B.J. Daniels - Rodeo Daddy

“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.