The Cowboy's Accidental Baby

“What about meeting eligible bachelors through Sadie’s and Scarlett’s friends?” her aunt asked.

“It’s not easy finding someone you’re compatible with.”

“All this talk about compatibility is ridiculous. Your uncle and I were raised very differently, but we made it work.”

“I work out of my apartment, which makes it even more challenging to meet new people.” And to add salt to the wound, Lydia’s friends from college were all married and starting families. She was the odd woman out, resulting in awkward get-togethers when talk turned to babies, mortgages and the cost of day care.

“What kind of man interests you?”

“Aunt Amelia, I’d rather not talk about my dismal dating life.” She flashed a halfhearted smile. “Can we discuss why I’m here?” What she really needed to be doing was focusing her time and energy on building her client base.

Amelia pointed to the MacBook Air sitting on Lydia’s lap. “I have a business proposition for you.”

“You want to be one of my clients?”

Her aunt nodded.

Lydia glanced around the porch. “Are you thinking of updating the house?”

“No, I’d like you to renovate the old motel on the outskirts of town.”

“The Moonlight Motel?” The janky dump had seen its best years five decades ago. “I thought that place had shut down.”

“It’s still open...when the manager feels like flipping on the vacancy sign.” Amelia snorted. “Stampede is falling apart right before my eyes.”

Lydia’s grandmother had always wished her sister would leave “that godforsaken dusty hideaway for die-hard wranglers and has-been cowboys.”

“Stampede is losing tourist dollars to our neighbors in Rocky Point and Mesquite all because our mayor isn’t willing to put a little money and elbow grease into sprucing up the town.”

“Why the motel?”

“It’s the only place people can stay when they visit Stampede.”

“What shape is the building in?”

“The rooms haven’t been updated since the ’70s.”

“Do you have the approval of the owner to fix it up?”

“I do. And Emmett Hardell’s grandson will be helping you.”

“Which grandson?”

“Gunner manages the motel when he’s not off pretending he’s a rodeo cowboy.”

Lydia recalled the hot look Gunner had sent her in church during her uncle’s funeral. Later that day she’d overheard her mother and Aunt Amelia chatting about the Hardell boys. Her aunt had blamed their wild ways on the lack of a female influence in their lives. The boys’ mother had abandoned the family, and then a few years later their grandmother had passed away, leaving their “tomcatting” father and “irritable” grandfather—Aunt Amelia’s words—to raise the boys.

“How old is Gunner?”

“A year older than you, I believe.”

“As far as renovating the motel,” Lydia said, “you’re just looking to freshen up the paint colors and change the furniture and decor?”

“That’s right. And I’ll pay you for your work.”

“You don’t have to do that, Aunt Amelia.”

“Of course I do.”

Lydia breathed a sigh of relief, happy she wouldn’t have to dig into her dismal savings to cover the bills next month. “I should be able to handle the task.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you to take on this project if I didn’t believe you had the talent and skill to pull it off.”

“Let’s visit the motel in the morning and come up with a design plan.”

“You’ll have to go by yourself, dear. I have choir practice after church services.”

Lydia had forgotten that tomorrow was Sunday.

“As far as decorating ideas, I’m leaving that in your capable hands.”

“What’s my budget?”

“There is no budget. Do what needs to be done to turn the motel into a place people will drive out of their way to spend the night.”

“Are you covering the entire bill for this renovation?”

Her aunt nodded. “I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, Lydia.”

That was the truth. Everyone in the family knew that Uncle Robert had left Aunt Amelia millions of dollars in stocks and oil investments. “I don’t have many years left on this earth, and before I meet my Maker, I want Stampede to return to its glory days.”

Her aunt would have better odds buying lottery tickets because there was no guarantee that all the beautification in the world would bring tourists back to this hidey-hole-in-the-wall.

“How will I get into the motel rooms to take a look around?”

Her aunt reached into the pocket of her slacks and pulled out a key. “This will open the front office and the room keys are hanging on a pegboard behind the counter.”

The motel rooms still used keys? “I’ll have a better idea of the cost of the makeover once I see the place.”

“If the mayor shows up while you’re looking around, just ignore him.”

“Who’s the mayor?”

“I thought you knew.”

Lydia shook her head.

“Emmett Hardell is the mayor.”

“Grandma claimed you were sweet on Emmett when you were in high school. How come you two didn’t end up together?”

“Because the man’s dumb as a rock when it comes to women.” Amelia waved a hand before her face. “He married my best friend, Sara Pritchett. She was a sweet girl.”

Lydia wondered if the mayor had any idea what he was up against, taking on Aunt Amelia. If he didn’t, he was about to find out.

Chapter Two

Sunday morning Lydia woke up and stared into her open suitcase. She wanted to make a good first impression with the Moonlight Motel manager—even if he was just a country boy. If she wanted Gunner Hardell to take her seriously, then she’d better dress as a professional. She picked out a black maxi skirt and a short-sleeved white poppy-print blouse, then headed for the shower.

A half hour later with her wet hair secured in a bun at the back of her head, she walked into an empty kitchen. Her aunt had left a note on the table. Good luck today. After washing her antibiotic down with a glass of orange juice, she took her bowl of bran flakes outside and ate breakfast on the front porch swing.

Her aunt’s home sat on the corner of Buckaroo Avenue and Vaquero Lane. A yellow butterfly vine in full bloom covered the wrought iron fence enclosing the front yard. A large magnolia tree shaded the porch and smaller crepe myrtle trees lined the driveway, their pink blooms scattered across the black asphalt. Boston ferns hung from ornate vintage hooks along the porch overhang and a pot of daisies sat on the table between a pair of white rockers at the end of the porch.

Aunt Amelia took pride in her home and Lydia wasn’t surprised that she wanted to tidy up the town. All of her neighbors kept their properties neatly landscaped—even the yard of the home with a for-sale sign out front had been mowed recently.

Lydia swallowed the last bite of cereal and returned inside to brush her teeth and put on lip gloss. With her computer in hand, she grabbed her purse and left the house. She drove through town at a snail’s pace—not much had changed since she’d last visited Stampede.

Three blocks of businesses formed Chuck Wagon Drive, the main thoroughfare. The brick buildings dated back to the late 1800s and early 1900s—the National Bank and Trust still remained a bank. The old Woolworth had closed its doors decades ago and now the building housed the Cattle Drive Café on the main floor, the town library in the basement and Statewide Insurance on the third level. The feedstore built circa the 1870s took up an entire block, the doors and windows boarded over. Years of baking in the hot sun had bleached the wood gray. For Sale had been spray-painted on the side of the building.

There were no stop signs in Stampede, just slow signs posted along the side streets. The third block along the main thoroughfare consisted of newer brick storefronts, but the Saddle Up Saloon’s window had a huge crack through it and the sign for the Crazy Curl Hair Salon hung crooked. An out-of-business poster had been taped to the window of the Buckets of Suds coin-operated laundry. Right next door a rocking chair and overturned milk can sat in the display window of Millie’s Antiques & Resale—Open Saturdays had been painted across the window.

The old Amoco filling station on the corner had been converted into a farmers’ market. Empty vegetable and fruit crates littered the back of the lot next to a dilapidated snow-cone stand. The Corner Market sat at the end of the block—Lydia remembered walking there as a kid and buying five-cent candy.

There was no landscaping in front of the businesses, no benches to sit on or flowerpots to admire—nothing but bare sidewalks with weeds growing through the cracks in the cement. No wonder Aunt Amelia was frustrated with the mayor’s lack of interest in beautifying the town. Stampede was aptly named—it looked as if a herd of renegade bovines had trampled the life out of it.

After the last block Lydia hit the gas. A half mile up the highway, the sign for Moonlight Motel came into view—a full moon sitting on top of a forty-foot pole. When the sign was turned on, the moon glowed white and spun in a slow circle. No Vacancy was spelled out across the moon, and depending on whether or not the motel was full, the letters in the Vacancy or No Vacancy glowed blue against the white backdrop of the moon.

She pulled into the parking lot of the six-room tan brick motel and parked by the office. Weeds and trash littered the empty lot. A person would have to be desperate for shelter to rent a room here, which played in Lydia’s favor. Anything she did to the place would be an improvement.

The motel was shaped like a capital L. The rooms were numbered sequentially—starting with 1 next to the office. The once-royal-blue trim and doors had faded to baby blue. There was no pool or recreation area for families to picnic or relax and the office with its peeling window tint gave the impression the place had closed down.

She locked the car door, then used the key her aunt had given her to let herself into the office. The dim interior smelled musty like a suitcase that hadn’t been opened in decades. A chair with an inch of dust coating the leather seat sat in the corner next to a table covered in old tourist brochures. She set the key on the counter, then glanced through the leaflets advertising cave tours and shopping outlets.

“If it isn’t the dairyland princess.”

Lydia spun and came face-to-face with Gunner Hardell.

He removed his cowboy hat. “We bumped into each other at the Valero yesterday.”

“We did?”

“You walked right past me without looking my way.”

Embarrassed she hadn’t noticed him, she said, “I’m sorry. I was in a hurry.”

“You grew up real nice, Lydia Canter.”

So had Gunner. His grin widened, drawing her eyes to his sexy mouth. Handsome wasn’t the right word to describe the dark-haired cowboy. H-O-T with a dozen exclamation points fit better. Too bad none of the men on the dating site she’d joined looked like Gunner.

Her attention shifted to his hands. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

Gunner cleared his throat and she looked away, mortified that he’d caught her studying him. “I understand you’re the manager of the Moonlight Motel.”

“I mostly rodeo and do this—” he spread his arms wide “—on the side to keep Gramps happy.”

“So you know why I’m here.” She tore her gaze from his face and pretended to study her surroundings, irritated that he made her nervous. There weren’t any guys like Gunner on SavvyMatch.com. He was too confident and sure of himself to fit the profiles of the socially awkward men who’d been matched up with her.

“If you ask me,” he said, “the motel doesn’t need a makeover.”

Seriously? Maybe a bull had kicked the cowboy in the head and scrambled his brains. “I’d like to peek inside one of the rooms. I assume the motel is empty.”

“Then you’d assume wrong.”

Her gaze shifted to the front window. “There aren’t any cars parked in the lot.”

“The couple in room 6 didn’t arrive by car.” Gunner waggled an eyebrow and a red flag rose inside Lydia’s head.

“Did an Uber driver drop them off?”

Gunner laughed, showing off a row of white teeth. She pressed a hand to her belly, thinking she must have swallowed a fly while eating her cereal outside—the winged insect wouldn’t stop fluttering inside her stomach.

“Maybelle and Hector rode in on horseback. Red’s hitched to the lean-to behind the motel.”

There was a lean-to on the property?

“Hector and Maybelle have a standing reservation at the end of every month.”

“That means the motel is always open on that weekend?”

“Not if I’m rodeoing,” he said. “I had an extra room key made for them.”

How trusting of him. “Are you away riding horses often?”

Dark eyebrows slanted toward his nose. “You mean broncs.”

“Same difference.”

The brows dipped lower. “Not really.”

“Have you won any buckles?” She’d learned a few things about rodeo from her trips to Texas to visit Aunt Amelia—only the really talented cowboys won buckles and money.

Gunner straightened his shoulders. “No.”

“If you’re not any good at rodeo, why do you keep competing at the sport?”

“Beats waiting for someone to rent a room.”

“Giving the motel a face-lift will improve your wait times.”

“What’s up with your aunt wanting to fix this place, anyway?”

“She’s hoping it will entice tourists to check out Stampede.” Lydia shrugged. “You have to admit the town is depressing.”

“I guess your aunt’s reasons don’t matter. The sooner the property passes her inspection, the sooner I get back to busting broncs.”

“And the sooner I can go home.” At least they were in agreement on that issue.

“So pick a color and I’ll slap a fresh coat of paint on the outside and we’ll call it good to go. Maybelle and Hector don’t care what the place looks like as long as the sheets are clean.”

Lydia would decide when the motel was “good to go.” “Will you show me around outside before I take a look at one of the rooms?” She turned on her laptop and opened the interior-design software program.

“What are you doing?”

She used her fingertip to draw on the screen. “Making notes.”

“What is it you do for a living that qualifies you for this project?”

“I’m an interior designer.”

“Did you go to college?” he asked.

“Yes. Didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “College is for people who can’t get a real job.”

“Well, you can’t ride Wisconsin cows—you can only milk them. So I guess it’s a good thing you live in Texas and I went to college.”

The corner of his mouth quivered, but he kept a straight face. “This way.” He grabbed a golf club leaning against the wall and walked through the doorway behind the checkout desk. She followed him down the short hallway and out the back door.

The lot behind the motel consisted of gravel, dirt, weeds and a small grassy field where Red stood in the shade beneath the lean-to. Lydia made a note on her laptop to ask her aunt if there was enough money in the budget to put in a patio and a children’s playground. A family-friendly motel might encourage Maybelle and Hector to find another place to rendezvous.

She eyed the Dumpster filled to the top with garbage, broken furniture and an old tire. “When do you have the trash picked up?”

“When it overflows.” He walked over to a patch of weeds and swung the club, taking the tops off the dandelions.

She clicked on a new tab and drew a space for an entertainment area. Absorbed in adding details to the sketch, she wasn’t aware that Gunner had inched closer until his breath hit the back of her neck. She inhaled sharply and his scent—a combination of woodsy cologne and pure cowboy—shot up her nose. She attempted to move away, but little suction cups had sprouted on the bottoms of her shoes, keeping her rooted in place.

“Hey, that’s pretty cool that you can draw like that. What about putting in a barbecue so guests can cook out.” He touched his finger against the corner of the screen. “Right here.”

“That’s a great idea.”

“Buy one of those grills with a built-in smoker.”

Of course he’d want that. If her aunt’s plan failed to bring tourists to Stampede, Gunner and his rodeo buddies would use the patio to barbecue and party.

His masculine finger moved to the opposite corner of the screen and whatever he said next failed to register with her because she was wondering how that calloused finger would feel trailing over her lips or across her cheek or along her... Never mind.

Shocked by the path her thoughts were taking, Lydia closed the laptop. “I’m ready to look at a room.”

She followed him back to the office, where he grabbed the key to room 3 from the pegboard behind the check-in desk. She held out her hand. “You don’t have to come with me.”

He stared into her eyes as if he could read her thoughts and knew he made her nervous. “You sure?”

“Very.” Key in hand, she left the office, sucking in a deep breath of dusty air, hoping the gritty particles would clear Gunner’s scent from her head. She didn’t condone his lackadaisical management style, but at least when he was off rodeoing, his sexy pheromones wouldn’t interfere with her work.

Good grief. Not in a millions years would she have thought she’d be attracted to a slacker.

* * *

A LOUD CHUGGING noise woke Gunner and he popped out of the chair in the motel office, where he’d fallen asleep after Lydia had gone off to explore room 3. He peered out the window. What the heck was his grandfather doing here?

He stepped outside and waited for the old 1970 Ford to pull into a parking spot. “I thought you were helping Logan feed the cattle this morning,” he said when the driver-side door opened.

“Too hot.” His grandfather took the pack of Marlboro from his shirt pocket and lit up. “Thanks for the birthday smokes.”

Gunner had left a happy-birthday note on the kitchen table along with the cigarettes and the snake, which he’d wrapped in newspaper. “You weren’t supposed to open your gifts until supper.”

“You wasted your money on that stupid snake. Should have bought another pack of cigarettes.”

“The snake was cheaper.”

His grandfather’s mouth twitched.

“Since it’s your birthday, you should go fishing at the lake.”

“I might later.” He tilted his head toward the office. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up today.”

“I got your message loud and clear. I’m at Lydia’s beck ’n’ call until this place sparkles and shines.”

His grandfather fussed with his belt, then smoothed a hand over his head. Gunner couldn’t remember the last time the old man had taken a comb to his hair, but this morning he’d slicked it down with enough Brylcreem to suffocate a beehive. “Is that a new shirt you’re wearing?”

“No.” His grandfather’s gaze slid sideways.

The creases from the package were still visible. And was that Hai Karate cologne he smelled?

“Did Amelia come with Lydia?”

Before Gunner answered the question, the self-appointed matriarch of Stampede drove her white 1958 Thunderbird convertible into the parking lot. For an instant he envisioned Lydia behind the wheel of the sexy piece of machinery, her blond hair flying in the wind.

His grandfather dropped his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with his boot heel—a boot that had been spit-shined and polished. Well, well, well. That explained the Brylcreem and the cologne. Why his grandfather wanted to impress Amelia Rinehart was a mystery when all they ever did was spar with each other.

Amelia parked next to Emmett’s pickup and Gunner rushed over to open the door and help her out of the front seat. “’Morning, Ms. Amelia.”

“Hello, Gunner.” She peeked around his shoulder. “Emmett.”

“Amelia.”

Gunner shut the door, his gaze shifting between the older couple. “Happy birthday,” Amelia said.

“I don’t much care for birthdays anymore.”

She smiled. “Who does at our age?”

His grandfather’s gaze rolled over Amelia like a teenage boy and Gunner looked away, embarrassed by his grandfather’s gawking.

“Where’s Lydia?” Amelia asked.

“Inspecting room 3,” Gunner said.

His grandfather elbowed him in the ribs. “You should be showing her around in case she has questions.”

“Why would she have any questions? Everything in the rooms has to go.”

Oh, man. The old lady was going to pick a fight with his grandfather.

“Vintage is all the rage,” she said. “But those brown bedspreads weren’t brown when they were first put on the beds.”

“Nothing wrong with covers that hide dirt,” Emmett said.

“Dirt and the infestation of every imaginable bug.”

The door to room 6 opened and Hector and Maybelle waltzed outside—Maybelle still buttoning her blouse. The couple froze when they noticed their audience.

Gunner waved. “Safe travels!”

“Who’s that?” Amelia asked.

“Hector Montoya. He works at the Los Lobos Ranch.” The spread butted up to the Hardell ranch and they raised cattle and alpaca—not wolves like the name implied. “Maybelle’s the ranch maid.”

“For Pete’s sake,” Amelia said, “Why don’t they get married instead of sneaking around?” The couple disappeared behind the motel.

“Marriage isn’t for everyone,” Emmett grumbled.

Gunner agreed. His grandfather still grieved the passing of his wife. Emmett might be a grumpy old man, but he showed his love for others in unique ways—like buying the Moonlight Motel for Sara after she’d been diagnosed with cancer. Gunner’s grandmother had dreamed of running the motel and Gunner figured his grandfather had hoped the place would lift her spirits and encourage her to fight the disease, but Emmett’s plan hadn’t worked out like he’d intended.

“What are you charging for a room these days, Gunner?” Amelia asked.

“It varies,” he said.

“You don’t have a set rate?”

“I charge whatever the person can afford to pay me.”

Amelia’s gaze swung to Emmett. “No wonder you’ve never been able to pay back—”

“I’m done jawing about this place.” Emmett walked over to the truck. “Gunner.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You stick to the plan, you hear?”

“I will.”

“Hold up.” Amelia thrust out her arm, preventing Emmett from closing the truck door.

Gunner held his breath, worried his grandfather would say something he couldn’t take back, which was how he ended most arguments.

“What’s this about a plan? You’re not interfering with—”

“I told Gunner to keep an eye on your niece to make sure she doesn’t ruin the place.”

“What utter nonsense. Lydia doesn’t need a babysitter.” Amelia looked at Gunner. “No offense, young man, but my niece has a degree in interior design. In fact, she has her own design company. She’s more than capable of handling a motel makeover.”

“Just the same,” Emmett said, “Gunner’s keeping an eye on things so the place doesn’t get turned into a pink palace.”

“A pink palace would be better—” Amelia spread her arms wide “—than a motel that looks like it belongs in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.”

“Keep the place rustic. This is cowboy country and there aren’t any fancy-pants oilmen living around these parts anymore.”

Amelia’s eyes flashed with anger. “You never did approve of Robert and he had nothing but nice things to say about you.”

Why had his grandfather brought up Amelia’s deceased husband? Gunner had better intervene before the conversation went too far south. “Time-out, folks.”

They ignored him, their eyes locked in a death stare. The door to room 3 opened and Lydia stepped into view. “There’s the designer,” Gunner said, hoping her presence would calm the bickering duo.

“What’s going on?” Lydia’s worried gaze took in the scene. “I thought you had choir practice after church, Aunt Amelia.”

“We ended early,” Amelia said.

Gunner scowled at his grandfather, warning him to keep his mouth shut.