B.J. Daniels - Rodeo Daddy

The screen door on the motor home banged open. Chelsea turned, afraid it would be Jack. Instead, a young woman dressed in western attire came out, still laughing and smiling back at whoever was inside. Her boots rang on the metal step of the motor home and her laughter echoed through the trees.

“See ya later, Jackson,” the woman said, and swinging her hips, sauntered off.

The tomboy next to Chelsea made a rude noise. “Terri Lyn Kessler. She’s a barrel racer.”

Just then, a man stuck his head out the door of the motor home. “Samantha?” he called, but the retreating woman didn’t turn around.

Chelsea’s gaze swung back around to the motor home and Jack standing in the doorway. It seemed as if it had been only yesterday. She stood rooted to the spot at the sight of him in the light from the open door. A whirlwind of emotions swirled like a dust devil around her, engulfing her, taking her breath away. Some things didn’t change—her reaction to Jack Shane one of them.

“Samantha?” he called again, his eyes seeming to adjust to the semidarkness.

Chelsea thought he was calling after the woman who’d just left. But to her surprise, it was the tomboy next to her who finally answered.

“Coming, Dad,” the girl said with obvious reluctance. “I got to go,” she told Chelsea. “It’s dinnertime and I’m late as usual and in trouble.” She sounded as if this was nothing new.

Chelsea watched the girl amble toward the motor home, kicking up dust with the scuffed toes of her worn boots.

Dad? Jack had a daughter.

Chelsea took a step back, ready to make a run for it, when she saw Jack’s gaze lift from Samantha to her.

“Chelsea?”

* * *

JACK KNEW the moment he breathed the word, it betrayed him. For years after he’d left Chelsea and the Wishing Tree Ranch, he’d imagined seeing her again. He’d always known he would look up one day and there she’d be. For years he’d search the rodeo crowd for her face. Other times he would think he saw glimpses of her in passing. Or hear her voice and turn so quickly it gave him whiplash.

For a long while after he’d left the ranch, he’d expected her to come looking for him. Had hoped she would. But she never had, and he’d stopped expecting it. Still, he’d always known he’d see her again. And feared the day.

“Jack.” She took a step toward him and stopped as if unsure what she was doing here. She wore a blue shirt that hugged her curves, designer jeans and boots.

What was she doing here? He shook his head, unable to believe she was anything more than a mirage. As he stepped toward her, he feared the moment he was within touching distance, she would disappear.

Samantha stood watching the two of them, looking too curious for her own good.

“Go on in and wash up, Sam,” he said as he passed her.

“But, Dad—”

“No buts,” he said firmly, his gaze on Chelsea. What was she doing here? He’d seen in the paper where her father had died. There’d been a big write-up.

“Chelsea,” he said again, just the sound of her name on his lips bringing back the old ache, reminding him of the feel of her in his arms.

She smiled tentatively. “Hello, Jack.”

He stared at her, searching for words. It had just been too long, and he was feeling way too much right now.

“What are you doing here?” He hadn’t meant to make it sound as if she were trespassing.

“I heard you were riding on the pro rodeo circuit and I just happened to be in the area,” she said too quickly.

“You just happened to be in Lubbock?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously. He’d known her well enough to know when she was lying. Also when she was nervous. Right now, she was both.

“It’s been a long time,” she said.

He nodded, shocked. He’d thought the years would have tempered the desire. Lessened the need, the gut-clenching ache inside him.

“Almost ten years,” he said. “What are you doing here, Chelsea?” he asked again, his voice filled with the anguish he felt. Whatever it is, just get it over with.

“I had to see you,” she said, her eyes shining, her voice cracking.

He swallowed hard, waiting for her to tell him what had made her drive all the way here just to see him. Nothing good, he would bet on that.

“I found the check my father tried to give you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

So that was it. He felt his jaw tighten.

“I didn’t know, Jack.”

He looked away, the pain fresh as a new wound, looked past her to the sports car parked by the chutes. Her sports car. He smiled bitterly. For a moment, just looking at her, listening to her, he’d forgotten. Now he looked from the car to her, recalling only too well everything he’d once felt for her—and all the reasons they had been wrong for each other.

Just look at the two of them. Chelsea, standing there in boots that probably cost more than everything he owned. Him, wearing worn jeans and a T-shirt, stocking-footed, a day’s growth of beard, and standing in front of a motor home that, like him, had seen better days.

He’d almost forgotten how inadequate her wealth made him feel. He stepped back, purposely putting some distance between them.

“Jack, if only you had—”

“Chelsea, all that was years ago.” Only it felt like yesterday. He raked a hand through his hair. “I was sorry to hear about your dad,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She glanced around as if she didn’t like talking out here in the open. Her gaze settled on his motor home, and she suddenly seemed at a loss for words.

He understood the feeling. Their lives had taken different paths, that was for sure. They were strangers now. No, he thought. He and Chelsea could never be strangers, not after everything they’d shared. That’s what made this so damned painful.

“Chelsea.” He shook his head, shaken by her sudden appearance and the feelings that had once more been forced to the surface.

“Dad?”

“I thought I told you to go wash up for dinner, Sam,” he said quietly without turning around. He met Chelsea’s gaze, could see the pain in her expression.

“If you’d just told me,” she said.

How many times had he questioned that decision? How many times had he thought about going back to try to straighten things out? But what would have been the point? The memory of her father coming out that morning to the corrals with the check, the look in Ryder Jensen’s eyes, the accusations, the contempt—all had kept him moving on down the road. Still kept him moving on.

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, Chelsea, I do.”

“Dad?”

He swore under his breath. “Sam—”

“I’m interrupting your supper,” Chelsea said, looking as if maybe she finally realized the mistake she’d made in coming here. “I should go.” But she didn’t move.

He figured she hadn’t gotten what she’d come for.

“My brother told me about...” Her gaze locked with his and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. I’ll be damned. So she’d just found out about the rustling. The old man hadn’t told her.

He waited, taking some perverse satisfaction in making her say the words. He watched her get up her courage. It was one thing Chelsea Jensen had never lacked, or so he’d thought.

“He told me about the missing cattle,” she said.

Jack let out a snort. “I wondered how long it would take before one of them told you.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said, only a slight break in her voice betraying her.

He turned away. He definitely didn’t need this.

“Jack.”

It come out a whisper, so familiar and so intimate he stopped in his tracks, remembering that soft sound, the feel of her breath on his skin, her lips—