The Cowboy's Forever Family (2 page)

“Yeah,” he agreed, sifting his finger through his thick black hair. “I know what you mean.”

He probably did, at least to some degree. For all his faults, Slade had been Brody's best friend and had known him from childhood. He had to be hurting, too, she supposed, in his own ill-mannered way. Maybe that was part of the reason he was acting like such a Neanderthal. Not that that was any excuse for the way he'd treated her when Brody was still alive...

“Where are you parked?” he asked gruffly.

“Back at Brody's folks' house.” She glanced around her but saw only grassland in every direction. It all looked the same to her. She hadn't realized she'd wandered so far from the homestead. Not only could she not see the house from here—she didn't even know from which direction she'd come.

She was lost.

Not that she'd admit that particular fact to Slade.

“You walked all the way from their
house
in your condition?” He looked her up and down, disbelief in his gaze. “Do you know how many miles that is? What were you thinking? You could have hurt yourself or the baby.”

“I'm pregnant, not ill. It's perfectly acceptable for me to walk. If anything, it's a good thing for me to get all this fresh air and exercise.” Maybe she shouldn't have wandered
quite
so far off onto the range, but she hadn't been thinking.

Or maybe she'd been thinking too much.

He didn't look the least bit convinced she wasn't taking unnecessary risks. Well, too bad for him.

“You'll never make it back to the house before dark on foot.” How did the man make every single statement out of his mouth sound like an accusation? Then again, she had to concede that he did have a point.

Heat flushed her cheeks. She'd left midafternoon. It had never occurred to her that she might be caught with the sun setting on her. She might be fine now, but she'd be completely helpless in the dark. Of course, she hadn't planned to walk quite this far.

Or to get lost.

“You don't even know where you are, do you?”

As much as she'd hated the accusatory tone he'd used on her earlier, at least she'd known how to respond to it. What she heard now was sympathy, with a note of kindness. Where had that come from?

She didn't answer, shifting her gaze to somewhere over his left shoulder.

“You don't.”

He didn't have to sound so satisfied.

“It's settled, then. You're coming with me.”

She ignored his dictatorial attitude. She would argue all night about his high-handedness if it was just her at risk in the dark with no clear route home, but she had the baby to consider, and pride only took a pregnant woman so far. “All right, I guess. You've got your truck parked somewhere nearby?”

He laughed, a deep, rich rumble from low in his chest. “Something like that.”

“Why do I feel like I should be worried?”

He chuckled again and took her hand to steady her as they walked over the uneven soil. She allowed it, but only because the increase in her waistline made her steps ungainly. Laney might not be a country girl, but she was a native Texan and she knew the wild terrain was filled with treacherous bumps and hollows along the way.

As they crested the hill she saw why Slade was hedging. His mode of transportation was a horse, not a truck, contentedly grazing on the grassy knoll.

So much for a comfortable ride back to the house. Did he really expect her to get up on that thing, as pregnant as she was?

Slade whistled and the black mare lifted her head. A second whistle and she trotted to his side. It was the most unusual thing she'd ever seen.

“Let me introduce you to our ride,” Slade said, smoothing his hand over the horse's mane as she nudged her muzzle into his shirt pocket. “This is Nocturne. She knows where I keep the sugar.”

Somehow the idea of Slade carrying sugar cubes in his pocket went against her image of him as an unfeeling, cold-hearted cowboy. Clearly his horse, at least, liked him, and that was saying something. Animals sensed when a human was the genuine article, didn't they? Or maybe he just bribed Nocturne with sweets.

Slade checked the cinch. “You about ready to climb up here?”

Laney hesitated, then nodded. Mounting would be awkward with her rounded belly. Getting her foot into the stirrup would be next to impossible, but at least she'd changed into a pair of jeans before she'd left for her walk. It would have been considerably more awkward had she still been in the dress she'd been wearing earlier in the day.

She reached for the saddle horn, intending to attempt to slip her foot in the stirrup, but she never had the opportunity. Before she knew what was happening, Slade's hands spanned her waist—or where her waist would have been seven months ago—and picked her up as if she weighed nothing. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he placed her onto the saddle.

“Are you gonna be more comfortable riding side-saddle or do you think you want to sling your leg over?”

Laney weighed his question in her mind. In her present condition, sitting on a horse
period
wasn't the ultimate in luxury, but as to how she would ride—she supposed that had to do with a number of other factors, such as where, exactly, Slade intended to sit when he joined her. If, in fact, Nocturne could handle the extra burden of the two of them riding together. Slade wasn't a small man.

She pictured herself being relegated to the “backseat” behind the saddle, clutching her arms around Slade's waist and hanging on for dear life as he galloped home. Then again, if she was in front and he rode behind her, she would by default have those enormous, muscular arms of his wrapped around her. A wave of anxiety rolled over her just thinking about it. She didn't know which would be worse. Certainly neither option even remotely appealed to her.

“I'm walking,” he said, answering the question she'd left unspoken. “So get comfortable. Whatever works for you.”

She sighed in relief. One less source of anxiety to deal with—for now. She thought she'd feel more comfortable riding astride so she swung her leg over the saddle horn.

Slade adjusted the stirrups for her height and then waited a beat for her to adjust her weight in the saddle before clicking his tongue to Nocturne. He strode forward without giving Laney so much as another glance. She noted that he followed the fence line, which would have been a good idea for her, as well. Assuming she'd found the fence in the first place. And even then she wouldn't have known which direction to follow it. Still, it was something to keep in mind should she decide to wander off by herself again.

She tried to observe the countryside, to look for landmarks she could use on future outings, but there was nothing to hold her interest and her gaze kept returning to Slade. Thick black hair curled from under the brim of his hat. His broad shoulders sloped into a well-muscled back which then narrowed to a trim waist. He had the build of a perfect athlete and moved like one, too, his stride long and energetic, and yet with the easy country swagger that had clearly melted many ladies' hearts.

Too bad his mouth and his attitude went along with that easy-on-the-eyes profile. Laney pitied the women who'd tried to take Slade on.

Thankfully, he didn't realize she was staring at him. He appeared completely oblivious even to her presence, walking and whistling softly as if he were alone on the grassy plain. He held Nocturne's reins in a loose grip but it was clear his horse would have followed him anyway, lead or not.

Sugar.
It was the sugar.

Laney estimated they'd been heading back toward the house for about ten minutes when she first noticed the sky turning into a watercolor painting of pastel pinks and blues, with hues of yellow and orange undertones mixed into a breathtaking combination. The most gifted painter ever born could not have duplicated such a sight, and Laney offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Lord for His handiwork.

Even as she breathed
amen
, she realized the flaw in Slade's rescue strategy. While he'd thankfully saved her from the embarrassment of riding with her, he'd overlooked one important detail.

“I appreciate you helping me out this afternoon,” she said, flinching both at the echo of her own voice breaking the silence and the fact that in all honesty she'd much rather have had nearly anybody in the world discover her. “But how is it that you think walking me home is any better than if I'd simply made the hike myself? It appears to me that we're still going to get caught in the dark either way.”

He grunted and tossed a condescending look over his shoulder.

“What?”

“I'm bigger than you are.”

Seriously?
“And that would relate to what I just asked you...how?”

“My stride. It's much longer than yours. Quicker, too, I'd imagine, given your condition. We're going to get there faster than if you were walking on your own. In fact, we've almost arrived. You'll be able to see the Becketts' house in just a few minutes.”

Laney scoffed and shook her head. She didn't see how Slade could make a ridiculous claim like that and make it sound like a fact. Yes, they were still following the fence line, but the fence—and the land—all looked the same. How could he possibly tell where they were in relation to the house?

“You sound mighty sure of yourself.”

“I am.”

Even though Slade couldn't see her, she rolled her eyes. Exasperating man.

“You didn't even know where you were going, Laney. You would have wandered around in circles all night.”

Point taken. But he didn't have to rub it in.

“And you've got to watch out for Brody's kid.”

As if he had to remind her. Feeling as if he'd just jabbed at her, she instinctively laid a protective hand across her belly. She didn't like the way he'd just referred to her precious unborn child as the
kid
. And
Brody's
kid, as if she had no part in the baby at all.

“Stop,” she hissed as her anger escalated. Heat expanded through her chest and pressed into her head.

He turned and removed his hat, dabbing sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “What?”

“Before we get back to the ranch house, I want to make something perfectly clear to you.”

His shoulders visibly tightened and he frowned. “And that would be?”

“Brody's parents have been through enough grief without you making unfeeling remarks about their grandchild. This baby is bringing hope, peace, and—pray God—maybe eventually even a little happiness into their lives. I won't have you upsetting them with your thoughtless implications.”

One side of his mouth ticked. She didn't know if that meant she'd gotten through to his hard heart or if it was a sign of anger, but frankly, she didn't care, as long as he agreed to her nonnegotiable terms. She wouldn't have him upsetting the Becketts. Not for anything.

“Well?” she challenged when he didn't speak.

His dark brows lowered over his blue eyes, which had darkened from bright and electric to a midnight color. He glowered at her, and between the scowl and the frown were menacing, almost dangerous overtones. He wasn't a man to cross.

She stared him down, refusing to give in to her roiling stomach and hammering heart. This was one battle she had to win.

“Okay,” he growled and forcefully jamming his hat on his head. “I won't say anything negative about you or the baby to the Becketts.”

“Do I have your word on that?” She had no idea why she was pressing him. What good was his word, anyway? From what she knew of him, he'd say or do anything to get what he wanted.

He jerked his head in a clipped nod and stalked away from her, causing Nocturne to jolt forward. Thankfully she'd been holding on to the saddle horn or she might have been unseated. The thoughtless man didn't even consider the consequences to his actions. And yet he had the gall to be all over her about hers?

Slade had better not renege on his promise, if he knew what was good for him. Because if he somehow hurt Brody's parents—well, he'd have her to deal with.

And it wouldn't be pretty.

Chapter Two

S
lade uncinched Nock's saddle and slid it from her back, slinging it over a barrel with an audible huff and probably more force than was strictly necessary. Since he was temporarily taking over some of Brody's duties for the Becketts, he'd recently been stabling Nocturne in their barn and not at his parents' spread next door, where Slade usually kept her. His two brothers ran the family ranch, leaving him to pursue his own interests.

In his day job he was a member of Serendipity's police force, and he stayed busy with the local small-town rodeo circuit on the weekends. Maybe someday he'd have a ranch of his own, when he settled down.
If
he settled down. But he was having too much fun being an unabashed bachelor to think about that day.

Or at least he had been, until Brody's death. Slade no longer considered himself a carefree bachelor. That life had little appeal to him now. Not without Brody. The importance of living every day to its full value meant more than ever.

He should never have given his word that he wouldn't talk to the Becketts about the baby Laney was carrying and his suspicion that she might take advantage of them, or worse yet, not stick around once the baby had been born, take off again as she'd done right after the funeral. Brody's folks were like second parents to him, and he wouldn't forgive himself if they ended up getting hurt when he could have said or done something to keep themselves from heartache. He didn't know what Laney's game was, but there were too many unanswered questions that left Slade wary of her motives. In their grief, it made perfect sense that Grant and Carol Beckett would be quick to grasp at a carrot like the one Laney was dangling before them.

A grandchild. Brody's legacy. A flesh-and-blood reminder of their son.

Slade winced as pain jolted sharply through his chest. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. What kind of world did he live in where a good man was taken away just as a new life was given?

Why Brody? He'd been a far better man that Slade could ever hope to be. And now to find out that Brody would have been a father. It was almost too much to bear. Why was he still here when Brody was gone? Where was God in all this?

Slade brushed Nock's sweat-soaked back with long, even strokes. It didn't make sense. Brody had only recently given his heart to God, vowed to change his ways, and yet had never been allowed to see that through. He'd never been able to go home to Laney and make a new start. He'd never even known he was about to be a father.

Slade had likewise made a commitment to God, for all the good it had done him. After nearly a year of living his new faith, he was more aware than ever that he was too rough a man to settle down and be
good
. Not like what he figured God expected of him. It wasn't fair.

Brody—he would have made it. He could have become the man God wanted him to be—with a wife and a family. Brody would have managed to change his life completely, and for the better, if it weren't for Slade goading him into riding Night Terror that one last time at the rodeo. Bring home the purse, Slade had told Brody, and Laney would be sure to forgive him for whatever fight had caused their split. In truth, Slade hadn't cared about Brody using the money to placate Laney. It had really been just one man's thrill-seeking challenge to another. It made him sick just to think about it.

If he hadn't taken that ride, if he hadn't gone for that prize, Slade had no doubt Brody would have managed to patch things up with his estranged wife without the insubstantial purse a small-town rodeo afforded. Surely Laney wouldn't have wanted to separate her baby from his or her daddy. Brody would have been the best father ever to that little baby Laney was carrying.

He would have been so happy. So pleased.

It was painfully easy for Slade to picture the joy Brody would have found in a son or daughter, the proud papa holding his infant in his arms for the first time. Teaching his kid to ride a horse and rope a cow, raising up a new generation of Becketts to work the land that had been in their family for over a century.

Now—nothing.

The child would grow up without knowing his or her father. Without having Brody's fine influence to emulate.

And Slade could have prevented that loss. All of it.

He smothered the curse that came naturally to his lips—a bad habit that was difficult to break, but he was trying. God forgive him, swearing was the least of his sins.

He dumped a bucket of oats into Nock's bin and made sure she had plenty of fresh water. When he was finished, out of habit more than anything else, he headed for the Becketts' ranch house. He'd gone about twenty feet when he stopped so suddenly his boots created a cloud of dust from the dirt path. His breath turned as heavy in his chest as if he'd run several miles. Sweat dotted his brow despite the cool evening and he dabbed at it with the corner of his shirt.

Things were different now—and if Laney stuck around, they always would be. The easy camaraderie he shared with Grant and Carol, folks he considered as second parents to him, would be history. Slade was a living, walking reminder of all they had lost—in addition to being a man Laney had despised from the start, long before his thoughtless dare had cost her a husband. Why should they want to have anything to do with him when instead they would have Brody's baby to love?

Maybe he shouldn't visit the Becketts tonight. It would probably be better for all concerned if he just turned around and walked away. If it wasn't enough that he might cause Grant and Carol any means of distress, he and Laney had knocked heads enough times already for one day.

Then again, why should he let Laney dictate anything he did with his life? If he wanted to visit with the Becketts, he'd do it, Laney or no. Grant and Carol hadn't given him any reason to believe his presence caused them any grief, although now that he thought about it, he would try to be more aware of their feelings.

His decision made, he hastened to the house. He didn't go to the front door as a guest might do, but rather entered through the mudroom like one of the family, where he removed his boots and hung his hat on a peg on the wall and then washed up in the sink, using extra soap and scrubbing thoroughly to make sure his hands were clean, then wiping his face clean with a nearby towel. Carol Beckett would have his hide if he got dirt on her good rugs or touched her furnishings with grubby hands.

“Slade.” Grant Beckett emerged from the kitchen and extended his hand for a firm shake. “Good to see you, son. Join us in the kitchen. Carol's making cookies, and you know how she gets when she starts baking. She's already made enough baked goods to feed a small army.”

“Be happy to take a few off your hands, sir.”

“Thought you would.” Grant slapped Slade's back affectionately.

Slade entered the kitchen and immediately tensed when he saw Laney propped on a stool next to the counter, laughing at something Carol had said. They looked like a couple of giggly schoolgirls with their heads close together, sharing secrets.

His gut churned and he frowned, remembering the promise he'd made to Laney. Once again he wished he wouldn't have made it, if only for the fact that he could use some advice right now—like what part he might be able to play in giving Brody's baby everything he or she deserved. What he could do for the child.

Brody's baby.

There it was again, glaring before him, as clear and bright as looking straight at the midday sun. The inherent happiness in Laney's brown eyes and the way she shared that pleasure with Carol—the
knowing
. The anticipation. The joy.

Brody's baby.

A link to his friend that went far beyond words or memories. Slade swallowed hard against the emotions pummeling him.

Laney's presence wasn't doing the Becketts any harm, he realized. Not now. Not until she up and left town, which Slade was fairly certain she would do. The real danger wasn't that she'd upset them now, but that she'd abandon them later. How would Carol and Grant feel when their status as grandparents—their only living link with their beloved son—was relegated to some back burner so Laney could move on to the next thing in her life? She'd split with Brody fast enough when he didn't fall into line with her silly expectations even though she'd claimed to love him. How much easier would it be for her to walk away from his parents?

The mixture of grief and excitement he'd experienced only moments earlier was quickly replaced by a panic that made his pulse roar in his ears. As bad as he felt for Grant and Carol at the thought of them losing access to their grandchild, there was yet another reason for him to worry.

What if
he
had no part in the baby's life?

Personally, he thought she was a pain in the neck, but when other people looked at her, they probably saw Laney as a young, attractive woman. She'd won Brody's heart, after all. She was bound to meet a man, get married again and settle down far away from Serendipity. Brody would be nothing more to her than a sad, distant memory, one she'd likely tuck into the back of her mind as she moved on with her life. It hurt his heart just to think about it.

“There's the man of the hour.” Carol beamed at him as she passed him a plate piled with warm oatmeal cookies. “I understand we owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“I'm sorry?” he asked with a confused glance toward Carol and then to Grant. Man of the hour? Gratitude? What were they talking about?

“Heard tell you rescued our princess from danger today.” Grant grinned at him and wagged his eyebrows.

Still unable to decipher what they were talking about, Slade's gaze flashed to Laney, but she only rolled her eyes and shrugged.

They were talking about Laney?

Princess?

Yeah, right. Laney was a regular damsel in distress. And that would make him—what? Prince Charming? A knight in shining armor? The Becketts were barking up the wrong tree with that one. He scoffed at the nonsensical notion.

“There he goes,” Carol said, nodding her head as if she'd disclosed some major secret. “I told you he was going to make light of his actions. He never admits the good he does. Has to maintain that tough cowboy image, you know. Never lets on that there's a kind heart underneath that gruff exterior.”

Slade barked out a laugh and everyone joined him. Whatever else he could be accused of, and there was plenty, making himself into something he wasn't was not even on the list. And kindness wasn't something he was often accused of, either.

“Laney would have been fine,” he assured the Becketts. Maybe that wasn't entirely accurate, but he didn't want them making too much of his actions, which hadn't been entirely altruistic. “She just got a little turned around. I'm sure she would have found the fence and made it back to the house with no problem. Please. It's no big deal.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Carol said, shaking her head. “But I'm grateful all the same, and so is Laney.”

He very much doubted
gratitude
was what Laney was feeling for him. Not from the frown she flashed at him when she thought the Becketts weren't looking.

Slade bit into a cookie and groaned with pleasure. His own mother didn't cook a lick, and since there was no other woman with a constant presence in his life, the only fresh baked goods he ever got besides Carol's occasional but heartfelt forays into baking were Phoebe Hawkins's fare from Cup O' Jo's Café in town. Phoebe was a professional chef and her baked goods were delicious, but they lacked the significance of being baked just for him, with love.

He poured himself a tall glass of ice-cold milk and took a long drink, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand to prevent a milk mustache. He caught Laney's gaze and she lifted a brow.

What? Was she laughing at him?

“You've never heard of milk and cookies?”

She smirked. “You've utterly ruined your tough-guy cowboy image for me, you know.”

He shrugged, trying to make light of her comment, even if it was a direct strike to his ego. “Don't knock it until you try it.” He met her gaze, speaking without words.
Or knock me when you don't even know me.

She glared right back at him, and her gaze was no less telling. It stated clearly that she knew him well enough to judge him and find him wanting.

“Consider the cookies and milk the least we can do as your reward for a job well done,” Carol said, grinning mischievously and seeming completely oblivious to the silent war brewing between her two guests.

“If I'm going to get cookies and milk every time I'm good, you can count on me to rescue fair damsels every day of the week.”

He was joking, of course, and the Becketts chuckled along with him, but instead of joining in the laughter, Laney frowned.

“I am neither fair nor a damsel in distress,” Laney remarked. Slade wondered if Carol and Grant could hear the ice in her tone or if she only sounded cold to him.

Apparently he was the only one who'd interpreted her frostiness because if anything, Carol's eyes sparkled not with surprise, but with
concern
for the woman. “We're just grateful you're here with us, Laney. We only wish the circumstances were better.”

Laney's expression fell and for a moment even Slade felt sorry for her. She looked thoroughly devastated at the reminder of Brody's death. He'd known his fair share of female deceit in his life, but could a woman fake that kind of pain?

“Speaking of,” Slade inserted, seeing an opening to ask what was really on his mind. Maybe it was wrong of him to take advantage of the moment, given Laney's current vulnerability, but he wasn't sure how else to bring up the subject. It was now or never. “How long are you staying, Laney?”

Hmmph. So much for casual. He couldn't have sounded worse if he'd tried. Every eye in the room turned on him in surprise. He wished he had figured out a more tactful way to ask the question, but he was as good at being tactful as the proverbial bull in a china shop, bumping around and smashing things—feelings—with his words.