The Pregnant Proposition

They lapsed into gloomy silence, staring out the bug-splattered windshield. The cab was hot and smelled like cigarettes, gasoline and rotting vegetables—not too overwhelming when driving, but not especially pleasant when sitting in the blazing sun.

Misty picked up a crumpled fast-food bag by her feet. She looked inside, and wrinkled her nose. “So that’s what stinks. These fries are just about petrified. Ally, your brothers—”

“I know,” Ally said glumly, batting at a fat fly that wandered in. “They’re all slobs.”

Misty tossed the bag over the seat. “You let them get away with too much. You need to—” She tensed, her eyes widening as she stared past Ally’s shoulder at someone across the street. “Hey, Ally! What about him?”

Ally turned and lifted her hand, shading her eyes against the sun as she studied the figure walking away. “Dwayne Cronk?” she asked doubtfully. “I guess, since he just bags groceries at the Piggly Wiggly he could probably use the money, but he always smells like cooked cabbage—”

“Not him—him! The guy who bought the Laundromat and turned it into that antique store! What’s his name? Tim? Tom?”

“Theodore—Theodore Bayor,” Ally told her, a vague memory surfacing. She squinted to read the fancy gold-and-black script scrawled on the store window across the street. “Of Bayor’s Antiques and Collectibles. What about him?”

Misty’s face shone with enthusiasm. “He’d be perfect! After all, he’s new in town, and Tammy told me that though the store’s been open two months now it isn’t making much—so he probably needs the money.”

Ally studied the man arranging a pair of silver candlesticks in the store’s front window. His face was hidden by a dark brown mustache and full beard, but judging by the thick, curly brown hair on his head and his athletic build—wide shoulders, lean hips—he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. “Are you sure he isn’t married?”

“Tammy says he bought the store with an elderly woman named Mrs. Bayor—that must be his mother, over there.” Misty pointed out a plump, gray-haired woman about seventy or so in a dark dress, standing behind a counter. “Tammy told me they’re both from California. It’s just the two of them, so he’s obviously used to working with a woman and—Oh, hide! Quick! He’s looking this way!”

The girls ducked. Misty made the move with smooth grace, but Ally’s longer legs got in the way and she whacked her knee on the dashboard. “Ouch!”

“Shush!” Misty commanded.

They stayed slouched a few seconds in frozen silence. Then Ally said dryly, “Did we really need to hide?”

Misty gave a small chuckle. “I panicked,” she admitted. “But we don’t want him to see us sit back up—that might look suspicious.”

She glanced at Ally. “Anyway, like I was saying, if he’s used to working with his mother, he shouldn’t have any problem working with you. Here—” She groped around the floor and came up with the binoculars the boys kept in the truck. “Uck! They’re sticky,” she complained. She wiped the lenses gingerly with her crumpled tissue, then held them up to her eyes to take another look. “He’s not bad-looking. At least he doesn’t resemble his mother. Why, the poor woman’s three plucked hairs short of a unibrow. Take a look.”

She passed the glasses over, and Ally peered at Theodore’s mother. Misty was right; the woman’s thick, dark brows almost met over the bridge of her long nose.

“And,” Misty added, as Ally slunk back beneath the window’s edge, “he can’t be intimidated by your brothers, ‘cause he doesn’t know them.”

“He’s met Linc and Luke,” Ally pointed out. “Luke’s the one who mentioned him awhile back. He said the new guy is pretty good at pool, so I guess he plays Friday nights at Big Bob’s. They’ve never mentioned getting in a fight with him, though.”

“There you go!” Misty exclaimed, as if that clinched the matter. “What else do you need?”

Lifting the glasses, Ally chanced another peek. He was looking the other way, so she studied his face. He had thick dark hair and nice-enough eyes, she decided. Like Misty said, not bad looking at all, unlike his mother. Ally pointed the glasses Mrs. Bayor’s way—and found her glaring back.

“Damn!” Ally quickly ducked, guiltily dropping the binoculars. “I think his mother saw me.”

Misty checked. “No. She’s still cleaning.” She glanced at Ally. “So? What do you think?”

“He’s okay,” Ally admitted. “And, anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. Do you think I should just go in there and ask him now? Forget about getting dressed up?”

“No,” Misty said decisively. “Dressing up is always good. Besides, you don’t want to corner him, especially on his own territory—and with his mother watching, too. Better to approach him on neutral ground—like Big Bob’s bar on Friday!” she declared, beaming with sudden inspiration. Then she frowned. “No, wait, you said the twins hang out there.”

“They used to. They’re banned for fighting.”

“What about Kyle? Or … Cole?”

Hearing the diffident note in Misty’s tone, Ally assured her, “Cole never goes out.” Happy to see Misty’s tense expression ease, Ally added, “And Kyle’s been going to Abilene every weekend. He must be seeing someone there.”

Misty smiled, saying again, “There you go, then. We’ll get you dressed up in something so sexy, you won’t have to approach Theodore, he’ll come to you. And even if he doesn’t, we’ll shake someone out of the woodwork,” she added on a practical note.

Ally smiled wryly. That might be true for Misty, who even with mascara smudged beneath her eyes, tearstains smeared on her cheeks, and her designer blouse wrinkled, still looked feminine and sweet. Unlike Ally, who felt sweaty and worn-out from her sleepless night. And all her T-shirt was likely to attract was a tractor fanatic. “I don’t have anything sexy. And since Tammy won’t take the dress back—”

“Oh, pooh on Tammy” Misty said darkly. “She’s never getting my business again.” Apparently forgetting they were hiding, she straightened indignantly in her seat.

Ally slowly sat up, too. She glanced toward the antique store. Mrs. Bayor was staring directly at them. Misty saw her and waggled her fingers cheerfully. Ally waved tentatively, too. Mrs. Bayor scowled harder.

Ally hastily turned toward Misty, who’d opened her door to jump out of the truck. “Let’s get some coffee, collect your dress from Tammy, and then you can follow me to my house,” Misty suggested. “I’ll lend you an outfit that’ll be so smokin', the men at Big Bob’s will gather round you like Scouts at a campfire, eager for a weenie roast.”

Ally tried to protest. “Honestly, Misty, men never think I’m hot.”

“They will when I get through with you,” Misty promised. She wrinkled her nose ruefully, adding, “You’re taller than me, but we’re about the same size other than that, I think. I have a cute skirt you can borrow, and a darling blouse. And I have a wig you can borrow, too.”

“A wig?” Ally repeated doubtfully. “Won’t that make me look like I’m in a costume?”

“Not this wig,” Misty said confidently. “It cost almost as much as a small car. I wear it all the time when my hair won’t behave and no one knows it’s a wig at all.”

“Yeah, but you’re a blonde,” Ally said, feeling compelled to point out the obvious. “I’m a brunette.”

Misty airily waved that aside. “So you’ll be blonde for a night. Believe me, nothing alters a woman’s appearance more dramatically—or gathers more male attention—than changing your hair color.” She pondered for a moment, then amended, “Except, maybe, showing off your cleavage. Or your legs. Or your bottom in a tight skirt.” She nodded decisively. “And we’ll do all that, too. Or at least—” her engaging grin dawned ”—you will.”

Panic fluttered in Ally’s stomach. “Wait a minute. I’m not sure—”

“Don’t worry,” Misty said. “When it comes to getting fixed up, I am sure. So be prepared to sizzle.”

Chapter Three

“When evaluating a bull for stud, after testicle size, the next item to consider is the behavioral health of the animal. Is he unwontedly distracted by males in the vicinity?

“A bull whose territorial instincts are overly developed will need to be kept separate from other males. Otherwise, his energy will be expended in fighting, rather than in mating….”

—Successful Breeding: A Guide for the Cattleman

Troy Michael O’Malley had a definite fondness for Big Bob’s Bar and Grill.

Not because the place was at all attractive. Like its owner Big Bob Gallarza—who couldn’t beat a bull dog in a beauty contest—the outside of the barnlike building was worn and weathered. Inside, a scarred mesquite bar dominated one end of the long, smoky room, while three billiard tables on which “Do or Die” tournaments were featured every Friday night jammed up the middle. To hide his lack of cleaning skills, Big Bob scattered straw over the peanut shells on the wooden plank floor, and diners—if eating at Big Bob’s could be termed dining—were squeezed in at small tables at the back, disconcertingly close to the doors marked “Gents” and “Gals” in chipped gilt lettering.

Yet, despite its lack of ambience, Big Bob’s Bar and Grill did plenty of business, simply by featuring the four essential “b’s” of the typical Texas male: booze, beef, babes and barbecue sauce. The booze Big Bob plunked down on his scarred mesquite bar came at reasonable prices, and the steaks were thick and reasonable, too. The majority of the rodeo bunnies perched on the bar stools were also reasonable; just out for a good time with a big-buckled cowboy.

But far and away what made Big Bob’s place really special—at least in Troy’s opinion—was the barbecue sauce. After all, booze, babes and a decent steak could be found anywhere in Texas—anywhere in the world, for that matter, from run-down cantinas in Tijuana, to exclusive resorts in the Swiss Alps. But nowhere else could a man find sauces like Hot Pecos, Lil Red’s, Risky Rita’s, Babalou and dozens more, all crowded—neck to shiny bottleneck—on Big Bob’s pint-size tables.

Seated in a shadowy corner, Troy studied the impressive array of colorful bottles before him. He pushed aside a yellow No Butts, and a blue Eagle Eye, searching for—ah, there it was!— Smokin’ Jo’s, his longtime favorite.

Picking up the tall brown bottle, Troy hefted it in his hand, gazing fondly at the smoking six-gun pictured on the yellow label. This was the sauce he’d tipped back his chair to recommend to a redhead and her two friends at a nearby table a couple of Friday nights ago. He’d been bored, and the flirty, knowing expression on the redhead’s face as she considered his sauce had boded well as a distraction for the evening.

Until Luke Cabrerra horned in with a recommendation of his own.

“Smokin’ Jo’s?” Luke had declared with an exaggerated, good ole boy drawl and an equally exaggerated lift of his eyebrows. Turning from the pool table where he’d been shooting against his twin, Luke rested his stick on the floor while he’d eyed the bottle in the redhead’s hand. With a reproving shake of his dark head, he’d said to her, “I don’t think so. Not for a sweet little thing like you. Quick Draw is more your style,” he added, reaching over her shoulder to pick up a slim green bottle. Looking at the label, Luke read as if quoting Scripture, “'Best barbecue sauce west of the Atlantic and east of the Pacific.’ Now this is a sauce with kick.”

“Kick?” Hell, if Luke Cabrerra wanted kick, Troy would be glad to oblige—by kicking the other man’s ass. Relishing the task, Troy rose to step closer to the woman, also. And when Cabrerra bent over the table to offer his selection to her, Troy leaned over the table, too, and gently but firmly pushed the green bottle aside.

“C’mon, Cabrerra,” he said. “Don’t insult the lady. She’s looking for something that’ll make her toes curl. Something hot, yet smooth and satisfying. Something that will leave her with a warm glow inside. Like Smokin’ Jo’s.”

Troy earned a flutter of the redhead’s false eyelashes and giggles from her friends in reward, but before he could press his advantage, there went Cabrerra, butting in again.

“Smooth and satisfying?” Luke snorted, leaning in closer. “Everyone knows Smokin’ Jo’s is all bitch and no bite. Why, that sauce is so thick it takes forever to get out of the bottle.”

Troy leaned in closer, too. “So?” he said softly. “Who wants a sauce that’s so weak, it pours out after one small shake?” He added deliberately, “Like yours does.”

Luke stiffened. Flinging down his pool cue, he clenched his fists, demanding through gritted teeth, “Are you saying my sauce has no staying power?”

“Ya got it.”

Cabrerra had lunged then—or maybe Troy had. He wasn’t really sure. All he knew was that by the time the sheriff arrived, beer, blood and barbecue sauce were scattered everywhere.

The redhead and her friends had scattered, too. Troy hadn’t seen her since and he had a sneaky suspicion she wouldn’t be back. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that although Luke was a bit younger and a bit taller than Troy—and neither had ever quit swinging—Troy figured he’d won the fight. After all, as he’d pointed out to Luke as they were led away by the sheriff, Troy’s barbecue bottle had made it through the melee unbroken, while Luke’s—weak as it was—had been reduced to a thin, red puddle on the floor.

Shaking his head in remembered pity for the other man’s humiliation, Troy upended Smokin’ Jo’s over his steak and gave the bottle a couple of firm taps. Half a minute later, he administered a couple more. Okay, so maybe the sauce was thick. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—not for a man with patience. And Troy had plenty of patience. All the O’Malleys had when it came to getting something they wanted.

He hit the bottle again. Take his grandfather, for example. For more than sixty years Old Mick had waited to get back Bride’s Price from the Cabrerras. Troy was determined the old man wouldn’t wait one more year—one more month, if possible—for his lifelong goal to come true. Not only for Mick’s sake, but for Troy’s, as well.

Because ranching, like bull riding, was in Troy’s blood—what he’d been born to do. And Mick had finally—finally—agreed to honor the promise he’d made when Troy was a kid, to turn the management of the huge family spread over to Troy.

Just as soon as Troy handed over the deed to Bride’s Price.

Yep, Mick was holding up his side of the bargain. “I’ve put my lawyer on to it,” he’d told Troy just a week ago. “You’ll have controlling interest in the Running M in a couple of weeks, and as soon as you close the deal on that other damn property, I’ll tell that new foreman I hired he’ll have to move on.”

Troy slapped his bottle. Mick should have had Bride’s Price back already—would have had it if Eileen Hennessey hadn’t died before Troy had gotten her agreement 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 the outrage on her face and the way her lips kept moving, Misty Sanderson was on a roll.

In less than fifteen seconds she’d wiped off Cabrerra’s menacing expression; in fifteen more she had him backing up a step. When he tried to interrupt, Misty talked faster and lifted a slender finger to poke him in the chest.

Grinning, Troy picked up Smokin’ Jo’s and started tapping the Short Skirt had disappeared again. Misty and Cabrerra were still going at it—at least, Misty was still talking and Cabrerra, scowl darkening, was still taking it. Misty’s lips kept moving and her finger kept poking—until Cole abruptly caught her hand in one of his and put his other over her mouth.