Home on the Ranch: Texas Wedding

“I love my son.” He frowned. “I will love this child, too. Deeply.”

Her gaze fell away. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

Everything Teddy had said this morning—love and family and the right man—burned a hole in the middle of his forehead. Words clogged his throat. “I know.”

Seconds ticked by, long enough for her to glance his way. “Exactly.”

“You said it. We don’t know each other yet—”

“For all you know, we’ll end up...hating each other. And what about your son? What if he doesn’t like me? Or... I’m a terrible mother.” She shook her head. “Not that I’ll be a terrible mother. I’ll be an amazing mother—with or without a husband. This isn’t a solution, it’s taking a difficult situation and making it ten times worse.” Her eyes were blazing and her nose wrinkled in frustration.

He couldn’t imagine hating Renata Boone or how marrying her could make this worse—but now wasn’t the time to argue. Or to point out that the very fiber of his being rebelled at the possibility of another man parenting his child. From the set of her jaw to her ramrod posture, he could tell he was losing this argument. “Maybe take some time to think about it.”

He hated the sheen that filled her blue eyes.

“I don’t need to think about it, John-Asher Carmichael.” All the color drained from her face. “Marrying you isn’t an option.”

Her reaction surprised him. More than that, it was one hell of a knock to the ego. He hadn’t expected her to light up like a kid on Christmas morning or anything but she was acting like he’d insulted her.

“And your family? You think they’ll agree with that answer?” He tapped his fingers on the table. “This isn’t just me and you we’re talking about—”

She bolted to her feet. “Oh—ah—um,” she stammered. “I’m so sorry. I forgot. An appointment. With...someone.” Her mouth opened, then closed, before she headed toward the door, tripping on one chair leg but managing to slip from the restaurant before he could reach her.

“Everything okay, son?” Carl Stephens appeared. “I’ve known that girl a long time and I’ve never seen her worked up like that before.”

Ash stared blindly out the large picture window that took up the front of the bakery. There had been no hesitation—no room for negotiation. She’d turned him down flat and walked away. What the hell had he expected? She was right. They were strangers. No, not strangers. Not after the night they’d spent together. And now, this baby? This baby deserved more than a knee-jerk reaction and a rapid dismissal.

“Son?” Carl repeated, sharper this time. There was no denying the suspicion on the man’s face—or the disapproval in his tone.

“I’m out of practice, I guess.” He shrugged, shooting for humor. “Need to up my charm. Or something.”

Carl Stephens chuckled. “Damn but that woman gets it right every time.”

Ash frowned. “Sorry?”

“My wife.” The older man clapped him on the shoulder. “She said she saw something between you two the minute you walked in. Don’t give up hope. My wife swears that little lady you were having lunch with is sweet on you.” He sighed. “Lola’s never wrong—something she never lets me forget.”

As

much as Ash wanted to believe Lola Stephens’s intuition, he knew better. If Lola was never wrong, Renata wouldn’t have been so quick to turn him down.

Chapter 7

Family dinner meant extra tables and chairs to accommodate her brothers, their wives and all their offspring. She enjoyed the chaos and noise and overlapping conversations that lasted through dessert. The happiness on her father’s face filled her with love. That was what family should be. Loud and unpredictable, messy and invasive, heartache and the occasional squabble—but, always, love. Why didn’t Ash get that?

The pain he still felt over losing his wife spoke volumes. He’d loved her. Renata wanted that. No, she deserved that. Marrying a man who didn’t love her, who didn’t light up when he saw her, was unfathomable.

Baby or no baby.

Instead of dwelling on Ash and his ridiculous behavior, she put a roll on each plate, butter and honey on the table, and made sure there was an abundance of extra napkins. All was well, until Clara pulled the turkey from the oven. Something about the aroma of all that golden-brown deliciousness had her unobtrusively hurrying to the closest bathroom.

She washed her face and hands, ran a cool cloth along the back of her neck and stared at her reflection. “We’ve got to work on this throwing up thing,” she murmured, pressing her hand to her stomach. “Clara’s turkey is delicious.” She sucked in a deep breath, smoothed her hair behind her ears and went back to poke at her food.

But Fisher was waiting for her in the great room—wearing no less than a scowl. He’d been out of sorts all afternoon, sullen and quiet. He was acting more like Archer than her easy-to-laugh twin.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. Her bear of a brother was a gentle giant, for the most part. But when something riled him up, his temper was a force to be reckoned with. He looked plenty riled up at the moment. “You look upset.”

“I am.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her. “I ran into Winnie this morning.”