Somebody’s Baby

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Mid-June. Cody, Wyoming.

“Are you T.J. Sinclair?”

The whiskey-smooth female voice spun him around like the rodeo bull that had pushed his face into the dirt minutes ago. T.J. was still hurting. He was worried too about the bull, which like T.J., had limped from the ring. Sometimes being an animal lover didn’t help his chosen career. In the dark parking lot, he braced one hand on the open tailgate of his truck, then tried to straighten to his full height.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

His dizzy head took another spin. Gritting his teeth—thanks to the plastic guard he’d worn in the arena, they were still in his mouth—he fought against the pain in his right shoulder. Not his riding hand, which was a blessing, but he sure didn’t want company.

Never mind that this interruption was knock-him-out gorgeous. The face matched her voice. One glance, and he thought, Whoa, Nellie.

But T.J. tried to ignore her. Lots of women followed the circuit—not the kind he could take home to his mom.

Left-handed, he buttoned his shirt that had been hanging open, tails out, to help cool him down after his ride. He wouldn’t show his half-dressed self or his momentary weakness to a female he’d never laid eyes on before. A woman whose body, like her voice, made him think of darkened rooms and sex. She had the kind of figure, modest breasts and slim hips, mile-long legs, that T.J. had favored since he hit puberty.

On the road he rarely scratched that itch. He had to stay focused. As his father had warned him during T.J.’s first week as a pro, his life depended on it and, damn, if he wasn’t the smartest man T.J. had ever known. Big boots to fill, he knew—had always known—which he meant to fill and then some. Beat his dad’s outstanding record. Because, along with the love and admiration T.J. had for Danny Sinclair, he also held a grudge.

Another blade of pain pierced his shoulder. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to say no need for treatment to the medical staff.

T.J. glanced away from the blond. And spotted the little pup nearby that had been begging for food, and love, from every cowboy at the event. He’d had pretty good luck, but no one had come to claim him, including T.J. who only wanted to get back to his hotel now and a long soak in a hot tub.

Last thing he needed was this buckle bunny, no matter how good she looked. Her gaze trailed over him again from rodeo-dusted hair to torn jeans and scuffed boots. T.J. studied her in turn. After his days as a top competitor ended, he’d consider settling down. Maybe. In the meantime, he’d earned his nickname on the circuit—Hellraiser—and he wasn’t looking for love.

In fact, right now he already had a girlfriend, in a casual way, though she had growing expectations of a diamond ring. That wasn’t going to happen either. Something he needed to deal with soon rather than later.

Then the blond said, “At last we meet,” and he couldn’t ignore her any longer. “I’ve been looking for you. We need to talk. Dakota,” she said as if to jog his memory.

T.J. blinked. “I didn’t ride there this season.”

“Not the state. That’s my name. Dakota Farrell.”

“Okay.” He couldn’t say pleased to meet you. “But why me?”

For one horrified moment T.J. wondered if she was a stalker. Buckle bunnies were an irritation to some, a godsend to others for a night or two, but they were mostly harmless. Just girls who wanted to have fun. A woman who hounded a man from one state to another was something else again. He had a bad feeling. This just wasn’t his day.

“Look. Sorry, but I’m not in the mood for ‘talk.’” He tilted his head toward the parking lot exit and the street. “You want company, try the Rusty Nail. Two blocks down, one block over. You can’t miss it. It’s not a bad bar.”

T.J. shot another glance at the little brown stray that was loping in and out among the parked cars. From the distance he could hear the banter of other cowboys, boastful or chagrined after their rides. He heard a bull—one of his father’s stock from Danny Sinclair Bucking Bulls?—bellow from the pens. He could smell the pungent scents of cowhide and manure, the sweeter odor of hay on the star-filled Western night. None of that took away the alternating sharp spikes then the grinding pain in his shoulder. Or wiped out the image of this stranger.

Why follow him anywhere? Cheyenne. Houston. Enid, Oklahoma. He hadn’t noticed her at any venue this season. Until now.

From the corner of his eye T.J. spied the brown puppy nosing at a discarded food wrapper. At the same instant, a man crossed the lot then altered course to pass T.J. and Dakota Farrell. He lifted his eyebrows. “Guess your mind wasn’t on that bull today, Sinclair,” he murmured, gaze skimming over her.

T.J. groaned inwardly. He had all sorts of issues with Riley Savage, one of his main rivals who was like a constant burr under T.J.’s saddle. Don’t let him get to you. Dakota Farrell was none of Riley’s business either.

With a smirk, Savage walked a few steps then turned back.

“Eighty-three points for me,” he said. “Second place. Too bad about your wreck.”

And still, T.J. didn’t react. His points loss was his business.

But Riley wasn’t done. He never was.

“Say hey to your sister.”

Satisfied with his last dig, he didn’t see the little pup glide across his path. Savage tripped. He uttered a curse then kicked the dog with the pointed toe of his boot. The pup let out a yip and dove under the nearest truck.

T.J.’s blood came to the boil.

“Wait here,” he told Dakota then strode across the lot, bent on teaching Riley a lesson. And he’d thought Savage dating his sister this summer was the last straw.

T.J. had given him the first piece of his mind when Savage clamped a hand on T.J.’s aching shoulder—on purpose?—ending the conversation. For a second the world around him went white before Riley strode off toward his own pickup.

“Don’t touch that dog again,” T.J. called after him, fighting the stars that had sparked in his vision. He spent the next few minutes searching for the puppy with no luck. By the time he returned to his truck, Dakota was still standing there looking wide-eyed.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered.

“Guy’s a jerk.” She couldn’t help but notice T.J. massaging his shoulder.“But king of the rodeo circuit—don’t you boys get banged up on a regular basis?”

“Yeah, but I was lucky tonight.” T.J. was already ticked. He didn’t need more from her. “In Amarillo this season, a friend got tossed in the air, landed on his back with the bull on top of him. He ended up in intensive care, went into a coma. Never came out,” he said, adding softly, “He was a great guy—a good rider.”

Not good enough, apparently, he expected her to say but instead, her tone subdued, she said, “I didn’t mean to make light of what happened, or of your career.”

“Many have tried.”

He took another long look at her. That hair was something, the eyes too. Were they gray or blue? In the dim light, he couldn’t tell. And the knock-out body, of course, but that wasn’t all he saw now. She had a look about her. All business.

T.J. took a shallow breath. Better get this over with.

“So,” he said, “what’s on your mind?”

“My sister. Emilie. Ring any bells?”

“No,” he said but his heart had picked up speed. Riley Savage, even the nowmissing pup were forgotten.

“Then let me refresh your memory. Las Vegas. The National Finals. Last December.”

“I was there, sure, but—”

“You had an affair with her.” Dakota took a sharp breath. “She died in a car wreck last month.” And with her next words the bottom dropped out of his already-queasy stomach. And his life. “You’re the father of her baby.”