Coulda Been a Cowboy. Brenda Novak

on his diapered behind and jabbered as he played with her keys, which she’d given him because he didn’t seem to have any toys.

      “I’ll get you some blocks when I go to town today,” she promised.

      Finished drying the last pan, she scooped the baby into her arms and laughed as he planted a wet kiss on her chin. She knew the behavior had more to do with teething than affection, but it felt good all the same. “You’re something else, you know that?” she told him, tickling him under the chin.

      He giggled and buried his face in her neck, and she hugged him close. He felt so solid and round and soft. He was going to be big, just like his daddy.

      She could get used to this job, she decided. She already liked it more than anything else she’d done.

      “If your father’s not going to use the gym, maybe I will,” she said. “Then you and I will go outside and see what needs to be done to plant a garden.”

      As long as she’d be at the cabin so much, she figured she might as well take advantage of all the amenities. The cupboards in the kitchen, and the freezer in the mudroom, were so well stocked maybe she’d even do some cooking. She’d found steaks, shrimp, crab, even a couple of lobster tails—and Tyson acted as if he didn’t care what she did as long as she kept the baby happy.

      She thought of the magazines piled in her bedroom in the trailer—mostly fan magazines because they were quick reads, but there were plenty of food and wine magazines, too. Mr. and Mrs. Cottle at the pharmacy gave her the outdated ones they pulled from the shelves. When she was young, she’d dreamed of becoming a gourmet cook and had spent a lot of time since then studying food preparation and experimenting with various menus.

      Later today, she’d pick up a few recipes she wanted to try. She needed to check on her father anyway. But she didn’t really want to see him. His irrational and violent behavior wasn’t easy to forget. After he cut her last time, he’d promised he would never raise a hand to her again.

      She ran her tongue over her sore lip. Since he’d started drinking, he was no longer the man she’d once known and loved.

      She wouldn’t visit today. Nor would she call, she decided. Mrs. Duluth would alert her if there was anything serious going on. Feeling better, she hurried to exercise before Tyson came home.

      TYSON FORCED HIMSELF to run uphill so fast he felt as if his lungs might burst. With so many personal problems and so much competition on the field, he had to be better, stronger, faster. Mind over matter, he reminded himself, and kept going even when he was convinced he’d drop if he didn’t quit. His knee was starting to hurt—he knew a trainer would tell him to take it easy—but he was tired of giving in to the weakness. He wasn’t ready to leave the NFL. He still had five good years in him.

      If only his body would cooperate.

      As long as he could play, the endorsements wouldn’t matter, he told himself. He’d still be gainfully employed. And if he played well, he could outlast the scandal over Rachelle’s accusations and, eventually, maybe he’d win a few of them back.

      But that wasn’t very realistic, and he knew it. By then, he’d be older and that much closer to retirement. It was the young guys the big names wanted—the ones with a perfect reputation.

      “Damn her,” he said aloud. Then, unaccustomed to the altitude, he finally stopped and bent over to suck some cool, mountain air into his burning lungs.

      He had to go back to California, he realized, had to meet with Rachelle. Maybe he could talk some sense into her. He knew it wasn’t likely. She had no conscience or she wouldn’t have done what she’d done in the first place. But what other option did he have? He wouldn’t relinquish Braden. He was convinced taking the baby had been the best thing to do. How else could he be sure his son would be raised right?

      But he couldn’t stand by and let her destroy his reputation and possibly his career.

      “I can be back tomorrow,” he promised himself and headed for the cabin.

      TYSON’S VISIT to California didn’t turn out to be the quick trip he’d intended. He couldn’t get a flight out of Boise until the following morning, and when he reached L.A., Rachelle wouldn’t respond to his attempts to contact her. After three days, he finally showed up at her place unannounced, only to be confronted by a man who claimed to be her bodyguard.

      “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Garnier.” The giant Samoan left the security chain in place and spoke through the crack. “You can get in a lot of trouble for being here.”

      Garnier wasn’t intimidated by the hulky bodyguard. He faced men who weighed one and a half times his weight for a living. “Why? All I want to do is talk to her.”

      “I’m sorry, but you’re violating a restraining order.”

      “A what?” Tyson cried in confusion. Restraining orders were for dangerous, violent men. He’d never struck a woman in his life.

      The man shoved some papers through the crack. “Consider yourself served.”

      Tyson stared down at the official-looking paperwork.

      “You can’t come within two city blocks of Ms. Rochester or you could be arrested,” the bodyguard informed him. “The hearing is in six days.”

      Disbelieving, Tyson scanned the fine print. It was true. Rachelle had filed for a restraining order. “Wait!” Tyson put a hand on the door so the Samoan couldn’t close it. “The only thing I should be arrested for is being stupid enough to get mixed up with her in the first place,” he nearly shouted.

      The man glanced nervously at Tyson’s hand. “The cops are already on their way.”

      Tyson’s muscles bunched in impotent rage. “This is nuts!”

      “Just because you’re a famous football player doesn’t mean you have the right to harass women.”

      “Harass them!” This time Tyson did shout. “When have I done anything to her? She’s a freakin’ parasite, that’s what she is. It’s my money that’s paying your salary!”

      At Tyson’s sudden burst of temper, the Samoan stepped back. “You’re losing your cool,” he said. “Please leave before the police have to drag you away.”

      No, this was too unfair! “Look.” Rolling up the papers, he shoved them in his pocket and forced himself to lower his voice. There was no need for a hearing, no need for this to get out of hand. All he wanted was for Rachelle to live up to the agreement she’d made. “You can stay in the room if you want. Or bring her to the door so we can talk through the crack. I’m not going to touch her. I swear.” He lifted his hands to convince the man of his honesty. “I just want to speak to her. I need to know what’s going on.”

      A female voice said something in the background that led Tyson to believe Rachelle was close by, but the bodyguard shut the door before Tyson could address her directly. A moment later, the Samoan opened it again, but only as far as the security chain would allow. “Sorry. Ms. Rochester feels she’d be unsafe.”

      A tic began in Tyson’s cheek. “In what way?”

      “She says you’re not stable.”

      Until that moment, Tyson had never seriously considered hurting anyone. “Rachelle, what the hell are you doing?” he yelled. “We had a deal. You got every penny you asked for. What more do you want?”

      “I want my baby back,” he heard her say. Then the door closed again.

      Tyson banged on the wooden panel. He even went around back to see if he could get Rachelle’s attention through the windows. He hoped the police were really on their way—maybe they’d help him sort this out. But, evidently, she’d called the media, too. Because it was a reporter who showed up first—and snapped a picture of him climbing over her fence, the set of his jaw so rigid that, when it was published