Cowboy Up (Coming Home #3)

“Since she and your wife have been planning what our baby showers would look like from age ten, Maverick Austin Davis-James.”

I burst out in a loud bark of laughter at the sound of my baby brother’s legal name. I understood his reasons for not wanting to keep our family name when he married Leighton, instead choosing to take hers, but hearing Quinn sass him with that mouthful never fails to crack me up. “You heard her, Mr. James,” I laugh, slapping him on the shoulder before walking away to help Tate figure out how the hell a bunch of cans are supposed to look like baby rattles.

An hour later, I make myself a promise that the next time either one of them winds up pregnant, I’m moving to Alaska until the birth so I miss all this party shit. Or fuck, I’ll just buy them all the stuff they need if it means I don’t have to hang streamers, arrange food and drinks into shapes, and, worst of all, put a bunch of melted chocolate into diapers so they can play some fucked-up game of Sniff the Shit.

Thank God I’ll never find myself in this position.

Shaking my head, I walk away from the last table I sprinkled a bunch of pink and blue confetti on, dusting my hands off on my jeans. The party isn’t set to start for another hour, and I’m about to use every second to find a secluded, not fucking pastel corner in which to enjoy some silence. Maybe then I won’t jump on the back of Dell, my palmetto, and hightail it back to the ranch.

Stepping out of the barn, I adjust my hat so the sun isn’t so harsh on my eyes after being inside for so long. Sometimes I still can’t believe the changes Maverick made to the old James property since he came back to Pine Oak. He’s built himself one fine rodeo school: even from this distance, I can see some of his students out in the training arenas, working with their teachers despite the fact that it’s Saturday. I come over here from time to time to watch Maverick in his element, beyond happy that he’s been able to retain such a big part of his life after being forced to give up riding professionally.

“Somethin’ else, isn’t it?”

I nod, watching the boys in the distance instead of turning to look at the very man that was on my mind.

“Thank you for all the help today, big brother. How close were you to losin’ your shit in there?”

“You don’t want to know,” I answer honestly.

Maverick grunts out a laugh.

“You doin’ all right?” I ask, knowing fine and well he’ll understand what I’m asking.

He kicks a rock off the cement drive we’re standing on, and I give him the time he needs to mull over his words.

“Still weighs on me, Clay. I’d be lyin’ if I said otherwise, but every time I feel our baby movin’ in her belly, a little of that fear gets beat back. Never thought this was somethin’ I would have. Not after all the shit I did to fuck it up back in the day. I love my wife bigger than life, but I love our baby somethin’ even bigger. That pushes me through the dark thoughts.”

I hum, looking away from the boys working damn hard to be the next best thing the rodeo ever saw, to look at Maverick.

“Somethin’ else on your mind, brother?” I ask, frowning at his words.

“Shit, Clay,” he says with a long exhale. “I keep thinkin’, what if I’m just like the old man was?”

My jaw goes slack as I look at him in shock. “You fuckin’ with me?”

He lifts his hat off his head, the wild, thick, black-as-night hair that all us Davis kids have not tamed in the least, even with the sweat wetting it from being under his black Stetson for hours. He runs his free hand through his hair, frowning at me the whole time.

“That man fucked with my head for so long, Clayton,” he says solemnly. “What if I don’t know how to be a good father to my child because of him?”

Grasping his shoulder, I turn him so we’re face-to-face. “You hear me now, Maverick. Buford Davis was a shit father up until he was faced with his own mortality, but he is not us. You’re gonna be the best father a kid could have. The fact that you’re worried at all should tell you what you need to know. A man doesn’t feel the fear of bein’ a bad parent if he could even have an ounce of what it takes to not give a shit about them inside of him. You carin’ about it at all means it could never happen. You get me?”

He swallows thickly but nods after a beat of silence.

“That kid’s gonna be smothered with so much love it’ll never know what life is like without it.”

Maverick’s eyes close and he drops his chin so I lose his gaze, but not before I saw what I said take root. My brother, while he might have been broken when he left, has become one hell of a man with the love of a good woman.

“What do you say we go find the whiskey Tate stashed behind the back of your big fancy-ass barn and toast the fact that I’m about the be the favorite uncle in this family?”

“Fat chance.” He laughs after clearing his throat. “You aren’t takin’ top seat as uncle if I have a say in things.”

We both laugh, but inside I feel my heart get big as fuck when Maverick gives me an unguarded, carefree smile. Those shadows normally pulling his scowls deep are nowhere to be found. Then we grab Tate and warm our bellies with some of the best liquor Texas ever did see.

- -

I’ll remember this day for the rest of my life.

If I survive it, that is.

I look over at the other men who were forced by their wives or girlfriends to attend, thanking the good Lord that I’m not the only one about to puke. Logically, I know it’s just chocolate, but that doesn’t mean shit when all your eyes see is a pile of brown goo inside a diaper.

“Come on, Clay!” Jana, Leighton’s longtime bakery manager, hoots from the far corner. “Get that sniffer in there and hurry up before you lose this whole thing!”

Did I mention I’m on her team? She’s been bellowing from the sidelines since the horn sounded and our time started. I’m down to my last two piles of shit to identify before I can get the fuck away from this insanity.

“If you don’t get that snout into that diaper, you’re gonna owe me an hour-long massage.”

The prize.

Shoulda known she was frothing at the mouth for the gift card to some fancy spa in Austin. Seemed like every woman in town—because there’s no doubt they’re all here—is after that damn thing.

“I’ll buy you your own dadgum massage if you’ll pipe the hell down, Jana!” I yell over the laughter around us.

I look down at diaper again and close my eyes before bringing it to my nose and sniffing.

Snickers.

Scribbling the word down, I move on and quickly repeat the process. I wisely keep my eyes shut so I don’t fight my stomach to keep the whiskey I’ve consumed down.

“Done!” I bark, standing from my seat so swiftly, the old wooden chair topples over. I don’t even look at the people cracking up at my discomfort. Stomping over to the two women who thought up this torture, I slap my paper on the table in front of them. “I’m not babysittin’ until those rugrats are potty trained.”