Rodeo Daddy

“My mother was a barrel racer and couldn’t handle having a baby,” Sam continued as if she hadn’t heard his warning—just like all the other warnings she’d ignored. “I’m the product of a one-night stand. At least that’s what Terri Lyn says.”

Thanks a lot, Terri Lyn. Jack groaned as he saw Chelsea’s shocked reaction. He watched her glance toward the motor home and hesitate—the last thing he wanted her to do.

“So your father’s raised you alone all these years?” Chelsea sounded impressed, damn it.

Sam nodded. “Just the two of us.”

“Sam,” he said pointedly, “Chelsea needs to get going now—”

“No,” Chelsea said, her dark gaze coming up to meet his. “I’m not in that much of a hurry. And anyway, I didn’t get my questions answered.”

He swore under his breath. It was obvious that Chelsea could see the spot Sam had put him in and she planned to take advantage of it. “I thought you knew the answer before you came here.”

“I thought I did, too,” she said, her gaze hard. “Now I’m not so sure.” She looked down at Sam. “I’d love to stay and have dinner with you and your father.”

Sam beamed. The little scamp.

He gritted his teeth, knowing that he should put an end to this before it went any further. But maybe Chelsea had to see how he lived, had to taste Terri Lyn’s tuna casserole before she could leave. The two put together should have her hightailing it back to San Antonio in her expensive little sports car, thanking her lucky stars she was leaving it all behind.

“Fine,” he said. “I hope you like tuna casserole.”

“My favorite,” Chelsea said.

We’ll see about that, he thought.

“We can eat inside,” Sam said brightly. “You can help me light the candles that go with the casserole,” she told Chelsea. “Won’t this be fun?”

He scowled at his daughter, but she pretended not to notice. “Fun,” he echoed, and followed the two toward the motor home. Wait until Terri Lyn heard what happened to the little romantic dinner she’d had planned for later. But first he had to sit through an entire meal with Chelsea. Why hadn’t he just admitted to the rustling and sent her on her way?

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.