by B. J Daniels
Chelsea reached down and pulled off one boot and then the other as she advanced on the girls. They scrambled to get away, but the muddy bank was too slick and Chelsea too fast.
“Now you’ve had it!” Chelsea cried as she leaped into the muddy ditch after them.
The girls squealed as Chelsea grabbed for them, all three of them going down in the mud. Chelsea managed to get to her knees and found herself eye to eye with Sam.
“I didn’t mean to hit you,” Sam cried.
Both girls appeared shocked to see Chelsea down in the mud with them, and a little concerned about what she would do to them.
“Too bad,” Chelsea said, “because now you’re in for it.” With one finger, she smeared mud down Sam’s cheek. Then she looked over at Becky and drizzled mud down her arm. At their shocked expressions, Chelsea began to laugh, and suddenly they were all slinging mud and laughing hysterically.
“What the—”
“Dad!” Chelsea heard Sam say, and saw the girl’s eyes widen in concern. She turned to find Jack standing over them, a shocked expression on his face.
“We were just—” Chelsea tried to get to her feet, but the mud was slick and she went down again.
“I don’t think I want to know.” He shook his head and left, but Chelsea could have sworn she saw him fighting a grin.
The three sat in the mud in silence for a few moments, then they looked at each other and burst out laughing.
Outside the motor home Chelsea hosed the girls off and sent Sam to get a shower so they wouldn’t miss her dad’s ride. She took Becky home herself.
“A mud fight?” Abigail asked.
“It was really fun,” Becky said. “You should have been there.”
Abigail laughed. “I miss all the fun.”
When Sam was through, Chelsea jumped into the cold shower just long enough to get the rest of the mud off. Once she’d hurriedly dressed, she and Sam raced over to the grandstands in time to see Jack ride.
Tonight he drew a bull called Blue Blazes, got an eighty-five and seemed pleased as he stood up and dusted off his hat. Looking up to see them in the stands with their wet hair and shiny faces, he smiled, a smile that warmed Chelsea more than the Texas sunshine.
She hurried back to the motor home and quickly set the table outside because the weather was so nice. By the time he and Sam came walking up, she had everything ready.
“Maybe it was your lucky shirt,” Sam was saying to her dad.
“Something sure smells good,” Jack commented, surprising her with a smile. “You saw the ride?”
Chelsea nodded enthusiastically.
“My luck seems to be changing,” he said, his gaze locking with hers.
Chelsea felt herself slowly melt inside.
“Go wash up, Sam,” Jack told his daughter, never taking his eyes from Chelsea’s.
“But I just had a shower,” she protested. Then, grumbling to herself, she did as she was told.
“Can I help you with anything?” Jack asked Chelsea.
She shook her head, glowing in the warmth of his good mood.
“We’re going to eat outside?” Sam asked when she returned. “Where are those candles we had?”
“We don’t need candles,” Jack replied almost distractedly as he dragged his gaze away from Chelsea’s.
“But what about the ones—”
“Sam,” he interrupted, obviously not wanting to discuss what had happened to the candles. Had Terri Lyn come back to use them at some point?
Chelsea had been flying high, airborne by Jack’s warm look alone. But the thought of Terri Lyn grounded her with a thud.
* * *
“SAM? Why don’t you sit over here?” Jack motioned to the bench of the wooden picnic table provided by the rodeo grounds. “And by the way, didn’t I ask you to tell Chelsea not to go to the trouble of making dinner tonight because we’d be leaving right after I rode?”
Sam’s gaze shifted to Chelsea. It was clear she expected Chelsea to snitch on her.
“She told me, it just slipped my mind,” Chelsea said quickly.
The girl shot her a look of disbelief.
“Are you ready for enchiladas?” Chelsea asked, hoping Sam would like them. “I’ve been told I make a killer version.” She smiled at Sam and was surprised when the girl dropped her gaze. “They’re cheese,” she added.
Sam only grunted.
So much for the progress Chelsea had hoped she’d made.
Jack put the enchiladas in the center of the table. “Sam?”
Sam mumbled the blessing. Chelsea saw Jack frown at his daughter, but Sam didn’t seem to notice. He held out his daughter’s plate and Chelsea slid on one fat enchilada, then put two on Jack’s plate. She took one herself but didn’t pick up her fork, waiting to see their reactions.
Sam stared down at hers for a long moment, then scooped up a small piece. She studied her fork, looking almost as if she were going to cry, then took a bite.
With a squeal Sam lunged for her water glass. Gripping it with both hands, she brought it to her mouth and gulped wildly.
Chelsea shot a look at Jack. His eyes were also wide and his face red as he too grabbed for his water glass.
“These are killer enchiladas!” he cried.
Chelsea hurriedly took a bite of hers and felt as if her mouth were on fire.
Tears filled her eyes, only partly from the too spicy dish. She had so hoped Sam and Jack would love her cooking. But the enchiladas were so hot they weren’t even edible. How could that have happened when she’d been so careful to make them mild?
“Oh, Sam, Jack, I—” She shook her head, too disappointed to even speak. Reaching for the casserole dish, she rose from the table.
“They’re not that hot,” Sam cried, and started to take another bite, obviously not wanting to hurt Chelsea’s feelings.
Chelsea was touched but stopped her. “I think there’s some leftover chicken in the fridge. I’ll get that.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Jack said, standing up. “We need to get going. Why don’t we just grab something down the road?”
All she could do was nod, take their plates and the rest of the enchiladas, and rush inside.
What had happened? Her family and friends had always raved over her enchiladas. She glanced down at the offending dish. It appeared there was a different colored sauce on top from the one she’d made. How could she have not noticed? She touched her finger to it and put it to her tongue. The sauce was so hot she almost cried out loud.
Someone had sabotaged her meal. But when? She hadn’t left the enchiladas except for that short period when she was in the shower.
Opening the cabinet door, she pulled out the trash. At the bottom of the bin was a bottle of hot sauce with a little devil on it and the warning, Hotter than Hades.
She stared at the bottle, pretty sure she knew which little devil had killed her killer enchiladas.
“Hey.” She heard Jack open the door and come in behind her.
Hurriedly, she closed the cabinet door on the incriminating evidence. With her back to him, she started washing up the dishes so they could be on their way. She’d already delayed them enough.
“I’m almost ready,” she said, not turning around. Then she felt his large hands on her shoulders, easing her around to face him.
“Hey,” he said again. “There’s no reason to be upset. They’re just enchiladas.”
A heck of a lot he knew.
“I wanted to make something that I thought you and Sam would like,” she explained.
“Oh, Chelsea.” He smiled sympathetically at her. “If you’d asked, I could have told you that Sam doesn’t like enchiladas.” The little darling. “But I thought they were great.” She started to argue the fact. “Maybe they were a little hot.”
She let out a laugh at that.
“Next time you make them—” He stopped as if he realized there might be a next time.
She felt tears coming and hated him seeing
her like this even more than she hated all the crying she’d been doing lately.
“Hey, it’s okay, really.” Awkwardly, he pulled her to him, his arms coming around to comfort her.
It had been so long since she’d been in his arms. For a moment, she didn’t realize the warmth and comfort had changed to something else. Something hotter than her killer enchiladas.
Jack must have felt the change, too. He drew back as if he’d been burned. “Think you can be ready in fifteen minutes?” His voice sounded a little hoarse.
She nodded and met his gaze. They stood for a moment, the chemistry between them throwing off sparks.
Clearing his throat, he edged toward the door. “Great. Fifteen minutes.” And he was gone.
For a moment she just stood there, trying to get her heart rate back down to normal, then hurriedly got ready to leave. She couldn’t help smiling through her tears as she recalled the feeling of being in his arms again. Maybe all was not lost.
But when Chelsea turned, she saw Sam and knew by the look on her face that she had seen Jack hug her. The little girl was not pleased.
“Why didn’t you tell him?” Sam challenged. She sounded close to tears herself.
“About you purposely having me make a dinner you don’t like, knowing it would upset your father? Or about the creature you put in my boot? Or about the mud you threw at me? Or about what you did to my enchiladas?” Chelsea asked quietly.
Sam dropped her gaze to the floor. “It was a toad.”
Chelsea reached out to lift Sam’s chin up so she could see her freckled face beneath the brim of the hat. “Sam, I can see that you’re afraid some woman will change things between you and your dad. I understand that. But no one is going to come between the two of you. He will always love you in a way he could never love anyone else.” Chelsea thought of her relationship with her own father. “I promise you that.”
Tears welled in the girl’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Ready to roll?” Jack called to them as he opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.
Chelsea handed Sam a tissue. “Ready!”
* * *
SEBASTIAN REACHED for the Rolodex sitting on the corner of his wife’s too-clean desktop. He’d always hated how organized Julie was. Until now.
Methodically he flipped through the names, addresses and phone numbers she had meticulously printed on each card. Julie had sources all over the Southwest that she used for her newspaper columns, and beside each name was a reference. Ralph Harris, geologist, earthquake specialist, Austin, Texas. Frank Barnhart, child care services, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly. Someone Julie might run to. After all, she’d been pregnant. She would need help, maybe a doctor. He found a variety of listings from infertility specialists to neurologists. But where would she have gotten the money to pay for medical services?
He went through the names again, there were so many, but none set any bells ringing. And then he knew he’d found it.
Hattie Devereaux—midwife.
Oh yeah. That would appeal to Julie. But there was no phone number, no address—just Louisiana. How the hell would he find this Hattie Devereaux? Julie’s columns. Of course.
Sebastian smiled to himself as he turned out the desk lamp. He’d all but found her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“HOW FAR IS IT to Kansas City?” Chelsea asked from her post in the motor home’s passenger seat.
Sam was seated at the dinette, buckled in with an array of books spread out on the table. Something to do with an earlier punishment.
Jack tossed Chelsea a map. “About five hundred miles. We average about fifty miles an hour in this rig. Math is your thing, right?”
It was a no brainer. “Ten hours.”
“Plus stops for gas. We should get in about eight in the morning. Maybe a little earlier depending on traffic.”
Gad. Chelsea opened the map, telling herself she’d known this wasn’t going to be easy. But she was with Jack.
She studied the map for a moment, watched for road signs and figured out they were on Interstate 35 headed north. In the middle of Kansas, they could catch Interstate 70 and head east to Kansas City. Got it. She refolded the map and wondered if she should mention to him that she’d never driven a motor home.
Probably not, considering he was in a pretty good mood and she definitely didn’t want to spoil it. That was one of the reasons she decided not to ask him just now about his fight with Ray Dale ten years ago. She also didn’t want to bring it up in front of Sam.
“You can get some sleep if you want,” Jack said when the lights of Dallas disappeared behind them.
He hadn’t ordered her to sleep. In fact, he hadn’t ordered her to do anything for quite a few hours now. She wondered what had changed. Something. She could feel it, a softness in him toward her. And all because of some ruined enchiladas?
She tried to remember the last time she’d driven all night. No wonder Ace had bought a plane.
“I picked us up some dinner at that last gas station,” Jack said. “Help yourself.”
She lifted the bag from the floor between the seats, almost afraid to look inside.
“You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” he asked, as if suddenly worried.
“I live on a beef ranch,” she said. “Remember?”
She’d meant it to be funny, but from the face he made, it was obvious he didn’t appreciate the humor.
Inside the bag, she found a box containing roast chicken, Caesar salad and biscuits with butter and honey.
Sam eyed the food, then her father. “Roast chicken?” she asked, reading the side of the box. “Where is the fried chicken and potato salad?”
Jack looked embarrassed. “I was just trying to get something a little different.”
Neither Sam nor Chelsea believed that. He’d tried to get something he thought Chelsea would like. She was so touched she decided to try to sleep after she ate, just to please him. Sam was not pleased, though.
“How’s the homework coming?” Jack asked her once dinner was over. Unlike Chelsea, he didn’t seem to have any trouble driving and eating, even though the lumbering box of a vehicle rocked wildly at the slightest bump in the road. “Sam?”
Chelsea glanced back to see the girl make a face at her father, one she obviously knew he couldn’t see. She did, however, open one of the books on the table and take out her pencil and a sheet of paper from inside. “I’m doing it,” she grumbled.
“Isn’t school out?” Chelsea asked.
“Not for another few weeks, but she hasn’t been in school since February,” Jack said. “She can’t very well attend school with us on the road so I’m home-schooling her. Abigail is helping me.”
Home-schooling? She would never have imagined Jack in such a role.
She felt sorry for Sam though. School was about more than just studies. “It’s good she has Becky.” But it was clear that Becky wasn’t always at the same rodeos as Sam, and they had little time together when they were.
“There’s always kids around the fairgrounds when the rodeo comes to town,” he said. “And she has plenty of friends among the cowboys.”
Chelsea could feel his gaze on her. She hadn’t meant to sound disapproving. She watched the blacktop disappear under the short hood of the motor home and tried to think of something to say to reassure him. But a child needed stability. A home. Friends.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t imagine Sam’s life. Or Jack’s, for that matter. Being on the road for months on end had such a rootless feel to it. The ranch had always been her home, her foundation, her strength. The Wishing Tree was an integral part of who she was. She knew Jack had had an unhappy childhood and was obviously doing the best he could for his daughter, but how could he know how important a stable home was for a child when he’d never had one?
“Bathroom, snack break,” he announced a couple of hours later as he pulled into a gas station.
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Sam asked for an ice-cream sandwich, nothing else. She seemed to be pouting.
Chelsea couldn’t wait to stretch her legs. She climbed out, surprised how stiff and sore she was from sitting for so long. She headed for the ladies’ rest room, then got a bottled water, an iced latte for later, some sunflower seeds and an ice-cream sandwich for Sam. When she looked around for Jack, he was nowhere to be seen. She felt a flicker of alarm. Would he just leave her if she wasn’t ready in time?
Hurriedly she paid for her purchases and rushed outside. He was sitting behind the wheel, looking anything but happy. “You’re to be ready when I’m through gassing up,” he snapped.
“Sorry.” She started to hand Sam the ice-cream sandwich but saw that Jack had already gotten her one. She offered the ice cream to Jack, who declined it, so she ate it herself rather than let it melt. The tiny freezer in the motor home was packed.
The night air coming in the window as they drove felt cool, the music on the radio familiar and soft. She finished her ice cream, licked her fingers and snuggled into the seat, not in the least bit sleepy. “Tell me about bull riding.”
He shot her a look. “There isn’t anything to tell.”
Chelsea wasn’t going to let him get off that easy. “What’s it like?”
He looked over at her again, his gaze softening a little. “It’s…frightening, exciting…challenging.”
“How did you get started?” she asked, turning in the seat to watch his face in the dim glow of the dash lights.
He shrugged. “You don’t really want to hear this.”
“I do.”
He drove in silence for a few minutes. “Some things just pull at you.”
How well she knew.
“I’d tried my hand at a few rodeo events before you met me. Bull riding is learned mostly by observation and instinct.” He seemed to watch the dotted white line on the dark pavement for a moment. “There is an interaction between animal and rider. Similar to a dance.”
“Like ballet.”
