Rodeo Daddy

He swallowed hard, waiting for her to tell him what had made her drive all the way here just to see him. Nothing good, he would bet on that.

“I found the check my father tried to give you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

So that was it. He felt his jaw tighten.

“I didn’t know, Jack.”

He looked away, the pain fresh as a new wound, looked past her to the sports car parked by the chutes. Her sports car. He smiled bitterly. For a moment, just looking at her, listening to her, he’d forgotten. Now he looked from the car to her, recalling only too well everything he’d once felt for her—and all the reasons they had been wrong for each other.

Just look at the two of them. Chelsea, standing there in boots that probably cost more than everything he owned. Him, wearing worn jeans and a T-shirt, stocking-footed, a day’s growth of beard, and standing in front of a motor home that, like him, had seen better days.

He’d almost forgotten how inadequate her wealth made him feel. He stepped back, purposely putting some distance between them.

“Jack, if only you had—”

“Chelsea, all that was years ago.” Only it felt like yesterday. He raked a hand through his hair. “I was sorry to hear about your dad,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She glanced around as if she didn’t like talking out here in the open. Her gaze settled on his motor home, and she suddenly seemed at a loss for words.

He understood the feeling. Their lives had taken different paths, that was for sure. They were strangers now. No, he thought. He and Chelsea could never be strangers, not after everything they’d shared. That’s what made this so damned painful.

“Chelsea.” He shook his head, shaken by her sudden appearance and the feelings that had once more been forced to the surface.

“Dad?”

“I thought I told you to go wash up for dinner, Sam,” he said quietly without turning around. He met Chelsea’s gaze, could see the pain in her expression.

“If you’d just told me,” she said.

How many times had he questioned that decision? How many times had he thought about going back to try to straighten things out? But what would have been the point? The memory of her father coming out that morning to the corrals with the check, the look in Ryder Jensen’s eyes, the accusations, the contempt—all had kept him moving on down the road. Still kept him moving on.

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, Chelsea, I do.”

“Dad?”

He swore under his breath. “Sam—”

“I’m interrupting your supper,” Chelsea said, looking as if maybe she finally realized the mistake she’d made in coming here. “I should go.” But she didn’t move.

He figured she hadn’t gotten what she’d come for.

“My brother told me about...” Her gaze locked with his and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. I’ll be damned. So she’d just found out about the rustling. The old man hadn’t told her.

He waited, taking some perverse satisfaction in making her say the words. He watched her get up her courage. It was one thing Chelsea Jensen had never lacked, or so he’d thought.

“He told me about the missing cattle,” she said.

Jack let out a snort. “I wondered how long it would take before one of them told you.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said, only a slight break in her voice betraying her.

He turned away. He definitely didn’t need this.

“Jack.”

It come out a whisper, so familiar and so intimate he stopped in his tracks, remembering that soft sound, the feel of her breath on his skin, her lips—

He didn’t need to be reminded. He’d tried for ten years to put it behind him. To put Chelsea and the Wishing Tree and all of it behind him. Damn her for coming here.

“Believe it,” he said, walking away from her, just as he had ten years ago.

“I’m hungry,” his daughter said, watching him intently from a short distance away. She’d obviously seen his reaction to Chelsea, if not overheard their conversation.

“Then why didn’t you take the check?” Chelsea called after him.

He stopped and turned slowly. “Don’t do this. Whatever it is you’re looking for, you aren’t going to find it here.”

“Aren’t you going to ask her to have dinner with us?” Sam asked loudly.

He gave his daughter a warning look. Don’t do this to me, Sam.

“We have plenty, don’t we, Dad?” Sam persisted, flashing him her best wide-eyed innocent smile and completely ignoring his warning look. “We have that huge casserole.”

He ground his teeth. He knew what his daughter was up to and it wasn’t going to work. Sam had seen Terri Lyn bring over the casserole and now thought she’d found a way to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

“Don’t you want to have dinner with us?” Sam asked Chelsea, as if it were only good manners to ask.

Jack closed his eyes and lowered his head. When he looked at Sam again, he could almost see the mischief dancing in her eyes.

“Please!” she pleaded. “We don’t ever have company.”

Last night he’d forced her to sit through a dinner with him and Terri Lyn. Sam had never liked any of the women who came around trying to mother her and cozy up to him, and did everything in her power to discourage them. She especially didn’t like Terri Lyn for reasons he couldn’t understand. But he’d made it clear last night that Sam wasn’t going to pick who he dated. If he ever really got down to dating again.

This was payback and she wanted him to know it.

“Sam,” he warned. The girl had no idea what a hornet’s nest she was stirring up.

“I’m sure your mother—” Chelsea began.

“I don’t have a mother,” Sam said, cutting her off. She sounded so pathetic Jack almost laughed. “She left me on Dad’s doorstep when I was just a baby.”

Chelsea was appropriately startled.

“Sam,” Jack warned, but there was no stopping Samantha tonight. Tomorrow he’d ground her little cowgirl behind. A few days doing extra homework in the motor home should take some of the sass out of her.