The Pregnant Proposition. Sandra Paul
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to sell in black and white. Although he hadn’t expected to, the better he’d gotten to know the old gal, the more he’d liked her. They’d become friends. She’d wanted to sell to him. Trust the Cabrerra siblings, stubborn idiots that they were, to refuse to believe it.
Troy slapped the bottle harder. Smokin’ Jo’s grudgingly oozed a millimeter farther down the neck, so Troy added shaking to his tapping, keeping time to the Willie Nelson song bawling over the speakers. The bar was packed with cowboys in town for the next day’s rodeo, with even more streaming in. Still tapping, Troy glanced idly toward the entrance—just as Misty Sanderson sashayed through Big Bob’s prized swinging doors.
Troy paused in his sauce decanting, sure for a moment he must be mistaken. That it had to be some other woman with similar shoulder-length, kinda tousled-looking blond hair. He’d never seen Misty in here on a Friday night after ten before—or any other night of the week, for that matter. Misty Sanderson was downtown Dallas, not down-home Big Bob’s Bar and Grill. But the woman was dressed Misty-style in a yellow silk blouse that managed to look sexy and elegant at the same time, butt-hugging blue jeans and—to clinch the matter—cowboy boots. Misty’s alltime weakness was designer cowboy boots, the gawd-awful gaudier the better, and this little pair was made of bright blue leather, splattered with gold Texas stars. As the blonde pranced toward the bar in them, a dim overhead light slid across smooth high cheekbones, big brown eyes and an unmistakable sweet smile. Yeah, it was Misty, all right.
Unthinkingly, Troy set down Smokin’ Jo’s—thus losing the little bit of momentum the sauce had started to attain—to watch as she gestured to a woman trailing a few steps behind. Another blonde. Half a head taller than Misty but just as slim, this one’s hair was shorter, curving smoothly to just below her slender jawline. Her sleeveless red blouse was modest enough, but the denim skirt she had on was pretty damn daring—short and tight enough to raise women’s eyebrows and men’s hopes. Misty’s friend must have felt it was a little risky, too, because she tugged at the hem every few steps or so, futilely trying to pull it lower on her thighs.
Troy narrowed his eyes, studying those shapely thighs. He wasn’t much good with faces, but he was great with legs. And he couldn’t imagine forgetting those long, tanned, sexy limbs displayed to such advantage in that short denim skirt. Slender, firm thighs. Nice calves. Delicate ankles. Pretty feet in flat leather sandals that weren’t much more than soles and a couple of straps.
Yeah, he’d definitely seen Short Skirt before.
Even the way she moved seemed familiar. While Misty strode confidently ahead with that shoulders-back, chin-held-high glide she’d learned in the East Coast boarding school she’d attended, Short Skirt moved much slower. Clutching a red purse strap against her high, shapely breasts, she took each step gracefully, yet almost warily, too, as she followed her friend. Like a deer approaching a water hole at dusk during the hunting season.
And this little darlin’ had plenty of reason to tread warily. More males had noticed the women. Danny Wilson, bending to shoot at the tables, straightened and gave the newcomers a thorough once-over. Ralph Henderson, standing nearby, pulled his ball cap lower on his bald head, and hitched the waist of his Wranglers a shade higher over his paunchy beer belly. At the next table, Theodore Bayor completely missed his shot.
Misty, occupied with claiming a couple of empty bar stools next to a chubby stranger in a green plaid shirt, seemed oblivious to the rising testosterone flooding the room. But her friend remained uneasy, still looking around as she joined the smaller blonde. And when she reached her bar stool, Short Skirt hesitated a second before climbing up.
Troy grinned when she couldn’t make it on the first try. That skirt was just too damn tight. His amusement deepened as she gave a more determined hop and landed on the leather seat. While she composed herself, setting her purse on the bar and wiggling her pert butt to get more comfortable on the stool, Misty started waving a slender hand in the air as if she was bidding on a vase at a Sotheby’s auction, trying to get Big Bob’s attention. When that didn’t work, Misty stood on the rungs of her bar stool to get additional height waving even more vigorously.
His grin widening, Troy stood up to go say hi to Misty and get an introduction to her friend. But then he paused, grimaced and sat again.
His right knee hurt—had been hurting like a son of a bitch on and off for a couple of weeks. He knew he should see a doctor, but he didn’t want to know if something was seriously damaged. Not until he’d placed first in the bull riding tomorrow, anyway. Until then, he’d keep managing—quite nicely, thank you—with a few shots of whiskey or beer every night, aspirin or the occasional painkiller to numb the grinding ache.
But his knee wasn’t the only thing that stopped him from joining Misty; her expression kept him away, too. Because she looked so happy as she leaned over the bar. More carefree—more alive—than Troy’d seen her these past few months. And if Troy went over there, Misty would look at him and her smile would fade. Oh, she’d quickly replace it. But her new smile would be strained and the dancing light in her eyes would be gone, replaced by uncertainty and guilt.
That would make him angry and she’d know it—'cause he and Misty were tight and they understood each other real well. His anger would make her feel even worse, and that would make him even angrier, and so it would go, on and on.
Reaching into his shirt pocket, Troy pulled out a small plastic bottle and twisted off the cap. He shook the last two pain pills into his palm, downed them, then tossed the plastic bottle aside to reach for his whiskey. Yeah, that’s exactly what would happen if he went over to Misty; he’d bet the Running M on it. Because that’s exactly what happened every time he saw her lately.
Ever since her breakup with Cole Cabrerra.
At the thought of the oldest Cabrerra, Troy downed a shot of whiskey, then another. Eyes watering, he glanced Misty’s way. The place was filling up fast, and since Big Bob had his hands full handling the orders of the people crowding up to the bar, Misty and her friend still hadn’t gotten served. Nor had anyone gotten up the nerve to approach them yet, Troy noted, although the guy in green plaid kept shooting them sidelong glances. Ralph looked ready to make his move, too. He hitched up his jeans, hitched them again and took a step in Misty’s direction—then froze with his gaze fixed beyond her at the entrance and immediately returned to the pool game.
Short Skirt chose that moment to glance at the entrance, too. And, to Troy’s mild surprise, she froze just like Ralph, then hopped off her stool. Grabbing her purse, she hurried toward the restrooms.
Troy watched her come closer, enjoying her leggy stride. Teased again by that sense of familiarity, he waited for her to glance his way. Had he seen her before? She drew nearer—he craned his neck to see her better through the smoky gloom—but with a fleeting glance toward his shadowy corner, she turned her face away and headed straight for the “Gals” room. Shoving the door open, she disappeared inside.
Disappointed, Troy glanced toward the entrance, curious to see what had spooked everyone. For a second, flannel shirts and blue denim rears blocked his view, but then the way cleared and—speak of the devil—damned if it wasn’t Cole Cabrerra standing there.
Like a heat-seeking laser, Cabrerra’s gaze locked on Misty’s slender figure and he started toward her. No one got in his way. One quick glance at his angry scowl had even Big Bob, who was built like a Brahman bull, moving quietly to the other end of the counter.
Cole reached Misty in less than five seconds flat. He tapped her shoulder, she turned—and for an unguarded second her face lit up. Troy’s chest tightened. Then Cole said something, and her expression changed. She looked—well, desolate was the word that came closest in Troy’s mind. Once again he started to rise, to go over to her. But before he could push his chair back, Misty’s expression altered again and she straightened abruptly. Indignation radiated from her small figure. Since she was still standing on the rungs of the bar stool she just about met Cabrerra eye to eye. Her slim brows lowered, her hands fisted on her hips, and she started talking. Troy couldn’t tell what she was saying—the distance was too great and the crowd and country music were much too loud—but judging by