The Cowboy's Accidental Baby. Marin Thomas

Buckle Bar—the best cowboy saloon in Mesquite, Texas.

      “No.” Eyes as big as the Lone Star State and brown as the muddy Rio Grande blinked at Gunner.

      “Well, Pa...” Dang, what was her name? Patricia... Patsy... Pamela? “You’re in for a real treat because—”

      “Hardell, I got ten bucks that says you won’t make it to eight.”

      The redhead forgotten, Gunner spun and grinned at the cowboy striding his way. “Watch and weep, Johnson.” He crossed the squishy mat and made a big production of circling Diablo, the infamous bucking machine. The bar had purchased the mechanical bull a while ago, but Gunner had yet to test it out.

      “Be careful!” Redhead whatever-her-name-was called out.

      Johnson mimicked the buckle bunny and male chuckles erupted, but Gunner paid no mind. His competition was just jealous that the prettiest, sexiest girls gravitated toward him. While his buddies practiced their macho swaggering walks and sulky expressions, Gunner smiled and treated the barflies like ladies, endearing himself to the opposite sex. The young women competed to be Gunner’s one and only, but none had convinced him to trade in his bachelorhood for a pair of matching wedding bands.

      Gunner eyed the bucking machine. After he’d entered the bar earlier, he’d hidden in the shadows and watched the big shots take turns on the ride. The bull was a far cry from a real one, but it snorted smoke and challenged the most athletic cowboys with three riding levels—easy, medium and insane. The GoPro camera that came with the machine displayed each ride on the high-definition video screens throughout the bar and Gunner couldn’t wait to see how good he looked on TV.

      “What’ll it be, Hardell? Easy or insane?”

      “You have to ask, Tex?”

      The machine operator spoke into the microphone. “Gather round, folks, ’cause Gunner Hardell picked insane!”

      The onlookers chanted, “Insane! Insane! Insane!”

      Cowboys—the real ones and the wannabes—circled the mat and money exchanged hands.

      Gunner swung his leg over the cowhide-covered machine. Bull riding wasn’t his specialty. His almost-six-foot frame preferred broncs. He slid on a riding glove, then wrapped the rope around his hand before sliding forward and finding his center of gravity. He glanced at the redhead, whose hands were clasped together, and she seemed to be praying as if she were in church and not a cowboy honky-tonk.

      Deep breath. Take another. Gunner closed his eyes and imagined the ride. As soon as he raised his hand and signaled that he was ready, Tex would flip the switch to Insane and the bull would do three things in rapid succession: rise up, pitch forward at a ninety-degree angle and swing left. The motion would then repeat in the opposite direction and launch its victim into the air.

      If he had his way, Gunner would be the first that afternoon to go the distance.

      He took one last deep breath and then raised his left hand. A moment later the machine jerked, and his stomach muscles tightened as he blocked out the noise of the crowd. The echo of his harsh breathing and the angry, high-pitched snorts from the machine were the only sounds reaching his ears.

      He kept his seat during the first rotation and ticked off the seconds in his head. He reached five when Diablo pitched forward instead of spinning left like he’d anticipated. Gunner had no time to react as he suddenly flew forward and did a face-plant in the mat. Grinning, he got to his feet, picked up his hat and bowed to the ladies, who, bless their hearts, were cheering as if he’d won a gold buckle.

      “You owe me ten bucks, Hardell,” Johnson said.

      “Yeah, yeah.” When Gunner stepped off the mat, a waitress handed him a bottle of beer with a piece of paper shoved inside the neck.

      “Compliments of Mac.” Mac managed the bar. “The note’s from your grandfather.”

      This couldn’t be good. He fished out the folded paper. Get your blasted backside home. We got trouble.

      Now what? Grandpa Emmett was always bellyaching about something. Gunner looked longingly at the beer before setting the bottle on the table. He turned to leave, but the redhead blocked his path. Her mouth puckered in a sexy pout. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

      “Sorry, sweet thing. Duty calls.”

      “Duty?”

      He leaned in and whispered, “Grandpa Hardell is having one of his fits and he needs me.”

      Her eyes grew misty. “It’s so sweet that you take care of your grandfather.”

      “Us Hardells are like that. Family comes first.” In reality Gunner gave his eldest brother and grandfather a wide berth because both men were always in a bad mood. “Take care of yourself, sugar.” He kissed the redhead’s cheek because women went nuts when he did that. Ninety-nine percent of the time, a kiss on the cheek won him an invitation to accompany the lady home. Thanks to Gramps, he was flying solo today.

      He stepped outside and squinted against the bright sunlight. It was the end of May and the temps were already inching toward ninety—another long, hot summer in South Texas.

      Gunner climbed into his Chevy pickup and cranked the air-conditioning. The last time he’d checked in with his grandfather had been a week ago and the old man had been his usual grumpy self. Maybe Logan had done something to piss him off, which was a long shot, because Gunner’s sainted older brother never did anything wrong.

      He headed north on I-35. After fifteen miles the gas indicator light popped on. He took the next exit off the highway and pulled into a Valero gas station. A blue Honda Civic with Wisconsin plates sat parked at the pump in front of him. He felt bad for all the cheeseheads who had to suffer through the notoriously frigid dairyland winters.

      He slid his credit card into the reader, then stuck the nozzle into the neck of the gas tank. While he waited, a pretty blonde stepped out of the convenience mart. A gust of wind blew her long hair in her face and she swatted the strands from her eyes. She was a few inches shorter than his six-foot frame, but her strides ate up the pavement—the lady was in a hurry to get to somewhere.

      As she strolled past his pickup—without glancing his way—a sense of déjà vu hit him, but he couldn’t recall where he might have met her. The gray slacks and silky blouse buttoned to her collarbone insisted she was all work and no play. Not his usual type.

      She got into her car and drove off. As he watched the Civic head south, he contemplated following her—just to see if he could coax a smile from her. With his luck, Miss Badger State would have mace in her car and spray his face with it.

      His phone beeped with a text message from Logan.

      Grandpa’s birthday’s tomorrow. Buy him something from us.

      K. Why does he want me to come home?

      IDK He’s been pissy since Amelia Rinehart stopped by.

      The old woman was poking her nose into his grandfather’s business again.

      Be home soon.

      Gunner stuffed the phone into his pants pocket and returned the gas nozzle to the holder, then went into the store and examined the souvenirs on display by the drink machine.

      The options for birthday gifts were limited to bags of pecans, a faux-leather wallet with an image of the Texas state flag stamped on it, an Alamo snow globe, a wooden rattlesnake and an armadillo key chain. The rattler won—it fit his grandfather’s personality.

      “Eight dollars and sixty-six cents,” the clerk said after Gunner set the snake and his fountain drink on the counter.

      “Throw a pack of Marlboro on there.” Gramps had quit smoking years ago but lit up on special occasions. Maybe the lung darts would settle the old man down.

      Back in the pickup, he flipped on the radio and Johnny Cash’s voice came through the speakers. The town of Stampede was