Cowboy Daddy

It had taken every ounce of his strength to put her down on the bed and not crawl in beside her. She’d felt so right in his arms, and the way she’d laid her head on his shoulder had him wishing—

“You coming to get him?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.” With a deep breath, he stalked around the truck and climbed in. “Give me half an hour at most. Can you keep him there that long?”

“You want me to open a tab?”

“No. But if that’s what it takes, yeah.” Lane wanted to chuck the damned phone across the pasture, but he didn’t. He shoved it back into his pocket where he’d answer it again the next time, because there was always a next time. Was he making a mistake? Aiding and abetting his father in getting even drunker? He cursed and tore out of the drive, a plume of dust billowing up from his tires.

The Lucky Chance seemed to be his dad’s favorite hangout lately. How many times in the past two weeks had he been here? Lane had lost count.

The parking lot wasn’t yet full, which gave Lane hope—for about half a minute. Until he climbed out of the truck and heard the sounds of a loud crowd coming from behind the building. With a curse, Lane broke into a run.

Easily a dozen people stood in a circle in the empty lot behind the bar. Lane shoved his way through to find his dad and another man swinging clenched fists at each other. Dust from their stumbling, shuffling feet filled the air.

Hank Beaumont looked like hell—in other words, like normal. His eyes were bloodshot, and his greasy, thinning brown hair was matted to his scalp for any multitude of reasons. His right cheek sported a jagged cut, and blood trickled down to his jaw.

The blood apparently had been oozing for a while as there were stains on the torn white T-shirt Hank wore. Dust covered his jeans and ratty boots, which meant this fight had been going on for some time, and Hank’s backside had hit the ground at least twice.

Lane cursed and strode into the middle of the crowd, hoping like hell he wouldn’t have to take the next punch to end this. “All right. Party’s over, folks.”

“No, it’s not,” Hank slurred. “I was just getting warmed up.” Hank spat and Lane noticed blood smeared on his father’s teeth. Great. He hoped it wouldn’t mean more dental work. Hank didn’t have enough money to cover something like that and now that Lane needed to give Mandy—

“I tried to stop ’em.” A tall, beefy cowboy had hold of Hank’s opponent, a young cowpoke with enough muscle to kill Hank—if he had been even slightly sober, which he thankfully wasn’t.

“That’s okay, Billy,” Lane said to the bouncer, knowing full well he probably had at least five bucks on one of the contenders, and more likely had been cheering on and not trying to stop this mess. “Come on, Dad.”

Hank pulled his arm from Lane’s grasp, stumbling backward. His dusty butt hit the ground and, after an instant, he rolled farther to the ground, laughter coming from his bloody mouth.

Laughter Lane knew would dissolve into alternating fits of rage and tears.

Billy shepherded everyone else back into the bar, promising drinks for them all. Lane expected the tab Sam had asked about to have a few extra drinks on it. Lane sighed.

“Let’s go home, Dad.” He extended a hand to his father, who surprised him by taking it, letting Lane pull him to his feet. Hank stumbled but meekly followed Lane to the parking lot. Lane just hoped his dad would fall asleep in the truck, not yammer or cry as they drove to the house.

“Where the hell you been?” Hank asked, leaning his head back on the seat.

“Work.” Lane had learned eons ago that simple, short answers were best. While Hank hadn’t hit Lane in years, there was always the possibility. And while sober Hank knew that his son had become a man, drunk Hank conveniently forgot.

“You got chores to do at home.”

“Yes, Dad. I’ll get to it.”

“I don’t want to hear none of your excuses, boy.”

“I know.” Lane wove through the hills, hoping they’d reach the house before Hank’s temper grew worse. Sometimes, Lane wondered if it might just be better to leave him to fight it off.

But Hank never won. He just ended up in the emergency room. He was too old and worn out.

“Here we are.” Lane pulled into the dirt-covered yard as close to the front steps as he could get the truck. He glanced over at the older man. Hank was out cold.

Great. Lane climbed out, opening the passenger door carefully so he wouldn’t have to catch Hank, who was leaning against it. “You gonna wake up, old man?”

Hank’s response was a resounding snore. Lane sighed and knelt down. Lifting his father over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, he headed to the front steps. What the hell was Hank going to do when Lane got too old to carry him?

“Hey, did you know you’re a grandfather?” Lane asked the silent house. Hank snored again. “Yeah? Why, thanks, Dad. The congrats are much appreciated.”

Lane had set his father’s room up on the main floor years ago, so the trip to the nearest bed was short. He put the old man down and, except for yanking off his boots, left him.

At the doorway, he stopped and looked back. How many people did he have to put to bed in a day before he earned his own rest?

With Hank asleep like this, minus the injuries and bloodstains, Lane could almost see the man his father used to be. “Damn it, Dad.” He thought of Mandy. Thought of his son. “His name is Lucas,” Lane said softly. “And he’ll never know you. He can’t.” Lane kept walking. “I can’t.”

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_ad94055b-cc99-5aa1-9ea5-d1b6b50ab511)

AMAZING WHAT A good night’s sleep could do for a person. Amanda awoke to bright morning sunshine pouring in through the window and energy thrumming through her body.

The height of the sun told her it was late. In the distance the edge of the barn’s roof gleamed bright red against the vivid blue Texas sky. It felt so good to be home. Rolling over, she stretched, making sure not to pull her stitches and minding all the sore places from IVs and other intrusive...things.

She glanced over at the crib—the empty crib. Panic shot through her. She threw back the covers. Her bare feet hit the cool wood floor as her heart pounded against her ribs.

She was the world’s worst mother. How could she forget for even a second that she had Lucas to worry about and care for? How could she have slept so long when he most certainly had not slept through a—she glanced at the alarm clock that had not woken her—ten-hour night? Not at less than two weeks old.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Tara’s voice came from the doorway. Lucas was safely snuggled on her shoulder, his tiny head nestled against her neck.

All the adrenaline rushed out of Amanda’s body and gravity pulled her back down to the edge of the bed. “I am such a horrid mother,” she whispered. “And you’re a terrible sister for scaring me half to death.”

Tara laughed, used to Amanda’s morning persona. “Like I’d wake you up to tell you I was taking Lucas so you can sleep?” She rolled her eyes. “Take a shower and get dressed. Lucas and I are gonna play.”

“Play?” How did you play with an eight-day-old baby? Tara left and after several deep breaths, Amanda grabbed her clothes and headed, slowly, carefully down the narrow hall to the bathroom. She might be rested, but her body was still recovering. She didn’t look in the kitchen, didn’t glance in the living room. She didn’t want to know who saw her in this old, ratty nightgown.

Half an hour later, dressed in her normal clothes—with makeup for the first time in a while—she followed the trail of voices down the hall.

Wyatt’s household revolved around the big, airy country kitchen at the center of the house. Stepping into the familiar room, Amanda let the sense of home enfold her. Juanita stood at the giant gas stove stirring a pot that looked big enough to crawl into. Lovely, tantalizing smells wafted from it, filling the room.

Tara sat on the bench that ran the length of the big, wooden table, a cup of coffee steaming in her hands. “My play buddy conked out.” She smiled and tilted her head toward the baby swing in the corner where Lucas snoozed.

“He does that.” Amanda headed to the coffeepot and fixed her own cup.

“You. Sit down.” Juanita pointed at the bench across from Tara. “I’ll make you a good breakfast.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Don’t argue with her.” Tara laughed. “You know you won’t win.”

“Listen to your sister.” Juanita laughed, too. “She’s right.”

After a good night’s sleep, a warm shower and with one of Juanita’s amazing breakfast burritos under her belt, Amanda almost felt normal. It might have been an illusion, but it wasn’t the first time she’d let herself believe in delusions.