The Pregnant Proposition

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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.

Troy shook his head, wincing involuntarily. If Cole were to ask him—not that a Cabrerra ever would—he’d tell him that he was practically begging to get bit. As Troy had learned at a very young age, it wasn’t wise to put your hand anywhere near an angry female’s mouth.

Troy watched Misty’s eyes narrow, then he speared a bite of sauce-drenched steak with his fork. He chewed, the spicy barbecue burning his tongue, and waited hopefully.

But before Misty could sink her small white teeth into him, Cole leaned close and whispered something in her ear. Above Cole’s palm, Misty’s eyes widened, then narrowed with anger. She shoved Cole’s hand away and answered him right back—and whatever she said certainly shut Cole up. In fact, he was still staring at her in dumbfounded surprise when Misty jumped off the bar stool, grabbed his wrist and her purse, and started towing him toward the door.

Cole followed her willingly. More shouted advice followed their progress, but Misty didn’t pause and neither did the big man behind her. They left to the accompaniment of hoots and hollers without once looking back.

Disappointed at the outcome of the argument, Troy was staring broodingly at the swinging doors when a movement near the restroom distracted him. He glanced over as Short Skirt peered out again, then warily emerged, keeping her face averted. She headed toward her seat, her graceful walk holding Troy’s undivided interest. He smiled a little as this time she gave enough of a jump to make it up on her bar stool on her very first try. Big Bob paused in front of her to point to the door, obviously telling her where Misty had gone. Troy expected Short Skirt to leave, also, but instead, she laid her purse on the bar and reached for the beer Big Bob slid in front of her.

Troy looked around and realized he wasn’t the only one watching her. Seeing her sitting alone caused a fresh ripple of interest in the room. Danny Wilson—with a casual attitude that didn’t fool Troy for a second—abandoned his pool game to swagger in her direction, and ended up in Misty’s abandoned seat, acting as if he’d just landed there by accident and wasn’t aware of the slender blonde next to him at all. His white, chipped-tooth smile widening, Danny settled in, signaling Big Bob for a beer. It wasn’t the first time Troy had seen Wilson in action. Danny worked the circuit as a rodeo clown, and in Troy’s opinion, no one was better at drawing the attention of a maddened bull in the ring. Or, it seemed, a pretty woman in a bar, he mentally added, as Danny smiled at Short Skirt and she smiled back.

Time to get moving, Troy decided. Setting down his whiskey glass, he rose, then stood swaying for a few seconds, waiting for the sharp pain in his knee and the dizziness in his brain to ease. When they did, he carefully made his way to the bar—just as Dan leaned over to say something to the woman.

“Hey, Dan,” Troy drawled, interrupting the other man in midsentence.

Dan glanced his way. “Troy,” the cowboy replied with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Troy didn’t take it personally. The two men were friends, but no man feels friendly to another when he’s trying hard to pick up a good-looking woman, and this blonde was mouthwatering.

Troy studied her as Big Bob slid two long necks on the counter. From across the room, she’d looked attractive. Up close, she was stunning. The lashes resting against her cheeks were thick and dark, shielding her gaze as she stared at the bottles in front of her. Her cheekbones were well defined, her nose small and straight, her lips sweetly curved. But what really set her apart from most of the women Troy had met was her skin. Her glowing, sun-kissed skin was so finely textured it literally looked silky smooth. Touchable. He had to resist the urge to reach out, to run a finger along her smooth, honey-golden cheek.

As if she sensed his thought, she shifted a little, continuing to ignore him, her stiff posture as unwelcoming as Wilson’s greeting had been.

Troy wasn’t daunted; O’Malleys enjoyed a challenge. So he turned to Wilson. “Ready for the rodeo tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“You planning on attending?” Troy asked, peering around the cowboy to try to catch Short Skirt’s gaze.

She shrugged and turned farther away from him—a reaction that encouraged Dan to lean in closer. “You know, I didn’t catch your name,” Wilson said, smiling crookedly at her, “but I think I’ve seen you around town before. Are you a friend of Misty’s from Dallas?” he asked, lowering his voice in an effort to exclude Troy.

Troy refused to be excluded. He moved, stepping blatantly between them to clap Dan on the back. “Misty’s friend?” he repeated in a disbelieving tone. “Are you kidding me, Dan? Why, she was almost Misty’s sister-in-law. Weren’t you, Short Skirt?”

That got her. Her spine stiffened at the nickname, and she turned to meet his eyes. “Are you saying my skirt’s too short?” she asked in a dangerously level tone.

“Hell, no!” Troy stared innocently into her glowering blue gaze, then at her long, long legs. He eyed them leisurely, then let his gaze travel up to her slim waist and sweet breasts—lingered there a moment—then continued higher to meet her eyes once again.

He shook his head solemnly. “No, ma’am, not at all,” he replied. “In my opinion, your skirt’s way too long.”

Her eyes flashed; Troy repressed a grin. Damn, he loved to make her angry. He was getting ready to provoke her some more, when Dan interrupted, “What did ya mean about her being Misty’s sister-in-law?” the cowboy asked uneasily, his puzzled gaze traveling from one to the other. “Do ya’ll know each other?”

Reluctantly, Troy abandoned blonde-baiting to glance over at Dan. “Of course I know her, Dan. So do you. Surely you recognize Ally Cabrerra.”

Chapter Four

“Uninitiated heifers can present special challenges. Often they’ll spurn the male’s advances and ignore all mating cues. Usually all it takes to overcome reluctance is a simple change of environment. Minimize distractions by selecting a pen large enough for the customary chase, but small enough to ensure interaction between the breeding pair….”

—Successful Breeding: A Guide for the Cattleman

Dan reared back like a startled stallion, the whites of his eyes showing, the stunned alarm on his face identical to the expression he’d worn at the Abilene rodeo when a bull had hooked him in the butt. “Good Lord, I’ll be damned if it ain’t. How’re ya doin', Al—er, Ally? I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you for a minute.”

“That’s okay,” Ally murmured, while Troy clapped him on the shoulder, saying heartily, “Now, isn’t that downright amusing.

Why, when Cole returns—are your other brothers coming with him, Ally?—I’m sure they’ll get a kick out of the way you were trying to hook up with their little sister, Dan, without even realizing who she was.”

As a rodeo clown, Dan was accustomed to moving quickly, and Troy had to admire the speed he used to extricate himself from possible danger now. “Heck, sounds like fun,” Dan said, “talking to your brothers and all,” he added in clarification, the color darkening in his ruddy cheeks. “But I need to get home. Have to check my rigging before the rodeo tomorrow. See ya around, Ally. Troy.” He touched the brim of his hat in farewell, then disappeared quicker than fried chicken at a church picnic, his untouched beer the sole remaining testament to his presence.

Troy took off his hat, then confiscated Dan’s bar stool and stretched his bad leg out beneath the counter. He appropriated Dan’s abandoned beer, as well, tilting the long neck to his lips and taking a deep, full swallow before setting the bottle down with a sigh of satisfaction.

He glanced over at Ally. She was pretending to ignore him, focusing intently on the TV perched high behind the bar as if she’d never seen a monster truck rally before. Troy drank his beer as he studied her, unable to get over how different she looked. Her drastically lightened hair framed her slim jaw in a style Misty often wore, and she’d dyed it Misty’s color, too—a golden-wheat shade with stripes of platinum streaking through it. Her simple, sleeveless blouse dipped into a V displaying a modest amount of cleavage, and the rosy-red color of the garment highlighted the pink on her cheeks.

Troy finished his beer and signaled Big Bob for another. On the TV, the trucks on steroids had been replaced by a skinny kid at a flea market earnestly demonstrating the wonders of an orange chamois cloth. Big Bob muted the television volume and cranked up Jim Croce on the stereo speakers, but Ally remained focused on the now silent TV, watching as intently as if she could read the kid’s lips and expected to be quizzed on the ShamWow! later.

Well, Troy had a quiz of his own to put to her, and he wanted his answers before Misty got back. So he corralled the next beer Big Bob slid toward him, then leaned in close to Ally. “So, Al. How’re things going with you?” he asked, bumping her shoulder companionably with his, as if they were long-lost war buddies recently reunited.

She almost slipped off her stool. She caught herself, then answered through clenched, small white teeth without looking his way. “Things are going fine, O’Malley.” Keeping her gaze fixed on the car salesman who’d replaced the ShamWow! kid, she added, “Or they would be if you’d slink on back to your hidey-hole in the corner.”

“Ah, so you noticed me, did you?” Stifling a grin at the way the comment made her soft lips press together, he drawled affably, “I’ll just do you that lil ole favor, as soon as you tell me what’s going on, what with the change in your hair and clothes—” his gaze traveled to that nearly illegal skirt “—and all.”

She turned to pin him with a cold blue glare. “And I’ll just do that lil ole favor for you,” she promised, exaggerating her drawl just as he’d done, “as soon as you tell me what concern it is of yours.”

“Oh, it’s not any of my concern,” he responded promptly, “but curiosity is my besetting sin.”

“Womanizing, drinking and lying are your besetting sins. Laziness is up there, too. Curiosity doesn’t even make the list.”

“And yet I’m definitely curious about all these changes.” His gaze wandered over her again. “Nice ones for the most part—except for the hair.”

Taken by surprise, she exclaimed, “I thought men preferred blondes!”

He shrugged. “Maybe some do. But I prefer your hair like it used to be. Long and dark. Silky-looking. Real pretty.”

The sincerity in his husky tones was unmistakable. Alarmed by the bloom of pleasure she felt, Ally said caustically, “Gee, that’s nice to know, O’Malley. Why don’t I go outside and write that in the dirt, just in case—in some far distant future—your opinion matters to me.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait! I have a better idea. Why don’t you go do it?”

If she’d hoped to deflate him, she failed miserably. Amusement danced in his green eyes. “Are you asking me to leave?”

She didn’t bother mincing the matter. “Yes.”

He assumed a hurt expression. “You wound me, Ally. You really do,” he said sadly, then lifted his hand to regard the base of his thumb as he played the trump card he’d had on her for more than twenty years. “Again.”