The Texan's Little Secret

She lowered her chin, so like his, and stared back.

Only the sudden rapid click of high heels on the foyer floor made her break eye contact with him.

Brock’s wife, Julieta, entered the living room. “Hello, you two. How’s the patient?”

Brock made a derisive sound.

She smiled. “Carly, I’ll take over now, if you have things you want to do before supper.” She slid the plum-colored suit jacket from her shoulders. “I’ll go up and change as soon as I run a few items of business past your father.”

Carly nodded. Julieta must have picked up on the tension in the room. She gave the woman credit for providing her with a graceful escape.

She gave Julieta credit for a lot of things. As well as being Brock’s third wife, she managed the public relations department at Baron Energies. She was good at her job, good at handling folks—and her husband. Knowing his wife went into the office every morning while he sat confined to the ranch had to help keep Brock’s crankiness level...well...cranked up. But it didn’t keep Julieta from taking care of business.

“See you in a bit.” Carly smiled at Brock in farewell. He nodded.

As she took the stairs to her room, she held back a laugh. Who knew how long that stalemate between them would have lasted if Julieta hadn’t walked in.

She didn’t care. No matter what, she wouldn’t have backed down on the statement she’d made about bull riding.

Once, she had thought she would never get enough of barrel racing, of the thrill of commanding her mount, honing her skill, increasing her speed. But since she’d left the ranch, with each year that had gone by, her interest and enthusiasm had waned by ever-increasing degrees. Though her eyes stayed on the prize, the motivating spark was gone.

And she needed a spark. A lure. A challenge. She needed something to make her feel whole again.

Like Brock, she needed a reason to get up in the morning.

* * *

“IF THIS DAMNED contraption doesn’t turn out to be the death of me, that girl will,” Brock Baron said, slapping his hand on the arm of the wheelchair.

His wife placed her briefcase next to the piles of paperwork on the couch. “And why is that?”

“She’s a worry to me in general. Always has been. You’re well aware of the reasons, including the fact she hasn’t spent more than a handful of weeks on this ranch since she finished high school.”

“A slight exaggeration.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. But there’s no denying she’s the least settled of any of the kids.”

“She is settled, Brock. Just out of the area.”

And out of his range of influence. That didn’t sit well with him at all. Not for any of his offspring, and especially not for Carly.

Now that his being laid up had caused her to spend some time at the Roughneck again, he’d had the chance to confirm his fears. “She’s as wild as she ever was, and I don’t see her wanting to change.”

“In view of all the time you two have spent together, coming home probably hasn’t helped that.”

“Meaning what?”

“As you always tell me, she’s the child who most takes after you in temperament.”

He couldn’t deny that. To borrow a phrase, she was a chip off the old Baron block. But he’d never tell his wife—or anyone—that Carly’s ways made him hold a soft spot in his heart for her. “What are you saying?”

“I’d guess neither one of you realizes, but spending so much time together has only reinforced how alike you are.”

“And you’re insinuating that’s a bad thing?”

She laughed. “No, of course not. But considering she’s young and female, she doesn’t need to come across quite so strong on some of your traits.”

“She needs her head set on straight, that’s what she needs,” he grumbled. “Bad enough she won’t live on the ranch or work at the family business. And now there’s this damned-fool idea she’s come up with.”

“Ah. I thought I saw daggers drawn when I came in here. What is it?”

“She’s got it into her mind she wants to give up barrel racing.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You mean quit the rodeo? Now, that does surprise me.”

“No, not quit.” He could barely bring himself to share what his youngest daughter had said. “She tells me she wants to go in for bull riding.”

Julieta looked at him thoughtfully. “Why does that bother you? It’s all part of the tradition, isn’t it?”

“Not for the women of this family.”

“Maybe not originally. But times change. And it’s more common now for women to ride bulls.”

“It’s damned dangerous, that’s what it is.” He exhaled heavily. “At any rate, what’s the point of my having it out with the girl? As headstrong as she is, she’s sure to want to ride despite my arguments.”

“Or because of them.”

“That, too.” Again, he slapped the arm of the wheelchair. “And I’m going to have to do something about it.”

* * *

“YOU THINK LUKE will show up before the barbecue’s over?” Kim Healy leaned against the counter in the ranch house kitchen. Her brown eyes, opened wide, counteracted her offhand tone.

Carly shrugged. They had returned to the house for reinforcements, including another batch of the homemade biscuits that Anna, their cook and housekeeper since long before Carly had been born, had left in the still-warm oven. She looked at Kim and pointed toward the stove. “I haven’t got the first clue about Luke Nobel’s plans.”

“You would have, if you’d been back here the past couple of years.”

Carly gnawed her lower lip. Kim wouldn’t let this ride.

Every Fourth of July, Brock laid on a barbecue for his family and any of the hands who were around to attend. Once she’d heard Luke had started working on the ranch, she had deliberately begun missing the event, using her job in Houston as an excuse, even though it meant passing up Anna’s barbecued beef.

Fortunately, Anna knew her well. The casual meal always showed up on the menu during her infrequent visits.

“In all this time taking care of your dad, you must have seen Luke by now,” Kim persisted. “Have you talked to him yet?”

“Briefly.” Two days ago, and she still felt unsettled by the memory. Not that she’d need to confess that to Kim, who would already know. And she couldn’t blame Kim for her question.

They had been fast friends since second grade, when Kim had tried to take over in a kickball game. Carly had punched her lights out and, to her delight, Kim had punched back. Someone squealed about the tussle to their teacher, which resulted in Mrs. Blake’s frog-marching them to the principal. She and Kim had sat waiting in the hallway outside his office, both of them covered in dust from the unpaved playground, sporting a rapidly swelling eye and a bloodied nose, respectively, and grinning at each other.