A Baby for the Texas Cowboy
A Texas Wolf Brothers Romance
Sinclair Jayne
A Baby for the Texas Cowboy
Copyright © 2020 Sinclair Jayne
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Publication by Tule Publishing 2020
Cover design by Lee Hyat Designs at leehyat.com
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-951786-50-2
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
The Texas Wolf Brothers series
More Books by Sinclair Jayne
About the Author
Chapter One
Late June
Anders Wolf kicked back in the white wood rental chair, easily balancing on two legs, and surveyed the crowd dancing in his family’s large and supposedly haunted East Barn. His two older brothers had married today. Anders had written two speeches as the double best man. Both had killed. He’d worn a western-style tux without complaint—that had been easy since the tux had been a gift from a designer for doing a photo shoot earlier this year for a men’s athletic magazine. He’d posed for pictures—he was used to that with his career as a top bull rider—toasted the brides and grooms, danced with both sisters-in-law. He’d even choked down a few bites of each heavily frosted wedding cake.
He would have preferred pie. Apple.
He took out his phone and brought up the list he’d started when his best friend had married several years ago. He added pie to the list and then in parentheses Char-Pie, a local Last Stand Texas shop where two sisters baked and served the best pie in the country. Anders knew. He traveled a lot.
He read through his list. Short. Simple. Practical. The Perfect Wife List. He didn’t want a woman who was after his money, fame or land. She wouldn’t want a showy wedding. A ranch wedding with friends and family suited him, but he’d take a church or courthouse.
His brothers had mocked his list.
They’d laughed even harder when his brother August had grabbed his phone, scrolled down, and found the date he’d start looking for his perfect bride: November, five years down the road. He’d be thirty and likely quitting the AEBR tour. He’d be ready to settle down and start growing a family.
His bride would be a good cook, organized housekeeper, sweet, kind-hearted, traditional, pretty but strong, ranch-raised, hardworking and eager to start a family and raise them on Ghost Hill Ranch. She wouldn’t want the big-city life or to travel. He was tired of that. His wife would want to stay home and raise the kids with him on the ranch.
“What. The. Hell! Sounds like a robot wife,” August had hooted. “Some futuristic plastic doll that will malfunction and slay you in your sleep. Then she’ll stumble onto the land and start a stampede with the longhorn. That will destroy my vineyards and tear up the fencing, leaving us with miles of fencing to re-stretch, probably in the middle of July, and you won’t be here to help.”
August had always had a big mouth and a vivid imagination.
Axel had been less harsh. “You’d be bored in two weeks.”
“I want boring in a woman.” Anders had grabbed his phone back. “By the time I’m thirty and retired, I’ll be sick to death of hot and beautiful and out for a good time, or drunk or so sexed up they want to ride all night. I want to work the ranch and come home to a clean house, home-cooked meals and a relaxing time playing board games with my kids because their homework is finished.”
August had laughed so hard he’d choked on his whiskey. “What the hell are you binge-watching on Netflix or HBO or whatever? Reruns of something from the fifties? Please stop! It’s embarrassing. If any woman catches you with a list like this, she’ll right hook you into the current decade and century, and I’ll cheer her on.”
“Definitely won’t be a Texas cowgirl,” Axel had added.
Anders tucked his phone inside his tux jacket.
His brothers could laugh. They got their Texas cowgirl dream girls. Anders would hold out for his. It wasn’t like he wanted to marry anytime soon. He was twenty-five, at the peak of his career on the tour, pulling in serious money from tour wins and sponsorships, and his investments in Ghost Hill Ranch and his brother’s distillery—Four Wolfs—only enriched him more.
He didn’t want Mrs. Stay at Home on the Ranch with the Kids now.
Hell no.
Tonight he wanted action—hot, wild and all damn night.
Think of the devil. Anders returned to all four legs of the chair and stood up. Before his brain could kick in and say no, he strolled across the barn, easily dodging dancers and tables and chairs to make his way to the bar August and his bride, Catalina, had constructed to serve their Verflucht wines and his Cowboy Wolf Whiskey.
“Whiskey straight,” he said softly to the copper-haired bartender who had been reorganizing the stock, her supple body swaying to the beat of the music while she worked.
“Me or the drink?” She turned around and cocked a hip.
He’d always loved her bold style of flirting. It had tempted him for months before he decided to make a move. She’d never end up on his perfect wife list, but damn, her husky tone, arrogantly amused regard, and perfectly arched brows combined with her petal soft lips that reminded him of a rose in full bloom still got him even after they’d both finally indulged themselves a couple of months ago.
She’d been the first woman he’d had a hard time kissing goodbye and walking off with a smile after their agreed-upon short fling. Rules were rules, and his had kept him safely unattached.
But tonight he felt primed to make an exception.
“You gonna dance with me later?”
“We already danced, Anders.”
“You are an exceptionally sexy and memorable dancer.”
“Getting lazy with your lines, cowboy.”
“Just stating a fact, Whiskey.”
She leaned back against the wide counter where the liquor was stocked on shelves along with the wine in racks. “Then I’ll say thank you.” Her lips curved. She breathed in, and he watched her chest rise. The brief glimpse of her creamy cleavage was driving him mad, and she knew it. “I remember your moves on and off the dance floor.” She drew out the word and let her heated gaze take a slo
w walk over him.
Her golden gaze scorched him to his bones. She still wanted him! And he burned for her.
Whiskey knew her power over men the way other people know the earth was round.
She had confidence and fun flirting.
He’d seen her shut down cowboy after cowboy who flirted with her at tour events this year while she’d represented and sold his brother’s whiskey. It had taken him months to devise a winning strategy.
Slow. Subtle. Teasing.
He felt none of that tonight. Reckless and desperate was more like it.
Not good.
And why was trying his luck with her again?
She was so beautiful it hurt his eyes to look at her sometimes. She was funny and smart and sexy and more aloof and unattainable than he was. So what the hell was he doing trying to get a second taste?
There were dozens of unattached women who’d been eyeing him all evening. Some he’d even considered.
But Whiskey drew him like no other.
“So you gonna give me a dance?” he asked again.
A smile hovered on her full lips, and Anders launched from feeling edgy and restless to full-throttle desire.
“Just one?”
Hell no!
Where had that come from? He was acting possessive.
She effortlessly kicked out a long, toned leg, revealing black and silver cowboy ankle boots.
“I did wear my favorite dancing boots. They double for many other favorite activities.”
She stretched, arching her body back, and reached behind her all while her leg hovered a few inches above the counter. Her gauzy dress followed the lines of her body, revealing curves he ached to touch and taste again. His mouth watered, and a small voice of reason urged him to walk away.
“You ever gonna tell me your real name?”
“Whiskey works fine for now.” She seized a bottle of Cowboy Wolf’s top-shelf brand, brought it up and over her head, flipped it, let it roll across her body before she grabbed it again, popped out the glass stopper, and poured him a shot.
Whiskey’s flair skills had always drawn a crowd.
“I want to be alone with you.”
“Want or need?” She laughed and reached out a finger to stroke down his nose and briefly touch his mouth.
He parted his lips and nibbled on the pad of her finger. She tasted like honey, peaches, and a splash of whiskey.
Damn, he was thirsty.
“Tonight is a want that feels like a need. But just a dance if that’s all you’re offering.”
Heat flared in her gorgeous golden-brown eyes. The same eyes that had intrigued him for months and haunted his dreams. Her eyes changed colors in different lights—amber, burnished gold, whiskey. In fact, he thought that had been how she’d gotten her nickname. Her eyes had always fascinated him as much as her body and her humor, sassy comebacks, intelligence, work ethic and sense of adventure. Hell. All of it. Total package.
But Whiskey would never be easy or peaceful or stay-at-home anything. Any man wanting to lasso her would never sleep.
He downed the shot of whiskey. Savored the burn and waited for her decision. She planted her palm on the top of the bar and vaulted it so that she stood directly in front of him, close but not touching.
She threaded her fingers in his dark, wavy hair that Axel had harassed him all week was too long.
“I’d enjoy a dance, Anders. And will even admit to wanting a night.” She stood on tiptoe and guided his head down to hers.
She fused their mouths and lit him on fire. His skin felt too tight and he slid his hands around her body, forcing himself to not crush her to him or grab anything R rated at his brothers’ weddings in a town where everyone knew him.
Her lips moved expertly under his, her tongue played with his inner lip, her teeth nibbled his bottom lip enough to sting—and his heart nearly jerked out of his chest. One kiss from her and his cock swelled so eagerly against his zipper it was painful.
Dynamite.
C4.
Grenade.
Rocket launcher.
Didn’t matter the analogy. Whiskey was an explosive combination of woman. Dangerous. And Anders needed her.
She broke the kiss, and his mouth chased hers. She pressed her fingers against his lips.
“But if we’re talking my needs, Anders Wolf, I need freedom.”
Chapter Two
Mid-September
Tinsley Underhill parked her Ducati near the rear of the arena where it would be safe and still provide a quick exit when she’d said what she had to say.
She sucked in a deep breath, trying to slow her pounding heart and her sickly swirling stomach.
The Dallas AEBR show was sold out, and Tinsley could hear the massive and enthusiastic crowd chanting the name of the next bull rider who was riding in the finals tonight: Kane Wilder. She hadn’t come to see him. Her business was with Anders Wolf, only after his ride.
Nerves she’d thought she’d banished five years ago when she’d walked out of her old life jangled awake.
She gnawed on her bottom lip and wiped her damp palms on her leathers.
No. She was stronger than this.
She breathed in deeply through her nose, held it for a count of ten and then breathed steadily out.
She hated this. Hated it! No longer in total control of her life, her career, her feelings, her thoughts or her body. And her future? Out the door into the vast unknowable.
She remembered what she’d told Anders at his brothers’ wedding before she’d given in to the temptation he’d effortlessly wielded.
Yeah, she’d wanted him.
But I need freedom.
Ironic, and not in a song way she could laugh about over drinks with friends she no longer had.
For five years she’d reigned supreme, and she’d reveled in her control. She’d found happiness, pride and a contentment she’d never once imagined growing up. She pulled off her helmet, strapped it over a handlebar and put her leather gloves inside it. This wouldn’t take long. It was an obligatory announcement.
Then she pulled out her elastic holding her hair in the long, low ponytail and finger combed her copper tresses. She mocked her vanity, but somehow even in this extreme, appearances mattered—a little. She looked in the small mirror on her bike.
On second thought, she’d pull her hair back in a high, swinging ponytail. She needed more than a little sass about now.
She gulped in another deep breath of the still-warm Dallas night air. And then another.
Until she went inside, she still had her secret and her job.
Until she went inside, she could still pretend she was free.
Hesitating was cowardly, and she wasn’t going to play the accommodating, good girl anymore.
Tinsley unzipped her cropped, rust-colored leather jacket and jerked opened the vendor door.
She heard Kane’s song. The announcer’s resonant tones and the roar of approval of the crowd. She’d been representing Cowboy Wolf Whiskey for more than a year now, first in Portland, Oregon, and then traveling around with the tour as the distillery was a sponsor. She’d also hit up local distributors, bars and liquor stores while on the road to sell whiskey and other Four Wolf spirits.
She’d loved the job. Loved the life and had blown the door off sales.
She’d never seen a cowboy in her life until the tour—and a bull rider? Not on her radar. Now she counted many as friendly acquaintances, and Kane was one of the nicest and best riders.
By the sound of the bell and the wild cheering, Kane had stuck his eight seconds.
She flashed her vendor badge and made her way deeper into the arena. There was a standing room only viewing section for staff or vendors, but Tinsley needed to be closer so that she could snag Anders before he got hours of busy with locker-room BS, autographs, promotion meet and greets, and, of course, the buckle bunnies.
Two more riders got tossed—one at the three-second mark, the other at five. Both popped up a
nd launched back over the fence to the backstage. Safe for one night but likely sore.
And planning to ease their aches with a whiskey or beer at the bar or a ride with a local adoring buckle bunny. How many had Anders been with since the wedding? Dumb question. She hadn’t asked for or expected fidelity.
Tinsley kicked up her walk into her studied swagger. This was not going to go well if she didn’t find her attitude. Attitude was ninety percent of success. The last ten percent was sheer will, and hers was titanium.
She strode backstage, flashing her badge, a smile, and, after unbuttoning two buttons of her now snug Henley-style T-shirt, a fair share of cleavage.
Predictable.
No one looked at her badge.
But she put an extra hip sway just to keep the security’s attention on her ass and not on their job.
Anders’ song, Thunder by Imagine Dragons, blared through the speakers. The crowd, already hyped, jumped to their feet. Anders was from Texas, and while his small town wasn’t anywhere near Dallas, Texans were Texas true.
He was also currently in first place on the tour and this was the last four-week leg before a short break and then the finals in Las Vegas.
Tinsley’s heart lurched. Bull riding might be sexy and badass, but it was dangerous.
She stood on her tiptoes and leaned forward so she could see the chute. The crew was there, struggling with the bull. She could hear it hitting the bars. The clang seemed amplified, and she imagined she could hear the shudder of power streak through the metal all the way to her fingers curved around the blue-painted bars.
Anders still stood, straddling the pen and looking down, analyzing. His best friend Kane vaulted up and conferred with him. Kane and Anders laughed—even though he wore a helmet, she could see his dimples flash.
Bull riders were insane.
Adrenaline junkies.
He could die.
Or be permanently injured.
She’d seen it happen during her season traveling with the AEBR.
More than once.
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