The Cowboy's Accidental Baby

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A LOUD CHUGGING noise woke Gunner and he popped out of the chair in the motel office, where he’d fallen asleep after Lydia had gone off to explore room 3. He peered out the window. What the heck was his grandfather doing here?

He stepped outside and waited for the old 1970 Ford to pull into a parking spot. “I thought you were helping Logan feed the cattle this morning,” he said when the driver-side door opened.

“Too hot.” His grandfather took the pack of Marlboro from his shirt pocket and lit up. “Thanks for the birthday smokes.”

Gunner had left a happy-birthday note on the kitchen table along with the cigarettes and the snake, which he’d wrapped in newspaper. “You weren’t supposed to open your gifts until supper.”

“You wasted your money on that stupid snake. Should have bought another pack of cigarettes.”

“The snake was cheaper.”

His grandfather’s mouth twitched.

“Since it’s your birthday, you should go fishing at the lake.”

“I might later.” He tilted his head toward the office. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up today.”

“I got your message loud and clear. I’m at Lydia’s beck ’n’ call until this place sparkles and shines.”

His grandfather fussed with his belt, then smoothed a hand over his head. Gunner couldn’t remember the last time the old man had taken a comb to his hair, but this morning he’d slicked it down with enough Brylcreem to suffocate a beehive. “Is that a new shirt you’re wearing?”

“No.” His grandfather’s gaze slid sideways.

The creases from the package were still visible. And was that Hai Karate cologne he smelled?

“Did Amelia come with Lydia?”

Before Gunner answered the question, the self-appointed matriarch of Stampede drove her white 1958 Thunderbird convertible into the parking lot. For an instant he envisioned Lydia behind the wheel of the sexy piece of machinery, her blond hair flying in the wind.

His grandfather dropped his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with his boot heel—a boot that had been spit-shined and polished. Well, well, well. That explained the Brylcreem and the cologne. Why his grandfather wanted to impress Amelia Rinehart was a mystery when all they ever did was spar with each other.

Amelia parked next to Emmett’s pickup and Gunner rushed over to open the door and help her out of the front seat. “’Morning, Ms. Amelia.”

“Hello, Gunner.” She peeked around his shoulder. “Emmett.”

“Amelia.”

Gunner shut the door, his gaze shifting between the older couple. “Happy birthday,” Amelia said.

“I don’t much care for birthdays anymore.”

She smiled. “Who does at our age?”

His grandfather’s gaze rolled over Amelia like a teenage boy and Gunner looked away, embarrassed by his grandfather’s gawking.

“Where’s Lydia?” Amelia asked.

“Inspecting room 3,” Gunner said.

His grandfather elbowed him in the ribs. “You should be showing her around in case she has questions.”

“Why would she have any questions? Everything in the rooms has to go.”

Oh, man. The old lady was going to pick a fight with his grandfather.

“Vintage is all the rage,” she said. “But those brown bedspreads weren’t brown when they were first put on the beds.”

“Nothing wrong with covers that hide dirt,” Emmett said.

“Dirt and the infestation of every imaginable bug.”

The door to room 6 opened and Hector and Maybelle waltzed outside—Maybelle still buttoning her blouse. The couple froze when they noticed their audience.

Gunner waved. “Safe travels!”

“Who’s that?” Amelia asked.

“Hector Montoya. He works at the Los Lobos Ranch.” The spread butted up to the Hardell ranch and they raised cattle and alpaca—not wolves like the name implied. “Maybelle’s the ranch maid.”

“For Pete’s sake,” Amelia said, “Why don’t they get married instead of sneaking around?” The couple disappeared behind the motel.

“Marriage isn’t for everyone,” Emmett grumbled.

Gunner agreed. His grandfather still grieved the passing of his wife. Emmett might be a grumpy old man, but he showed his love for others in unique ways—like buying the Moonlight Motel for Sara after she’d been diagnosed with cancer. Gunner’s grandmother had dreamed of running the motel and Gunner figured his grandfather had hoped the place would lift her spirits and encourage her to fight the disease, but Emmett’s plan hadn’t worked out like he’d intended.

“What are you charging for a room these days, Gunner?” Amelia asked.

“It varies,” he said.

“You don’t have a set rate?”

“I charge whatever the person can afford to pay me.”

Amelia’s gaze swung to Emmett. “No wonder you’ve never been able to pay back—”

“I’m done jawing about this place.” Emmett walked over to the truck. “Gunner.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You stick to the plan, you hear?”

“I will.”

“Hold up.” Amelia thrust out her arm, preventing Emmett from closing the truck door.

Gunner held his breath, worried his grandfather would say something he couldn’t take back, which was how he ended most arguments.