by B. J Daniels
“I think that’s beautiful,” she said. “I hope you get your Sam’s Star one day.”
Sam nodded. “We can’t have a horse now. But Dad is going to get me one someday. When we get a place of our own.”
Chelsea’s heart ached for this little girl whose dream was a horse named Sam’s Star and a home without wheels. “When is he planning on getting a place?” she asked, remembering the way Jack had clammed up last night on the subject.
Sam shrugged. “When he has enough money. He has to make the NFR first,” she said, as if she’d spoken the same words a hundred times. Like a mantra.
Chelsea downed the rest of her coffee. Everything hinged on making it to the NFR? She wondered what happened if Jack didn’t make Vegas this year. Would he ever quit rodeoing and buy a place and horse for his daughter? Or would there always be another NFR he had to make? Another rodeo bull he had to ride? Until one day, he just couldn’t ride anymore. Or got himself killed.
“He’s been to the National Finals Rodeo eight times, world champion seven,” Sam said with obvious pride.
Chelsea pretended surprise. “Has your father always ridden bulls?”
Sam nodded. “Except for last year when he got hurt and couldn’t ride.”
At the thought, Chelsea felt her heart lurch.
The moment the washing machine stopped, Sam slid off and wrangled them a dryer. Chelsea loaded all of the clothes in, then dug fifty cents out of her pocket for another cup of coffee. “You want another juice?”
Sam shook her head.
The second cup tasted even more bitter than the first. When she’d finished it, Chelsea went to perch near the dryer with Sam. She felt hot and sticky and wished for a shower and a fresh change of clothing. Even better would be a flat space to lie down where she could get some sleep.
She realized that this time back home, she’d still be in bed. She was soft, spoiled and pampered.
“So you’ve always lived in the motor home?” she asked, trying to stay awake.
“One time Dad took me to my grandma’s. I heard them talking about me staying there, but Dad said I wasn’t havin’ none of that. He said I raised holy heck, but he couldn’t leave me behind anyway.” She looked at Chelsea. “He says he couldn’t ride if I wasn’t there.”
Chelsea smiled at the love in Samantha’s voice for her father. Her heart squeezed with envy. “Sounds like you’re lucky to have each other.”
“That’s what Dad says.”
If Sam was trying to convince her that she and Jack didn’t need Chelsea in their lives, she was doing a great job of it.
They found a corner of one of the tables to fold the clothing on. Chelsea watched the girl neatly fold a pair of her jeans and put them in the bottom of the bag. Sam didn’t seem to have anything but jeans and western shirts, most of them quite worn. Glancing through the pile of clothing, Chelsea saw no girl clothes, nothing frilly, nothing feminine. Even Sam’s underwear was more practical than pretty.
She thought of the old motor home, the food budget, the girl’s clothing. Was Jack hard up for money? The thought made her hurt, especially considering how much money she herself had. If only Jack would let her help. She quickly squelched the thought. She knew him better than that.
Chelsea picked up one of Jack’s shirts to fold. The fabric felt warm and soft, and without thinking, she brought it to her face and breathed in the aroma. It smelled clean but still held just enough of Jack’s masculine scent to make her ache. She could imagine the cloth stretched across his broad shoulders. Closing her eyes, she hugged the shirt to her the way she wanted to hug the man.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Sam watching her, an odd expression on her face, and hurriedly folded the shirt and put it into the bag.
When they’d finished, there was still no sign of Jack. Chelsea spotted a western clothing store across the street and, carrying the bag full of clean clothes, talked Sam into going with her.
“You can stand lookout at the window and let me know when your father comes.”
Sam obviously had no interest in shopping for clothing for herself but agreed Chelsea needed to buy something.
“Terri Lyn Kessler says you dress like a buckle bunny,” Sam told her.
“A buckle bunny?” As if she cared what Terri Lyn thought.
“It’s one of those silly girls who hang around rodeos trying to get cowboys,” Sam said.
“I know what a buckle bunny is,” Chelsea snapped. It seemed Sam thought Terri Lyn was right.
Chelsea started to explain that she’d only brought good jeans because she didn’t know she’d be living at the rodeo in a motor home and doing chores. “I definitely don’t want to be a buckle bunny.” Although in truth, that was kind of what she felt like right now. “You’d better help me get something appropriate to wear.”
Once in the store, Chelsea let Sam make the selections while she browsed. She was looking at a pair of dress jeans, trying to stay awake, when Sam returned.
“Those jeans are for girls,” Sam said when she saw the designer brand Chelsea had been admiring.
“I am a girl,” Chelsea pointed out indignantly. And was about to add, “So are you,” but bit her tongue. She went back into the dressing room and put on the inexpensive boot-cut jeans Sam had picked out and the utilitarian cotton western-cut shirts. The boots Sam had chosen were just as plain as the rest of the clothing.
When she came out again, Sam rewarded her with a smile of approval. “You just need to do something with your hair.”
“My hair?” Chelsea glanced in the mirror. Her hair looked just fine, thank you. It was pulled up off her neck in a chignon that she thought flattered her.
Sam handed her a western hat. Chelsea looked from the hat to her hair, then began to pull out the pins with an inward groan. She was letting a nine-year-old tomboy dress her.
Her long hair fell around her shoulders. She took the hat from Sam and put it on.
Sam stepped up to adjust the brim, then smiled broadly. “You look…good,” the girl conceded, studying her.
“Thank you.”
“Dad likes long hair,” Sam said, and went to the window to look for her father.
Chelsea raised a brow. Was Sam shifting gears here? Or was the girl setting her up again?
“There’s Dad,” Sam said. “Wait until he sees you!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
JACK DID a double take. First at Chelsea. Then at his daughter. Sam was grinning from ear to ear, that smug little alien grin he’d caught on her face a lot since Chelsea had come back into his life. It made him extremely nervous, as if having Chelsea around wasn’t nerve-racking enough.
As for Chelsea… He stared at her, surprised how good she looked in regular clothes. He could almost pretend she wasn’t filthy rich. Almost. Just like he could almost pretend that the way the jeans hugged her bottom, the shirt accentuated her slim waist and her full breasts didn’t affect him.
“Her hair looks nice, huh?” Sam said as she passed him with that grin.
Yeah, her hair looked nice, so nice he remembered the feel of it running through his fingers, the way it fired in the sunlight, the way it fell around her bare shoulders.
“I liked it better up,” he said with a frown as Chelsea passed him.
“Good,” she said, flipping her hair back over one shoulder as she swung the laundry bag, hitting him in the stomach. “I’ll wear it down then.”
Sam giggled and smiled at Chelsea.
Taking a deep breath, he hefted the bag of clean clothes and followed the two to the motor home, more worried than ever that this had been a really bad idea. The last thing he wanted was these two females finding any common ground.
“Dad, can we go to that pancake house, the one we always go to?” Sam begged. “Please. I want to show Chelsea. They have pancakes that look like horses. Well, they’re supposed to look like horses and some of them do. Huh, Dad?”
“I doubt Chelsea likes pancakes,” he said. In fact, with that fig
ure of hers, he’d bet she couldn’t remember the last time she’d even eaten a pancake.
“I love pancakes.” She shot him a smile. “Especially ones shaped like horses.”
“We need to talk,” Jack said to her as Sam raced on ahead of them. “About Sam.”
Chelsea lifted a brow. “Sam seems fine to me. She’s a happy kid.”
All Jack could do was grit his teeth.
Sam called for them to hurry, saying she was starved. It seemed to Jack she was always starved lately, no doubt heading into another growth spurt.
“We’ll discuss this later,” he said.
At the pancake house, he watched his daughter and had to admit she did seem happy. That’s what worried him. He’d stake his next ride that she was up to something.
They ate pancakes that at least Sam thought looked like horses. Sam told corny jokes she’d picked up from rodeo clowns and Chelsea laughed with her. Their laughter was contagious and Jack found himself joining in.
He couldn’t remember a breakfast where he’d had more fun. His daughter was glowing and he noticed she’d taken off her hat without being asked. Of course her entire behavior was cause for concern.
Chelsea felt pretty good as Jack drove them to the rodeo grounds. She’d driven a motor home, conquered coin-operated laundry—with Sam’s help—and seemed to have made a little progress with both Jack and Sam.
But she could tell Jack was worried and she had a pretty good idea what it was about. Sam’s change of heart concerned her, too, and she didn’t want the little girl to get her hopes up. One of them having a broken heart was quite enough, and if it had to happen, Chelsea would rather it be her.
She had a solution for that problem, of course. She just wasn’t sure it was one Jack was going to like—or even Sam, at this point.
As soon as Jack got the motor home parked along a small creek in a stand of cottonwoods, Becky came running over, with Abigail behind her. Like Sam, Becky was a tomboy, one with blond hair and blue eyes. But unlike Sam, it was obvious that Becky enjoyed being a girl.
“Can Sam come swimming with us?” Becky asked Jack.
Chelsea could see him hesitating.
“Oh, Dad, please,” Sam pleaded. “I never get to go swimming.”
He smiled. “All right, if it’s okay with Mrs. Harper.”
Abigail nodded. “I thought it would be good for the girls. We’ll make a day of it, if that’s all right with you.” It was obvious to Chelsea, at least, that Abigail was trying to give her and Jack time alone.
After the three left, Chelsea noticed Jack rubbing his shoulder. She followed him inside the motor home and watched him dig a bottle of liniment from his bag, realizing from his drawn face that he was in pain.
“Here, let me do that.” Without waiting for a response, she took the liniment from him. “Take off your shirt.”
He hesitated, but only for a moment, making her realize he must be in a great deal of pain to give in so easily. She warmed the oil in her hands as she watched him unsnap his shirt and slide it from his broad shoulders.
“Sit,” she ordered.
“We need to talk about Sam.”
“First things first. Sit.”
He complied, taking a seat on the floor with his back to her. She dropped to her knees behind him and, leaning forward, gently touched his shoulder.
He winced.
“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No, my shoulder’s just sore from my ride yesterday.”
She touched him again, putting both oiled hands to his back and gently moving across the muscled expanse. Circling slowly, she felt his skin begin to warm, then grow hot as she rubbed the ointment in.
He let out a small “Ahhh.” It was the sound of pleasure rather than pain, so she continued massaging the tight muscles, kneading his shoulders with her fingers. He leaned back into her, into the pressure.
As she slowly worked his back and shoulders, Chelsea felt herself becoming hypnotized by the feel of his skin beneath her palms and the hardness of his muscles. Yet she couldn’t help but be aware of the familiar tingle the intimate contact was producing in her, a sensation she associated only with Jack.
Suddenly he turned and grabbed her wrist, lowering her hand to his chest. Slowly her hand circled over the powerful pectoral muscles, seeming to move of its own accord. Her gaze locked with his and a flash of molten need shot to her core as her palm brushed his hardened nipple.
He shuddered and grasped her wrist again. “That’s enough,” he rasped.
“Jack—”
“No.” He released her wrist and stood up, backing toward the door. “This can’t happen, Chelsea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She wanted to beg him not to go, beg him to stop fighting her. Instead, she concentrated on putting the lid back on the liniment, her face flushed with the heat of desire as she stumbled to her feet. She turned her back to him, not wanting him to see how disappointed she was, how badly she’d wanted him to make love to her.
Behind her, she could hear him putting his shirt back on. The soft snap of each closure.
He seemed to hesitate. She knew that if he touched her—
“I’ll see you later.” The door opened, then closed behind him.
Only then did Chelsea let out the breath she’d been holding.
* * *
JACK MENTALLY kicked himself all the way to the arena. First he berated himself for opening up to her last night, but it had felt the way it had all those years ago when he was at the ranch and Chelsea would listen to him ramble on about his dreams. But he was even more upset about what almost happened a few minutes ago. What the hell had he been thinking? He still ached from it, the unfulfilled desire making him physically hurt, and he knew she did, too. Damn.
The last thing he could do was make love to her. That would make everything so much worse when they parted again. And they would part. Chelsea would tire of this soon and move on. They might have the right chemistry when they were together, but there was no future for them. Yet when he thought of the desire he’d seen in her eyes, it took all his willpower not to go back. Hadn’t he known it would be hell having Chelsea this close?
“Jack?”
He grimaced as he turned around to face Terri Lyn.
She’d been standing at the edge of the grandstand it seemed, but he’d been so busy beating himself up, he’d failed to notice her.
“Terri Lyn.” She was the last person he wanted to see right now.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said as she stepped close. “I’ve been thinking about the two of us getting together for some of that…fun we talked about.” She traced a finger lazily down his arm.
He caught her hand to end her touch, a touch so different from Chelsea’s it was more like pain than pleasure. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think so.”
She pulled her hand back, frowning at him. “So it’s like that, is it?”
He wasn’t sure what it was like. He just knew there was only one woman he wanted to make love to and that was Chelsea.
“You’re a fool, Jack. You don’t stand a chance with that rich bitch.”
Didn’t he know it.
As he watched Terri Lyn storm off, he realized what he needed was a walk. A long one. He took off down the road, not sure how to get Chelsea out of his system, but desperately needing to try.
* * *
AFTER A COLD SHOWER, Chelsea considered a nap—anything to keep from remembering how close she and Jack had come to making love. She ached inside and knew sleep would not come easily.
As she glanced out the window, she saw C. J. Crocker pull into camp with his pickup and trailer. She needed to do something to put the past behind her and Jack and get him to believe they had a second chance.
This would be the perfect opportunity to talk to C.J. about the argument he’d had with Ace. Very few of the other riders had come in yet so the camp was almost empty, but there were enough people around that she felt safe.
“Hello,” she said brightly as she came up behind him, hoping this would go better than the last time.
C.J. had gotten out of his pickup and was working on leveling up his trailer. He jumped at the sound of her voice and looked anything but happy to see her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just—” Oh, hell. “I saw you and Ace yesterday arguing by your trailer.”
C.J. looked at her as if she’d caught him in his underwear. “Why do you keep sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong? I already told you I don’t know anything,” he snapped, glancing around and acting almost as paranoid as Lance Prescott had.
“I don’t believe you,” she said bluntly. “I think you know who murdered Ray Dale and that’s why—”
“What!” C.J. looked as if he might jump out of his skin.
“Isn’t that what you and Ace were arguing about last night?”
“Oh, God,” C.J. said. “Murdered.”
Chelsea was quite certain this was the first time he’d heard anyone suggest Ray Dale had been murdered. She’d seen C.J. fill in for the regular clown and he was no actor. But he knew something. “You know who the other rustler was, don’t you?”
He didn’t seem to be paying attention, but glanced furtively toward the arena, then behind him, a look of panic in his eyes. Just then a pickup truck came rattling into the camp.
“Tell me who the other rustler was and I won’t bother you again,” she said, feeling his need to run.
“Meet me in thirty minutes by the creek where it pools in the rocks.” The pickup truck went by in a cloud of dust, followed by Terri Lyn’s rig. Ace wouldn’t be far behind. “Please go! Now!”
She left by way of the creek and trees so she wouldn’t be seen. C.J. had looked more than scared, giving credence to Lance’s assertion that Ray Dale had been murdered.
Back at the motor home, she was hoping Jack had changed his mind and returned. No such luck.
When her cell phone rang, it was Dylan. “I just got off the phone with the former brand inspector, a man named Tom Burton,” he said, sounding upset. “There was a rustling ring operating in the county that summer. When I told him about the rustling on the Wishing Tree, he was furious that your father had never reported it. This was no small-time rustling operation. Burton thought they were close to busting it until—”
