Maybe they’d even be able to help me tie down my woman once and for all, I thought, casting a hard look at the silent girl beside me.
What the hell are you doing, old man? You are like the fucking boogie man. You are not the hero in this story. That young buck back there was.
Maybe so, I told the voice inside me. But fuck that. I get to win, anyway. I get the girl.
“Pull over! I’m going to throw up!”
My first thought was that she was trying to trick me. To escape. Then I saw the green tinge to her skin.
“Shit,” I cursed as I checked the road. We were clear. I carefully eased us onto the side of the road. Thankfully, it was a low traffic time and we were already off the highway. I preferred to take smaller roads once the bulk of the trip was over.
She had the door open practically before I stopped, leaning over and throwing up before she even got her seat belt off. Fuck. I hated seeing her like this. I knew it was normal for pregnant ladies to puke, but this wasn’t cute. This was violent retching.
I rubbed my hand in flat circles on her back. She hadn’t been trying to trick me. My baby was doing that to her.
Our baby.
“Little bastard is just saying hello.”
She didn’t say anything. She just wiped her mouth with the napkin I handed her and rinsed out her mouth, spitting onto the side of the road. Then she slammed the door shut, adjusted her seatbelt, and closed her eyes.
“Might get less nauseous if you keep your eyes on the horizon.”
Her eyes flew to mine in surprise. She nodded and stared straight ahead, otherwise ignoring me. I didn’t blame her.
And I still didn’t trust her.
Maybe it wasn’t fair, but she’d put the fear of God in me.
First by blowing me off for days, and then the whole marriage proposal from the ex thing. I could still see it. That moment when he’d opened the box. I’d already been watching, telling myself I was imagining things, that I should give her space, let her see her friends and make her own decisions.
Well, once again, fuck that. She was mine. I was older. Not always, but in this case, she was going to have to listen to me.
Listen and obey.
And until she agreed to marry me and made me believe she could be trusted not to leave with Mr. Football, she wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cynthia
I stared around in wonder. After almost five hours of driving in tense silence, Preacher had pulled onto smaller and smaller roads, climbing higher and higher into a dense forest until after another half an hour, we finally turned onto a private gravel road.
The No Trespassing, Keep Out, and Private signs made me pray that he knew the owner. Because I was pretty sure I’d seen another sign with a shotgun drawn on it half buried in the bushes.
Um, okay. We were not in Portland anymore.
At the top of the drive, the heavy trees opened up to reveal a rustic cabin and a view that took my breath away.
“Where . . . are we?”
“This is my place. Where I stay between gigs,” Preacher said, and I could hear a slight tinge of pride in his voice. “Well, here and my shack in Mexico. Clubhouse is just down the mountain, about forty-five minutes in a car.”
“Mountain?”
He nodded.
“Yes, darlin’. We are far from anyone,” he said with the clear implication that no one was coming to rescue me. “No neighbors for miles.”
I stared at the cabin, chewing my lip. It looked sturdy. But did it have running water? Or . . . spiders?
“Is it safe?” I gave him a wary glance. “Is there a real toilet?”
He gave out a sharp bark of a laugh.
“I left it rustic on the outside, but it’s got the amenities inside.” He scratched his beard. “There is a possum living under the floorboards, but we’re old friends.”
I crossed my arms under my chest.
“A possum? If you think I’m going in there, you are out of your damn mind.”
He gave me a grim smile.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Then I was lifted, twisted, and carried up the stairs to the rickety looking front porch. A padlock was undone and a door was kicked open.
It screeched in protest, just like they always do in horror movies.
I couldn’t help it. I threw my arms around his neck.
I was definitely not a country girl. Give me an alley cat any day of the week. A cockroach. Even a rat.
But possums? All I knew about those were that they had teeth. And for some reason, I thought . . . even thumbs?
I had a strict policy never to trust an animal with opposing thumbs.