d needed since the day she’d gotten on that plane and left him behind. She rocked forward, rubbing seductively against him as his hand traveled around her waist, holding her soft curves against him. The world swayed as he deepened the kiss and she moaned into his mouth. Man, he’d missed her—her kisses, her sounds, her sexual greed. He lifted her into his arms, and as her legs circled his waist, her hands dove into his hair, knocking off his hat and making him hard as stone. They ate at each other’s mouths, urgent and messy, as if they needed each other to survive. And Lord knew he needed her just that much.

  He tugged her head back and sealed his mouth over her neck, sucking and licking the way he knew drove her to the brink of madness.

  “Trace—” she begged as he tasted his way lower, kissing and biting her shoulder, earning one sensual sound after another. “God, I missed you.”