Expecting...in Texas (8 page)

Logic did little to assuage the hurt she felt. Her thoughts were too painful. Unable to deal with them now, she blocked them out.

“Why are you cross-examining me?”

It wasn’t easy keeping his temper in check, not when he wanted to shake the answer out of her. “Is he?” Cruz demanded, his voice hardly above a hoarse, barely restrained whisper.

There was a darkness in his eyes that made her catch her breath. Savannah squared her shoulders, rallying. She could deal with anger far better than she could with kindness or sympathy. Anger begat anger. She clung to that.

“No, if it’s any business of yours. Dallas and I are just old friends.”

She was lying about some part of this. She had to be. “If the baby isn’t mine and it isn’t his—”

She didn’t want to go any further into the lie than she already had, but clearly he wasn’t going to be satisfied with evasions. Cruz wanted an answer, and she knew he wouldn’t leave her alone
until she gave him one. She thought of Reese. Naming him would hurt no one.

“If you must know, the baby’s father is my fiancé—my ex-fiancé,” she clarified when surprise leaped into his eyes.

“Your ex-fiancé,” he echoed.

The words made Cruz feel oddly numb. So much so that he wasn’t sure just what he
was
feeling. What he should have been feeling at this point was overwhelming relief, not this all-pervading discontent. He remembered how sad her eyes had looked at the christening. He’d prodded her until she’d told him about the broken engagement. Cruz couldn’t see her going back to the man.

“The one you told me you were trying to get over?”

“Yes.”

Savannah could feel his eyes boring into her. She wanted to look away, but she knew if she did, he’d know she was lying. So she endured the look of censure she saw and burrowed further into the deception.

“We decided to give reconciliation one last try.” Savannah shrugged, all the while hating what she was saying. “It didn’t take.”

His eyes regarded her coldly. She’d burned hot beneath him, then gone running back to a man who
had used her so badly. How could she have done that?

“Maybe ‘it’ didn’t, but something obviously did.”

Savannah’s face remained impassive at the cynical remark, giving Cruz no clue just how much it hurt. She drew herself up.

“The bottom line is that you don’t have to worry, Cruz. I won’t be coming to you asking for anything.”

He was off the hook totally. Every single man’s nightmare, and it was over, just like that. Why couldn’t he feel better about this than he did? Why couldn’t he successfully curtail his anger at finding out that she’d slept with someone else?

“So, will you be going back to
him
asking for anything?”

She didn’t like the tone of the question—and certainly not the implication that she would use the baby as a tool to get money.

Her eyes hardened, drawing a curtain over her vulnerability. “It wasn’t a planned pregnancy. Possession is nine points of the law. The way I see it, I have possession of the baby, that means the baby is my responsibility and no one else’s.”

For a second, Cruz’s temper cooled a little. He thought of Maggie. His sister had found herself in the same situation when she was pregnant with
Travis. Her husband had shunned his duty completely, choosing instead to divorce her and disappear from her life. And the life of his son.

Cruz remembered how he had felt at the time. Like he wanted to kill her husband with his bare hands. “Fathers have some responsibilities, too.”

Responsibilities, but not love
, she thought. And love was all she wanted for her baby. And for herself.

“Sometimes, it’s best for everyone to leave all that untapped.” With effort, Savannah sat down again behind her desk and pretended to shut him out. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I have work to do.”

“No,” he said, barely containing the flash of temper he felt. “There’s nothing else.”

He slammed the door behind him when he walked out.

Savannah wilted in her chair. She jerked, her eyes darting toward the door when it opened again less than a minute later.

Crossing to her, Vanessa put her arms comfortingly around Savannah. “Are you all right?”

Savannah took a deep breath, then let it out slowly before answering. “No,” she admitted. “But I will be.”

The way she saw it, she had no other choice.

Six

T
he lariat slipped out of his hands—that made three times since he’d started today. Muttering a curse, Cruz stooped down and picked it up off the ground. Pickett whinnied, and it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Cruz’s foul mood intensified.

What the hell was the matter with him lately?

He knew the answer to that even as he made the silent demand. Knew the answer, even though it still didn’t make any more sense to him now than it had a week ago.

The woman was pregnant and out of his hair. He usually liked it when loose ends took care of themselves, and there was no question that these had. God knew he’d never been one for long-term romances. To him, long term meant maybe a week, if that much. It certainly didn’t mean harboring any sort of feelings for a woman for months.

It had been a little more than four months since he’d first slept with Savannah.

And last slept with Savannah.

Disgusted with himself for dwelling on her, and
with Savannah for preying on his thoughts this way, Cruz recoiled the lariat.

But his mind refused to clear.

Right from the beginning, she’d been different. He’d never had a woman linger on his mind, never had an insatiable craving for a woman he’d already had once. And he certainly had never refrained from seducing one if he’d been so inclined and had the opportunity.

Whenever he’d been with Savannah since she’d arrived at the ranch, he’d sensed that all he had to do was push the right buttons—the way he had that first night—and she would be his for the taking. But because she’d tried to resist, he hadn’t pushed.

What had he been thinking?

And what was he thinking now?

Instead of using the lariat, he hung it from one of the posts on the small, circular corral. Damn it, it had been almost a week since Savannah had dropped that little bombshell of hers on him, and he was still letting it fester, like a wound he somehow couldn’t make himself clean. A wound that hurt every time he touched it.

Ruben frowned as he watched his son working with the horse. Or not working. He’d always been proud of the boy. From the time Cruz was five years old, it was obvious that he had an affinity for
animals—horses in particular. More than just an affinity: a gift. He could make horses do anything he set his mind to. A little like the women who were always seeking him out, giving him no peace. Not that Cruz ever seemed to want any.

He’d also shown an early talent for making the most of the opportunities, and the women, who came his way.

But something was wrong. And it had been for more than a week now. Cruz seemed preoccupied, not at ease with himself or the horse he was training. Usually, it was a pleasure to watch him. But for the last week, it had been nothing short of painful.

Rosita had her own theories as to what was bothering their son. She’d sent Ruben here today to check it out. As if he needed an entreaty from his wife to see what was wrong with his son.

Hooking his arms around the top railing, Ruben hoisted himself up for a better view. The horse was roaming about the corral, waiting for Cruz to make a move. But Cruz was just standing still, lost in thought.

“It isn’t going well, is it?”

Cruz turned around at his father’s question and forced himself to wipe the scowl from his brow. Normally, he didn’t mind being watched, but today the results he was after weren’t materializing. He
didn’t like looking like a fool, even to his own family.

His broad shoulders moved up and then down carelessly. “Some horses are slower than others.”

“The same could be said of some women.” Ruben smiled. “Some take more patience. Those are the ones that are worth waiting for.”

Cruz studied his father’s sun-bronzed face. “Did you come here to lecture me about women or horses?”

Ruben’s eyes were solemn. “I didn’t come here to lecture you about anything. You seem restless. Your mother worries.”

And so did his father, Cruz thought. But he couldn’t help that. He couldn’t live his life for others; he had to find his own way. He’d always thought that the path was straightforward. Ever since he was ten, he’d known exactly what he wanted.

And yet…

Cruz stared off toward the horizon. Things had been much clearer before Savannah had come here. “Yes, I’m restless. I’m tired of working for someone else. I want something of my own.”

Ruben patted Cruz’s thigh in sympathy. “Patience, Cruz.”

Cruz felt he’d already been patient far too long,
and it had gotten him nowhere. “Patient people grow old.”

Ruben knew what it felt like to be young, to want things immediately. “Patient people
live
to grow old.” He thought of his life with Rosita. “Half the pleasure of victory is the path that it took to get there.”

“I’ve been on the same path for a long time—scrimping, saving every dollar. And somehow, it just never seems to be enough. Just a little more, a little more. I want a piece of land—nothing huge—just something my own to start out with. Something to leave my mark on. I want a ranch of my own before I’m too old to sit on a horse.”

“I’m more than twenty-five years older than you,” replied Ruben. “I can still sit on a horse, still keep up with the likes of you. And my father rode until he was almost eighty.”

Focused on his frustration, Cruz didn’t hear the encouragement in his father’s words. He only gleaned what he wanted to. “That’s probably how old I’ll be before I can put together enough money to buy a ranch. Seventy-nine, like Grandpa.” It was the age at which his grandfather had died.

For a moment, Ruben said nothing. But he knew it wasn’t ambition that was making his son so short-tempered today. The drive that burned in
Cruz’s chest so brightly was nothing new—the flame had been there for a long time now.

No, it was something else. Something, he had a feeling, that Cruz was not accustomed to dealing with.

Ruben leaned back, looking toward the ranch house. Maybe Rosita was right, after all. “I hear the new woman on the ranch is with child.”

Ruben watched in fascination as Cruz’s jaw tightened. “Word gets around fast.”

“Is it yours?” Even as he asked, he felt he had his answer. That would go a long way toward explaining why his son was acting the way he was. Silently, Ruben tipped his hat to his wife’s intuition.

Cruz shot him a look. The question drew fresh irritation. “No.”

Children did not always tell their parents the truth, Ruben thought. He hadn’t always himself. But there was more than the truth involved here. There was a child’s welfare. “A man should never deny his own child.”

“I said no!” Cruz snapped. “She told me it wasn’t mine. That the baby belongs to some man she was in love with before she came here.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. Why couldn’t he make peace with that? Why couldn’t he just believe her, and move on?

“But you’ve been with her.”

Resentment flashed in Cruz’s eyes, put there by his own confusion. “Since when did you start keeping a diary on me?”

Ruben’s face grew stern. His temper was slow, but it could burn just as strongly as Cruz’s, once it was stoked. “I would watch my mouth if I were you. You’re not too big for me to take a strap to.”

“Big words from a man who never raised a hand to any of his children.” But Cruz’s voice had softened a little. He hadn’t meant to be disrespectful. His father didn’t deserve being on the receiving end of his temper.

“One is never too old to learn.” Ruben looked at him pointedly. “Never.”

Taking off his hat, Cruz dragged a hand through his hair. For a long moment, he watched the horse move about the small enclosure, anxious to be free. Like him. Savannah was releasing him of all responsibility, telling him the child wasn’t his. Why wasn’t he content with that?

He flashed an apologetic grin at his father. “You’re right. I’m sorry. And yes, I’ve been with her. But that doesn’t matter.”

“Perhaps it does.”

Wearily, Cruz put his hat back on. “What are you getting at?”

Ruben smiled. “Only that maybe she wasn’t telling the truth.”

Cruz looked at his father. “You think she lied about the baby?”

“About who the father is, perhaps.”

It didn’t make any sense to Cruz. Savannah would have everything to gain by telling him. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Ruben shrugged. “Perhaps because she does not want you to feel responsible. Perhaps she does not want to be a burden.” He paused. “Perhaps she does not think you would be a good father. Or perhaps she has heard about your plans to be your own man, to own your own place, and she knows that a child would rob you of those dreams, at least for a little while.” He looked at Cruz. “Does she know about your dreams?”

Cruz crossed back to where he had left the lariat. It was time to get back to work, back to what he knew and understood. For all his experience with women, he didn’t understand them. All he understood was how to make them feel good, and how to live in the moment.

But his time with Savannah had been different. They
had
done more than enjoy each other. He and Savannah had talked a great deal. She had been a good audience, and he had caught himself sharing
feelings with her more than once—something he’d never before done with a woman he’d slept with.

Turning around again, he shrugged in reply. “I might have mentioned them.”

“Did she listen?”

“Yes, she listened.” And that had been what had intrigued him about her. Savannah hadn’t just pretended to listen. She really had listened.

“Then perhaps you have your answer. Perhaps she does not want to rob you of those dreams of yours.”

Irritation, not far from the surface these last few days, leaped up. “Why are you so convinced that this is my baby?”