Rodeo Father

Veering away from her grief before it brought on tears, she concentrated on the Victorian.

Her every-second-of-the-day dream about owning that house perked her up, rerouting her thoughts away from devastating memories.

To everyone else in Rodeo, the aging home looked like a run-down romantic anomaly in the Western landscape, but to Rachel it was perfect.

But then, romantic notions and daydreams had always been her downfall, hadn’t they?

Davey had never known about this particular dream. She’d wanted to surprise him with a fait accompli. Look, honey, I bought us a house.

Any day now it would be hers. She hadn’t heard even a whisper about whether Abigail’s British relatives were going to put it up for sale, but why wouldn’t they?

It was useless to them.

She’d scrimped and saved until she had just shy of five thousand dollars in change and small bills hidden in her closet.

Dumb spot to keep her money, but she and Davey had had a joint bank account. Had he known about this money, he would have siphoned off every spare cent for his motorcycle passion...or for treating his friends to beer every Friday night...or for chewing through money like it was cereal.

Davey had had those great big hands that could love her with enthusiasm, but they were a pair of sieves where money was concerned.

She should roll the change and count the money soon and get it into the bank. Later. Right now she needed these moments of rest.

The pretty trills of a horned lark on Abigail’s land floated across to her on the late-October breeze.

No one else in town would want that house.

There was no way there would be a speck of competition. It needed work.

It would be hers. It could have been hers a lot sooner had she married someone more practical.

The heart has a mind of its own, Rach, and you just have to follow it.

I sure did, didn’t I?

Yes. She sure had, right back into the financial insecurity she’d grown up with.

She let out a sigh full of hot air and yearning.

The distant hum of an engine—a motorcycle—cut through her daydreaming. Her unreasonable heart lurched with thoughts of her late husband.

A big Harley shot down the old road toward her.

It wasn’t Davey, of course. Never again would her husband ride home with a shit-eating grin that would light up any cloudy day.

She scrubbed her hands over her arms and shivered despite the sunshine. Oh, Davey.

The bike came close, closer, and slowed down enough to initiate the turn into Abigail’s driveway. Who was it?

The noise disturbed the lark. Routed, he surged from his hiding spot, his distinctive yellow-and-black face catching the eye of a white cat crouching in the grasses along the side of the road. Ghost. Abigail’s cat shot out toward the songbird, right into the bike’s path. No!

Rachel stumbled to her feet. “Get back,” she yelled.

The biker swerved to avoid the cat, Ghost ran back into the tall grasses and the bike tipped over. The machine flew across the road, screeching and shooting sparks, leaving the rider bouncing and rolling along the shoulder in a plume of dust.

In the ensuing silence, dirt and stones fell on his still body.

Rachel froze. Unwelcome memories of that awful day and the police officer at her door surged through her. He’s gone, ma’am, in a head-on collision with a tree. I’m sorry.

Resurrected shock held her immobile.

The man lay unmoving.

Rachel stared. Please, not another death. Abigail. Davey. No.

A groan from across the small highway galvanized her.

Rachel ran over, the only sound her pounding pulse.

He still hadn’t moved. Oh, dear Lord, please don’t die.

Kneeling beside him, she checked his body for signs of injury. Hard to tell through the leather. She touched his shoulders, arms and legs, feeling for broken bones. Under layers of solid muscle everything seemed fine, but what about internal injuries? She didn’t know how to check. With a wail of frustration, she tore into herself for never having taken first-aid classes.

One arm moved, raising the visor of his helmet.

Her frantic glance took in his face. He was conscious. Deep-set blue eyes watched her steadily, silently.

He reached up to remove his helmet. She stopped him with a hand on his wrist, feeling a strong pulse, thank God. “Should you do that? Is your head injured?”

Her voice shook. So did her hands.

“I’m good.” He took off his helmet, and she gasped.

Travis?

Of all people—What—? How—?

“Are you okay?” Her voice emerged reed thin.

He didn’t respond, just stared into her eyes, then touched her bottom lip with a glove-clad finger.

“Only one,” he murmured.

Huh?

His eyes met hers again, mesmerizing. She could fall into that blue gaze for hours. The moment stretched out. A smile, sweet and broad, curved the corners of his mouth.

Oh my-y-y. What did Travis use for toothpaste? Moonbeams?

He sat up slowly, his body coming close enough for her to feel his heat even through his leathers. She sat back on her heels.