The Cowboy and the Princess Page 20

  He had the spaghetti put together and he was tossing the salad when Annie came back in the room smelling of soap, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She was wrapped in a bathrobe. He immediately wondered if she had anything on underneath it.

  His gaze hooked on hers as his fingers shredded Bibb lettuce into a bowl. She meandered to the bar. Her feet were bare. Her toenails were painted a pretty pearlescent pink. Completely lickable, those toes.

  “I bought a bottle of wine. It’s chilling in the refrigerator. But maybe that’s wrong. Can you have white wine with spaghetti? Is it supposed to be red wine instead?” He crinkled his nose. “I don’t really like red wine.”

  “Whatever wine you purchased is fine,” she reassured him and it wasn’t until she smiled that he realized just how nervous he was. He wanted this dinner to be perfect. Wanted this night to be the best either one of them had ever had. She padded to the fridge, Brady tracked her every step. She moved with such grace and style. By just walking she made him feel like a clumsy dullard.

  She took out the wine. “Chardonnay is always appropriate, no matter what the dish.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “You sell yourself short, Brady Talmadge and I have to wonder why.”

  “Hey, you’re holding on to your secrets, I’m hanging on to mine.” Surprise washed over him. He didn’t like keeping secrets and yet here he was taunting her with his because she wouldn’t tell him hers.

  Real mature, Talmadge.

  And yet, he wasn’t ready to tell her why he’d made his five unbreakable rules for living an uncomplicated life, because, well . . . she was the complication that broke them all. If he told her everything and she told him nothing, she would have the upper hand.

  Oh, who are you kidding. She’s had the upper hand from the first minute you laid eyes on her.

  She opened the wine and then searched the cupboard. “No wineglasses in here,” she said, pulling out two mismatched juice tumblers. “These will do.”

  Her delicate fingers hoisted the bottle, tippled a few ounces of Chardonnay into each glass; she leaned her back against the counter, passed him the glass. Brady grappled blindly for the wine, his gaze hung on the fold of her robe where he could see the creamy swell of the tops of her breasts. She did not have anything on underneath that robe.

  He licked his lips. She looked as sexually harried as he felt. And he was more turned on than he’d ever been in his life.

  So was she.

  Okay, that sounded too chuffed, but her nipples were so hard he could see them poking against the thick terry cloth.

  “Tonight,” she said. “We are going all the way.”

  “All the way,” he echoed, his knees fluid as water, and touched the rim of his tumbler to hers.

  Her gaze held his for the longest moment, then she tilted back her head and took a sip. She swallowed the wine down with the softest of movements, all refinement and poise.

  To steady himself—aw hell, who was he kidding—to keep from dragging her off to the bedroom this instant, he shifted his concentration back to the stove.

  “Mmm.” She stretched over his shoulder, lithe as a cat, to peek at the spaghetti and meatballs warming on the electric burner turned low. Her chin rested against the side of his neck.

  Sweat rolled down his spine and he had a death grip on the serving ladle.

  “That looks delicious,” she purred. “I would give anything if I could cook.”

  “You can learn. It’s not that hard. If I can do it, you can do it.”

  “Mariah cannot cook.” She laughed.

  “Correction, Mariah doesn’t want to cook, and that’s okay. Life’s too short to do things you don’t want to do, but if you want to cook, you can. I can teach you what little I know.” He turned to look at her.

  “Learning how to cook takes time and practice.”

  “That’s right.”

  A sad expression came over her face, but then she quickly shook it off and a bright smile lit up her face. “I am very hungry,” she whispered in his ear.

  A stone cold shiver passed straight from his brain to his groin and turned him to solid cement below the waist. He wanted to say to hell with the food and take her right there on the kitchen floor, but Annie was humming and setting the table.

  She leaned over the table to touch his arm and he almost dropped the plates of spaghetti he was carrying.

  At this rate, he wouldn’t last five minutes in the sack. He chuffed in a deep breath, set down the plates, and went back for the salad.

  “Does this belong to you?” she asked, picking up the mail he’d dropped on the table when he’d come in. The mail he hadn’t even glanced at because he’d been busy with Trampas and fixing dinner.

  “Here, I’ll take that.” He reached for the mail, leafing through it quickly while Annie sat down and daintily spread a paper napkin in her lap.

  Circulars. Trash. Offers for credit cards. Trash. Solicitations for credit debt reduction. Trash. A thank-you card from a lady in Albuquerque whose horse he’d rehabilitated a month ago. The woman had included a picture of the horse looking healthy and happy. Brady smiled and tucked the card in his back pocket. Another success story.

  And then there was a plain white envelope looking innocuous enough until he flipped it over and saw the return address with a red, white, and blue logo declaring: Texas Department of Family and Protective Services. It was postmarked a month earlier.

  For one icy, heart-stopping second he thought, At last, someone’s going to stop the abuse. And then he laughed at the silly thought. He was twenty-nine years old. He’d stopped the abuse all on his own when he’d stumbled onto the highway and thumbed a ride to Jubilee with Dutch when he was fifteen.

  “Brady?” Annie asked. “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, more for his benefit than for hers. Why the hell was family protective services writing to him now?

  They probably just want a donation.

  He almost tossed the letter into the garbage unopened along with the circulars and credit card come-ons, but his curiosity got the better of him and he slipped his finger underneath the sealed flap of the envelope, trying hard to tamp down the nervousness kicking around in his stomach.

  Forget it. Tonight’s the night. You’re having dinner with a beautiful woman. Forget the mail.

  Hesitating, he bit down on the inside of his cheek. He had nothing to worry about. Why was he worrying? Because the letter made him think of his family. That’s why.

  When was the last time you spoke to any of them? You saw Cody and Carol and the kids at Christmas, but it’s been, what . . . three years since you’ve spoken to Mom?

  He loved his mother, but the secret she’d kept from him was a lot to forgive. He didn’t want to think about this. He wanted to eat spaghetti and make love to Annie.

  But if something had happened to his mother, he was certain one of his brothers would have called. He might be the black sheep of the family, but hell, his brothers still spoke to him from time to time. And the old man? Well, he could rot in hell as far as Brady was concerned.

  What if it was the old man? That brought a new mix of feeling surging through him—regret, hatred, disgust, sadness, and shame.

  Always shame.

  Only way to know what’s going on is to tear open that letter and read it. No doubt it’s just a dun for money and you’re letting the past get you worked up over nothing.

  Probably so, but this letter had the stench of complication all over it.

  “Brady?” Annie asked, putting aside her napkin and rising to her feet. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay,” he said, but his voice sounded tinny, faraway.

  “Something upset you.”

  He showed her the logo on the envelope.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not going to let it spoil our evening. Let’s eat.” But even as he said it, he knew the evening was al
ready spoiled. He reached across the table, touched her hand. “Maybe it would help if I start by telling you exactly what I intend on doing to you after we’re finished eating.”

  She slipped her hand out from under his. “Open the letter, Brady,” she murmured.

  “Annie . . . what’s in here . . .” He paused. “It’s got nothing to do with you and me.”

  “Whatever is inside has you frowning and looking sad.” She traced her finger lightly over his wrist. “Just open it and either face bad news head-on or put your mind at ease.”

  She was right. He gulped, tore open the envelope, and pulled out the letter with the official state of Texas emblem embossed on the paper.

  Dear Mr. Talmadge,

  My name is Mary Jameson and I’m a caseworker with the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services. I am writing to you because there exists the possibility that you are the biological father of an infant female in our care. The child’s mother was one Kelly Deavers, who is no longer living. I would like the opportunity to speak with you about this matter. You may reach me at 817-555-9876. Or feel free to visit our offices in Tarrant County. I’m hoping to hear from you soon.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs. Mary Jameson

  Stunned, Brady sat reading the letter over and over as if by reading it again and again it would say something different from what it said.

  “Brady?” Annie touched his shoulder.

  The look on his face must have scared her, and she withdrew her hand and took a step back. “Brady?”

  “I told you I didn’t want to open it.” His voice sounded hollow. Empty. Like someone else’s voice. Someone who’d had the wind kicked out of him by a wild stallion.

  She pressed two fingers against her mouth. “What is it?”

  His head spun. His chest hurt. He couldn’t take it all in. It was like someone had shot him straight through the heart with a .45 Magnum slug and he had not died. As if he was bleeding from a hundred bulletholes and yet he could not fall down. In fact, he felt that if he tried he could walk on water and not drown.

  A child.

  He had a child?

  Gooseflesh danced across his nerve endings, as odd and magical as St. Elmo’s fire. A child. A daughter. His.

  He sucked in great lungfuls of air. Gently, Annie pried the letter from his hands. She read it, but she did not make a sound.

  He wondered what she thought of him now. Was she angry? Disgusted? Disappointed? Resentful? He had fathered a child that he had not known about. But he had known Kelly Deavers in an intimate way just a little over a year ago. Now Kelly was dead and he had a daughter. Brady didn’t doubt for a second the child was his. Guilt and shame and remorse speared through him.

  But when he looked in Annie’s eyes he did not see anger, disgust, disappointment, or resentment. Instead, he saw only calm acceptance shining in her gray-blue eyes.

  “This is wonderful,” she said. “You have been given a most precious gift.”

  “I—” He stared into her eyes, completely lost.

  “Yes?”

  “The baby. She deserves better than me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He waved a hand. If he had been dumped on a deserted island and told he’d have to stay there ten years all by himself before he could be rescued, he couldn’t have felt more desolate. “Look at the way I live. Itinerant cowboy. On the road. No ties. Caring only about myself and having a good time. I’m not worthy of her.”

  “That is not true,” Annie scolded. “I have seen you with horses and your friends. You are kind and loving and generous and—”

  “Terrified of commitment.”

  “Everyone is scared. Bravery is being scared and doing what you have to do anyway. You are brave. I believe in you.”

  “That would be some mighty misplaced trust.”

  She crouched in front of him. “Look at me, Brady.”

  Reluctantly, he met her eyes. Normally he wasn’t so self-deprecating, but right now he could kick his own ass. He was acting like a coward.

  “If you are this little girl’s father, she deserves to be with you. No one can love her the way you can.”

  “It’s just . . . well, I can’t wrap my head around this.” He splayed a palm over his forehead.

  She took his hand in hers, squeezed hard, held his gaze, and whispered, “Everything is going to be all right, Brady Talmadge. Just you wait and see.”

  That night he lay in Annie’s bed. They did not make love. They did not speak. Tonight was not the night for that. She simply held him in her arms and he lay cradled with his head against her chest listening to the steady beating of her reassuring heart.

  Long after her breathing grew slow and deep, Brady lay thinking of all the implications of the letter. Kelly Deavers, a woman he had barely known, had kept the most hurtful kind of secret from him. He met her in a nightclub in the Fort Worth Stockyards where she worked as a cocktail waitress.

  Kelly had been quick-witted, quick-tempered, and quick to slide into his bed. They’d partied together only three or four times over the course of a week before he’d taken to the road again on a new assignment. They’d both wanted to keep things casual. It hadn’t been a big deal. Yes, they’d both bonded over the fact they’d had crappy childhoods. Kelly had grown up in foster homes, while Brady had run away at fifteen to get away from his father’s abuse. They’d had a good time together. Nothing serious.

  Nothing serious? She had your baby. It doesn’t get more serious than that.

  All the tenets he lived by had been upended. All those unbreakable rules shattered. What was he going to do?

  “Brady.” Annie stroked her fingers through his hair.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “No, I’ve been thinking about your situation and . . .”

  This was it, this was where she told him she wanted out. She had only signed up for fun and games, and finding out that he had a secret love child was certainly not a game. He steeled himself to hear it. He couldn’t blame her. He thought it was for the best, all in all. In fact, he should be the one to suggest it.

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “Go with me where?”

  “When you go to see this Mrs. Jameson.”

  It was so kind of her to offer. She was one helluva woman. “No,” he said. “This isn’t your problem. This is something I have to do on my own.”

  “I don’t mind.” She pressed her lips to his chin.

  He wanted to make love to her so badly that he could almost taste it, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not now. Not until he knew for sure if the baby was his. He was now the complication that she didn’t need.

  Ironic, how the tables had turned.

  “Thank you for offering. It means a lot.” Brady wrapped his arms around her waist, hugged her tight. He might not have deserved it, but he couldn’t help feeling like one of those people on the stories of true survival shows, who got into serious trouble because of bad life choices. Those poor slobs, on the brink of certain death, always looked supremely fatigued with desperate relief.

  That was exactly how Annie’s offer made him feel.

  As if he’d scaled Mount Everest in a blizzard and managed to make it back down again with all his fingers and toes intact.

  After Brady finally fell asleep, Annie crept from the bed, jammed her feet into her slippers, and went to let the dogs out. Trampas—still moving stiffly from his surgery—stayed by her side. Lady Astor, high-spirited as ever, went running off into the dark, queen of all she surveyed.

  She’d grown complacent over the past month, enjoying her new life. Savoring the fact that apparently she had given her bodyguards the slip for good. She’d called Rosalind again and her nursemaid had commiserated over her mononucleosis. That let her know that her bodyguards were still searching and still had not told King Phillip of her disappearance. Someone in the Glover camp had helped them keep the secret. She dared to hope her handlers had given up o
n Jubilee and moved on to another location. She should have two wonderful weeks left and a chance to fulfill all her lusty dreams.

  But now, everything had changed.

  Brady had a child.

  And it was none of her business.

  She did not expect either the raddled glee or the divine melancholia chewing at her heart. She had nothing invested in this. Brady was nothing more than a special landscape in her temporary adventure. He was a memory she was making, a mental patchwork quilt to keep her vital in the upcoming cocoon of her eternal monarchy. She did not care either way.

  Methinks thou doth protest too much.

  He would be a perfect father. She knew he didn’t see that. Probably couldn’t believe it. He thought himself a vagabond, a happy loner, unstructured and unfettered. But she saw past all that. Saw to the truth of him, even if he could not see it himself. He was a man just waiting to be part of something more expansive than himself. She did not know why he shied from what he needed. Why he’d taken a circuitous route to his unknown goal. But his future was here now.

  And she was not a part of it.

  No matter how she wished things might be different, they were not. So she would do what she could. Support him. Be with him for the moment. Help him with the baby if he needed it. At least for the remainder of her time in Jubilee. And in the end, when it was all over and she had to tell him the truth, and walk away, Annie would have gotten what she’d come to Jubilee to find.

  Herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  You might be a princess if . . . you know the details of Victorian tea ceremonies.

  Brady had made so damn many mistakes. Done all manner of things the wrong way. Failed to do the right thing more often than not. Now here he was facing the biggest mistake of all.

  His chickens had finally come home to roost.

  Mary Jameson turned out to be a plumpish woman in her fourth decade of life with a Buster Brown haircut and red-framed, rectangular glasses perched on the end of a too-long nose. One glance around her office told him she favored Gaviscon, Galveston, bottled green chai tea, and German shepherds.