Love at First Baby: Rough & Ready Country, #5

By Engrid Eaves

Classic car restorer. Wildland firefighter. Ladies' man. All-around adrenaline junkie. My plate's full when it comes to work, fun, and everything in between until Faith, the sweetest, curviest girl in Rough & Ready, steals my heart. Before I know it, the virginal, churchgoing, feed store owner has me acting out of character—wanting things I've never dreamed of before, like a settled life with one woman.

Hollister's good girl and hometown sweetheart turns my world upside down and sets my body ablaze. But she's written me off as a bad boy, refusing to play with the fire incinerating me. Despite a mind-blowing kiss, she friend zones me indefinitely… Then, a steamy night of stargazing changes everything, transforming a spark of friendship into an unquenchable wildfire of passion.

 

Moving from best friends to lovers is all I've dreamed about for a year, but it comes with an unexpected twist—a surprise baby. I'm all-in when it comes to building a family and life with my dream girl. But how do I make her see me for the man I am rather than the past I've left behind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Engrid Eaves
• Release date: Mar 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990168299

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

FAITH

Casseroles and death. I’d like to know who came up with that unsavory combination. Somewhere smack-dab in the middle of the last thirty days, the taste of casseroles started mixing with the taste of my dad’s soul-grinding loss, and I can no longer untangle the two. It’s a shame because Tuna Bake once topped my list of go-to comfort foods. Now, I push it around on the paper plate in front of me with a scowl.

Church folks have shuffled in and out of my parents’ ranch house for the last month, offering hollow words and thin smiles. We’re sorry for your loss. Your dad’s in a better place. This must be so hard on you. Most of them talked a blue streak behind my dad’s back while he lived, casting judging glances at him every chance they got. A former bronc rider and rodeo coach, he led too rough a life for them in his youth. And settling down with my mom, whose family were good-standing members of the House of the Seven Prophets, didn’t make them like him anymore.

But if I’ve learned anything growing up with my parents in this church, it’s how to lead a duplicitous existence. In many ways, the House of the Seven Prophets runs this town, and I’m in no position to point out their hypocrisy, let alone oppose them. So, I accept their words and casseroles with my own thin smile, despising every false word and sentiment they deliver. Broccoli and cheese, Italian pasta bake, sausage and egg, Amish breakfast.

My sister Birdie’s deployed overseas with the Navy. She’s a hospital corpsman, and she calls whenever she can. But her voice over the line can’t replace the in-person hugs I crave. And my mom’s never been affectionate. Instead, she locks herself in her bedroom since Dad’s passing. It’s hit her harder than I thought it would.

That last statement sounds cold, but it’s true. She and Dad had a notoriously tempestuous marriage. And I’m not talking the good kind of tempestuous. Heck, I don’t know if Birdie or I will ever marry after seeing how those two tortured each other. Although most of the overt abuse came from Mom, Dad played his role in passively, silently despising her.

I hear the bell tinkle on the feed store door, and I throw the paper plate with the offending slice of casserole in the trash can by the register. Better not forget to take out the trash later or this whole place will stink to high heaven. I look up, assessing my next customer.

Every now and again, I get a decent looking cowboy or rancher in the store. But most of the farmers and homesteaders who visit have gray hair and potbellies, long in the face and longer in the tooth. That’s why I do a double-take, drinking in the thirst trap that is Travis Cartwright.

How do I describe him? Drop-dead, one hundred percent, pulse-pounding gorgeous—from his corded muscular arms and legs to his expressive mahogany eyes. And that’s saying nothing of his toned, large shoulders, broad, angular chest, tapered waist, and drool-worthy Adonis belt. My parents own the neighboring ranch to his foster dad’s, which has afforded me plenty of opportunities to stare at him working outside shirtless. I guess you could call him my guy crush, although I’m careful to keep a safe distance.

Travis has a mile-high reputation when it comes to the fairer sex. And I want nothing to do with that. Between the mess my parents made of their relationship and the prying eyes of my church, that bad boy’s the last thing I need. But need and want are two very different things. Pulling my eyes away from all of that tall, dark, and handsome masculine perfection proves tougher than it should. Swallowing hard, my cheeks burn as I desperately try to steady my voice. How can I help you? Uttering five words has never exhausted me more as I struggle to keep my voice from cracking and my breath from coming out in short pants.

Fortunately, he doesn’t notice. I suppose he’s used to girls acting this way around him. Hey there, Faith, long time no see. I heard about your dad, and I’m awfully sorry, he says in low, grumbly tones that make my heart race. He takes off his cowboy hat, holding it over his chest. Gorgeous and polite are a dangerous combination.

Thank you, I say, biting my lip. Something about the warm look in his eyes and the kindness of his tone undoes me. Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry. It’s been a month. I should keep it together better than this, but Dad was my lifeline, the only parent who showed me attention and affection. The thought of never seeing him again, never talking to him again. It’s too much.

The floor boards of the historic feed store creak as Travis shifts his weight, and I feel his eyes on me. Thankfully, he’s as perceptive as he is handsome, sensing I need a moment. Instead, of making a big deal out of my current state, like so many others have, he heads towards the dog treats and pretends to shop. I couldn’t be more grateful.

One of the biggest shocks after my dad’s death was realizing the terrible financial state he and mom left the ranch and feed store in. They’ve nearly driven both properties into the ground, and my only hope is that when Birdie’s Naval tour ends, she’ll move back home to help me sort things out. In the meantime, possible foreclosure weighs heavy on my shoulders. Time to sell more feed.

I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders and silently thanking Travis for giving me that moment.

I ask for the second time, How can I help you?

Apart from his body, Travis has a classically handsome, clean-shaven face with a straight, well-proportioned nose, angular jaw, and thick neck. He’s a wildland firefighter and always stays in tip-top shape, making him look more like a bodybuilder than the farmers I usually get in this place. He’s also got the most soulful dark brown eyes. Or maybe you’d call them wistful, kind of like he’s a perpetual romantic. If the rumors about him are true—and I have no reason to doubt them—I see why women make fools of themselves over him. There’s no danger of that here, though, because I follow my brain, not my heart.

I need five bags of chicken feed, ten bags of horse feed, five bales of hay, and a bale or two of meadow grass, if you’ve got some. Oh, and cracked corn and dried mealworms.

How much of the corn and mealworms?

His face grimaces. Do you have a record of Dad’s last order? I don’t know, honestly.

I look out the storefront window and see his foster dad, Wyatt’s truck outside. When I catch Travis driving around town, he’s usually speeding by in his sleek, black 1970 Chevelle. Besides being cute and a good-time guy, he seems flashy, although a stranger wouldn’t guess it from the white tank top and dusty Wranglers he has on now.

Yep, I’ll give you what he got last time. Is Wyatt okay, by the way?

Fine, thanks.

Then, why are you schlepping for him today? I ask, raising an eyebrow. I can’t remember the last time I saw Travis Cartwright in this feed store.

He shrugs. I had a little free time and thought I’d help out. I don’t get to do much of that during fire season.

I ring up his order, trying to keep the conversation friendly and more upbeat than it started. I heard your brother Zane’s retiring from the PBR.

Yes, ma’am, he’s thinking about it depending on how this season ends. He may take over as ranch foreman.

So, Wyatt’s thinking about retiring? I ask, cocking my head to the side. We’re getting old, Travis.

Hell, what are you talking about, girl, I’m only twenty-five, and you can’t be more than twenty-two, I’m guessing? His warm eyes roam over me with enough curiosity to heat my cheeks, and he flashes a wide boyish grin that could melt the Grinch’s heart.

You guessed right. My voice cracks again as I think about my dad gone so young. I never thought I’d mourn a parent in my early twenties. I scowl, trying to hide the pain on my face. Alright, why don’t you bring your truck around, and we’ll get you loaded up.

Travis nods, heading out the front door, and I’m ashamed to say I pause, letting my eyes follow his broad shoulders, tapered waist, and tight ass all the way.

Thankfully, I have the walk outside to regain my composure and wipe the drool off my chin. This man is a danger to women. I meet him out back and get to work grabbing feed sacks to throw in the back of his pickup. He hops out, hollering, Save your back. I can get this loaded.

Thank you for your chivalry, Travis, but this is my job.

And you’re doing it all alone? His face crinkles as realization hits him.

I have a part-time employee and most of my customers help out, so it’s fine.

Yeah, but what about all of this? he asks nodding towards disorderly piles of grain sacks and hay and straw bales. I’m ashamed of the mess I’ve left in the wake of my dad’s death. But there’s only so much one body can do.

I shrug. The truck drivers usually help with the offloading. But it is what it is.

He rubs a hand over his tanned face, and I can hear the scratch of his palm against the afternoon stubble on his cheeks and chin. It’s got to be one of the sexiest sounds on this green Earth. When are your delivery days, Faith?

I like the way my name sounds on his lips. Why are you asking?

Because I’d like to lend a hand. If you’ll let me?

I shift from one leg to the other, a pit of shame knotted in my stomach. I’m sorry, but my margins are really tight right now. I can’t afford another employee.

I’m not asking for a job. I’m offering to help. When’s your next delivery day?

I swallow hard, feeling conflicted. But I can tell by the stubborn look etched on his square face that he’s already made up his mind. The realization lifts a huge weight off my shoulders, and an ear-to-ear grin crosses my face. The first smile I’ve indulged in since my dad’s passing.

Glancing at my watch, I reply, Anywhere between fifteen and thirty minutes from now.

Alright then, he says, getting back to loading up Wyatt’s truck. The way his back, shoulder, and arm muscles strain and bunch beneath his tight, white shirt makes me hold my breath. I only realize this when he catches me staring, and I let out a sharp exhale. He smiles graciously, but I know he knows.

Clearing my throat, I warn in guilty tones, This could take a while, you know. Don’t you have to get that order back to your ranch? If he needs an easy out, I’ve just delivered it, gift-wrapped with a bow.

His eyes sweep over the bags of feed and straw as he shakes his head. "The hens and horses aren’t going