Chapter Twenty-Seven

Tyler gripped the binoculars resting in his lap as he eased his truck into the scenic overlook on a curve a mile from Fawn’s shoddy house. The field glasses were powerful enough to see for miles, and Tyler needed to see far and clear because he had determined to set things straight with Fawn, get her to love him again. Even if it meant sitting on a cement picnic table day and night, he’d keep an eye on her.

He let the pickup door shut behind him with a soft click.

Tyler loved his truck—the one thing his father had given him before he died, and the only thing that didn’t come with strings attached. Tyler leaned against the bumper and crossed his arms. The morning air chilled his skin, but the warmth of the engine penetrated the back side of his Levi’s.

Fawn liked him in jeans. She said he filled them out like a man ought to. The girl had always been a pain in the neck, but she still had a way of getting him roused.

He peered across the ravine as a light popped on at Fawn’s place. Right on time. Up before six. He’d gotten used to seeing that light every morning, and he’d enjoyed watching her, studying her, following her.

But she’d better not hook up with JohnScott Pickett again. Tyler had wanted to shake her by the shoulders when he saw her driving that man’s truck. Her pale fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, and Tyler could only imagine her slender thighs pressed against the seat cushion. She would smell like him. Like cheap cologne and sweat. Like the coach.

Tyler shoved away from the truck and raised the binoculars. The house lay in darkness except for two windows, the kitchen and living room. He hated going in that junk of a house. The old place might topple at any minute, and it disgusted him—the lengths to which she would go to claim her independence. He didn’t blame her for putting distance between herself and her parents, but turning her back on Tyler irked him something fierce.

He lowered the glasses to fiddle with the dials. Something was off, too blurry. When he brought them back to his eyes, he smiled. Fawn stood at the kitchen sink, the window positioned for a perfect view. She looked like she might be filling up a pitcher. Not surprising. Iced coffee, with all those fancy ingredients she added. He used to hate the way it made his truck smell. Girly and weak.

And Tyler wasn’t weak. His father had seen to that. Work. Work. Work. “That’s how a man makes something of himself, Son.” The phrase had been drilled into Tyler’s brain, always with the token sign of affection tacked on to the end.

But his father had gone and left him alone.

Tyler gripped the fiberglass, fouling the adjustments, but then he calmed and corrected the focus to bring Fawn back into view.

His dad’s last will and testament left everything to Tyler. Sort of. The house, the property, the business, all the money would be his, but even in death, his dad was forcing Tyler to work for the inheritance when rightfully it belonged to him already. There was nobody else. His mother had long since abandoned him in death. No brothers or sisters, thank God. No grandparents.

But some things never changed.

Like the twenty-two rifle on Christmas morning his freshman year of high school. Dad told Tyler not to come home until he bagged a duck. Took two days.

Merry Christmas, Son.

Fawn waddled past the living-room window and out the front door, and Tyler’s pulse quickened. Lord, she’s pretty. A lot of good it did her, though. She looked like a fattened hog in that outfit. He examined her clothing and appreciated the quality of the binoculars. She wore denim shorts and a huge T-shirt, and Tyler questioned why she hadn’t put on one of the maternity outfits he had bought her, if only to maintain a sliver of dignity. Instead, she looked as if she’d walked straight out of the Goodwill on the wrong end of Lubbock. She made him look bad.

He would have to talk to her about that.

She stomped across the weeds, and Tyler noticed the Gypsy Soule flip-flops she loved so much. He smiled. She hadn’t lost all her style.

As she left the glow of the porch light, the binoculars proved useless in the blackness, but in a few minutes, when the sun came up, he would be able to see her again. Sitting on the hood of that old Chevrolet.

If it had been Tyler, he would have relaxed with a beer, but he knew Fawn turned her nose up to alcohol. Sure, she shared a few bottles with him over the years, but Tyler always knew she looked down her nose at him because of it. Rebellion drove her to drink, but piety prevented her from enjoying it.

He lowered the binoculars and crossed his arms as the sun peeked over the horizon. He scoffed. Fawn and his father would have made quite a pair, because both were driven to do the right thing—at least in appearance—and his father knew it. His blasted will stated Tyler could claim his inheritance once he married and secured an heir. Not only did his father expect him to work for the money, but he wanted him to take Fawn back. Even Tyler’s lawyer deemed it unusually old-fashioned, but the overpaid legal beagle couldn’t come up with a way around the addendum.

But no matter.

A muscle twitched across Tyler’s jawbone. Fawn Blaylock with her curly hair and long legs and cynical smile occupied his thoughts twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and he wanted her worse than he ever wanted anything in his life. More than alcohol or money or sex. He wanted her to be his for life.

Because he loved her.

He cackled at his father’s ignorance. Dear old Dad tried to force Tyler to take Fawn back, when actually, Tyler had planned to have her all along. His dad only added icing to the cake, causing Fawn to serve a dual purpose in his life.

Now his woman would not only feed his craving, but she and that baby in her gut would be his ticket to a life of ease.