Page 11 of A Baby for the Texas Cowboy
“That’s her business,” August said with a WTF glare at his younger brother.
“I’m getting my truck. I can catch her.” Anders spun away.
“Like hell.” August clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Anders, you gotta calm down,” Kane, who’d followed him outside, urged.
“How the hell am I supposed to calm down? She’s pregnant and speeding down the highway to I don’t know where, and she’s pissed so she’s not safe.”
“Pregnant?” August repeated.
“Yeah. You’re going to be an uncle, and you just let her floor it out of here with your future niece or nephew.”
August blew out a long breath.
“I’m going to be a dad,” Anders whispered.
“Okay, Daddy.” August grabbed Anders’ truck keys from his hand and spun Anders back toward the arena. “Go take a shower. Pull yourself together then we’ll talk.”
“Talk? This isn’t a tea party. I need to…”
“Get out of your lizard brain and think and act like a man. I know where she’s going, but I’m not telling you until tomorrow. You need a shower. Food. Time to get your head on and sleep.”
August was using his older-brother voice and also somehow channeling their older brother Axel’s tone. Anders swore and stalked off to the showers, every atom in his body screaming for action and resolution. But yeah, he couldn’t go after Whiskey half-cocked. He’d already been a first-class jerk. He needed a plan for round two.
As the hot water blasted down, he closed his eyes and leaned against the cold tile. He was going to be dad.
He felt broken inside.
He’d made a colossal mistake exploding both his life and Whiskey’s, and now there was only one way forward.
Whiskey had said she didn’t want him. She’d said she didn’t want his money.
Too bad. She was getting both. And he was going ring shopping.
Chapter Five
The wood doorwas thick and weathered with blackened iron fittings. It looked like it could have been a door that had once protected—at least for a while—those huddled in the Alamo. The door spoke of secrets and time and the strength of the Texians.
Tinsley took off her helmet, hooked it over the handle and dug out her Coach sunglasses from her messenger bag. She’d ridden her bike last night for a few hours to clear her head before checking in to a hotel.
This morning she’d gone for a run and then rode around Texas Hill Country to get a feel for it before arriving in Last Stand early afternoon.
Dang, the Texas mid-September early afternoon heat was still strong. She hopped off her bike and rolled it closer to the sidewalk in front of Verflucht’s tasting room. She stroked her finger along the seat. She loved her bike.
It was practically her avatar. She’d bought it with money she’d earned from her first bartending gig in Brooklyn. It represented freedom and adventure and the new Tinsley Underhill—a woman who would take a job on a whim because it sounded fun, a woman who pleased herself and no one else, a woman who hit the road and went where the mood took her.
And now this.
Trapped.
Shackled.
Two years stuck in the same place.
The now unfortunately familiar bile rose in her throat. It was unfair. And scary. Tinsley had promised herself she wouldn’t do scared anymore, but here she was feeling paralyzed by the future, doubting herself and her abilities, and freaked out by her own body. Even worse, she knew she was not behaving admirably. Her pity party included huge doses of resentment and powerlessness.
She needed to pick herself up and deal with the future, but the thought that Anders could just go on with his life traveling, riding bulls, laughing it up with his friends, free to do as he pleased, whereas she… Tinsley sucked in a deep breath.
