Anything but Mine by Linda Winfree Page A

again.
    “It’s open.”
    Inside, the house was neat as always. A few of Falconetti’s things had joined Tick’s, but the home still bore more of his personality than hers. The ironing board stood open in the kitchen, the iron atop it and plugged in.
    “Hey.” A towel knotted at his waist, Tick strode from the bedroom, uniform shirt in hand. “I’ll be ready in a sec. I just need to run an iron over this.”
    Stanton eyed Tick’s damp hair. “You come home for a nooner or what?”
    “I wish.” Tick spread the shirt out and attacked it with the iron. “Ran up to El Vaquero’s to meet Cait for lunch. She ordered the gazpacho, and somebody’s rugrat ran into the server. I ended up wearing it—my shirt, my hair—man, it was even in my holster. I had to clean my gun, and my truck will smell like freakin’ pico de gallo for a month.”
    A chuckle rumbled in Stanton’s throat, a welcome relief from the constant tension of the past few days. “You’re lucky she didn’t order fajitas.”
    Tick set the iron aside, unplugging it. “Yeah. Be right back.” He took the shirt and disappeared into the bedroom. In a couple of minutes, he returned, tucking his shirt into a pair of crisp khakis. “So how’s Autry?”
    Stanton darted a glance at him. There was that edge in Tick’s voice again. “A little shaken up. First that note, then Beau Ingler jumped on her case about the defense—”
    “I meant physically.” Tick sat on the ottoman to pull on his socks and shoes. “The whole pregnancy thing. How is she?”
    “She’s having a lot of nausea, I think.” Stanton ran a hand over his nape. “She has a doctor’s appointment this week. They’re doing a sonogram.” Tick nodded, staring at the tips of his polished duty shoes, and Stanton’s gaze sharpened on his face. “Tick? You okay?”
    Tick dragged a hand along his jaw. “Yeah. All I could think about last night and this morning was what a flippin’ miracle this baby is. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, you know. And then Cait saw Dr. Astin this morning and at lunch we got into all the things that could go wrong, if her uterus can’t take the strain and ruptures… You don’t want to hear this, do you, what with Autry and all.”
    His ex-partner was right—Stanton didn’t want to think about all the things that could go wrong. But he knew Tick well enough to understand he wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t need to talk about it. “Are you borrowing trouble? What are the odds something could go wrong, according to the doctor?”
    Tick ran a smoothing hand over his still-damp hair. “For the uterine rupture? About two percent. The normal risk is less than a half percent.”
    “The normal risk?” He was missing something here, probably because he went out of his way to not discuss Falconetti with Tick. Not like Tick ever listened to him about her anyway.
    “Hers is higher because of the attack.”
    Attack? He was really missing something. “Tick, partner, I’m lost.”
    “Don’t worry about it.” The sharp note was back. Tick blew out an audible breath and rubbed his face.
    Annoyed, Stanton rested his hands at his hips. “If there’s something you need to say, out with it, Calvert.”
    “Let it alone, Stan.”
    Tick had obviously decided he was going to clam up. Stanton restrained himself from rolling his eyes. From long experience, he knew Tick wouldn’t talk until he was good and ready.
    “You said two percent, right? That means you have a ninety-eight percent chance everything will go right. Focus on that.”
    “Yeah.” Tick’s gaze dropped to his shoes again. “I know you’re right. It’s just that two percent, you know? A woman can bleed out from a uterine rupture. She could die if that happens under the wrong conditions.”
    A shudder traveled down Stanton’s spine. He’d have a list of questions ready for Autry’s doctor’s appointment. “Yeah, and we could get hit by a chicken truck at the Stagecoach