“It’s me and Miss Becca and you,” she told him proudly, holding it out. “I want to put it on the wall with my other pictures at Miss Becca’s job.”
He could feel his nostrils flaring, his temper about to snap, and Libby wasn’t at fault. “We’ll do that later,” he promised her, keeping his voice even, and took the picture and put it on the fridge, under a magnet. When he turned around, his daughter frowned at him.
“Miss Becca won’t see it there.”
“We’ll show her later. Go play in the living room.” Anything to distract her. For days, she’d been asking about “Miss Becca” and when they were going to go over and have pancakes. When they were going to have another Daddy-and-Becca sleepover. When they were going to watch a movie with her again. She asked about Becca constantly, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her that Becca wasn’t going to be in their life anymore. Hell, just thinking about it gutted him as it was.
How could one tiny woman change his life so damn much? Life was supposed to be simple. He knew what he wanted. He knew how to get there. Now he felt like he didn’t know anything and it was making him crazy. He was starting to feel like a crazy man. Scratching at his beard, he watched his daughter hop out of her chair and bound into the living room.
“You okay?” Caleb asked. “You’re not yourself. You almost snapped at her for drawing a picture.”
He knew, and he was ashamed. Libby didn’t deserve for him to lash out at her. He’d do his best to keep his frustration on lockdown, because she didn’t need to know that he was dying inside. “I’m miserable, thanks for asking.”
Caleb just grunted, ever quiet. “Not too late to change your mind, you know.”
“About?” He practically snarled the word.
“Alaska.”
Alaska. What would he do if he didn’t go to Alaska?
Hank knew the first thing he’d do—he’d march right up to that salon, fling Becca over his shoulder, and take her upstairs to her pretty, girly bedroom. He’d toss her down on the bed, strip her clothing off in that way that made her eyes light up, and kiss every inch of her for hours and hours. Then he’d drag her into the nearest church—or the justice of the peace; he wasn’t picky—and make her his. He’d stake his claim on her so no one else would ever think they’d have a shot. And he’d make a family with her.
But . . . that was the problem.
He already had a family—Libby. And he had to think about her. She hated school, and if he stayed in Painted Barrel, she’d have to go back. He loved his daughter. He’d do anything for her. If she hated school so much that she sobbed and bawled when he took her there, then she wouldn’t go to school. It was as simple as that.
Libby was everything to him, and he had a responsibility to her.
It didn’t matter what his heart wanted. He was a father, first and foremost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Am I a bother?”
“Not at all,” Becca lied as Sage Cooper-Clements came in. The mayor had had her baby and then had promptly gotten pregnant again, a fact that everyone in town liked to tease her about and which made her blush constantly. Her belly was still in the early stages of showing, but her cheeks were rosy and rounded and she looked happy and healthy.
Becca was disgustingly envious of her.
The mayor held out a plate of cookies. “I wanted to bring these over for you. I heard you’re having a heck of a month.” Sage gave her a sympathetic look. “I know whenever I’m feeling awful, double chocolate chip always makes me feel better.”
She couldn’t help but smile at that. Sage felt like it was her duty to ensure that everyone in town was happy, so it was no surprise that the mayor had stopped by to discuss Becca’s breakup. It was one of those things where it was just a matter of time. So Becca smiled—or tried to—and plucked one of the cookies off the plate. She could definitely use some chocolate therapy at the moment. “I appreciate it, Sage. How’s the baby?”
“This one or the one at home?” She patted her belly. “Both are great. Jason’s watching the little guy while I make my rounds here in town. Then I’ve got to head home and rescue him from poopy diapers.” She grinned. “This is not entirely a cookie mission, though.”
Becca paused mid-bite. “Oh?”
“Nope. So . . .” Sage twisted her hands. “One of our hands has been asking about you. He wanted to show up with some flowers and do the whole big, splashy ask-you-out thing, and I suggested that I test the waters out for him first.” She grimaced. “Is this the worst timing ever or what?”
“One of your . . . hands?”
“Ranch hands, yeah. He says he met you before?” Her eyes were a tortured mixture of sympathy and curiosity.
Oh. The flirt. Becca vaguely remembered the wink, but she couldn’t recall his face. “I think so.” She shook her head. “That’s really sweet of him, but tell him please no. I’m not ready to date anyone right now. I’m still . . . my heart’s still occupied.” Fresh tears started to come to the surface, so she shoved the cookie into her mouth and nearly choked on it.
“Of course.” Sage reached out and rubbed her shoulder. “I thought as much, so I wanted to come and see how you were doing. I know it was hard when you broke up with Greg, so I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.” She hesitated. “I heard he came by, too, and . . .”
Becca shook her head. “No and no.”
Sage exhaled with relief. “Oh good. It was going to be really awkward to tell you that you can do better than him if you’d have already taken him back.”
Becca laughed, though there wasn’t much that was funny right now. She swiped at her eyes. “No, this is ten times worse than the Wedding That Wasn’t. My pride was destroyed with that one. With this, it’s all heart.” She squeezed a fist over her chest. She kept waiting for it to get better—for her to miss Hank and Libby just a little less with every passing day—but it wasn’t. It still felt fresh, and awful.
Right now she’d give ten botched weddings for one right one with Hank.
“I just want you to know,” Sage began gently, “that if you ever need a shoulder to cry on or just to talk—or vent—I’m just across the street in the municipal building. And I always have cookies.”
She managed a smile. “Thank you, Sage. I really do appreciate it.” It was frustrating that everyone in Painted Barrel was coming by for gossip, but it also made her feel oddly loved. Like she belonged. Like she was an important part of the community and she’d be missed if she left.
She had to stay. Had to.
But late at night, when she hugged Alaska to her chest, she started to wonder if she was making a mistake.
Sometimes, she didn’t know. If she was positive she was doing the right thing, it’d feel right, wouldn’t it? Nothing felt right anymore, though. Nothing at all.
* * *
* * *
Becca dreamed about Hank that night. Dreamed that he was at the airport, Libby in his arms, and he wanted to talk to her but she ignored him. He went to Alaska, but in her dream, his plane never made it there.
She woke up in a cold sweat, sobbing and miserable.
This wasn’t working. She needed to talk to Hank. She loved him, and she thought he was growing to care for her, too. Maybe they could figure something out. Maybe he could visit her on holidays. Something. Anything. There had to be a way for them to meet in the middle, or she had to at least try.
If she didn’t, she’d regret it forever.
So that morning, she took extra time with her appearance. She gave her hair a blowout, making sure it was full and as luxurious and shiny as she could make it. Her makeup looked fantastic, and she wore a sundress with tiny spaghetti straps and a suggestive back, even though the early morning was a little chilly. She wore strappy sandals that made her legs look longer, and she put Alaska on her leash and headed out to the Swinging C Ranc
h.
Or she started to. The moment she hit the edge of town, she turned around and went back to the bakery. She walked out five minutes later with an enormous box of doughnuts, her face burning. The woman behind the counter—Geraldine—had smirked when she’d put her order in, and soon she’d call Hannah and let her know that desperate Becca Loftis was bringing doughnuts back to the ranch in the mornings again. Well, it was too late to worry about that now. She didn’t care about her reputation if this worked.
If it didn’t, well, it’d just be another humiliating broken relationship failure tossed into her face, and she was getting awfully used to that.
She was nervous the entire drive out to the ranch, her hands sweating. When she got to the house, she knocked on the front door and there was no answer. Okay, she hadn’t expected that. Of course, it was later than her usual early mornings, and the sun had been up for a few hours now. She headed down to Doc’s office at the far end of the building, but when she saw a man waiting there with his bulldog, she quickly left again. Doc was obviously busy.
Frustrated, she headed back out to her car and noticed that Hank’s truck was parked in its normal spot. He was there. Either he was out on the range or he was in the barn. She headed out to the barn, picking her way in her high-heeled sandals and regretting her shoe choice.
Becca clutched the doughnut box against her chest as she headed out to the barn with Alaska, feeling oddly vulnerable. What if she saw Hank and both of his brothers there? Would they laugh at her for being desperate enough to show up with baked goods? Would they chase her off and tell her she wasn’t wanted? God, why had she shown up?
She knew why, though. She loved Hank and she missed him and Libby terribly. She wanted to see if this could be saved somehow, some way, because the thought of living without them in her life hurt too much to contemplate. She thought she’d just get over it, but that wasn’t happening. Every day she missed them more. So she sucked in a deep breath and headed into the barn.
The smell of cattle, horses, and hay assaulted her, and she picked her way inside as carefully as she could. There were a few calves in a stall—bottle-fed babies, likely—and two of the horses were still in their stalls as well. One of the ranch dogs loitered, watching Alaska curiously with a slowly wagging tail, and at the far end of the barn, she could just make out a pair of big shoulders behind some equipment and a cowboy hat. She headed in that direction, trying to think of the words to say.
Hi, Hank, I just wanted to see if you were okay.
Hi, Hank, just checking in to see if Alaska was still on the menu or if you miss me.
Hi, Hank, contrary to what you might have heard, I’m not back with Greg. I promise whatever your brothers might have said isn’t true.
But all of those sounded stupid and needy, and she kept spinning the words through her brain over and over again, looking for just the right opener as she walked toward him. All of it flew out of her head when she turned the corner and saw him standing in the middle of a stall with one of the cattle, his arm inside the thing up to the elbow. Oh dear.
“Uh, hi,” Becca stammered. “Is this a bad time?”
Hank looked at her like she was crazy. “What are you doing here?”
“I should be asking that of you,” she joked. “I guess you’re lonely.”
The look on his face grew even stranger. “I’m turning the calf. The hooves are stuck.”
“Right. I know. I was just . . . making a bad joke.” One that fell incredibly flat. She watched him as he continued to maneuver his arm inside the poor cow, the thing’s head trapped in a grate specially prepared for such things. She knew this was normal. Her father and his cowboys had done such things dozens—hundreds—of times. It was just awful timing that she’d come by while he was arm-deep in cow uterus, because it was going to be difficult to have a serious, emotional conversation with a man during that. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Busy.” His teeth were gritted, his face a mask of concentration.
“Of course.” Becca waited, hoping for . . . something. Tell me you love me, Hank. Tell me you miss me. Tell me you’re not going to Alaska and we can give this another shot between us because I miss you like crazy. She clutched the doughnuts and waited for him to talk.
He cursed under his breath, moving his arm ever so slightly, concentrating on the cow.
Right. The timing was terrible. She was stupid to show up here. He was busy. It wasn’t like he didn’t know where she was. She was in her stupid salon every day. He had her phone number if he wanted to talk. It was just . . . kind of obvious he didn’t want to talk. That he was done with her.
She swallowed hard. “I’m just gonna go, I think.”
Hank glanced over at her, sweating. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Great.” She put a bright smile on her face. “Talk to you later.”
And she hurried out before he could stop her. She passed the woodpile, hesitated, and then dumped the pink box of doughnuts there. The last thing she wanted to do was go inside and talk to Doc or the others about how she was recovering.
Because she wasn’t recovering at all. In fact, she was just making a fool out of herself, chasing after a man that wasn’t interested.
* * *
* * *
Damned cow seemed to take forever to give birth, but finally the calf was on the ground, breathing, the mother licking it clean, and Hank grabbed a towel, cleaned off his arm, and stormed out of the barn. While he’d been more or less trapped with his arm in the cow—and it truly was trapped, since her uterus had been contracting around his arm and the calf both, trying to expel them—he’d kept thinking about Becca. After well over a week of silence, she’d shown up, looking pretty, with doughnuts. Was that a peace offering? Had she changed her mind about wanting to go to Alaska with him? Did she miss him as much as he missed her? Because he fucking ached for her, constantly. The ache was something he kept hoping would go away, but it was ever-present, reminding him of what he’d lost. He hated that he was in the same category as that shithead Greg, who’d walked away from her when she was the perfect woman. Wasn’t he doing the same thing? Making the same stupid mistake?
Alaska hadn’t seemed half so important. Libby still was, of course, and he planned on making his daughter happy no matter what, but he could homeschool her here in Wyoming as easily as he could in Alaska . . . and Becca was here. Sweet Becca with her ready smile, generous heart, and soft body. Becca, who made him feel like everything was possible and he could conquer the world.
Caleb was staying, after all.
Maybe it was something Hank needed to look into, too.
He headed for the house. Caleb and Jack were out on horseback, checking on the fences of one of the more distant pastures. That meant he could talk to her alone. In quiet. Maybe they could figure out this thing between them and come to an agreement of some kind.
Maybe he could kiss the hell out of her until she was frantically reaching for his belt buckle, and then all his aches—both heart and body—would be soothed by her presence. But then he passed the box of doughnuts sitting on the woodpile. And frowned. She hadn’t gone inside. He picked it up, noting that the contents were completely scattered, and headed into the house.
Uncle Ennis was by the coffeepot in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup. He turned to look at Hank, then frowned. “Did you get doughnuts this morning? Seems kinda late for that sort of thing.”
“Where’s Becca?”
“Was she here? I didn’t see her.” He smirked, raising his cup to his lips. “You two back together, then?”
“No.” Hank tossed the doughnuts on the table, disappointed. She’d left without saying a word. She’d seen he was busy and still bailed out. That wasn’t how a woman acted when she wanted to get back together, was it? Seemed like she was running from him, and that irked Hank.
His uncle sighed heavily. �
��Can I speak frankly?”
Hank’s back automatically went up. “Can I stop you?”
“You’re fucking shit up, boy.”
He scowled. “That’s your big statement? Just that I’m fucking stuff up? You do know it wasn’t my decision to break up, right?”
“Yes, but you’re letting her get away.” Doc shook his head. “You can’t let that happen. Let me tell you a story.”
Hank bit back a groan. One of his uncle’s long-winded stories. Great. This was just what he needed—a fairy tale wrapped in a lecture. Like he didn’t already know that things were a mess?
But his uncle didn’t ask. He just launched into his tale, leaning against the counter. “Years ago, back when I was about your age, I fell in love with this pretty little thing that lived in town. She was a good friend, and we always saw each other at get-togethers and parties. I was a mite shy then, and I just admired her from afar, trying to decide when was the best time to get up my courage to confess how I felt. There was no rush, after all. We both lived here all our lives and she wasn’t going anywhere. So I didn’t tell anyone about my grand plan; I just thought about it real hard every time I saw her, and waited for the right moment. When it was all perfect, I’d confess my love and then she’d be mine. Except I never told her that I had feelings. I just treated her like a friend. And when there was a big barn raising for the Cavanaughs a few towns over, she went with another man. Fell head over heels in love with him and they were married within a month.”
Hank continued to wipe at his hands with the towel, fighting back irritation. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because that woman was your mother.”
He looked up in shock, meeting his uncle’s gaze.
Doc nodded. “Yep. Your father had no idea I was madly in love with the same woman, because I never said a thing. After that, it was too late, you know? She loved him, he loved her, and that was the end of it. I missed out on my chance . . . Where are you going?”
The Cowboy Meets His Match Page 22