The Convenient Cowboy. Heidi Hormel

tone asked, “You really think someone is going to ask for receipts?”

      “My ex’s lawyers will. I would, if she was my client.”

      She snorted. “Convenient that you know what a lawyer would do.”

      “The reservations are made.”

      “You got two beds, right?”

      Obviously, she saw the logic of his argument. “I doubt it. It’s the honeymoon suite, but I’ll sleep on the couch.”

      “Damn right, you will,” she said. “We’ve got to stop at the ranch, no matter what. I don’t have anything with me for an overnight stay.”

      “There’s a bag in the back—”

      “You went through my stuff?” she said, her voice rising.

      “I stopped at the drugstore and picked up what I thought you’d need. You’d be amazed what they have.”

      He glanced over and noted her stiff posture, along with the small frown line between her dark brows that made the tilt of her eyes even more catlike.

      “You can order anything you like from room service,” he wheedled, using the voice that he’d perfected while married to Missy, the one that calmed cranky women. He resented having to placate her, but that was where he was if he wanted this balancing act to net him custody of his son.

      “Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “I will do this tonight because it’ll make this marriage—” she spit out the word “—appear real. You pull crap like this again, and I’ll invoke the you-need-me-as-much-as-I-need-you clause.” She stared at him hard before she went on, “I’m an adult woman and expect to be consulted when you make decisions. This is not a dictatorship. I might not have a degree or a fancy address, but I know when I’m being played.”

      “Duly noted,” he said, his grip relaxing just a fraction. How was he going to get through this marriage? The same way he’d made it through the first four years of Calvin’s life, protecting him from his increasingly addicted mother—one day at a time and using every trick he’d learned in the courtroom.

      “Also, make a note to yourself to stay out of my personal life.”

      “It won’t be so bad, darlin’.” He tried his hearty, cajoling voice again. “You know there are people who think I’m plumb charmin’.”

      “Yeah, well, people said the same thing about Hannibal Lecter.”

      Her last words came out as a gulping sound, the kind Calvin made just before he hurled. He turned to her. “You okay?”

      “It’s your crappy cologne. It’s enough to make anyone want to toss her cookies.”

      “Did you eat anything today? Maybe we should stop.”

      “Pull over.”

      “I didn’t mean now.”

      “Pull over, or I’m puking all over your pretty truck. Right now.” She swallowed again, and he saw the sheen of sweat on her forehead. He swerved to the far right, ignoring the horns, skidding onto the gravel. Olympia pushed open the door before the truck came to a full stop and vomited into the dust at the side of the road.

      He got out and raced to her. It might not be a real marriage, but she was a human being. She dry heaved for a moment and moaned in misery. He pulled open the door to the king cab and rooted for a bottle of water.

      “Drink this.”

      “I’ll just throw up again.”

      “Rinse out your mouth.” He didn’t let her refuse. She took a long swig and handed him the bottle. He went back into the cab for paper towels, wet one and put it on her neck. “Do you think it’s the flu or something?”

      She shook her head and leaned over, eyes squeezed shut. “It must have been something I ate.”

      “You didn’t eat anything this morning.”

      “That’s probably it.” She sucked in a breath. “I’m so dizzy. This is the fourth day in a row.”

      “Fourth day?” Spence asked, his quick lawyer’s mind putting together the facts into a new pattern.

      “Yeah,” she said, pursing her lips as a breath gusted out.

      “Oh, Christ.” He sagged a little against the door. No. No way. “When was your last period?”

      “None of your damned business,” she said and then leaned over again, although there was nothing left in her stomach.

      He had to be wrong. It was the flu. It was the dreaded Hantavirus. It was... Dear Lord, three months ago in a Phoenix motel room, there’d been that broken condom.

      “Olympia,” he started, cleared his throat and tried again before all his words dried up. “Could you be pregnant?”

Chapter Two

      Olympia’s hand shook as she tried to pee on the stick for the superfast pregnancy results, which had to be negative. She could not be pregnant. She would not be pregnant. She had plans that didn’t include kids, because babies led to living in a trailer hand-to-mouth like her mama and grammy. She’d worked hard to make sure she and her sisters wouldn’t end up there, too. Agreeing to the proposal had gotten her youngest sister, Rickie, set for college. That meant that it was Olympia’s turn to do what she wanted without worrying about someone else first...like a baby. How many more seconds? Too many.

      She wanted to throw up again. Her stomach flipped just below her breastbone. That couldn’t be morning sickness because it had passed noon hours ago.

      “It’s been ten minutes,” Spence said through the door. He’d almost carried her to the honeymoon suite after a quick stop at the drugstore. She’d made him go in and buy the stupid test that would prove she wasn’t pregnant. She had her life mapped out. She’d go on the road with the rodeo, working with stock until she had enough money for the kind of horse that could be a star barrel racer, unlike the two horses at her ranch—rescues no one else wanted.

      She didn’t answer Spence. What a coward she was. Not very cowgirl of her. Pony up and read the damned stick.

      Spence said louder, “What’s going on? Did you pass out?”

      “I... It’s a few more minutes.”

      “I told you to drink more.”

      She wanted to moan in embarrassment and frustration. Not normally squeamish or girlie, talking with a near stranger about her bodily functions made her want to squirm. “Drinking a bunch of water after puking is not a good idea.”

      “I told you that I’d get you ginger ale.”

      She didn’t think the ginger ale would stay down any better. “Go stand somewhere else.”

      “When Missy was pregnant with Calvin, she was only sick until the end of her fourth month, then she was fine.”

      “I’m not pregnant.”

      “The condom broke, Olympia.”

      “So? Do you know what the chances are of getting pregnant?”

      “Really good when the condom breaks.”

      Didn’t he get it? Being pregnant would be a disaster. James women were born without maternal instinct but with a knack for picking men who made even worse fathers. Olympia, named for the beer her mother blamed her conception on—as if any kid wanted that kind of detail about their making—had barely known her father. The only good thing he’d done for her had been leaving her the ranch. Broken-down and not much more than scrub and sand, but it was still hers—if she could deal with the back taxes, the current taxes and all the other bills.

      Like her