“Yes.”
My mind's racing, trying to find solid ground in a conversation that makes no sense. She's not lying—at least, she doesn't think she is.
"What exactly did you tell your father?"
"I told him you're my baby's daddy." She looks up at me with those big eyes, the picture of wounded innocence. "I wanted to tell you in Jackson Hole, but you wouldn't talk to me. You kept avoiding me." She pouts. "Every time I tried, you were either with someone, or you'd walk away the second I got close. I've been trying forweeks, Wyatt."
"There's no way this baby is mine." The words come out hard and fast. I'm past caring about her feelings. My entire future is hanging in the balance because of whatever game she's playing.
She shrugs, like I've just pointed out something mildly inconvenient instead of life-altering. "I understand it's hard finding out this way, but you left me no choice." Her voice carries a practiced gentleness that makes my skin crawl. "I couldn't keep waiting. The baby's coming whether you're ready or not."
"When?" I ask through gritted teeth. "When is this supposed to have happened?"
She giggles—actually giggles—like this is some kind of romantic comedy instead of a nightmare. "It was that nightwhen you hurt your shoulder." She puts her hand on my shoulder and massages it. I shrug her off. "You were so sweet, even though you were hurting. You slurred your words a little and your kisses were sloppy, but it was so sweet." Her hand moves to her belly again, and her smile turns dreamy. "I'm so excited to have this baby with you."
The bottom drops out of my world.
The night I got thrown and landed wrong, when Doc gave me enough pain medication to knock out a horse. I remember bits and pieces—being helped to my room, someone bringing me ice, voices in the hallway. But I don't remember her. I don't remember anything that could have led to this.
I wouldn't have. Even drugged out of my mind, even half-conscious, I wouldn't have done that with her. It's not in me to use someone that way, not in me to blur those lines when I can barely stand. But there's this tiny sliver of doubt working its way under my skin—what if I don't remember because I was that far gone? What if the meds stripped away the part of me that wouldn’t have done this? Who am I under that?
"I was medicated," I say, my voice shaking. "I don't remember that night, but I wouldn't have—I couldn't have. I was barely conscious."
"It's okay," she says softly, reaching up to touch my face with gentle fingers. I flinch back but she follows, persistent. "I know it's scary, finding out you're going to be a father. I was scared too.” She drops her hand. “This is a good thing, Wyatt. We're going to have a family." Her eyes shine with something that might be tears or might be excitement—I can't tell anymore. "We're good together. You'll see."
"Brittney—"
"Daddy's already talking about the wedding," she continues, her voice taking on a soothing, almost sing-song quality. "We can make this work. I know we can. You just need time to get used to the idea."
My face goes cold. Wedding?
Thirty-Nine
HE'LL MAKE A WONDERFUL FATHER.
KINSLEY
Eavesdropping on my boyfriend and the woman claiming to be pregnant with his baby wasn't on tonight's agenda, but here I am.
I don’t want to hear Brittney profess her love for him or talk about how excited she is to have his baby, but Ihaveto listen. I have to hear it all and not from Wyatt. I don’t want his explanation of things. I want the honest, unfiltered truth and the only way I’m going to get that is if I stuff myself behind a potted topiary, shut my mouth, and listen.
I left the Halloway circle just as Wyatt's parents were explaining that this is all news to them, that they're still processing the shock. Mrs. Martinez told them that's completely normal and asked if this would be their first grandchild.
Grandpa downing whiskies so fast we’ll have to get a wheelbarrow to haul him out of the building. I should be helping the Halloways and Martinez navigate this situation–it’s my job after all. But I can’t move until I know.
My heart’s hammering with equal parts want and warning.
I pressed myself against a timber rail for support, the rough wood snagging at my dress as I strain to catch their voices.
“...my baby’s daddy,” Brittney says.
She can't be serious. Wyatt says he doesn't remember that night, something about medication, which means something did happen in Cheyenne. The night we met. The night he—. I shudder as the shirtless picture surfaces again.
Through the gap between the post and a fake topiary, I watch Brittney take Wyatt's hand and place it against her stomach.
"Don't worry about the wedding stuff just yet, Wyatt," she says as if she's already planned their future together, already seen the white dress and the christening gown and the family Christmas cards.
Nausea hits me, violent and sudden. The venue spins around me. The Martinez family didn’t come to talk about fire rezoning or politics—they came for Wyatt. Brittney planned this like a spider weaving a web and we—I—walked right into it.