Page 12 of A Baby for the Texas Cowboy
She had to calm down. She knew enough about the stress hormone cortisol—she’d bathed in it growing up and later with John—to know that repeated exposure had been proven to negatively impact a developing fetus.
Fetus. A word she’d never planned to use in a personal context.
Ever.
But it was not the baby’s fault the condom failed, and her life had imploded.
It was her fault. And Anders’. But ultimately hers because she’d given in to the temptation of Anders once again. She’d broken her rule and now she had to suck it up and take the consequences and stop feeling sorry for herself.
She was luckier than many women finding themselves unexpectedly pregnant and with a long-gone partner. She was educated. She had a place to live, a good-paying job and health insurance. And worst-case scenario, she had money to fall back on if she needed—not that she would ever return to her family or access any funds in her trust.
She may not have burned her bridges with a flame-thrower and grenade launcher, but she had most definitely cut ties. She had her pride, and she’d been free and on her own and living how she wanted for the past five years.
And now she was about to make a two-year commitment.
Taking the position made sense. And the job excited her, but two years in a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s secrets could be dangerous. In another couple of months, she wouldn’t be able to hide one of hers.
Oh, for the relative anonymity of the tour—each weekend another town. Sure, the tour staff and the riders were the same, but she’d thrived on the sense of adventure and discovery each town had offered. And the AEBR tour was as far from Greenwich, Connecticut, and the boardrooms in midtown Manhattan as one could get and still be in America.
“Time to woman up,” she murmured.
She walked up to the tasting room and peered through large, open windows. The design looked like they could open all the way. That would be kinda cool—bring the outside in.
A purple truck pulled up next to her bike. Tinsley could see the scrawled Verflucht—the same unusual font that was on the mounted metal sign that hung from the room—on the truck’s door.
“Hey.” Catalina, August’s wife, poked her head out the window and waved. “You found it. I’m excited to see you!” Catalina jumped out of the massive truck and strode up to the front door, carrying what looked like a small wicker picnic basket. She wore boots, olive-green pants with lots of pockets and a pale blue T-shirt with a deep V.
Tinsley blinked. Cat sported a cute baby bump. It was small but fairly obvious. Cat was so petite, it was hard to hide a pregnancy for too long. Tinsley felt fascinated and horrified all at the same time.
Oh. God. Don’t let me be one of those idiots bonding over pregnancy stories.
And worse, she’d gotten knocked up at Cat’s wedding, which meant Cat had already been preggers at the wedding. Was that why she and August had married? A shotgun wedding?
Lord. Keep me out of the 1800s.
But August seemed so happy. He’d always been good-natured, but now he was deliriously so, and he often referenced his wife and played with his wedding ring and stared at the shiny gold band like it was holy.
She realized as her mind ran away once again—something that happened more often lately—that she was staring at Catalina’s mid-section.
Rude.
“Sorry.” Dismay crashed through her at this glimpse of her not-too-far-away future. People staring at her mid-section instead of her boobs. What if they tried to touch her baby bump? Yuck! She forced a smile. “Congratulations.”
Was it too soon to comment on another woman’s pregnancy?
Cat’s smile amped higher, so apparently not.
“Thank you. August and I are thrilled. Over the moon and all that jazz. We got back together in early April, and even though Verflucht had its first release and then a few months later our first estate harvest—oh, and then the tasting room disaster—August didn’t want to wait to start trying. Nailed it fast.” She laughed and then winked. “I think it’s a Wolf brother trait.”
“What?” Tinsley nearly jumped out of her skin.
Would Anders have already spilled the news to his brother?
He certainly had made no effort to discuss it with her. She wasn’t counting his pitiful appearance fifteen or twenty minutes after she’d dropped the bomb.
Catalina shrugged. “You’ve met them all—competitive and successful as hell. When they make up their mind to do something, it’s done. Just saying.” She grinned and then pulled out a ring with keys and a glittery cowboy boot keychain. She dangled it from one finger.
“Texas enough for you?” She smiled. “Party favor from the wedding. My husband’s idea of a vow. I am home in Last Stand for good,” she intoned in a deep, slight drawl. “He keeps trying to prove it.” Her face softened, and one hand drifted to cup her belly.
