The Cowboy's Forever Family

Or at least he had been, until Brody’s death. Slade no longer considered himself a carefree bachelor. That life had little appeal to him now. Not without Brody. The importance of living every day to its full value meant more than ever.

He should never have given his word that he wouldn’t talk to the Becketts about the baby Laney was carrying and his suspicion that she might take advantage of them, or worse yet, not stick around once the baby had been born, take off again as she’d done right after the funeral. Brody’s folks were like second parents to him, and he wouldn’t forgive himself if they ended up getting hurt when he could have said or done something to keep themselves from heartache. He didn’t know what Laney’s game was, but there were too many unanswered questions that left Slade wary of her motives. In their grief, it made perfect sense that Grant and Carol Beckett would be quick to grasp at a carrot like the one Laney was dangling before them.

A grandchild. Brody’s legacy. A flesh-and-blood reminder of their son.

Slade winced as pain jolted sharply through his chest. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. What kind of world did he live in where a good man was taken away just as a new life was given?

Why Brody? He’d been a far better man that Slade could ever hope to be. And now to find out that Brody would have been a father. It was almost too much to bear. Why was he still here when Brody was gone? Where was God in all this?

Slade brushed Nock’s sweat-soaked back with long, even strokes. It didn’t make sense. Brody had only recently given his heart to God, vowed to change his ways, and yet had never been allowed to see that through. He’d never been able to go home to Laney and make a new start. He’d never even known he was about to be a father.

Slade had likewise made a commitment to God, for all the good it had done him. After nearly a year of living his new faith, he was more aware than ever that he was too rough a man to settle down and be good. Not like what he figured God expected of him. It wasn’t fair.

Brody—he would have made it. He could have become the man God wanted him to be—with a wife and a family. Brody would have managed to change his life completely, and for the better, if it weren’t for Slade goading him into riding Night Terror that one last time at the rodeo. Bring home the purse, Slade had told Brody, and Laney would be sure to forgive him for whatever fight had caused their split. In truth, Slade hadn’t cared about Brody using the money to placate Laney. It had really been just one man’s thrill-seeking challenge to another. It made him sick just to think about it.

If he hadn’t taken that ride, if he hadn’t gone for that prize, Slade had no doubt Brody would have managed to patch things up with his estranged wife without the insubstantial purse a small-town rodeo afforded. Surely Laney wouldn’t have wanted to separate her baby from his or her daddy. Brody would have been the best father ever to that little baby Laney was carrying.

He would have been so happy. So pleased.

It was painfully easy for Slade to picture the joy Brody would have found in a son or daughter, the proud papa holding his infant in his arms for the first time. Teaching his kid to ride a horse and rope a cow, raising up a new generation of Becketts to work the land that had been in their family for over a century.

Now—nothing.

The child would grow up without knowing his or her father. Without having Brody’s fine influence to emulate.

And Slade could have prevented that loss. All of it.

He smothered the curse that came naturally to his lips—a bad habit that was difficult to break, but he was trying. God forgive him, swearing was the least of his sins.

He dumped a bucket of oats into Nock’s bin and made sure she had plenty of fresh water. When he was finished, out of habit more than anything else, he headed for the Becketts’ ranch house. He’d gone about twenty feet when he stopped so suddenly his boots created a cloud of dust from the dirt path. His breath turned as heavy in his chest as if he’d run several miles. Sweat dotted his brow despite the cool evening and he dabbed at it with the corner of his shirt.

Things were different now—and if Laney stuck around, they always would be. The easy camaraderie he shared with Grant and Carol, folks he considered as second parents to him, would be history. Slade was a living, walking reminder of all they had lost—in addition to being a man Laney had despised from the start, long before his thoughtless dare had cost her a husband. Why should they want to have anything to do with him when instead they would have Brody’s baby to love?

Maybe he shouldn’t visit the Becketts tonight. It would probably be better for all concerned if he just turned around and walked away. If it wasn’t enough that he might cause Grant and Carol any means of distress, he and Laney had knocked heads enough times already for one day.

Then again, why should he let Laney dictate anything he did with his life? If he wanted to visit with the Becketts, he’d do it, Laney or no. Grant and Carol hadn’t given him any reason to believe his presence caused them any grief, although now that he thought about it, he would try to be more aware of their feelings.

His decision made, he hastened to the house. He didn’t go to the front door as a guest might do, but rather entered through the mudroom like one of the family, where he removed his boots and hung his hat on a peg on the wall and then washed up in the sink, using extra soap and scrubbing thoroughly to make sure his hands were clean, then wiping his face clean with a nearby towel. Carol Beckett would have his hide if he got dirt on her good rugs or touched her furnishings with grubby hands.

“Slade.” Grant Beckett emerged from the kitchen and extended his hand for a firm shake. “Good to see you, son. Join us in the kitchen. Carol’s making cookies, and you know how she gets when she starts baking. She’s already made enough baked goods to feed a small army.”

“Be happy to take a few off your hands, sir.”

“Thought you would.” Grant slapped Slade’s back affectionately.

Slade entered the kitchen and immediately tensed when he saw Laney propped on a stool next to the counter, laughing at something Carol had said. They looked like a couple of giggly schoolgirls with their heads close together, sharing secrets.

His gut churned and he frowned, remembering the promise he’d made to Laney. Once again he wished he wouldn’t have made it, if only for the fact that he could use some advice right now—like what part he might be able to play in giving Brody’s baby everything he or she deserved. What he could do for the child.

Brody’s baby.

There it was again, glaring before him, as clear and bright as looking straight at the midday sun. The inherent happiness in Laney’s brown eyes and the way she shared that pleasure with Carol—the knowing. The anticipation. The joy.

Brody’s baby.

A link to his friend that went far beyond words or memories. Slade swallowed hard against the emotions pummeling him.

Laney’s presence wasn’t doing the Becketts any harm, he realized. Not now. Not until she up and left town, which Slade was fairly certain she would do. The real danger wasn’t that she’d upset them now, but that she’d abandon them later. How would Carol and Grant feel when their status as grandparents—their only living link with their beloved son—was relegated to some back burner so Laney could move on to the next thing in her life? She’d split with Brody fast enough when he didn’t fall into line with her silly expectations even though she’d claimed to love him. How much easier would it be for her to walk away from his parents?

The mixture of grief and excitement he’d experienced only moments earlier was quickly replaced by a panic that made his pulse roar in his ears. As bad as he felt for Grant and Carol at the thought of them losing access to their grandchild, there was yet another reason for him to worry.

What if he had no part in the baby’s life?

Personally, he thought she was a pain in the neck, but when other people looked at her, they probably saw Laney as a young, attractive woman. She’d won Brody’s heart, after all. She was bound to meet a man, get married again and settle down far away from Serendipity. Brody would be nothing more to her than a sad, distant memory, one she’d likely tuck into the back of her mind as she moved on with her life. It hurt his heart just to think about it.

“There’s the man of the hour.” Carol beamed at him as she passed him a plate piled with warm oatmeal cookies. “I understand we owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“I’m sorry?” he asked with a confused glance toward Carol and then to Grant. Man of the hour? Gratitude? What were they talking about?

“Heard tell you rescued our princess from danger today.” Grant grinned at him and wagged his eyebrows.

Still unable to decipher what they were talking about, Slade’s gaze flashed to Laney, but she only rolled her eyes and shrugged.

They were talking about Laney?

Princess?

Yeah, right. Laney was a regular damsel in distress. And that would make him—what? Prince Charming? A knight in shining armor? The Becketts were barking up the wrong tree with that one. He scoffed at the nonsensical notion.

“There he goes,” Carol said, nodding her head as if she’d disclosed some major secret. “I told you he was going to make light of his actions. He never admits the good he does. Has to maintain that tough cowboy image, you know. Never lets on that there’s a kind heart underneath that gruff exterior.”

Slade barked out a laugh and everyone joined him. Whatever else he could be accused of, and there was plenty, making himself into something he wasn’t was not even on the list. And kindness wasn’t something he was often accused of, either.

“Laney would have been fine,” he assured the Becketts. Maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate, but he didn’t want them making too much of his actions, which hadn’t been entirely altruistic. “She just got a little turned around. I’m sure she would have found the fence and made it back to the house with no problem. Please. It’s no big deal.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Carol said, shaking her head. “But I’m grateful all the same, and so is Laney.”

He very much doubted gratitude was what Laney was feeling for him. Not from the frown she flashed at him when she thought the Becketts weren’t looking.

Slade bit into a cookie and groaned with pleasure. His own mother didn’t cook a lick, and since there was no other woman with a constant presence in his life, the only fresh baked goods he ever got besides Carol’s occasional but heartfelt forays into baking were Phoebe Hawkins’s fare from Cup O’ Jo’s Café in town. Phoebe was a professional chef and her baked goods were delicious, but they lacked the significance of being baked just for him, with love.

He poured himself a tall glass of ice-cold milk and took a long drink, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand to prevent a milk mustache. He caught Laney’s gaze and she lifted a brow.

What? Was she laughing at him?

“You’ve never heard of milk and cookies?”

She smirked. “You’ve utterly ruined your tough-guy cowboy image for me, you know.”