A Baby for the Texas Cowboy

by Sinclair Jayne

  Having a lot of freedom over the tasting room and the backyard space gave her a sense of control she felt was lacking in other areas of her life. Funny, when she’d worked in her father’s firm, she hadn’t been given this much control over anything, including her life, college, major, and choice of a future husband.

  She headed back inside the tasting room but left the back door open because she liked the fresh air. She looked at the clock—nearly ten a.m. She was surprised Anders hadn’t already showed up.

  She shoved the ping of disappointment aside. She should not enjoy his hovering, his need for control, or his moments of gentleness and kindness—those unnerved her the most.

  Which is why I have no business in a relationship.

  After he’d driven away yesterday, she’d texted Catalina that she was fine but tired and wanted to stay home and set up her apartment. Then she’d taken a bath even though it had still been light. Then she’d thrown on some leggings and a tank top, sat in the tasting room, and started researching Texas wines, wineries. And wine clubs.

  She’d also read through a lot of Texas history, especially pertaining to the Hill Country. She’d loved the story of Last Stand where a few of the ranchers had holed up in the sturdiest building in town, the saloon, and had held off a faction of the retreating Mexican Army. One of the rebels, Asa Fuhrmann, had risked his life and left the relative safety of the saloon to retrieve more ammunition. He returned successfully but was shot and later died from his wounds. The Last Stand Saloon still stood, bullet holes visible, and was run by Slater Highwater, who was also from one of the founding families of the area. And as if to provide a counterbalance, two other Highwaters were in local law enforcement.

  She’d learned that the Wolfs were also a founding family and had one of the largest spreads in the area. The ranch was supposedly haunted.

  She looked around the tasting room that had been converted from a former granary. The room had a modern, almost austere vibe—not Texas, not wine, not shabby chic, not elegant or old world. Hmmmm.

  Haunted.

  Could she work with that? Just a little? Definitely at the ranch when they held special member-only events—if they wanted to go that route. That could attract a younger, more millennial and Gen X crowd, but nothing overt.

  But did that whisper wine? An evocative and enjoyable memory with friends?

  She thought of the distressed metal sign outside that was backlit and had been hand sculpted by a renowned metals artist who lived in Marietta, Montana. Verflucht. Cursed in German, she’d learned.

  “Funny, August,” she thought. It fit the family’s history. She avoided Googling any of the brothers. She certainly didn’t want them to Google her. Not that they had her full name. But still. August had let her work speak more than her résumé, although he had mentioned one time that she’d not filled out the next of kin or emergency contact area of her application. He had waited for her to say something, and he’d seemed to radiate sympathy.

  She felt a flinch of guilt for misleading Anders, but shrugged it off and ran back upstairs to make more tea. She liked that there was an upscale, commercial-grade kitchen in the tasting room. She was definitely going to get more supplies to make tea—she made a face, as she’d always loved coffee. But she would get a Keurig and an espresso machine for the tasting room. She idly wondered what snacks she should serve.

  Buy on bread, sell on cheese.

  She’d read that this morning in her research. So cheese, definitely, because she wanted to sell a lot of wine. And she was only going to use local artisan food suppliers to create goodwill and also positive buzz, because while August Wolf was a local, the town had not been especially pleased that he’d opened a tasting room right on the middle of the main street.

  The wine tour bus crashing through the window of the building he’d spent so much to convert had created more than a little schadenfreude, Tinsley suspected. She made her lemon lavender tea and then returned downstairs thinking of food, and curses, and ghosts—everyone had them—but how could she tie…?

  “Aaaaaah!” Tinsley—so deep in thought—screeched as a shadow caught her eye when she stepped on the second to the bottom stair. Then the shadow, hulking and broad and backlit from the light streaming in through the rolled-up door to the backyard, loomed in front of her.

  She missed the step, spilled her tea and would have fallen down, but she was caught in strong arms. At the same time, she hissed as the heat from the tea soaked through her leggings. Her teacup crashed to the floor and broke.

  Soft, masculine swearing tickled her ear and once again she was being carried. Anders set her down on the cement countertop of the high-end tasting room kitchen and peeled off her leggings.

  “This is becoming a bad habit.” She bit her lip to keep from crying out even as the pain was beginning to ebb. “You picking me up and ripping off my clothes.”

  She expected him to smile, but his face was serious as he examined her thigh, which had a large, pink splodge. He ran a dish towel under cold water and laid it over her thigh.

  His expression seemed shuttered, and he examined her with a clinical detachment that pinged her feminine pride. Once he’d been so hungry for her body. Now that she was pregnant, he didn’t seem interested at all.

  But you don’t want him to be.

  That defense rang hollow even to her ears, and she wanted to kick herself. She didn’t want to still be attracted to Anders Wolf. She didn’t want him or to care about him while he headed back on tour to do whatever he wanted with any buckle bunny to catch his eye. She’d seen the lines of primping, giggling women waiting for the bull riders after a show. And he’d been one of the cowboys most in demand.

  No thanks.

  “This could be considered workplace sexual harassment,” she said airily.

  Anders wrapped some ice from the freezer in the cold, wet towel and laid it over her pink thigh.

  “You’ll have to take that complaint up with the boss,” he said.

  “I just might.”

  “He’s already chewed my ass today.”

  “Charming visual. Did you enjoy it?”

  Anders looked so aggrieved that she nearly laughed. Nope. Not forgiving him for…for what? She wasn’t even sure what she was so upset about anymore.

  And that’s how it starts.

  Panic shot through her. No. She had to stay strong. Independent. Alone.

  “He saved me the trouble. I’ll have to thank him.”

  A smile ghosted Anders’ lips. “He enjoyed it. The privilege of being a big brother.”

  “Too bad there’s not a younger brother you could boss around instead of me.” She laughed and then realization hit and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh. I am so sorry Anders. I spoke without thinking. Your brother. Aurik. Oh.” Her brain clicked in. “That’s why August called it Four Wolfs,” she said. She had thought it had been about his brothers and father.

  He looked up from her leg, his beautiful blue gaze somber. “Yes, it’s for me and my brothers. I was the youngest.”

  “I always wanted a sibling,” she said.

  “An only, huh?”

  “Yeah. I would have loved a brother or sister. Your family must have been so devastated.”

  “I guess you could say it was the end of us as a family,” he said after a long pause. “My mom grieved too much. She got medicine for depression, and I think she overdosed, but no one talks about it. She lost one son, but she still had three left who needed her,” he said as if he were still puzzling out the details. “I don’t remember much about her either. Her voice a little, her touch, her smile. But those might just be things I made up.”

  “No. I think it’s your mother you’re remembering.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d reached out to touch him until he turned his head and kissed her palm that cupped his cheek.

  “What’s one of your earliest memories?” he asked curiously.

  She immediately remembered running toward her mothe
r, who had been wearing a long, green sparkling silky dress with hand beading, a holiday party. Her mother had been laughing with friends and holding a glass of what had probably been champagne. The room had been crowded, bright with color and noise. Tinsley hadn’t been allowed in the room even before the party because there were festively decorated Christmas trees—one with blown glass ornaments. There’d been the smell of pine, and her mother looking so blonde and beautiful and to her eyes, like a Disney princess.

  Tinsley had run toward her mother, arms outstretched, wanting to hold the beautiful vision with the dazzling colors, to be a part of the scene from a movie. But her mother had stepped away, held her hand out and called for the nanny. Her voice, so light and gay earlier, suddenly cold and angry.

  Tinsley had been carried back upstairs to her room by Alison, her nanny. She’d cried and cried and couldn’t seem to stop, and her mother had come, but her face had been angry and her words sharp, as was the slap and demand that she “snap out of it and stop behaving like a wild animal.” Alison had left the next day, no explanation, and another older, colder woman had taken her place. Janice? Janine.

  “Oh, the usual.” She shrugged off the question. “Just playdates and birthdays. And now, you need to close your eyes and turn your back.”

  “You have a surprise for me?”

  “I need to go upstairs and put on some pants since the leggings need to be washed, and my panties don’t leave much to the imagination. You are just going to have to man up and be a good boy and close your eyes.”

  “Why’d you have to tell me that?” He groaned. “Now I’ll be tempted to peek.”

  Tinsley laughed. “You’re Texas tough. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  “But do I want to?”

  “Stay strong,” she teased, feeling much more relaxed with him this morning. Was he trying harder to get along with her, or was she making a better effort?

  “Make it quick,” he said, but for a moment she stood still and stared at the way his long lashes curled at the ends, which gave his very masculine features a hint of softness. “I have something to show you outside.”

  Tinsley scurried upstairs in her tank top and underwear and quickly changed into a pair of skinny jeans and a rust-colored bohemian-style crocheted top she’d bought in a boutique in Missoula this year. She’d forgotten about it, but when she’d been unpacking a few of her clothes last night, the style had inspired her and she’d decided it would fit the tasting room vibe she wanted to create—a touch of western with a touch of bohemian. She wanted a little whimsy but with a boldness that spoke of frontier strength.

  She’d ordered several slightly off-the-shoulder blouses with lace or crocheted insets by the same designer in several different sizes, colors and patterns, and she’d researched where she could get them embroidered with the Verflucht logo for the employees she hoped to hire soon. She’d already written job descriptions and posted them online last night.

  She smoothed the flowy shirt over her body. It was soft and hugged her curves—sweet, casual yet slightly elegant with a touch of sexy. What version of herself was she on now as far as style, Tinsley 5.0? No matter, she was still Tinsley, honed in fire. Reborn. Fierce. She tapped her right shoulder blade where she had a small tattoo of a firebird. She’d designed it herself after her first year of being totally on her own. She’d thought first to get a phoenix to represent her life reboot, but she’d discovered the firebird as part of Slavic lore. It was a magical, glowing bird from far away and believed to bring both blessing and doom. She’d liked the strength of that image—a kind of don’t mess with me middle finger to her former self and life.

  “Keep your faith in yourself,” she whispered returning downstairs.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You bought me a truck?”

  “A company truck,” Anders said quickly. He wanted to hang on to the tender moment when he’d put something cool on her leg after she’d spilled her tea, but he had a feeling the truck was going to obliterate it.

  He’d bought the damn truck with money he’d earned hard. He hated that August had been right—Tinsley would have driven the truck to the edge of town, hung a FREE sign on it and left the keys on the front seat if he’d driven it up to the tasting room with a bow and expecting thanks.

  Her sassy fierceness had sucked him in from the first moment he’d spotted her teasing, flirting and yet keeping each cowboy at a professional distance. Now her strong independence frustrated him.

  Contrary much, cowboy?

  “Company, huh? I sense your hand in this purchase.”

  “You are suspicious,” he pointed out although she was well within her rights, “and short-sighted.”

  “How so, Anders Wolf?”

  “You will need transportation for this job.”

  “I have wheels, or had them before you hoofed it with my bike.”

  The thought of her on the bike now that she was pregnant speared an ice pick into his gut—ironic and hypocritical since the first time he’d seen her roar up on her Ducati had been hotter than hell. He still dreamed about it. And he didn’t exactly have a desk job.

  “August thought a truck would be more practical for you going between the winery and the tasting room.”

  “August did?” Her whiskey-colored gaze drilled into him, and he barely restrained himself from shuffling his boots on the pavement. Damn, but he’d had bulls try to stare him down less effectively. “Then why didn’t August or Catalina deliver it?”

  Why was he being such a pansy, hiding behind his brother and the mythical truck buy?

  “I was coming out to see you this morning,” he said. “So I brought the new company truck.”

  True, but Tinsley was the only one getting the keys.

  Her gaze briefly skittered over the truck behind him and then was back on him with full intensity. Beautiful. He remembered the way her eyes would darken to a deep, honeyed gold when he would kiss her. Made him want to kiss her here on the middle of Main Street. Claim her before he took off on tour again.

  As if she guessed his intention, her eyes flared with heat, and then she tilted up her chin, and her full mouth firmed a little.

  Try it, she seemed to dare.

  Made his dick stir.

  And an answering heat, a call to warriors, sang through his blood. Damn, but she was beautiful with her coppery flow of hair and creamy skin with the light smattering of freckles on her upper cheeks.

  Complicated and challenging had not figured on his perfect wife list.

  “I bet the gas mileage sucks.”

  He fought the urge to smile. “You can drive sedately.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “You driving like an old lady is not what I dream about.” He let his eyes drift down her body. That shirt hugged her breasts and the peek-a-boo whatever it was called around the neck that showed off glimpses of her creamy flesh made his mouth water.

  “You’ll have to keep your dreams to yourself.”

  “Or not. I’m generous when the mood strikes.”

  He saw her eyes flare and her breathing was heightened. He wanted to drag her back to the tasting room, lock the door and kiss her until they both forgot their names. Tempting. But his brother and Catalina were due to arrive to help organize the wine and do whatever else needed to be done in the tasting room. The construction crew had finally pulled out day before yesterday.

  “The truck is different from the two vineyard trucks I saw when Catalina toured me around the vineyard yesterday,” she said softly, her lips a sensuous invitation.

  Or probably that was just the way he saw everything about Tinsley—an invitation. And definitely a challenge.

  “Platinum version Ford F250.” He couldn’t help himself. “A touch more sophisticated detailing than the Ford King Ranch trucks we have at Ghost Hill.”

  “Sophisticated?”

  “More for city driving.”

  Tinsley looked left and right up and down the handful of blocks that made up La
st Stand. Her arms crossed over her body, lifting her breasts a little and offering a more generous peek of her creamy, lightly freckled mounds through the lacy whatever of her soft cotton shirt that was the color of her hair. Beautiful. Dutifully he jerked his fascinated and hungry gaze back north where it belonged. This was important.

  “So that’s how August plans to brand Verflucht? A touch of city sophistication in the heart of Hill Country?” Her husky voice that had always aroused him and made him want to hear her speak more, had dropped even deeper into an exaggerated drawl.

  “No idea. That’s up to you, I’ve been told.”

  He stared down at her from his few inches of extra height. He liked that he didn’t have to bend down to kiss her—just lean into her inviting body. And her vivid coloring drew him in—deep copper hair, matching brows and eyelashes and other parts he’d seen and touched and tasted—he broke off, feeling way too heated in the late morning early fall sun.

  “It’s red.”

  “Ruby red,” he corrected, feeling a grin start deep in his belly because he was going to get his way. He could tell when her shoulders dropped infinitesimally.

  “The tasting room truck should have a little more pizazz. It will be parked in town. You’ll be driving it to the ranch. Taking it to events. The Ruby red is eye-catching.”

  Like you.

  “And how is anyone going to know that this ruby red platinum version of a Ford F250 is a Verflucht truck?”

  “I have the stencil and the paint from the ranch. Going to do it myself.”

  “Anders.” She looked down and twice tapped the toe of her gray boot embroidered with flowers on the sidewalk. Then she looked up at him, her gaze more troubled than angry. “I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it and earning all my own money for five years now.”

  He winced a little in surprise. Was she younger than him? She’d always seemed so polished and sophisticated and had so many references to places and events that he’d always thought she was a little bit older.

  “Anders, I don’t need your money.”