Cowboys Don't Have a Secret Baby

by Jessie Gussman

  “I didn’t plan that, but I like it.” Her hair spilled down around them and her body felt perfect resting on his.

  Their legs were tangled in her swishy skirt, and she put her hand on his chest, resting her chin on top of it.

  “I like it too,” she said softly.

  “Eight kids?” he said, going back to their earlier conversation. “Maybe we should have talked about this. Do you have any other surprises for me?”

  “I don’t. But I think I saw Pastor putting your name down for every festival the town has once he learned your were retiring from hockey.” She stretched up and kissed the cleft in his chin.

  “As long as he put yours with it, I’m okay with that.”

  “I gave Patty my two week notice on Monday.” She wiggled up, and he groaned softly. She kissed his neck.

  Her lips were soft and warm and better than anything. He had trouble remembering they were in the middle of a conversation. “That’s good, because I have big plans for you.”

  “Big plans?” she asked before her teeth nipped his ear. Her hands threaded though his short hair.

  “I have a lot of kissing to do,” he murmured, the fire that was always there between them had flamed to life.

  “Mmm.” She trailed her lips across his cheek. “Sounds important. Maybe we’d better get started.”

  Her lips touched his and all the sensations he remembered from before came roaring back. Only this time he didn’t have to worry about stopping. He could kiss her all night if he wanted.

  She lifted her head enough for him to suck in a breath. “I love you,” he panted.

  “I love you too,” she replied. He knew it was true.

  Epilogue

  Ford kept the sitting room dark and his over-sized hoodie pulled up and over his head as Georgia led Ty and his new wife in. He hated people seeing his face. The eyepatch was enough to put most folks off. But the puckered and ugly scars where half of a handsome face used to be downright scared folks. Especially children. And ladies with queasy stomachs. Louise was a hardy North Dakota girl, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be put off by his ugliness.

  Ford hadn’t gone to the wedding. So Ty had brought his new wife here to meet him.

  Like he even needed to. They might only live forty-five minutes away, but Ford wasn’t planning on dropping in for coffee. Or Christmas. Or anything in between.

  Maybe once upon a time, he enjoyed visits and company, games and friends, but with half his face and most of his leg missing, he was the freak at any party.

  Keeping the lights dim helped a little. The hoodie gave him protection as well.

  Georgia walked confidently in. She knew him, and her eyes went immediately to the corner where he always stood. The deepest shadows in the room.

  His little brother walked in next, his arm around a pretty blond who would have to be Louise, of course. A bit of jealousy, mean and snickering, crawled up his throat. He swallowed to shove it back down. He’d be happy for his brother. Even if there was no chance in the world that, even with all his millions, he’d ever have a beautiful wife by his side.

  Ty held their daughter’s hand on his other side. A cute little girl.

  Ford was an uncle. That had been a shock he was still getting used to.

  “Ford, they can’t see you when you stand back in the corner like that.” Exasperation laced Georgia’s voice. He’d hired her to help him with his home and business. She did a great job. But she didn’t put up with his crap. Not even a little.

  Georgia might be small, but she was a powerhouse. She’d make him move forward. Better to do it on his own.

  Too bad she was leaving next week. At least she’d hired his replacement. The cow-eyed daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Nelson. She was younger than him, and he’d specifically asked Georgia for an old woman or a man, but he’d known Mr. and Mrs. Nelson growing up and kind of remembered their daughter, Morgan, from a few basketball games when their schools had played together.

  Morgan had been ugly as a mud fence and blind as a bat with glasses at least an inch thick perched on her stub of a nose. She’d been fat, too. Her hair so light blond as to be almost white and so thin one could see her scalp under it. She also had some kind of skin condition that gave her red welts all over her face. Like him, her looks had made her memorable. Not in a good way. She wasn’t the right age—he’d wanted an older woman—but she’d do.

  He shoved his cowboy hat down and took one step to the edge of the shadow.

  “This is my wife and daughter, Ford.” Ty’s voice jerked his thoughts back to the present. That was the trouble with being alone so much. One had a tendency to forget the social niceties like paying attention to people when they were standing in front of one.

  “Quit scowling,” Ty said. “You’re not going to intimidate them.”

  Louise held her hand out. “We’ve met, but it’s good to see you again.”

  Ford smirked and reached out to shake her hand. He’d lost his pinky and ring fingers on his right hand, and people’s faces when he shook with them were comical to watch.

  He could laugh. After all, God was laughing at him. He still had the third finger on his left hand, like he’d ever find a woman who wanted to put a ring there.

  But Louise wasn’t like every other person. She peered into the gloom to try to meet his eye while her hand took his in a firm grip. Not the pansy grip most people used when they saw he was physically disabled. Like he even wanted that label. He never used it. He knew what it was like to be whole and handsome, and he hadn’t accepted that it wasn’t him anymore.

  “Ty loves you, and he talks a lot about you.”

  Ford snorted. They’d barely even talked since their dad died. No, since his accident. They had a lot of good memories up to that point. Okay, they talked every week, but he didn’t tell anyone about the bitterness in his heart.

  Ford didn’t miss the way Ty pulled his new wife closer, tucking her next to him like he couldn’t stand for there to be any air between them. It didn’t surprise him, though. If Ty loved the woman so much that he’d retire from hockey, and at the beginning of the season, giving up the biggest contract ever offered to a player in the history of the sport, to become a rancher, because that must be what his wife wanted? Yeah. His brother was in love.

  Good luck with that. In Ford’s experience, girls were fickle and catty. Shauna had broken up with him while he was still in the hospital recovering from the farm accident. He was missing a leg, half his face, and a couple of fingers, and she took his confidence with her as she walked out of the hospital room after letting him know she wasn’t doing the nursemaid thing for the rest of her life. Like he had a catheter bag she’d have to empty or something.

  Georgia invited everyone to sit down, but Ty declined, to Ford’s relief.

  “We’re heading out on our honeymoon.”

  “You’re taking her on your honeymoon?” Ford probably shouldn’t have asked, but the question slipped out as he looked aghast at Tella.

  Ty tugged her closer, and she put her arms around his waist while his hand landed in the center of her back, hugging her against him. “I’ve missed a lot of time with her, and I want to try to make it up. She’ll love seeing the Grand Canyon, anyway.”

  Ford shrugged. Whatever.

  “Then we’re coming back and living on the ranch. Just because we bought it doesn’t mean you can’t come back and visit as much as you want,” Ty said.

  Not that Ford would want to. There were too many good memories of being with his dad there. Plus that one really bad memory that he’d wished every day since he could change. Go back and make one different decision, and he’d still be handsome and whole. Impossible, of course.

  He could admit to himself, though, that he probably wouldn’t be a millionaire if he’d not been in the accident.

  But no amount of money could give him back his limbs. At this point, he could afford plastic surgery on his face, but he didn’t want to go under the knife again. There was n
o guarantee he’d look better anyway, and he’d never look the way he pictured himself in his mind.

  “Yeah, I’ll have to do that,” he said, since Ty seemed to be waiting on an answer. He had no intention of visiting, but he didn’t want to upset everyone by being so blunt.

  See? He could be kind.

  “Well, we’re headed out. We’ll stop in on our way home.” Ty moved forward and grabbed Ford in a hug. Ty might be more muscular now, but Ford was taller. That’s all he had going for him, since he couldn’t compete in the looks department.

  But his brother’s hug felt strong and good, reminding him of his father. “I wish you the very best,” Ford said and meant it with everything in his heart.

  Thanks so much for reading! To join Jessie’s newsletter to receive updates on her writing, news about Jessie and information on upcoming releases, click HERE.

  To read Ford’s story, the next book in the Sweet Water Ranch Billionaire Cowboy series, click HERE.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of the first chapter in Ford’s story.

  CHAPTER 1

  “I can’t wear this,” Morgan Nelson said with one arm crossed over her chest where the see-through material left nothing, truly nothing, to the imagination.

  People shouted and swore, their voices echoing in the large room broken only by portable racks of clothes and a few flimsy partitions. Tangy sweat, bold perfume, and that familiar scent of nervousness combined together in a familiar, though unloved, scent mixture.

  “We’re in the middle of a show. We don’t have time for drama queens.” Henrique Ove barely looked up from where he was placing duct tape in strategic locations on another model’s outfit to keep it in place.

  “I’m not being a drama queen.” Please. Morgan did everything she was asked to do, and more, with not a word of complaint. Not about the long hours. Not about the near-starvation diet. Not about the hideous outfits that no normal person would wear. As long as they paid her, she’d wear whatever they set out.

  But she didn’t sign up to do a nude.

  “This was not in my preshow outfits. I did not have this in practice yesterday.” She’d tried every one on, and multiple assistants had made sure that everything fit and was shown off to its best advantage. It was about the clothes. Not about the girl.

  “We don’t have time for this. You’re next. Go.” He made a shoeing motion with his hand, not even looking at her.

  Music blared in the background. The crowd outside was loud and boisterous. Earlier a big-name buyer had arrived unexpectedly and demanded a front row seat. That event had seemed to flip the switch from “normal” to “electric” and may even explain how she had been given an outfit she’d never even tried on.

  Lights glared from the ceilings and reflected off the multitude of mirrors and the plain white walls. Models bustled around in various stages of undress. Assistants scurried after them, fixing broken straps, handing off last-minute replacement shoes or jewelry and adjusting the tiniest wrinkle.

  It was true, to a certain extent, in this business one lost a lot of their modesty. One’s body was just a background, the perfect background, hopefully, in which to showcase a designer’s creations to their best possible angle.

  But this see-through travesty that her handlers had put on her, unexpectedly and most definitely without her permission, was not something that she was going to let slide.

  “I’m not wearing this.”

  Someone shouted her name. Sarwith, the top name facilitator who was backstage methodically, some would say even brutally, adjusting the clothes on models, to make sure the clothes were shown to the best advantage.

  “You wear that. You’re next.” Sarwith’s tall, slender blondness practically mirrored Morgan’s own.

  “It’s see-through.”

  “It’s perfect for your figure. When I saw you yesterday, I had to switch it for this show. Your body is the perfect canvas on which to display my handiwork.” Her regal brows lowered. “No one else will do.”

  Henrique gave a last, quick tap to the barely-there top of the model he’d been working on. He straightened, and finally looked at her full-on. “Wear it. Or leave,” he enunciated clearly. “And if you leave, don’t think that you will ever work as a model again. Not in this town.” Which happened to be New York. “And not in this business.” He was only about five feet tall. She and Sarwith towered over him. Morgan’s natural height of six feet one inch, was increased by the five inch, size twelve strappy heels she wore. “Not even a dogfood commercial.”

  Morgan stared at him. Really? After everything she’d done, everything she’d worked for, he’d seriously take it all away because of one see-through shirt?

  Sarwith stood with her hands on her hips, a smug smile on her face, like she knew what Morgan would choose.

  Surely Henrique wouldn’t keep her from working. He couldn’t do that.

  But Henrique could. She didn’t doubt it for a moment. Like everyone else in this business, he worked his fingers to the bone, but he had clout, and lots of it, especially when it came to models and recommendations.

  Morgan was very aware that there were always younger, prettier, more slender models waiting in the wings for someone to fall. That had been her, not that long ago.

  But she’d promised herself when she started that there were certain lines that she’d never cross. She’d never lain on anyone’s couch, although she’d had the opportunity, and she’d watched as girls who walked into those certain offices and closed the door behind them had shot to super-stardom practically overnight.

  She’d be lying if she said she’d never been tempted to take that route. Everyone did it.

  But she’d turned those offers down. She’d had negative balances in her checkbook. She’d downgraded apartments and even been evicted over over-due rent. She’d scrimped and struggled, working as a waitress, a cashier, a body-double, anything. She’d take any job that would give her the flexibility to drop it and do a show at the last minute. She’d never turned down a show. And she’d always shown up and done her best.

  It was finally paying off. For the last six months, her star had risen, and finally she was here, at New York Fashion week. Her years of struggle and having nothing were giving way to a gold mine. All she had to do was walk out that runway in the see-through shirt that she already wore. Thirty seconds. It would take thirty seconds. She’d already caught the eye of several designers, and her agent had spoken with her for over an hour last night after the practice. She was on the cusp of making it big. It had been her dream since her dorky, awkward, embarrassing teenaged years in her remote North Dakota high school.

  With her thick glasses and nasty scaly, red skin along with years of acne, not to mention her height which had her towering over her teachers and classmates since she was thirteen, and hunching her shoulders and bending down to try to make herself smaller so she’d not stick out so dramatically, she’d never been considered a beauty.

  It wasn’t until she’d studied nutrition in college and started eating from the salad bar instead of chowing down on friend chicken and boxed pasta, quit watching tv and started exercising and, maybe the most dramatic changes – her braces had finally come off after four long years, and she’d gotten contacts.

  Her body shape had changed. Her skin glowed with health. And, lo and behold, she’d attracted the attention of people who thought with a little hard work she could really make it as a model.

  Because of growing up on a small ranch in North Dakota, hard work was something she was familiar with.

  Multiple people were calling her name now. Henrique had his arms crossed, and his foot tapped. Other models and stylists had stopped to stare at the latest drama queen who was going to demand her way.

  The pressure to give in and conform, to not throw away everything she’d gained, to do what was expected, was strong. These people didn’t understand the values she’d been brought up with, and considered her refusal a power play. Or a temper tantrum.

 
; This wasn’t the first time she’d wondered why she’d worked so hard to be successful in an industry that had not time for morality, modesty or the values that related to those things.

  Inside of her those two sides warred. One side begging her to conform, to give in and do what they wanted, to keep her position and garner prestige and be successful, showing everyone who’d ever called her ugly or fat that she’d won. Against the other side that pleaded with her to see the value in modesty and morality and to not allow the rest of the world to dictate right and wrong to her.

  “Onstage. Now,” Henrique barked.

  She turned her back, walking to her station and putting her own clothes back on. Ignoring the shocked looks and the behind-the-hand whispers and several catty comments from her “friends,” she picked up her purse and walked out of the room.

  FORD IGNORED THE THUMPING pain in his head and the burning in his eye. He blinked, but didn’t take his hands from his keyboard to rub it like his brain subconsciously urged him to do. He was close. Very close to getting the prototype dialed down to quality that was affordable to middle class Americans.

  “Ford, I’m leaving.”

  And, just like that, the zone he was in vanished like a bubble on a windy day. He shoved back away from his desk in the darkened room – all the rooms in his house were dark – and turned to the doorway where his sister, Georgia, stood. Her hair in wild disarray around her head, but what else was new, and a bag slung over her shoulder. That, unusual.

  She’d taken amazing care of him over the last decade or so. Handling his moods – he knew he had moods – and making sure he ate, exercised, knew his calendar and appointments, and she even gave interviews in his stead. Because he wasn’t taking his ravaged face into a studio. Nor was he giving interviews from his home. It was his sanctuary.