Rodeo Daddy

by B. J Daniels

“We have plenty, don’t we, Dad?” Sam persisted, flashing him her best wide-eyed innocent smile and completely ignoring his warning look. “We have that huge casserole.”

  He ground his teeth. He knew what his daughter was up to and it wasn’t going to work. Sam had seen Terri Lyn bring over the casserole and now thought she’d found a way to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

  “Don’t you want to have dinner with us?” Sam asked Chelsea, as if it were only good manners to ask.

  Jack closed his eyes and lowered his head. When he looked at Sam again, he could almost see the mischief dancing in her eyes.

  “Please!” she pleaded. “We don’t ever have company.”

  Last night he’d forced her to sit through a dinner with him and Terri Lyn. Sam had never liked any of the women who came around trying to mother her and cozy up to him, and did everything in her power to discourage them. She especially didn’t like Terri Lyn for reasons he couldn’t understand. But he’d made it clear last night that Sam wasn’t going to pick who he dated. If he ever really got down to dating again.

  This was payback and she wanted him to know it.

  “Sam,” he warned. The girl had no idea what a hornet’s nest she was stirring up.

  “I’m sure your mother—” Chelsea began.

  “I don’t have a mother,” Sam said, cutting her off. She sounded so pathetic Jack almost laughed. “She left me on Dad’s doorstep when I was just a baby.”

  Chelsea was appropriately startled.

  “Sam,” Jack warned, but there was no stopping Samantha tonight. Tomorrow he’d ground her little cowgirl behind. A few days doing extra homework in the motor home should take some of the sass out of her.

  “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 hel
p. 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.

  He felt a stirring within him and cursed the impact she had on him. Had always had on him. Except now he knew that it could only bring him heartbreak.

  “The casserole is getting cold,” Sam said pointedly.

  As if that would make any difference in the taste, he thought.

  The alien Sam was all smiles and almost ladylike. He tried to match her joviality as he slid her over in the booth none too gently. He wasn’t about to sit next to Chelsea, no matter how much Sam had hoped to manipulate him.

  His daughter’s smile faltered a little. His widened.

  “So how did you meet my dad?” Sam asked again, not to be dissuaded even if one part of her plan hadn’t worked.

  “We met on her father’s ranch,” Jack said, his jaw tightening. “I was their ranch hand.”

  He saw Chelsea’s eyes narrow. He reached for her plate. Chelsea wanted to have dinner with them—well, sometimes you got what you deserved, he thought as he slapped a large spoonful of Terri Lyn’s casserole down on it, then reached for his daughter’s plate.

  “Where was the ranch?” Sam asked, her gaze going from
Chelsea to him and back again.

  “Near San Antonio,” Chelsea answered, her cheeks a little flushed.

  Jack found himself wondering why she’d really come here—not just to tell him she knew about the check or ask him if he was a cattle rustler. Surely she didn’t think there was anything left to say between them?

  “Do you know how to cook?” Sam asked Chelsea, as if she’d suddenly taken an interest in cooking.

  Chelsea seemed surprised by the question, but no more than Jack himself. What was this, twenty questions?

  He gave Sam an extra-large serving of the casserole before handing back her plate. That should keep her quiet.

  “Yes,” Chelsea said, smiling. “I enjoy cooking.”

  “What do you cook?” Sam asked, undeterred.

  “All sorts of things.” Chelsea seemed nervous. She was obviously not used to this sort of interrogation.

  Jack groaned inwardly and reached under the table to squeeze Sam’s knee in warning. Little good it did.

  “Do you have to use a cookbook?” Sam asked.

  He’d ground her for a month, he thought. Not that there was much to ground her from on the rodeo circuit. “Why don’t we just eat?” he interceded.

  “Terri Lyn uses a cookbook,” Sam said.

  Chelsea obviously didn’t know how to answer that one. “I don’t always use a cookbook.”

  He shoved his leg over to give Sam a nudge but his knee brushed Chelsea’s under the table instead. The shock was immediate. And intense. He felt as if he’d been goaded with a cattle prod.

  “Sorry.” He didn’t dare look at her, but he felt her stiffen in response and saw her pull her knees over toward the wall.

  This was going to be some dinner. Just wait until he got Sam alone. And once Chelsea tasted Terri Lyn’s tuna casserole, things were destined to get worse. “Sam.”

  He could tell his daughter wanted to ask a lot more questions, but she bowed her head and whipped quickly through the blessing first.

  “Amen. So what do you cook?” she asked the moment her head bobbed up.

  Chelsea laughed softly and seemed embarrassed.

  “She doesn’t have to cook,” Jack said, not looking at her. “Her family hires someone to cook for them.” He hadn’t meant to make it sound so much like a condemnation, but hell, it was true.