The Texan's Baby (Texas Rodeo Barons)
“But she wasn’t your real mom.”
The ache intensified. “No.”
“You’ve never had contact with her since she left? You have no idea where she is?”
Her jaw hardened. “No, no contact.”
There was silence for a while. “Have you considered trying to find her, Lizzie?”
Her chest squeezed and she was quiet again. Eventually she answered his question. “I’ve considered it. Lots of times. But the truth is, she walked and never looked back. I’m not sure what good would come of looking now.”
“Maybe she left it so long she didn’t know how.”
She turned a burning gaze on him. “That’d be a cowardly excuse now, wouldn’t it? You gave up something you loved and moved across the state for a child who isn’t even born yet.” She looked back at the road. “I don’t care about the reason. I can’t imagine leaving children behind. What kind of mother does that?”
He didn’t have an answer so he let the matter drop. The truth was she’d been thinking about her mother more and more since finding out she was pregnant. And the more she thought the less she understood. She already loved the baby inside her and she hadn’t even planned it and the situation was less than ideal. It didn’t stop the love, though.
She spotted a flower store so she pulled in and waited while he popped in for a bouquet. After that they let the radio do the talking for them as they left the city behind for the wide-open spaces of fertile ranch land. It was the second week of April; the bluebonnets had peaked the week before and spread in a stunning blue carpet along the roadsides. Lizzie loved wildflower season. When she was a girl she used to love wandering the ranch and picking blooms to bring home. No matter the weed or flower, they’d always found a place on the kitchen table. Even in the grandeur of the Baron house, the family wasn’t too proud for Texas wildflowers.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Chris spoke softly, reaching over and turning down the radio.
“That particular shade of blue is my favorite color. Deep and dark, not quite blue and not quite purple.”
“My mama used to pick them and put them on the kitchen table,” he said, staring out the window, not knowing how her thoughts had taken the same direction just moments before.
“Your mom sounds great,” Lizzie said weakly.
“She is. You’ll like her, I think. She has a real knack for keeping things organized and on track.”
“Are you calling me bossy, Christopher?”
He rewarded her with a saucy grin. “Yes. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. My mom kept everyone on schedule, dressed, fed and under budget as often as was humanly possible. She helped with my homework and expected good grades just as much if not more than my dad expected good rodeo scores.” She could feel his gaze on her face. “They taught me the value of hard work and responsibility and I’ll always be grateful for that.”
She turned troubled eyes to his. “Are they going to hate me?”
He shook his head. “No. Not at all. I promise.”
Lizzie exited off the highway and her nerves increased. “Let me tell my family, will you? When the time is right?”
He reached over and touched her thigh. “Of course. Lizzie, about the other night...”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say. But I don’t think you’re ready to hear it yet. Later. Let’s deal with this first. Just remember, I’ve got your back.”
It was more than she deserved and she knew it.
“Why are you so nice to me?”
His low chuckle rode over her nerve endings. “Maybe because I don’t see a reason not to be. I like you, Lizzie. I have from the start. We’re in a hell of a situation but you’re handling it the best you can. You’ve been fair and I’m trying to be fair in return. Not a bad start to parenting, really.” He smiled at her, encouraging.
“You gave up your home. You moved here. You gave up your year off. And I’ve sacrificed nothing.”
Again he laughed. “You will.”
She didn’t understand what he meant, but they’d reached the lane leading into Roughneck and she shuddered in a breath. “This is it,” she breathed, slowing to keep the dust down as she approached the main house.
* * *