Rodeo Daddy

“Where was the ranch?” Sam asked, her gaze going from Chelsea to him and back again.

“Near San Antonio,” Chelsea answered, her cheeks a little flushed.

Jack found himself wondering why she’d really come here—not just to tell him she knew about the check or ask him if he was a cattle rustler. Surely she didn’t think there was anything left to say between them?

“Do you know how to cook?” Sam asked Chelsea, as if she’d suddenly taken an interest in cooking.

Chelsea seemed surprised by the question, but no more than Jack himself. What was this, twenty questions?

He gave Sam an extra-large serving of the casserole before handing back her plate. That should keep her quiet.

“Yes,” Chelsea said, smiling. “I enjoy cooking.”

“What do you cook?” Sam asked, undeterred.

“All sorts of things.” Chelsea seemed nervous. She was obviously not used to this sort of interrogation.

Jack groaned inwardly and reached under the table to squeeze Sam’s knee in warning. Little good it did.

“Do you have to use a cookbook?” Sam asked.

He’d ground her for a month, he thought. Not that there was much to ground her from on the rodeo circuit. “Why don’t we just eat?” he interceded.

“Terri Lyn uses a cookbook,” Sam said.

Chelsea obviously didn’t know how to answer that one. “I don’t always use a cookbook.”

He shoved his leg over to give Sam a nudge but his knee brushed Chelsea’s under the table instead. The shock was immediate. And intense. He felt as if he’d been goaded with a cattle prod.

“Sorry.” He didn’t dare look at her, but he felt her stiffen in response and saw her pull her knees over toward the wall.

This was going to be some dinner. Just wait until he got Sam alone. And once Chelsea tasted Terri Lyn’s tuna casserole, things were destined to get worse. “Sam.”

He could tell his daughter wanted to ask a lot more questions, but she bowed her head and whipped quickly through the blessing first.

“Amen. So what do you cook?” she asked the moment her head bobbed up.

Chelsea laughed softly and seemed embarrassed.

“She doesn’t have to cook,” Jack said, not looking at her. “Her family hires someone to cook for them.” He hadn’t meant to make it sound so much like a condemnation, but hell, it was true.

“Yes,” Chelsea said, ice in her voice. “We do have a cook, but I can hold my own in the kitchen. I can make vichyssoise, pepper steak, beef bourguignonne.”

“Oh.” Sam’s face fell. “I like Abigail Harper’s macaroni and cheese.”

Chelsea was deflated. She’d been showing off and lost points with Sam. She looked as disappointed as Sam did. And as confused. Chelsea had mistakenly thought Sam would be impressed by the fact that she could cook. What Chelsea didn’t know was that Sam was afraid he would fall in love and marry, and she knew he’d never marry anyone who couldn’t cook. Chelsea might seem more of a threat than Terri Lyn at this point.

He couldn’t understand why Sam was going to so much trouble to get rid of Terri Lyn, anyway.

He caught her eyeing her casserole distastefully, no doubt regretting inviting Chelsea to eat with them.

“How’s your dinner, Sam?” he asked pointedly, taking no little satisfaction in the fact that his daughter had put herself in this predicament and now would have to suffer along with him.

She hurriedly took a bite and pretended it was delicious. No small task considering Sam couldn’t abide tuna casserole. And Terri Lyn’s was especially bad.

He watched Sam take another bite and smiled to himself. Even if she’d liked tuna casserole, she would have found fault with it just because Terri Lyn had made it. Good thing he wasn’t serious about the barrel racer. Not that he had the time or energy for a real relationship. He and Terri Lyn were strictly...consenting adults. Or at least they’d planned to be tonight.

Now he doubted that Terri Lyn would still be talking to him after he’d ruined her little “romantic” dinner by feeding it to another woman. The entire camp would be talking about Chelsea. Speculating. His luck had been running bad lately. Obviously, it wasn’t getting any better.

Chelsea was the kind of woman who couldn’t pass through your life without making ripples, even after a brief encounter. He knew after she left tonight, he’d still be feeling the effects in the weeks and months to come, and he was dreading it.

He didn’t like his daughter’s devious scheming, either. He would have a good long talk with her about it once Chelsea left. He just hadn’t thought of a punishment yet to fit the crime.

“It’s very good,” Chelsea said politely.

“Mmm,” Sam agreed. He watched her choke down another bite, almost feeling sorry for her. Almost.

He took a forkful of the casserole himself and looked up at Chelsea, something he instantly wished he hadn’t done. But there was little other place to look, and he had to admit, seeing her there was like waking up to a sunny spring day. He savored it, storing it for the long days ahead when she would be gone from his life again.

Yes, he thought, she’d matured in ways that were hard to define, but the total package was as close to perfection as he could imagine. Five foot seven, slender, graceful and oh so feminine with her long brown hair caught at the back of her sleek neck. A pampered beauty. She couldn’t have looked more out of place—drinking wine from a plastic tumbler, sitting in his beat-up old motor home, eating tuna casserole.

“So, do you work?” Sam asked Chelsea between bites.

“Chelsea lives on a ranch,” Jack told her. “She’s an accountant and keeps track of the cattle. It’s not polite to cross-examine dinner guests.”

“Sorry,” Sam said, and actually looked apologetic.

He reminded himself that this girl with the scrubbed face, sans cowboy hat, was an alien. Otherwise she’d be rolling her eyes, gagging and complaining.

“It’s all right, I don’t mind,” Chelsea said. He could feel her gaze on him. He didn’t dare look at her again. He realized he’d given himself away, knowing too much about her, almost as if he’d kept track of her all these years. Almost as if he cared.

* * *

JACK KNEW she was an accountant? That she took care of the financial end of the Wishing Tree Ranch?

She stared at him in surprise. He’d acted as if he’d never glanced back once he left the ranch. Look how quickly he’d met someone and had a child?

“How did you know that?” she asked.

He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “Someone must have mentioned it.”

Yeah, sure. A bubble of pleasure rose before she could slap it back down. Jack had kept track of her! He hadn’t gotten over her any more than she’d gotten over him. A cattle rustler-liar-thief wouldn’t have done that.

Or, suggested that darned voice that sounded suspiciously like her brother’s, Jack had just been waiting for her father to die so he could prey on her again, thinking Cody didn’t know about the rustling.

Sam gulped down her dinner and hurriedly excused herself, saying vaguely that she had to see someone about something and wouldn’t be gone long. She disappeared before Jack could stop her, slipping out under the table, leaving the two of them alone in the already too small motor home.

Jack looked as if he wanted to run as well. He glanced out the window as if afraid of who might show up next.