A Cowboy to Call Daddy

by Sasha Summers

  Women around here didn’t dress like that.

  A slight frown furrowed her brow.

  Michael followed her gaze and found himself eyeing his home critically. Sure, he’d decorated with the tools of his trade, like the wagon wheel, but he found it homey.

  All of it was real, used at one time or another over the years. Not a speck of it had been bought from a store.

  This woman, with her fancy clothes, obviously found it wanting. She probably thought he was some kind of hick.

  Well, he was, wasn’t he?

  He’d lived on this ranch just outside Rodeo, Montana, for every one of his forty years. He was a country boy through and through.

  Too bad if that made him deficient in her eyes. He was who he was. A rancher. A cowboy. A man who loved horses, cattle, the land and, above all, his children.

  Worse than her judgment of his decor was the unspoken criticism of his housekeeping skills.

  Bewildered, he saw his home clearly for the first time in a long while. Toys and books and some of the children’s clothes littered every surface, including the carpet.

  When had it gotten so bad? He used to be on top of the chores, but lately he was barely keeping up.

  He scarcely managed to keep body and soul together, let alone tidying up and dusting.

  Besides, he was dog-tired when he fell into bed every night. He’d been up since four thirty this morning and had put in a good three hours of work before this woman even opened her eyes.

  She glanced at the carpet that obviously needed vacuuming. On the side tables, his ranching magazines hadn’t even had a chance to get dog-eared, still waiting for his attention months after they’d been delivered.

  On the windowsills, plants languished, every leaf caked in a layer of dust, watered only when he remembered to do it every couple of weeks.

  She didn’t say anything, but he felt her censure. Or maybe not. Maybe it was his own guilt.

  Good manners compelled him to rise above his resentment.

  “Give me your jacket. I’ll hang it up.”

  She shrugged out of it, revealing a cardigan not even close to warm enough for the weather.

  He usually associated that button-up style with old women, but there wasn’t a darned thing old about her.

  He kept his eyes firmly on her face and not on her spectacular—

  God Almighty. His unwanted response to her beauty angered him. He lashed out with, “Leather won’t keep a person warm in this weather.”

  At his hard tone, she shot him an indignant look. “It’s pleather.”

  Huh? What the hell was pleather?

  “I would never wear leather. Those poor animals.”

  Oh, Lord, a hippie-dippie animal lover.

  “Do you eat meat?” he asked, working off a hunch.

  “Nope.”

  “Figures,” he murmured, and hung up her jacket on a hook to dry.

  He was a rancher. He raised cattle. He ate meat. He used cattle hide in his clothing and his furniture. As long as the animal was being butchered for food, they might as well use as much of the carcass as possible.

  He used glue, too, and gelatin, and whatever else was useful.

  Still shivering, the woman stepped closer to the fireplace to warm her hands.

  Yep. She had a fine figure, a tiny waist with shapely hips. A perfect body to match her perfect face.

  Lillian could never have won a beauty pageant, but she had possessed a plain, simple beauty of her own. She wore sensible clothes in snowstorms and thought their home was comfortable and welcoming.

  The visitor turned to face him, presenting her back to the fire. She held out her hand. “I’m Samantha Read.”

  Her long-fingered, slim hand, the fingertips still almost frozen, had a soft palm. Her grip, though, was surprisingly strong. Decisive, even. He’d assumed it would be as feminine as she looked and as flighty as she talked.

  “Michael Moreno.”

  “Have you met my brother, Travis?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am, I haven’t had the opportunity.”

  She laughed, a cheerful tinkle. Tinkle? Where had that ridiculous word come from?

  “Ma’am makes me sound ancient.” Her smile knocked him off-kilter. “It’s Samantha, or Sammy, whichever you prefer.”

  What he would prefer was that the distraction, the sheer breathtaking magnificence of her, not be in his home, and that surprised him. He wasn’t easily swayed.

  He kept his wide size-eleven feet firmly planted on the ground. Big feet for a man only five ten, but then all of him was wide—shoulders, chest, hands. Not to mention, a good head on his shoulders.

  His unusual coffee table caught her eye. “Is that a door?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Solid oak. My daddy found it on the side of the road where someone was renovating a house. Folks didn’t know what they were throwing away.” He was proud of his father’s ingenuity. “He scraped off about ten coats of paint. Sanded for hours. Did the whole thing by hand. Gave it to me as a wedding present.”

  “Hmmm, interesting,” was her only response.

  Obviously his furniture didn’t meet her high standards any more than his wall decorations did.

  He’d held his rage in check throughout Lillian’s struggle with cancer and her subsequent death two years ago. He’d held back his anger that his children would grow up motherless. He’d survived hell, and now this woman waltzed into his home and dared to disapprove.

  He lashed out. “What were you doing on the road in this kind of weather? A rational person would get to the nearest motel and hunker down for the duration. You like putting your kids at risk?”

  For a few moments, she stared at him with those big blue eyes. For a moment, he was afraid she’d cry.

  Her expression changed, hardening, and she slowly put her hands on her hips. Her full lips thinned.

  “I do everything in my power to keep my children safe.”

  He took satisfaction in her anger. If he had to be uncomfortable because of anger and disapproval, why shouldn’t she?

  She had a perfect face and a perfect body; she had probably also led the perfect life. They’d come from San Francisco. She should have stayed in sunny California if she didn’t know how to handle Montana weather.

  “Safe? Including driving them into a blizzard in a vehicle that wasn’t trustworthy?”

  She gasped. “It is trustworthy. It’s brand-new! I don’t know why it stopped. Maybe it’s a lemon.”

  “Those kids,” he said, pointing in the direction of the back of the house, “depend on you to—”

  “Dad?” Mick said behind him, cutting him off. “Are you okay?”

  Michael stilled at his son’s anxious tone. All four children crowded the entrance to the living room. Mick and Lily stared at him. No wonder. He didn’t yell. He didn’t fight, especially not with strangers.

  He’d done a stellar job of holding in his emotions since Lillian’s death, but here this woman—Samantha—was breaking through his barriers just by being beautiful.

  He wasn’t even attracted to her, not really, but he knew she was attractive. A fine distinction, yeah, but he was hanging on to it with both hands.

  Since when did looks ever matter to him? Especially enough to anger him?

  Since his life had been turned upside down when he was barely fifteen. Ancient history. So why was it rearing its ugly head now?

  Whatever the cause, he shouldn’t have let the children hear him criticize her.

  He cracked his knuckles. “Sorry,” he murmured, knowing it was inadequate. He didn’t have much more to offer.

  He glanced at the kids and realized only Mick was watching him. Lily was gaping at Samantha with openmouthed amazement.

  And why not?

  They didn’t often have visitors and rarely
women, except for Karen, who was nothing like this woman with her skinny pants and pleather jacket.

  Lily still stared. At only four years old, Lily barely remembered her mother. He kept a photograph of Lillian beside his daughter’s bed to remind her.

  He guessed Lily would miss her mother’s touch most and, as much as he held and cuddled Lily all the time to try to fill that void, he could never be Lillian.

  The walls crowded in on him. His breathing became shallow enough to concern him. He wasn’t up to this fathering and mothering of them, of being both parents to them 24/7.

  Samantha Read made him feel every single deficiency he tried to ignore.

  He wished to holy hell she hadn’t shown up on his doorstep.

  Copyright © 2017 by Mary Sullivan

  ISBN-13: 9781488010675

  A Cowboy to Call Daddy

  Copyright © 2017 by Sasha Best

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