Читать книгу Rodeo Daddy - B.J. Daniels, B.J. Daniels - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

DAMN! So much for thinking one look in Jack’s eyes would tell her everything she needed to know. All she’d seen so far was arrogance and anger.

Not true. She’d glimpsed something when he’d first seen her. Surprise. And something that had set her heart running off at a gallop. It was one of the reasons she’d agreed to stay for dinner. That and the fact that Jack had been so dead set against it.

She knew she should turn tail and run. Hadn’t Jack pretty much told her everything she’d come to find out? What more did she want him to say? That he’d never loved her? That he’d used her? That he’d been stealing her cows while seducing her?

She felt tears rush her eyes. It seemed she was becoming a crier whether she liked it or not. She fought them back with the only weapon she had: anger. Damn Jack Shane—or whoever he was.

“So you changed your name?” she said. “Got tired of Shane, did you?”

He bristled but didn’t seem surprised, as if he’d been waiting for this. “Jackson is my given name and Robinson’s my mother’s maiden name. When she divorced my stepfather, I went back to Robinson.” He raised a brow as if to say, Satisfied?

She couldn’t think of anything else to say. For the moment. She could feel Jack’s gaze on her, hotter than a Texas summer night.

She felt the hair stand up on her neck and turned, unable to shake the feeling that Jack wasn’t the only one watching her. At the edge of the darkness, she would have sworn she saw a figure move, furtive as a cat, disappearing into the blackness beyond the camp.

“It’s a little small,” Jack was saying as he opened the door to the motor home and stepped back for Sam and Chelsea to enter.

Small was putting it mildly. The inside of the motor home was neat and clean but incredibly tiny, everything in miniature. How could she ever get through dinner in here with Jack so near? She wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite.

“Go wash up, Sam,” Jack ordered.

Sam seemed about to argue, but apparently changed her mind. As she slipped past her father, Chelsea heard Jack hiss something at his daughter.

Jack stepped toward the kitchen. Chelsea had to move to give him enough space in the tiny living room. He appeared as uncomfortable as she felt. “Look, I know you didn’t come here for dinner so—”

“No. I came for answers.” A thought pierced her heart, as unerring as an arrow. “Sam must be what? Nine?” she asked under the sound of water running at the back of the motor home.

He raised a brow as if that should have been answer enough. “She’ll be nine in July.”

It didn’t take an accountant to figure that one out. “You didn’t waste any time, did you?” she asked, turning her back to him so he couldn’t see her hurt. Damn the man.

Sam came back into the small kitchen, glancing back and forth between the two of them, her gaze full of open curiosity.

“Aren’t you going to set the table?” the girl asked her father.

He turned to open one of the cupboards. “I don’t think eating inside is a good idea,” she heard him tell Sam.

“The wind will blow out the candles if we eat outside,” Sam said. “Do you want to help me light them?” she asked Chelsea.

Chelsea couldn’t miss the look that passed between father and daughter. Sam seemed especially pleased with herself. Her father, on the other hand, looked just the opposite. Chelsea almost felt sorry for him. “We don’t have to have candles if your father wants to eat outside.”

“Sure we do,” Sam said. “Dad likes candles.”

Somehow that didn’t seem likely. Chelsea wondered what was going on between the two of them as Jack began to set the table with more than a little racket. He was obviously upset—and not just because Sam had asked her for dinner.

That’s when Chelsea noticed the foil-covered casserole resting on the stove and groaned inwardly. Next to it were two tapered candles and a bottle of wine. Someone had drawn a heart shape into the foil. The barrel racer! The woman had an intimate dinner planned and Sam was in the process of ruining it—with Chelsea’s help. Things were starting to make sense.

As angry as she was with Jack, she actually felt a little guilty. “Jack, I’m interrupting your dinner plans—”

“Why don’t you help Samantha light the candles?” he said, then gave a shrug. “Plans change.”

“You’re going to use the good plates, aren’t you, Dad?” Sam asked.

“Of course. Does this mean you plan to remove your hat?”

Samantha let out an embarrassed laugh and pulled off her hat, a long reddish-brown braid tumbling out. She disappeared into the back of the motor home for a moment.

The table sat between short booths to make up the rest of the kitchen-dining room-living room. Chelsea tried to stay out of Jack’s way as he set the table, but it was impossible in such close quarters. At the mere touch of a shoulder, the brush of fingers, they both jerked back as if burned. On second thought, this was a terrible idea.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Jack said, his voice sounding tight.

She nodded and hurriedly slid into the booth, surprised at her feelings. This Jack was different. More muscular. More solid. More attractive than the younger man she’d fallen in love with ten years ago.

She tried to tell herself that she no longer knew him. But as she watched him move around the tiny kitchen, she realized that was a lie. This man was branded on her. The scent of him. The feel of his skin against hers. The sound of his voice, low and soft in her hair.

She closed her eyes for a moment, the memory too sharp, too painful, the ache too intense. Why had she come here? What had she hoped to accomplish? The answer was obvious. She’d thought that once she told him about the check and the note, he would convince her of his innocence. They would put the past behind them...and take up where they’d left off. How foolishly romantic.

When Sam came back, her hair was brushed out. She handed Chelsea the matches to light the candles, studying her openly. It seemed Chelsea wasn’t the only one with questions.

“So when did you meet my dad?” Sam asked, not the least bit shy. She made it sound as if Jack met a lot of women but he’d sneaked this one by her.

“Before you were born, Ms. Busybody.” Jack looked as if he could spit nails, but he didn’t try to stop her. As if he could. “A lifetime ago.”

Chelsea let her gaze rise up to meet his. “Seems like only yesterday,” she heard herself say.

Jack made a face. “Doesn’t it, though.”

“Did you know my mother?” Sam asked.

“No, she didn’t,” Jack said, answering for Chelsea once again as he put condiments on the table. “Get Chelsea a glass of water with her dinner.”

Chelsea closed her eyes again, feeling overwhelmed.

“Is she all right?” Sam asked.

Chelsea opened her eyes to find both Sam and Jack looking down at her. “Fine. Maybe a little tired.” She let her gaze rise up to meet Jack’s. He knew what was wrong with her. She’d bet her last dime on that.

“Why don’t you get Chelsea a glass of water,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to drink the wine?” Sam cried.

Jack swung his gaze to the bottle of wine, then at Chelsea. “Why not.”

Now that Sam had removed her cowboy hat, Chelsea could see how much father and daughter resembled each other. There was no doubt that Jack was Sam’s father. How could a mother just dump her baby off and not look back?

She reached for the glass of water Sam had gotten her, but instead Jack pushed a glass of wine into her hand.

“Here, this might be more what you need.” He poured himself a glass as well and took a drink, his gaze studying her over the rim of the plastic tumbler.

She took a sip, grateful, her eyes meeting his with a plea, one she doubted he would grant even if he could. There was an edge to him. A hard, finely honed anger tinged with bitterness. Was this about the check? she wondered. Or about her asking if he was a cattle rustler? It could be either, she realized.

Or he could be guilty as hell, and all that anger and bitterness nothing more than a defense mechanism. Did it really matter?

Yes. She still had to know. Their eyes met and she wondered if he could see what she was thinking.

He raised his tumbler slightly in a mock toast.

She gave him a tremulous smile, the motor home suddenly unbearably hot.

“Tuna casserole, my favorite,” Sam said as she slid into the booth opposite Chelsea.

Jack seemed to drag his gaze away. He turned it on the girl, appearing both annoyed and amused. “I thought you hated tuna casserole,” he said as he lifted the large, now unwrapped dish to the table.

“I don’t know where you got that idea.” She gave Chelsea a look that said, “Men!” Then she narrowed her gaze. “So did you have an affair with my dad?”

Chelsea choked on her wine. This kid was way too precocious.

“Samantha!” Jack bellowed.

“I was just asking,” Sam said.

“Keep asking and you can go to bed without any supper,” he warned.

Sam cocked a brow at him as if the threat amused her.

Jack shook his head, looking tired and vulnerable. His gaze came up to meet Chelsea’s and she thought she saw almost a pleading in it, as if her coming here hurt him as much as it did her and he just wanted it to be over. She knew the feeling.

“We should have music,” Sam said in a burst of energy, and slid out of the booth.

* * *

JACK DROPPED his head down, wanting to tell Sam he gave up. She’d made her point.

A moment later, elevator-type music drifted from Sam’s boom box, confirming his suspicions. Terri Lyn had played romantic music at their dinner last night, making Sam roll her eyes whenever he looked at her.

This was definitely payback. Either that or his daughter had been abducted by aliens and a girl from another planet left behind in her place.

Sam shot him a grin as she slid back into the booth. “Nice, huh?”

He drained his wineglass and refilled it with the wine Terri Lyn had so thoughtfully brought to go along with the casserole, the candles now flickering warmly on the table and a CD in Sam’s boom box.

His daughter looked expectantly at him and he noticed the not-so-subtle way Sam had sat across from Chelsea in the middle of the booth. It appeared she wanted him to sit next to their guest. He smiled to himself as he refilled Chelsea’s glass with wine.

Under other circumstances, he might have found some humor in Sam’s scheme to get rid of Terri Lyn.

He glanced at Chelsea, his pulse taking off at a trot at the thought of sitting next to her in the intimate booth. Not a chance, Sam.

“Dad?”

He dragged his gaze away from Chelsea, but not before noticing how she’d changed over the last ten years. She’d matured in ways he had never imagined. She was more rounded. More beautiful, if that was possible.

He felt a stirring within him and cursed the impact she had on him. Had always had on him. Except now he knew that it could only bring him heartbreak.

“The casserole is getting cold,” Sam said pointedly.

As if that would make any difference in the taste, he thought.

The alien Sam was all smiles and almost ladylike. He tried to match her joviality as he slid her over in the booth none too gently. He wasn’t about to sit next to Chelsea, no matter how much Sam had hoped to manipulate him.

His daughter’s smile faltered a little. His widened.

“So how did you meet my dad?” Sam asked again, not to be dissuaded even if one part of her plan hadn’t worked.

“We met on her father’s ranch,” Jack said, his jaw tightening. “I was their ranch hand.”

He saw Chelsea’s eyes narrow. He reached for her plate. Chelsea wanted to have dinner with them—well, sometimes you got what you deserved, he thought as he slapped a large spoonful of Terri Lyn’s casserole down on it, then reached for his daughter’s plate.

“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.

She put down her fork. She hadn’t had any appetite in the first place and Terri Lyn’s casserole certainly hadn’t improved it. “Look, Jack, I know I shouldn’t have just shown up here like this, but after what Cody told me...”

He nodded, his jaw tensing, then pushed his plate away and got up to clear the table.

“Let me help,” she said as he slid out of the booth.

“No!” He gave her an apologetic smile at his curt tone and motioned for her to stay put. “This kitchen is too small for more than one person.”

He was right about that. She watched him clear the table, seeing his discomfort in the tensed muscles of his back through the thin white T-shirt. She tried not to notice the way his jeans fit. Or remember the feel of his long legs wrapped around her.

She fanned herself with her napkin, wishing there was more air in the room, wishing she hadn’t drunk the wine, wishing there was an easy way to say what she’d come to say. Jack’s admission that he hadn’t completely forgotten about her gave her courage. That and the wine and the fact that Terri Lyn couldn’t cook.

“I’m sure you’re wondering about Samantha,” he said, his back still to her as he began to wash the dishes.

What was there to wonder about? Jack had found someone else right after leaving the Wishing Tree.

He glanced over his shoulder, then back at his dishes. “What she told you just about covers it. I found Sam on my doorstep nine months after a one-night stand.”

“You’ve raised Sam alone?”

He nodded, still not looking at her. “It wasn’t any big deal.” He chuckled. “At first I was as lost as a young bull in the ring. But Sam and I have done all right by ourselves. She’s taught me a lot.”

There hadn’t been anyone special in his life besides Samantha? “Then you never married?”

He gave another nervous laugh. “I’ve been too busy to even date.”

“You seem to have found time to attract a casserole maker,” she said lightly.

He laughed. “Terri Lyn? We’re just friends.” He made a noise as if he hadn’t meant to say that and instantly regretted it.

She felt her heart inflate like a helium balloon, and without thinking, she opened it to him. “Jack, there’s no one serious in my life, either.”

He froze but didn’t turn around.

She rushed on before she lost her nerve. “I never knew what happened ten years ago. You just up and left. I thought you’d changed your mind about me. Then after my father’s heart attack, I found the check he tried to give you.”

Still Jack said nothing. Nor did he move, as if he were waiting for a blow.

“I know my father regretted what he did. He tried to tell me in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. He knew how much I—”

“Don’t,” Jack said, his voice low. “Chelsea, don’t.”

“But, Jack...” She slid out of the booth and was so close to him that she could feel his body heat. Cautiously, she laid a hand on his back, not surprised this time by the current that raced from her palm to her heart—or his flinch at her touch. “Tell me what happened between us was real. Tell me you weren’t rustling our cattle and just stringing me along. Please, Jack.”

* * *

THE FAMILIAR SOUND of his name on her lips grabbed his heart and squeezed it like a fist. He closed his eyes, her palm radiating warmth that ran like a live wire through him. Heat to heat, reminding him how it had been between the two of them. As if he’d ever forgotten.

“Jack, my father never should have done what he did without giving you a chance to—”

“Chelsea.” He turned quickly, breaking the contact between them as he moved. He held her at arm’s length, his voice rough with emotions he didn’t want to feel. “Listen to me.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide, brimming with tears.

He’d almost forgotten how brown her eyes were. How tiny gold flecks shone when she was excited or angry. Or aroused. If only he’d been able to forget the rest. The feel and smell and sound of her. Or the way her father had handed him the check that morning in the corral so many years ago.

“It doesn’t matter, don’t you see that?” he said. “What happened was for the best. Your father was right. You and I were all wrong for each other. The ranch hand and the rancher’s daughter. So he thought I was stealing his cows. He also thought I was trying to steal his daughter, and he wasn’t having any of it.”

He pushed her away and waved an arm at the confined space he called home, thinking of the Wishing Tree Ranch and its massive rooms and high-timbered ceilings and all the antiques handed down through generations of Jensens.

“There is no way we could ever have made it together,” he said, the words beating him like stones. “Look at us, Chelsea. I’m a rodeo cowboy. That, and a ranch hand, is all I’ve ever been.”

“Jack, none of that matters if—”

“It matters to me. And it mattered to your father.”

“He was wrong,” she whispered. “If only he’d let you explain—”

“Chelsea, why dredge this all up again?” He moved away, turning his back on her. For years he’d hoped she would come after him. Now he realized just how wrong he’d been—seeing her served no purpose.

“Ryder Jensen did me a favor.” The rancher had reminded Jack just who he was. A man not good enough for his daughter. He turned to meet her gaze, something that took every ounce of his will. “He could have had me arrested but he didn’t.”

Her eyes darkened. She shook her head, a pleading in her gaze that broke his heart. “Tell me the truth.”

“Will you leave here and never come back?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her voice broke with emotion.

“Then it’s true.” He turned his back on her, leaning over the counter, the pain worse than being gored by a bull—and he’d been gored enough times to know. He wanted to stop but knew he couldn’t. Not if he hoped to finish this once and for all. He should have done this years ago, but he hadn’t been strong enough then. He wasn’t sure he was now.

“I’m everything your father and brother told you I am. Now get out of here.”