Page 14 of Ride Me Reckless (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #1)

Chapter Fourteen

Second Chances

Tessa

T he trailer was still and hushed when I woke, the kind of morning quiet that felt like the whole world had taken a breath and forgotten to let it out again.

Callie was already gone. She’d caught a ride with the supermarket manager who lived up the road—her first shift started early, and we’d agreed she would leave the truck so I could visit Mom later.

For the first time in weeks, I had the place to myself. There was no background hum of racing engines, no hospital monitors beeping, just the whisper of the wind outside and the occasional creak of the trailer adjusting to the day.

I pulled a sweatshirt over my tank top, feet bare against the cool floor, and padded toward the bathroom. The coffee maker clicked on behind me—Callie had set the timer like always. Thoughtful. Dependable.

The hot water in the tiny shower beat down harder than I expected, stinging my skin in a way that felt… honest. I leaned into it, let it chase the tension from my shoulders and neck, eyes closed, palms pressed to the cheap plastic wall.

And then, just like yesterday, the world tilted sideways.

It wasn’t dramatic enough to make me instinctively reach for the grab bar. The steam blurred everything. My stomach turned. My knees went soft for a second before I planted my feet wide.

“Okay,” I whispered, my voice rasping against the tile. “That’s enough.”

I shut off the water, stepped out slowly, wrapped myself in a towel, and sank down on the edge of the toilet lid. Drops of water clung to my knees and trailed down my calves. I braced my elbows on my thighs and rubbed a hand down my face.

It wasn’t stress.

It wasn’t the hospital.

And it definitely wasn’t nothing.

My mind started cataloging symptoms like flashcards flipping through the air: lightheadedness, bloating, sore breasts. I’d written all of it off as anxiety. As tight-fitting fire coveralls. As grief. As exhaustion.

But now…

I swallowed. Hard.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a period. Maybe six weeks ago. Or was it more like eight? I’d blamed the chaos. The racetrack. The gnawing worry.

But the truth was—I knew this feeling.

I’d felt it before.

Denver.

The name hit like a slap. Outside the city in a rundown motel where I’d spent a few days hiding from everything—Colt included. I'd just found out. I hadn’t even told Callie. I was still trying to decide what to do when my body decided for me.

That night, I’d doubled over in the hotel bathroom, the cramps so sharp they stole my breath. Blood. Silence. Tears I never let anyone see. I cleaned up the mess, flushed the toilet, and told myself the pregnancy wasn’t meant to be.

And I never told Colt.

Not then. Not ever.

Because I was moving on. Because I thought I had something to prove to the world. Because the guilt of never telling him was easier to carry than the weight of his disappointment.

I pressed the towel tighter around me and whispered, “God, don’t let this be another goodbye.”

This time—if it was true—I wouldn’t just ignore it.

I stood slowly, staring at my blurry reflection in the mirror above the tiny sink. My cheeks were pale. My eyes were wide and cautious. But somewhere in the middle of all that fear… was something else.

Something that felt a lot like hope.

The drive into town was short, but my fingers clenched the steering wheel like I was navigating black ice instead of two clean lanes and a speed limit that barely broke forty.

Main Street looked the same as always—Cooper’s Hardware with its faded red awning, the little bakery that still put out cinnamon rolls at ten, and the pharmacy tucked between the bank and the diner like it was afraid to take up too much space.

I parked around back and cut the engine. For a second, I just sat there.

Breathe in. Breathe out. You’ve done harder things.

As I pushed open the pharmacy door, it creaked loudly. The fluorescent lights emitted an overly loud hum, reflecting off the linoleum floor and giving the place a stark, clinical vibe.

I moved quickly, head down, not making eye contact with the cashier at the front. The box was right where I thought it would be—same blue branding, same whisper of a promise in cursive font: Know for sure.

God.

I snatched it off the shelf and turned down the pain relief aisle, pretending to browse, waiting for a clear path to the checkout.

And that’s when I heard it.

“Tessa Walker? That you?”

My stomach dropped.

I turned slowly, forcing a smile. “Hey, Laney.”

Laney Fisher—now Laney Givens, if the ring on her finger meant anything. We’d graduated together. She always had a quick smile and quicker gossip, the kind of girl who could braid your hair in homeroom and turn your breakup into lunchtime entertainment.

“I thought that was you. Haven’t seen you since…” she trailed off, eyes flicking to the box in my hand before bouncing back to my face with polite interest.

“Just picking something up for Callie,” I said quickly, lifting the box and offering a shrug that felt too practiced.

“Ah,” Laney said, dragging the word out. “Tell her I said hi. Y’all staying with Rhett, right?”

I nodded. “Just for now. Taking things one day at a time.”

“Well, good to see you,” she said, smiling like she wasn’t already mentally filing this moment away for later. “Take care of yourself, Tess.”

“You too.”

I paid in cash and left fast, my cheeks burning.

Back at the trailer, I locked the door behind me and pulled the shades without thinking. The walls felt too thin, the silence too loud. I sat on the closed toilet lid and peeled the box open with fingers that didn’t feel like mine.

The instructions were familiar. Too familiar. I didn’t need to read them. But I did.

Just in case.

A few minutes later, I sat with the test in my hand, my heart beating too fast.

One pink line appeared first. Then another.

Positive.

I stared at it like it was lying to me. Like if I blinked hard enough, it would disappear.

But it didn’t.

That tiny plus sign might as well have been carved into my chest. A future, etched in plastic and ink.

I wrapped it in toilet paper—slowly, methodically—and pushed it to the bottom of the bathroom trash can. Then I stood there, hands braced on the sink, staring at myself in the mirror.

My reflection didn’t look pregnant.

Didn’t look brave, either.

I leaned in, close enough to see the faint freckles across my nose, and whispered to the woman looking back at me.

“Not telling anyone. Not yet.”

Not Callie. Not even Colt.

Not until I saw a doctor. Not until I had a plan. Because this time, I wasn’t going to lose it. Not because I was scared. Not because I was selfish, but because I waited too long to care.

I took a deep breath, shoved my keys into my purse, and glanced back at the trailer. Time to face whatever came next. No more stalling. No more hiding.

When I arrived at the hospital to visit my mom, it seemed to be quiet for a weekday. Maybe it was just me—my nerves, my brain buzzing with everything I wasn’t saying aloud—but even the beeping monitors and distant footsteps felt muted like the world was giving me space. Or waiting for me to crack.

Mama’s room was dim when I stepped inside, the blinds drawn halfway. She was curled on her side, facing the window, one thin arm tucked under her chin. Her breathing was soft but irregular, the kind of shallow that made me want to count the rise and fall just to be sure it stayed steady.

I didn’t call her name. Didn’t try to wake her.

Instead, I pulled the chair close and sat down, letting my hands settle in my lap.

It took a minute before I could really look at her.

She looked… smaller somehow. Not just from the hospital gown or the IV taped to her paper-thin skin.

It was something in the way her body curved in on itself.

Her hair—usually pinned up in a perfect coil—had gone flat against the pillow, wisps of gray and silver brushing her cheek.

The woman who once chased me down the street with a wooden spoon for sassing her at thirteen now looked like she might blow away with the wrong breeze.

My throat tightened.

I reached out and laid my fingers over hers. Cold and fragile. Bones like twigs.

“Mama,” I whispered, not to wake her, just to fill the space. “I’ve got news… big news.”

She didn’t stir.

I smiled faintly, even as the ache pressed deeper into my chest. “But I think I’ll wait to tell you. We both need to get a little stronger first.”

I let that sit there between us, like a prayer without an amen.

Then I lifted my hand and ran my fingers through her hair, slowly, carefully, the way she used to do to me when I was sick. It felt foreign and familiar all at once. We weren’t the type to do this… softness. But maybe it was time.

Perhaps, we both needed it.

The monitor blinked in the corner. Somewhere down the hall, a phone buzzed and was answered with a clipped hello. Life was going on as it always did—messy, relentless, hopeful.

I stayed a bit longer, holding her hand and just breathing.

By the time I got back to the trailer, the afternoon light had dulled into a flat gray that made everything feel colder than it was.

I kicked off my boots at the door, pulled on the oversized hoodie I kept for days like this, and curled up on the bench seat with my laptop propped open and my inbox glowing.

Helen had followed through. The email sat there, polite and clinical, with a list of care facilities and a short note: Let me know if you’d like help arranging tours.

I clicked the attachment and scrolled through the names. Some were local, some were hours away. A few had familiar logos I’d seen over the years, but none felt like a place you’d take your mother when everything else had already fallen apart.

Too clinical. Too far. Too expensive. Or maybe just… too final.

I pulled a throw blanket over my lap and opened a new browser tab, trying to search for reviews, then closed it again just as fast. Every paragraph sounded like a brochure or a warning.

I sat back, the cursor blinking like it was mocking me. My fingers froze over the keys but didn’t move. My brain was too full to sort anything else.

When my phone buzzed next to me, I nearly jumped.

Colt.

For a second, I just stared at the screen. I hadn’t heard from him since yesterday in the family room. We’d left things… gentle. Quiet. Like we both knew, there was more to say, but not yet.

I swiped to answer.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, his voice warm and smug. “I may or may not have… staged a little hospital jailbreak.”

I sat upright. “What?”

“I’m fine. Really. Got Rhett to drive me home. Figured I’d reclaim my dignity before they tried to teach me how to crochet.”

I rolled my eyes, but the laugh still escaped. “You’re impossible.”

“True. But upright and impossible, so that’s a win. Listen, Millie’s makin’ dinner. Nothing fancy, just something hot and probably way too buttery. Thought maybe you’d come over? Eat a real meal? Sit for a spell?”

I hesitated.

My eyes drifted to Helen’s email. Then, I reached down and laid a hand on my belly—not because I felt anything, but because something in me already knew it was real.

I had a secret now. One I hadn’t told a soul. And the idea of walking into Colt’s house with it tucked in my chest felt heavier than I expected.

But then he added, softer this time, “We could both use somethin’ warm tonight.”

And I heard it—tucked beneath the invitation, nestled in that gravel-soft drawl I knew like breath.

Hope.

I didn’t let myself think too long.

“I’ll be there in twenty.”