Page 39 of A Baby for the Texas Cowboy
Tinsley stood inthe empty dirt lot behind Verflucht and breathed in the cool, crisp air. She didn’t know much about Texas in early fall. She’d imagined it barren, scorched, tumbleweed dry, but Hill Country was anything but. When Catalina had driven her around the vineyard yesterday, Tinsley’d been so entranced by the views of limestone outcroppings, rolling hills dotted with large stands of oaks, and the symmetrically planted rows and rows of vines already stripped of their fruits.
She’d missed harvest by over a month. In another couple of weeks Catalina was heading to Willamette Valley, Oregon, with August to harvest and process Pinot Noir grapes in a few small, scattered, mostly abandoned vineyards. For a moment, Tinsley had longed to join her—a road trip, a short job filled with purpose.
But her job was in Last Stand now.
Her life was here.
For at least two years.
But next year she’d be in the thick of harvest.
With a baby.
She still avoided touching her lower abdomen. Even when she put on her vanilla, allspice and sandalwood lotion, she didn’t want to rub her hand over her still-flat belly. She was going to have to get over that. She made a face and sipped her tea. She missed coffee, but the smell turned her stomach.
Her stomach growled, and she rolled her eyes at herself. She’d had no appetite for months, and yesterday the doctor said it would likely kick back in. This morning she had forced herself to eat something—an egg and some polenta with fresh sautéed spinach. As a joke, she’d thought about texting a picture of it to Anders so that he’d know she’d eaten something.
But he’d probably take her seriously and expect daily updates.
Great. Let the food fest and body ballooning begin.
No. Her mother had always obsessed about food and weight and appearance. Tinsley didn’t have to think like that anymore. She didn’t want to. And if she had a daughter—her heart lurched in alarm—she would have to set a positive, self-affirming message and tone.
She wondered if she’d get any weird cravings and when.
Maybe junk food. Then she’d gain sixty pounds, pop out a six-pound kid and watch the back of Anders as he strode off back to the tour for good.
Her mother’s fears again, right?
But did she want Anders to stay? She was starting to fear that maybe she did, and that was even scarier than thoughts about the baby.
Not wanting to think about how much her life would change in the next six months, she instead focused on the outdoor area. Maybe there should be a partial covered area so visitors could stay out of the direct sun but still have light. Perhaps umbrellas? She frowned, thinking of the majestic stands of oaks out at the ranch. A massive tree would provide shade and beauty, but that would take years to grow, although maybe… She leaned against the back wall and sipped her tea. Maybe she could have a large wood pole anchoring several colored canvas awnings. Perhaps if the strips of canvas were green, the pole could mimic an abstract tree.
Grapevines could be planted along the back fence and trellised to cover the fence. Potted olive trees would add a grove-like feel to the backyard. And something that bloomed—jacaranda and magnolias? Would those grow in Texas Hill Country? She made notes on her iPad as her eye quartered the space and her mind raced.
The back would require a focal point—a sculpture? Something Last Stand historical? Or from the ranch? And sitting areas for groups. Maybe in the evening there could be music and trendy finger food appetizers and the patio could become an upscale wine bar.
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?
