Aidan: Loyal Cowboy

“Oh, Ace.” She stood on her tiptoes and impulsively pressed her lips to his cheek. The familiar scent of him instantly assailed her, weakened her knees so that she was forced to lean on him.

He went still.

Uh-oh. Big mistake.

She was about to pull away when he bent his head and sought her lips.

The kiss, light, tender and achingly sweet, lasted only a few seconds before he abruptly withdrew.

Not again!

Why was he always doing this to her?

Flynn stepped away, only to spy her father at the edge of the pasture, his gaze riveted on her and Ace.

* * *

FLYNN GAVE FANCY GAL one last thorough inspection before permitting herself to relax. The mare was better, nosing around the corners of her pen for a tidbit of hay rather than exhibiting signs of distress.

True to his word, Ace had stopped by earlier and examined her, noting her progress and advising Flynn to continue walking the mare at intervals for the rest of the afternoon, possibly into the evening. He also brought some warm bran mash to settle Fancy Gal’s stomach, though where he acquired it Flynn had no clue.

“I have my connections,” was all he’d admit before returning to the arena.

She glanced at her watch, straining to hear the announcements coming from the direction of the arena. Ace’s event, bareback bronc riding, would be starting soon. She was just locking up the truck when her father strode over. He hadn’t mentioned seeing her and Ace kissing earlier, but she wouldn’t put it past him.

What a mistake! Why did she continually lose her head with Ace?

Unfortunately, there was no going back now.

“Did I tell you Ace drew True Grit?” her father asked.

“Seriously? No, you didn’t.”

The gelding was one of her father’s best bucking broncs—or worst, if you were the cowboy trying to ride him.

When her father began reciting the other bronc/cowboy matchups, Flynn cut him off.

“Ace hasn’t been in a rodeo since last fall. True Grit’s a lot of horse, even for someone who competes regularly.”

“That’s how rodeo works. It’s the luck of the draw.”

Bad luck, Flynn thought. “What if he gets injured?”

“He’s a big boy.”

“He’s also the father of my child. Your grandchild.”

Her father chuckled.

Flynn took off at a brisk walk.

He chased after her. “Where you going?”

“To tell Ace not to compete.”

“What with the way you’re acting, a person might suspect you have more feelings for him than you’re willing to admit.”

“This has nothing to do with me or my feelings.”

Her father’s persistent chuckling grated on Flynn’s nerves.

She seldom ventured behind the bucking chutes where the participants gathered to assess the horses and their competition and to while away the time while they waited—usually nervously—for their turn.

Ace was there, along with his brother, cousins and Austin Wright. The moment he saw her, he broke away and met her halfway.

“Is Fancy Gal all right?” he asked.

“She’s great.”

“Are you all right?”

“Ace, don’t compete.”

“What?”

“Dad told me you drew True Grit. You know his reputation and his ranking.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“See,” her dad said, catching up with Flynn. “I told you.”

“Please, Ace.”

A twinkle lit his eyes. It also warmed her heart.

She was such a sucker.

“Weren’t you just saying I shouldn’t change because we’re having a baby?”

“Yes, but True Grit is—”

“It’s okay.” He reached out and stroked her cheek.

“Promise me.” She closed her eyes and sighed softly.

“I tend to agree with my daughter,” Earl said. “True Grit probably has more giddyup than you’re used to.”

“Dad!” Flynn’s eyes flew open.