To Tame a Wild Cowboy Page 4

  “What should I do?” He blinked at Lamar.

  “You’ve spent your life keeping your heart out of the fray. Why change now?” Lamar asked.

  “Because this is a baby. My baby.”

  Lamar spread his hands like goalposts. “And there you have it.”

  Oh shit, oh damn, he was screwed. “How can I be a single dad and stay in the PBR?”

  “That’s the same question a judge is going to ask if you file for custody.”

  “Nope.” Rhett shook his head again as fear seized his stomach. “Can’t do it. Can’t give up the PBR.”

  Lamar pushed back his chair. “Let’s go talk to that notary.”

  Rhett raised his palms, stop-sign style. “Not yet.”

  “You’re vacillating.”

  “I know.”

  “I get it. It’s a big decision, either way.”

  Rhett jammed his hand through his hair, his fingers getting caught up in the tangles. Maybe he should shave his head. Just for the hell of it. Change might be good. But women loved running their fingers through his curls. It’s why he kept his hair just a little too long.

  “You’ve got kids, right?” he asked Lamar.

  “Two daughters, twelve and five, lights of my life.” Lamar paused, let that sink in. “But it’s hard, man, raising kids, and I’ve got a great wife. If you’re thinking about raising a baby alone . . .”

  “Think again?”

  Lamar shrugged.

  “I can hire nannies.”

  “Is that fair to the baby? Especially when someone like Tara wants to adopt her.”

  “Tara’s single too.”

  “But Tara is a neonatal nurse, and she has a huge, supportive family.”

  “I got family.”

  “That you see a few times a year.”

  Rhett sank his face into his hands. Truly, he was surprised to find himself in this situation. After Brittany, he’d always been so careful. Sometimes he even wore two condoms, just in case. He’d heard of women poking holes in rubbers to lasso a guy. Had Rhona done that?

  But if she’d gotten pregnant on purpose, why hadn’t she told him? Why hadn’t she shown up demanding marriage or money?

  Well, he wasn’t the kind of guy to sit around and think. He was, by nature, a doer. He acted. Right now, he had two choices. Sign the paper and forget about it. Or go see the baby and then decide.

  That meant facing Tara.

  Ugh. He wasn’t looking forward to that.

  It also meant skipping the next PBR event. Not that he couldn’t spare the time away. He was the current point leader. But it wouldn’t take much for his nemesis, Claudio Limon, to dethrone him. One week away was enough to lose the lead.

  Almost on autopilot, he got up and went to his closet for a clean Western shirt, did up the snaps. Grabbed his boots near the front door, jammed his feet into them.

  “Where are you going?”

  Rhett chuffed out a long breath. “Guess I’m headed to El Paso.”

  “To file for custody?”

  “Hell man, that’s one giant step. Don’t push. I’m just going to check out the situation.” Rhett plucked his Stetson off the hat rack.

  “Don’t be surprised if you fall in love and can’t walk away.”

  He paused with the Stetson halfway to his head. “Are you saying going to El Paso is a bad idea?”

  “I’m saying that seeing your baby could change everything. If you don’t want your life to change, don’t go.”

  Well, that was a fine howdy-do. “And I pay you to give me this advice?”

  “Just fair warning, that’s all.”

  Rhett let loose with a string of curses. “Now I don’t know whether to go or not.”

  “Ask yourself this, which will you regret more? Never seeing her and letting her go for good, or seeing her and having your life turned upside down?”

  “This sucks.”

  “Think about the baby. She’s already started life with several strikes against her. Born premature. Mama abandoned her . . .”

  “All right, all right.” Rhett settled the Stetson firmly on his head, feeling like a man being led to the gallows. “I’m going, I’m going.”

  He went outside to get his trailer ready to travel, heard the door click closed behind him. His boots kicking up fairground dust as he rounded the front of the trailer and out of nowhere . . . bam.

  An angry fist plowed into his face.

  The blow blindsided him, and he fell back on his ass in the dirt. Squinting, he peered up at Claudio Limon, who was cradling his knuckles and glaring at Rhett as if he were Satan himself.

  “Idiota!” Claudio cursed in Portuguese.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Rhett raised both arms to cover up his face.

  His head felt as if it had been slammed against a concrete wall. Hangover + finding out he had a kid he didn’t know about + pissed-off fist = wallop of hurt.

  “What the hell, man?” he asked Claudio.

  His rival’s nostrils flared like Riptide’s, the meanest bull on the circuit, whenever he charged a bullfighter. “You sleep with my girl, Rhona!” Claudio added a few more Portuguese curse words.

  “You didn’t put a ring on it,” Rhett pointed out, but gallantly he didn’t mention that Rhona was just about everybody’s girl on the rodeo circuit. “Face facts.”

  “You make her pregnant.” Claudio’s pupils narrowed to pin pricks.

  “How did you know it was my baby?”

  “The CPS call and tell me I not father. I see your lawyer coming to your trailer, I know you on list of possible fathers. Two and two, I can put together.” Claudio surged forward.

  Rhett bounced to his feet, took a boxer’s stance. Plowed his right fist into Claudio’s breadbasket just as the man grabbed him.

  Stetsons flew.

  They grunted and punched.

  Cursed and kicked.

  Knocked each other into the dirt. Rolled around.

  Slugged and hammered.

  Thrashed and crashed.

  Eyes swelled. Noses bled. Lips split.

  It had been a long time since he’d been in a down-and-dirty brawl with something other than a wild bovine. Rhett was a lover, not a fighter, but if someone took a swing at him, he sure as hell was going to defend himself.

  A small crowd gathered. Lamar with his arms crossed over his chest, fairground folk, rodeo cowboys, a buckle bunny or two. They watched the altercation as if they had ringside seats to a cage match.

  Which, Rhett supposed, they did. Two of the biggest PBR rivals going at each other over a woman. Wait until TMZ heard about this.

  “Hey, hey,” Rhett grunted, running out of steam. “This ain’t getting us nowhere.”

  “Makes me feel better.” Claudio kept whaling on him, fists flailing.

  “Does it? Does it really?” Rhett dodged him.

  Claudio pounced.

  Rhett clamped him in a headlock. “Calm the hell down.”

  Claudio struggled against him. Swore. Bucked. “She my girl.”

  “Not really.”

  “Supposed to be my baby!” Claudio stopped fighting.

  Rhett let him go. His entire body throbbed with pain. Claudio dragged himself over to Rhett’s trailer, propped his shoulders up against a tire.

  They lay on the ground panting and glaring at each other.

  It hit him all at once, why Rhona had shown up on his doorstep that night last summer. He’d thought at the time it was because of his win and she wanted to rub up against his glory. Now he remembered that it was the same night Claudio had gone off with a young, pretty barrel racer. Rhona had slept with him to make her boyfriend jealous. He knew for sure now, she hadn’t gotten pregnant on purpose.

  Rhett groaned. “Would that I could, I’d turn back the clock.”

  “I love her.” Tears sprang to Claudio’s eyes, which were both rapidly swelling shut.

  “Aw, man. I’m sorry.”

  Claudio doubled up his fist, shook it at Rhett. “You stole
everything.”

  “By the by, do you know where Rhona is?” Rhett asked.

  Claudio raised one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I have not seen her since last summer.”

  “You didn’t know she was pregnant?”

  “Not until the CPS came to . . .” Claudio made a motion of swabbing out his mouth.

  “We weren’t the only ones she slept with,” Rhett pointed out. “They swabbed two other guys.”

  Claudio growled and tried to lever himself off the ground.

  Rhett put up both palms. “Whoa, whoa. No more fighting. It solves nothing. She’s done with us both and she abandoned my baby at the hospital. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Apparently, that was not what the Brazilian wanted to hear. He launched himself at Rhett and they went back at it again.

  Lamar disappeared, then reappeared with a metal bucket, fastidiously holding it away from his suit, and doused them with cold water. “Knock it off, you two.”

  They broke apart, sputtering.

  Exhausted, Rhett collapsed onto his back. Claudio fell right beside him. His entire world had imploded, and it was his own damn fault.

  No denying it. He was one of those scoundrel Lockharts through and through, and he had an illegitimate child to prove it.

  Chapter 4

  Set you up: The act of a bull that drops a shoulder like it is going to spin in one direction, and then immediately does the exact opposite.

  Three days later . . .

  Mariah Bean’s space alien green Kia Soul pulled up outside the duplex. Followed shortly by a familiar bronze Ford King Ranch one-ton dually pickup truck.

  Distressed, Tara stood at the living room window, arms wrapped securely around Julie. Her heart skipping crazily.

  This was it. The moment she’d been dreading since she’d learned who the baby’s father was. Mom, Kaia, and Aria had offered to be here for the showdown, but this was Tara’s battle. She needed to fight it alone.

  At least for now.

  Afterward, her family could help her pick up the pieces.

  There she went again, preparing for the worst. Cheer up. It was Rhett, the rolling stone. A baby would seriously cramp his style.

  Always a good hostess, she had set out a teapot and coffee carafe on the coffee table, along with finger sandwiches and scones. At the last minute, she’d bought pink strawberry wafer cookies because she remembered that they were Rhett’s favorite. Catch more flies with sugar, right?

  The plucky Ms. Bean got out of her Kia. Today she wore a raspberry beret over her pink hair, an orange paisley jumpsuit, black high-top Converse sneakers, and a peace sign necklace. She looked as if she’d raided the wardrobe closet of That ’70s Show.

  But it was the man stepping from the expensive pickup truck that drew Tara’s attention.

  His hair was the color of aged whiskey, private select, and on the sexy side of shaggy. He wore a straw Stetson cocked rakishly to the left. His heavily starched jeans clung tightly to his muscular thighs, and a gold rodeo belt buckle glistened in the afternoon sun like the Holy Grail.

  Transfixed, she watched him walk with a lanky roll, his hips lean and loose. A leisurely lilt that said, I’ve got all the time in the world for you, babe. Tara understood why women fell over themselves to get next to Rhett Lockhart. He possessed that undeniable something.

  Tara steeled herself. Denying it. Denying him.

  And yet, her womb gave a strange, uncharacteristic squeeze. Cramps, she told herself, because that bowl-’em-over charm didn’t work on her. She knew all his roguish tricks. She’d been the babysitter standing outside his bedroom window, fourteen to his ten. Arms crossed over her chest, catching her impish charge as he slipped to the ground, incorrigible and unrepentant. Even then. Now, eighteen years later, she was caring for his infant daughter.

  Fate was a fickle wench.

  The resolute Ms. Bean crossed over the lawn to speak to him, held out her palm, tote bag hoisted up on her shoulder. He shook her hand, but his eyes stayed trained on Tara’s front door. He was coming in.

  Instinctively, Tara clutched Julie closer.

  Rhett and Ms. Bean turned and moved up the sidewalk in lockstep. They cut an uneven picture. Five-foot Ms. Bean in her kooky duds, placing a hand on her beret to hold it in place against the wind. Five-eleven-inch Rhett, sporting designer boots, sweeping off his Stetson and resting it against his chest.

  The closer they drew, the harder Tara’s heart pounded.

  Julie squirmed, made a soft mewling sound. Tara hitched her higher, kissed the baby’s cheek. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. You’re about to meet your daddy.”

  This was a good thing, Tara tried to tell herself, the best thing for Julie. Every girl deserved to know her daddy. Even a daddy like Rhett.

  But what if he wanted custody?

  Tears clogged Tara’s throat. Maybe he wouldn’t want the baby. Maybe he would understand he wasn’t equipped to care for an infant with ongoing health issues. Maybe he would agree to relinquish his parental rights, so Tara could adopt her.

  Please, she prayed silently, please.

  She’d spent the past three days, since she’d learned of his identity, planning how to lobby her case. She could rally the Alzate and Lockhart clans. Get them to convince Rhett he wasn’t in any position to raise a child. He didn’t have the skills or, let’s face it, the constitution for fatherhood. He was a party hound with wanderlust, a single-minded rodeo cowboy driven to win at all costs. Not the ideal situation for childrearing.

  They passed Tara’s view from the window, climbed the front steps, and for the first time she saw that Rhett was sporting a black eye, bruised lips, and a stitched cut over his left eyebrow. Bull-riding casualty? Or barroom brawl over a woman? With him, either was highly possible.

  Her heart pounded, as weird waves of sensation that felt way too much like sexual attraction undulated through her. No. She was mistaken. This bizarre feeling was not sexual attraction. It was a physical manifestation of fear. Fear could cause strange symptoms in the body, and that’s exactly what was happening here.

  She put Julie in her bassinet and whisked from the living room, down the foyer to the front door. Got there just as they knocked.

  Tara took a deep breath. Opened the door. Meant to say hello but couldn’t find the words. Terrified that if she spoke, she’d break down.

  Ms. Bean stood on the welcome mat, a tight little smile on her face. The caseworker turned to Rhett. “Mr. Lockhart, this is your daughter Julie’s foster mother, Tara Alzate.”

  Behind the caseworker, Rhett’s battered eyes met Tara’s gaze, and he gifted her with his most rakish grin, which provoked her uterus to do curious things again. “Surprise, sweet cheeks, it’s me.”

  Why had he said that? Sometimes Rhett thought he should go around with Gorilla Tape plastered over his big mouth.

  Tara shot him a glare hot enough to wither daisies. She lowered her shoulders, shifted her center of gravity. “Don’t you ever call me sweet cheeks.”

  That was Tara. She’d never been shy about carving out strong boundaries. Probably because she had a loving father. In his experience the women with the weakest personal boundaries were the ones most likely to have daddy issues.

  In the past, he’d taken full advantage of that. But now, standing here in the face of Tara’s disapproval, he felt a bit ashamed of himself.

  Tiny Ms. Bean looked unnerved, glancing from Tara to Rhett and back again. “I know you two have history, but let’s keep this civil, shall we?”

  “Sweet cheeks is the way he addresses his numerous women because he can’t remember their names.” Tara’s pupils constricted. She was peeved at him. Everything about her was knotted up as wiry as baling twine. Stiff shoulders, disapproving mouth, rigid face.

  “Won’t happen again.”

  “See that it does not.” Tara’s tone dripped venom. If she’d been a snake, she would be a cobra. Flaring nostrils. Wicked tongue. Deadly stare.

  H
e wasn’t scared. Not much. “Because clearly your cheeks are pretty darn sour.”

  Tara snorted, sounding for all the world like a rodeo bull going after a bullfighter. Goose bumps broke out on his arms the way they did when he was in the arena. Part excitement, part terror, part delight.

  He had a striking urge to touch her, taste her. The impulse was so strong and unexpected, he blinked and told himself to ignore it. He felt overly warm, while his fingers and toes went oddly cold, as if all his blood was being funneled straight to his torso.

  “Civility,” Ms. Bean said in a butterfly voice, light and fluttery.

  Tara blew out her breath through clenched teeth, ziplined an exclusive smile to the other woman, leaving him out of it. “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you.” Ms. Bean, that little ray of sunshine, gave a that’s-the-spirit swing of her arm.

  Tara turned her attention back to Rhett. “You look like hell.”

  “Aw, thanks for noticing. You, on the other hand, look nice.”

  She snorted again. “Stop giving me compliments. I’m not one of your bimbos.” The haughty look she gave him would have dropped green apples off the tree in the Garden of Eden. “What caused that?” She waved a hand at his face. “Irate husband?”

  “I don’t date married women.” Gently, he touched the corner of his eye.

  “But apparently you do date children. Rhona was barely twenty-one.”

  “Hey, she was over eighteen; old enough to vote, old enough to serve.”

  “Oh well then, you are Mr. Honorable. Wanna blue ribbon?”

  “How do you two know each other again?” Ms. Bean hoisted up her tote bag stuffed with case files. It had to weigh twenty pounds. He marveled at her ability to shoulder it.

  “We’re related,” Rhett explained.

  “By marriage only,” Tara said.

  “In-laws.” Ms. Bean nodded as if she were fifty instead of in her mid-twenties. “I get it. Small world.”

  “And getting smaller by the minute,” Tara muttered.

  “Your being related should help things along,” Ms. Bean chirped. Clearly, she was a keep-on-the-sunny-side-of-life type. His favorite sort of woman. He wondered if she would like to grab a drink after this.