Page 41 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
“Think you’ll ever return to the circuit?”
“Not a chance. I’m too old for that level of competition. I’ll leave it to the young guys.”
“Tell us a bit about what life has been like after your accident. I understand you have a new daughter.”
Miles felt his smile tighten but he kept it in place. “I do.”
“What about her mother? Was that her, sitting with your parents in the bleachers?”
He should have seen that question coming. “No comment.”
“Her name is Tate Shannahan, isn’t it?” the reporter persisted. “Wasn’t her brother killed in a bull riding accident last year? She didn’t stay for your ride. How does she feel about you returning to the sport, especially after your own accident?”
She had to work for the tabloids, because this wasn’t news—this was how rumors got started. He couldn’t think of a way to get out of the interview without making it worse than it was.
“No comment,” he said again, and this time, he kept walking.
He wished he’d handled those questions better. The story pieced together from them was not going to be pretty. And now he had to put more thought into how Tate felt about him riding, and if maybe he’d done something insensitive, when what he’d set out to do was impress her.
When he got to the bunkhouse, Tate was on the floor playing with Iris. Toys were scattered around them. They looked up and smiled, each equally sweet, and his heart twisted like Prince Charming’s ride.
Why hadn’t Tate stuck around?
“What happened to you?” he asked.
She got to her feet. “Nothing. Iris was tired. It was loud and she couldn’t sleep, so I decided to leave and let your parents enjoy the show.”
She’d lied to him. Iris could sleep through a tornado if she was tired. The lie annoyed him. “Don’t tell me you’re okay with something when clearly, you’re not. If you didn’t want me to ride you should have said so.”
Her gaze cooled, letting him know that if he wanted to pick a fight, she’d give him one. “I was fine with you riding. I wasn’t worried about you. It’s not always about you, you know.”
The tight knot of worry inside him unwound. This was better. They were going to get this out in the open, once and for all. Tate had serious hang-ups about her brother’s death, and while those weren’t going to go away overnight, she didn’t get to blame herself anymore, so he pushed her a little. “If you weren’t worried about me, then what’s the problem?”
“It sounds so stupid.”
“Try me.”
“I was worried aboutme.” She slapped her hand on the table. “I have panic attacks every time I get close to an arena. I can’t stop them. I can’t predict them. They’re embarrassing and they make me mad at myself. There. Are you happy?” She was shouting at him. She slammed the table again.
Iris burst into tears. He moved to pick her up, but Tate brushed him aside. She gathered Iris in her arms and cuddled her close. Which one of them she was trying to comfort, Miles couldn’t say. When had he gotten so bad at handling women? Or was it just Tate?
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” she crooned to Iris. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at your father for making me mad. And that makes me mad at myself because I shouldn’t have let him make me so mad.”
“That’s a lot of being mad at yourself,” Miles said. “You can be madder at me, if you like. You know… maybe spread it around more. Thin it out.”
Tate glared at him in a way that made him wonder if Santa had seen it coming the way he saw it now. And then all the fight drained out of her. A reluctant smile curved her lips—like the sun breaking dawn after a stormy night. “I told you it was stupid.”
He took Iris from her and settled her in the playpen. The baby sniffled a little, undecided as to whether she should settle down or rekindle the drama. “I’ll buy you a pony if you stop crying,” he said to her.
“You might want to save that bribe for when she’s older,” Tate said.
“When she’s older she’ll remember I said it. Then I’ll have to produce a pony.”
Tate’s expression saidyou can’t be serious. “You’re going to give her one anyway.”
“Yeah. I am.” He couldn’t wait to teach Iris to ride. A pony, though. Not a bull. He reached for Tate, who looked more in need of immediate consoling. “Come here. Let’s talk about how stupid you are.”
“I never said I was stupid. I said myreasonwas stupid.”
