Page 41 of A Baby for the Texas Cowboy
“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 mother, 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 mea 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 aFREEsign 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.”
