Page 16 of Upshot

“Why? So you can bolt again?”

I stare at her in silence. I’m not sure what to say. I’m a big enough man to say I was an asshole earlier. I broker multimillion-dollar real estate deals, but I don’t know how to handle this.

Her face finally softens, and she lets her arms fall to her side. I follow her hands as she places them on her abdomen. Could a piece of me be growing in there? My gaze moves back up to hers.

“It’s yours,” she sighs.

My world spins. I’m not sure if I’m going to pass out or throw up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I accuse.

“And how would I do that? It’s not like we exchanged business cards,” she snaps back.

I run my hand through my hair in frustration. Then I reach for my wallet. “Here,” I say, pulling out a business card. She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me again. “I’m not trying to be an ass. All of my information is on there. You’ll have a way to contact me until all of this is settled.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I just… I don’t know. But we’ll have to come up with a plan.”

“This is a baby, not a business deal.” She looks furious now. I’m not trying to piss her off. She just has me flustered.

“I know that. Just take the fucking card,” I say, much angrier than I intend.

She snatches the card from my hand.

“You can leave now,” she says, turning to walk back in the house. I grab her wrist to stop her. There’s more we need to talk about. Her eyes narrow as she stares at my hand holding her wrist. I turn her loose, and her gaze meets mine.

“You know what? There is nothing we need from you—” She looks down at my card. “Henry Randolph. You can go back to your life without any interference from us.”

I’m left staring at the door as it slams shut in my face. Pretty sure that couldn’t have gone any worse. Do I stay and try to talk to her again? The door cracks open again, and I start to apologize, but it’s not Brontë. It’s her father.

“Anything else you have to say to my daughter, you can tell me. I don’t want you upsetting her more than you already have. Now, get off my porch,” he says.

Wow, I’ve fucked this up big. I need to get my thoughts together before I make another run at this. I nod and walk to my car. When I look back, the door is firmly shut.

I need to find someplace to stay. I’m not leaving here until I have a chance to talk to Brontë again. She’s not raising our child while I go about my business, as she so elegantly put it. I think I saw a hotel farther through town.

Turns out, it’s an old motor lodge. I pull under the porte cochere near the lobby. There’s an old lady at the desk who informs me she has only one room left. Really? There’s a run on this tiny town in the middle of nowhere? I smile and take what looks like a house key attached to a cowboy keychain. I’m almost scared to see the room.

“Oh shit,” I groan when I open the door. It’s as bad as I suspected.

The whole room is done in a 1950s cowboy motif. I have bucking cowboys on the bedspread and curtains. The bed looks like it has wagon wheels for a headboard. The walls are covered in wood paneling. Wood paneling? I run my hand over it. This stuff is so vintage, it should come back in style soon.

I pull the comforter back and shake my head. The sheets and pillows are in the same bucking cowboy pattern. Wait, is that a giant painting of John Wayne on the wall?

I snap a photo with my phone to send to Peter. I tell him I’m staying the night. He answers with a perverted GIF of cowboy position I didn’t know you could find on a phone. At least the room is clean. I toss my bag on the other bed and head back to the office.

“Excuse me,” I say to the woman. “Can you recommend somewhere to eat?”

“Are you that fellow that got the Caraway girl in the family way?” she asks in response. I’m positive my eyebrows disappear into my hairline. I mean, what the fuck?

“Never mind,” I mumble, pushing back through the door. “I’ll just find it myself.” I seem to remember at least one place downtown.

I drive to the center of town. I was right, The Hungry Heifer is on the corner across from the small park. I pull my car into a parking place and climb out.

The inside of the restaurant must have been decorated by the same person who did my hotel room. Only it has large mounted fish on the walls.

“By yourself, honey?” a woman asks, walking up to me.

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