Page 2 of A Baby for the Texas Cowboy (The Texas Wolf Brothers #3)

Mid-September

T insley Underhill parked her Ducati near the rear of the arena where it would be safe and still provide a quick exit when she’d said what she had to say.

She sucked in a deep breath, trying to slow her pounding heart and her sickly swirling stomach.

The Dallas AEbr show was sold out, and Tinsley could hear the massive and enthusiastic crowd chanting the name of the next bull rider who was riding in the finals tonight: Kane Wilder. She hadn’t come to see him. Her business was with Anders Wolf, only after his ride.

Nerves she’d thought she’d banished five years ago when she’d walked out of her old life jangled awake.

She gnawed on her bottom lip and wiped her damp palms on her leathers.

No. She was stronger than this.

She breathed in deeply through her nose, held it for a count of ten and then breathed steadily out.

She hated this. Hated it! No longer in total control of her life, her career, her feelings, her thoughts or her body. And her future? Out the door into the vast unknowable.

She remembered what she’d told Anders at his brothers’ wedding before she’d given in to the temptation he’d effortlessly wielded.

Yeah, she’d wanted him.

But I need freedom.

Ironic, and not in a song way she could laugh about over drinks with friends she no longer had.

For five years she’d reigned supreme, and she’d reveled in her control.

She’d found happiness, pride and a contentment she’d never once imagined growing up.

She pulled off her helmet, strapped it over a handlebar and put her leather gloves inside it.

This wouldn’t take long. It was an obligatory announcement.

Then she pulled out her elastic holding her hair in the long, low ponytail and finger combed her copper tresses. She mocked her vanity, but somehow even in this extreme, appearances mattered—a little. She looked in the small mirror on her bike.

On second thought, she’d pull her hair back in a high, swinging ponytail. She needed more than a little sass about now.

She gulped in another deep breath of the still-warm Dallas night air. And then another.

Until she went inside, she still had her secret and her job.

Until she went inside, she could still pretend she was free.

Hesitating was cowardly, and she wasn’t going to play the accommodating, good girl anymore.

Tinsley unzipped her cropped, rust-colored leather jacket and jerked opened the vendor door.

She heard Kane’s song. The announcer’s resonant tones and the roar of approval of the crowd.

She’d been representing Cowboy Wolf Whiskey for more than a year now, first in Portland, Oregon, and then traveling around with the tour as the distillery was a sponsor.

She’d also hit up local distributors, bars and liquor stores while on the road to sell whiskey and other Four Wolf spirits.

She’d loved the job. Loved the life and had blown the door off sales.

She’d never seen a cowboy in her life until the tour—and a bull rider? Not on her radar. Now she counted many as friendly acquaintances, and Kane was one of the nicest and best riders.

By the sound of the bell and the wild cheering, Kane had stuck his eight seconds.

She flashed her vendor badge and made her way deeper into the arena.

There was a standing room only viewing section for staff or vendors, but Tinsley needed to be closer so that she could snag Anders before he got hours of busy with locker-room BS, autographs, promotion meet and greets, and, of course, the buckle bunnies.

Two more riders got tossed—one at the three-second mark, the other at five. Both popped up and launched back over the fence to the backstage. Safe for one night but likely sore.

And planning to ease their aches with a whiskey or beer at the bar or a ride with a local adoring buckle bunny. How many had Anders been with since the wedding? Dumb question. She hadn’t asked for or expected fidelity.

Tinsley kicked up her walk into her studied swagger. This was not going to go well if she didn’t find her attitude. Attitude was ninety percent of success. The last ten percent was sheer will, and hers was titanium.

She strode backstage, flashing her badge, a smile, and, after unbuttoning two buttons of her now snug Henley-style T-shirt, a fair share of cleavage.

Predictable.

No one looked at her badge.

But she put an extra hip sway just to keep the security’s attention on her ass and not on their job.

Anders’ song, Thunder by Imagine Dragons, blared through the speakers. The crowd, already hyped, jumped to their feet. Anders was from Texas, and while his small town wasn’t anywhere near Dallas, Texans were Texas true.

He was also currently in first place on the tour and this was the last four-week leg before a short break and then the finals in Las Vegas.

Tinsley’s heart lurched. Bull riding might be sexy and badass, but it was dangerous.

She stood on her tiptoes and leaned forward so she could see the chute.

The crew was there, struggling with the bull.

She could hear it hitting the bars. The clang seemed amplified, and she imagined she could hear the shudder of power streak through the metal all the way to her fingers curved around the blue-painted bars.

Anders still stood, straddling the pen and looking down, analyzing. His best friend Kane vaulted up and conferred with him. Kane and Anders laughed—even though he wore a helmet, she could see his dimples flash.

Bull riders were insane.

Adrenaline junkies.

He could die.

Or be permanently injured.

She’d seen it happen during her season traveling with the AEbr.

More than once.

But she couldn’t take her eyes off Anders. Kane hopped down; Anders leaned toward the bull, looking down, and seemed to be waiting for something.

He’s good.

One of the best.

He knows what he’s doing.

Somehow none of those reminders comforted her.

It was silly because it wasn’t like she was his girlfriend or wife. She had very little skin in the outcome, right? But tonight, it sure felt like she did.

She held her breath as Anders dropped down on the back of the bull and disappeared.

*

Anders straddled the top of the chute and stared down at Bone Breaker, who seemed intent on showing him why he was a one hundred percent bull before he even nadded up and dropped down.

Rank bull.

And the one he’d wanted.

He was in first place going into tonight, and he intended to stay there.

Eyes on the bull’s broad back, Anders adjusted his gloves, his helmet, his vest. His mouth guard was in.

He’d tied his boots on. He’d taped one shoulder that had a muscle pull and wrapped his left hamstring and the wrist of his hold hand that had the same issues. But mostly he was healthy. And lucky.

Living his dream, the only career he’d ever wanted. Bull rider and cowboy.

He breathed in and out, touched the tattoo on his shoulder of a wolf, symbolizing his family—all of them including his father, mother and brother who’d died years ago but remained in his heart—and in the star that celebrated his state: the Lone Star State.

His ritual always finished with the tat on his forearm.

Carpe diem. All of them were covered up by his thick shirt and the protective vest. The ritual was for him. Private.

Then he dropped down. Kicked his feet back, let his thighs grip the bull to get a feel for the energy. He wrapped his hold hand and adjusted his seat, rocked back and forth to get the center of gravity. He watched tapes before his rides, but not nearly as obsessively as many of the others.

He felt if a bull rider tried to set a trap for a bull—outthink it, essentially—the only one falling in the trap would be the rider.

He nodded. The best sound in the world, the slide of metal, and the game began.

Bone Breaker launched out of the chute. Dropped his head and kicked near vertical and then spun to the left.

Anders was ready, nearly floating above the bull, eyes on the shoulders, hand held high to counter the shifts and spins.

He was perfect until he got a tick behind and then it was sheer will that kept him seated.

He would not let go. He would not give up.

He muscled back to his center of gravity, just as Bone Breaker, sensing victory, dipped low again, nearly tossing Anders forward over his head, and then the bull reared his head back.

Anders was ready. He’d already begun countering the move and the massive head missed him. He saw the light before he heard the bell. The crowd drowned out everything but his own sense of triumph.

And then he had to look for a clear exit. Bone Breaker spun right and Anders released, using energy stored in his tensed thighs to launch himself left toward the arena fencing. Bone Breaker ran and bucked a few more times as if still pissed and showing who was boss.

Me tonight, my man.

Anders hurtled to the top of the fence, waved to the crowd and dropped down backstage.

Kane was there. Other riders. Hugging. Slapping. Bone Breaker hit 47 points. Higher than Anders had earned for his ride. Still, sticking the full eight was always a cause for celebration as was a score in the nineties.

He had time to get his helmet off and mouth guard out. Then it was the winner’s circle, pictures, a check, more pictures. Another buckle. All of it good. But not why he rode.

He wanted to ride.

He needed to ride.

Freedom.

For some reason the word Whiskey had uttered, dead serious, before she rocked his world a few months ago at his brothers’ double wedding popped in his head.

Was that why he rode? Freedom?

He wasn’t sure that was it. He’d always wanted to be a bull rider like his oldest brother Axel, who’d only got two years on the tour before quitting to come home and raise him after their father’s unexpected death.

Axel’s sacrifice and truncated career always burned an ache in his chest. Every win was one Axel hadn’t had a chance at because he was a good brother and an even better man. A man Anders aspired to be.

He spoke to the crowd, thanked the AEbr, the sponsors. His family. God. Then he was more than ready for a shower and to head to his truck and drive home to Last Stand.

It was late.

But he wanted a few days at home, not in a hotel room, and definitely not with a woman whose name he wouldn’t remember in a couple of days.

He was tired of that.

He hadn’t been with a woman since hooking up with Whiskey at Axel and August’s weddings.

He tried to push the vision of her—naked in the moonlight, dancing to music from his truck radio in his favorite stand of oaks on the western part of the ranch near the swimming hole and the largest limestone cropping—away. But it stubbornly stayed in his head, mocking him.

She’d looked like a forest nymph when she’d danced and a mermaid when she’d swum.

And a goddess when she’d rode him—letting him get so close but not tipping over until he’d been mindlessly begging, and then she’d gotten serious.

They’d made love all night. He’d barely been able to move when he drove her back to her bike.

He’d invited her to stay the night at the bunkhouse with him—something he’d never done with a woman, but she’d smiled mysteriously, kissed his cheek and ridden off on her damn motorcycle like a gorgeous, sexy, temporarily sated Valkyrie.

He’d hoped to get her out of his system with the impulsive hookup, not make his obsession worse.

He’d seen her more than a few times in the intervening weeks, working the sponsor events. She’d been friendly but not flirty.

It was what they’d both wanted, what they’d agreed on. But it had poked his pride that he didn’t catch her sneaking looks. That he hadn’t seemed special.

So why was he still thinking about her—especially now as the tour was in its final weeks?

Maybe he’d head to Last Stand tomorrow morning instead. He could find a woman tonight. Easy enough, especially for him on nights when he placed high. He wasn’t scheduled to hit the tour bar to mingle with fans, but if he showed up, management would love it. Fans would be even happier.

And if he buried himself in another woman, perhaps he’d get the taste and feel of Whiskey out of his mouth. But the idea held no appeal.

Damn.

He really needed to move on.

A few days on the ranch—riding, doing chores, hanging out with his brothers and their wives and his new nephew Diego—was exactly what he needed to break the spell of the copper-haired, whiskey-colored eyes and sultry smile of the wedding witch who’d seduced him as much as he’d seduced her.

He strolled back to the locker room, waving off his escort.

Kane and a few of the others had watched the short ceremony and were waiting for him.

They were all making plans, and he let the conversation swell around him.

The edge of the adrenaline was beginning to flatten.

If he got a thermos of coffee and something to eat, he could hold off the crash for the four-hour drive.

He was so intent on what he had to do—quick shower, change, stow his gear in his truck because he’d checked out of the hotel, stop at a diner—he didn’t notice the flash of coppery red and the sensuous slide of the body he’d not been able to get out of his dreams for months now until Whiskey blocked his path.

The conversation around him died. No one moved.

Hella awkward. And Anders didn’t do awkward, and he definitely didn’t do public scenes.

Tension cracked through him, but perversely his body relaxed though his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth.

“Anders, could I talk to you for a moment?”