Cowboy Daddy

by Susan Mallery

  Laurel glanced at her father. When he didn’t say or do anything, she rose slowly and approached the wet bar. She offered Anne a shy smile and pointed at the red-and-white can. “That one, please.”

  “Sure.” Anne poured the drink and handed her a glass. “You’re very polite.”

  “Thank you. My mom—” Laurel stopped talking and took a sip of her drink.

  Anne felt the flash of pain deep inside, then told herself she was being foolish. Laurel was right. The other woman—Ellen Masters—had been her mother. Ellen might not have given birth to the girl, but in every other way, she’d been her mother.

  “Yes,” Anne encouraged. “Your mother what?”

  Laurel shrugged. “She always made me say things like please and thank you. You know, dumb stuff like that.”

  Anne studied the teenager. In her green dress with her dark hair swirling around her face, she looked more like a changeling than a young lady. All long legs and big eyes. She would grow to be a beauty. And she was here. Close enough to see and hear and touch.

  Laurel looked around the living room. “This is nice,” she said. “I like the white. Do you like it, Dad?”

  “It’s very nice.”

  He sounded thrilled, Anne thought sarcastically, then glanced at the bleached wood floor and white overstuffed furniture. “I had a decorator do it. I was so busy at work that I never got around to unpacking boxes after I moved. As much as I love decorating, I never found the time. Finally I gave up and called someone to get the place together for me.”

  “We just moved,” Laurel said, then took a sip of her drink. She ran her fingers along the metal sink. “I haven’t finished unpacking. We don’t have a lot of furniture yet.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot.

  Compassion flared in Anne. She wanted to make the teenager comfortable. She leaned toward her slightly. “It’s not much fun, is it?”

  “No.” Her expression brightened then, and she grinned. “I have a horse. I mean, I’ve always had a horse, but now I take care of her. I’d rather be riding or reading than unpacking—” The grin faded. “But there’s not much else to do. I used to spend a lot of time talking with my friends, but they’re so far away.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Colorado. It’s pretty, but—”

  “It’s not home,” Anne said.

  “Yeah.” Laurel looked surprised. “How’d you know?”

  “I left home once.”

  Those hazel eyes so like her own mother’s met and held hers. “You ever go back?”

  Anne shook her head. “Just to visit sometimes. I live here now.”

  “I’m going back.” Laurel darted a glance at her father. Anne suspected the girl was trying to look defiant, but only succeeded in appearing young and lonely.

  “I’m sure you’ll make new friends,” Anne said.

  “Maybe. But they won’t be the same.”

  “Different doesn’t mean they won’t be as much fun.”

  Laurel didn’t look convinced. Jake stepped away from his place by the window and approached the wet bar. Anne looked up at him, then quickly turned away. The anger flaring in his eyes was hot enough to burn wood. He stopped behind his daughter and rested his hands on her shoulders. The possessive signal came in loud and clear. He didn’t want or need her running interference with his child.

  Anne tilted her chin up a notch. She refused to be intimidated by the likes of him. But the sensation of her heart’s rapid pounding told her that as with Laurel’s attempt at defiance, her bravado was only a facade. Still, he didn’t have to know that.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked.

  He nodded. Despite his obvious ill temper and combative stance, he was, Anne had to admit, attractive. Perhaps not the hunk Heather had claimed, but certainly a man easy to look at. Yesterday, she’d noticed his appearance, but simply as a collection of features. Now she saw his sharp cheekbones and strong jawline made him look aristocratic. His well-shaped mouth that had yet to smile in her presence suggested a sensual nature, although she didn’t want to think about that. He wore his brown hair short, not touching the collar of his pale blue shirt. New jeans skimmed over slim hips and hinted at muscular thighs concealed by the denim. All in all, a very impressive package. He’d left the Stetson home tonight so no shadows diffused the intensity of his gaze. She shook her head and fought the urge to sigh. A cowboy. Just her luck.

  She managed to open the bottle and pour without spilling more than a drop or two. When she handed him the glass, he took it carefully, as if he were trying to make sure they didn’t touch. The tension between them was obvious. Anne glanced down at Laurel. The girl stared up at her.

  “Do I pass inspection?” Anne asked, forcing herself to speak with a teasing tone.

  Laurel smiled slowly and nodded. “I wondered what you would look like. Sometimes I’d like stare in the mirror and think about if we had the same hair or something. Daddy says I have your mother’s eyes.”

  “That’s true. You and I both have freckles.”

  Laurel wrinkled her nose. “Do you hate them, too?”

  “All my life.” Anne grinned, then walked over to the entertainment unit and picked up the small photo she’d been given the day before. “I think you and I have the same smile.”

  Laurel moved to her side and glanced down. “Really?”

  “Yes.” Anne could feel the teenager’s warm arm casually brushing hers. She wanted to pull her close and hold on forever. She forced herself to act calmly, all the while fighting new and wonderful maternal urges.

  Laurel looked at her. “You have to smile now so I can see if we do.”

  Anne laughed.

  “Gee, you’re right.” Delight flashed in her eyes. She sipped her soda. “I can’t wait to call my friends and tell them about meeting you.”

  Anne caught her breath. This moment, more perfect than she had ever imagined, made her want to cry out with gratitude. She’d never thought she might actually meet the child she’d given up all those years ago. She’d never allowed herself to do much more than mourn. Of course she’d left information available so that Laurel could find her. But she’d half feared her child wouldn’t be interested in her birth mother. She’d never thought she’d be with Laurel any sooner than her eighteenth birthday.

  Laurel looked at her father. “What do you think, Dad? Same smile?”

  “I see the similarity.” His words sounded stiff.

  “Similarity.” Laurel chuckled. “I know that one, but he’s always using big words to improve my vocabulary.” She shook her head. “I have to ask him what they mean and he tells me to look them up in the dictionary. But I can’t spell the words enough to find them, and I never learn what they mean.” She rolled her eyes.

  Anne returned her conspiratorial grin, then made the mistake of glancing at Jake. He stood beside the wet bar, clutching the glass of wine so tightly she feared he would snap the delicate stem. Their gazes locked and his cold rage threatened to freeze her into oblivion. His intensity shocked her and her laughter died. She fought the urge to step closer to Laurel and protect her from her father’s wrath. She understood his need to stake his claim, even as she resented his selfishness. Would it be too much to ask him to share her for an hour?

  “I should see about dinner,” she said, then ducked into the kitchen.

  Once alone, she pressed her hands against her flushed cheeks. She didn’t want to know that this was difficult for Jake Masters. Just thinking about his assumption that she would expect to be paid to see her own daughter made her want to march right back into the living room and tell him to leave.

  But she couldn’t. Partly because she had taken the money they’d offered thirteen years ago. Even knowing that she’d had every right to accept the payment and that she had needed it to pay her medical bills didn’t stop the feeling of shame.

  Anne checked the oven. Despite the summer heat, she’d chosen to make a roast. The built-in rotisserie made the entr�
�e foolproof, and the way her apprehension had shattered her concentration, she’d been concerned she wouldn’t be able to handle anything more complicated. The meat was almost ready. She sniffed the pleasing scent and closed the door.

  From the refrigerator, she pulled out green salad and the vegetables she wanted to steam. She’d already prepared her mother’s famous potatoes and had them simmering on the back of the stove. After putting the vegetables into a pot, she walked into the dining room and set the salad in the middle of the table, then returned to the living room.

  Jake stood by the window again, staring out at the view. She wondered what he was thinking. Laurel bounced up from her perch on the sofa.

  “You don’t need any help in the kitchen, do you?” she asked, obviously hoping for a refusal.

  “It will just be a few more minutes,” Anne answered. “I have it all under control. But thanks for asking.”

  Laurel looked at her father as if to show him she’d done as he requested, then turned back to Anne. “It sure smells good. Back home—Dallas, I mean, not where we live now—we had a housekeeper who did the cooking. She was okay, but she wouldn’t fix any good stuff. You know, like cookies. My mom—” Laurel suddenly stopped talking and stared at her empty glass.

  Anne drew in a breath to fight the unexpected tightness in her chest. Silence filled the room. Laurel fidgeted. Damn. She was obviously uncomfortable. This was difficult for all of them, but as the child, Laurel was the least equipped to handle the situation. Anne glanced at Jake, but he had his back to them. Apparently she was on her own. She took Laurel’s glass and walked over to the wet bar. The teenager trailed along behind.

  “Ellen Masters was your mother in every sense of the word,” Anne said as she popped the top on another can of soda. “I don’t mind if you talk about her.”

  She handed the girl her drink. They looked at each other. Pain flashed through Anne as she stared at eyes so much like her mother’s. The older woman had been gone eleven years, but she still missed her. Laurel must feel even worse about Ellen. “I know that you loved your mother very much,” she said.

  Laurel blinked in surprise.

  Anne perched on the end table between the sofa and the wet bar. The teenager took a step closer. Anne drew in a deep breath, then reached forward and briefly touched the girl’s arm.

  “I’d like us to be friends, Laurel,” Anne said. “We don’t know each other very well so we’re both going to say things that make us feel funny. I think we should keep trying until we get it right. What about you?”

  “Okay.” Laurel gave her a quick smile, then took a sip of her soda. “I’m glad you’re not mad or anything. I don’t talk about her much, but sometimes things just kinda slip out.” She darted a glance at her father. Her voice dropped to an audible whisper. “Daddy gets upset if I talk about her.”

  Anne followed Laurel’s gaze. Jake Masters remained in front of the window, staring out at the city. The sun had slipped below the horizon and lights twinkled all around. With his hands shoved into his pants pockets and his legs braced, he seemed more conquering hero than mere visitor in her home. At his daughter’s words, his shoulder’s tightened, but he didn’t turn around or otherwise acknowledge that he’d heard the confession.

  Anne decided it was best to return to a safe topic of conversation. “I’m not much of a cook,” she said. “I don’t get home from work before seven, and by then it’s so late that I don’t want to bother.”

  “Mom cooks—” Laurel glanced at her father and worried her bottom lip. Then she took a deep breath and spoke very quickly. “My mom used to cook a lot. She made special things. You know, like gourmet foods? I didn’t like all of it, but it was fun to try. There used to be parties with lots of people and I’d help sometimes. Once for my birthday, my mom decorated a cake with—”

  “Laurel, I’m sure Ms. Baker doesn’t want to hear this,” Jake Masters said, without bothering to turn around.

  “But, I—”

  “Laurel.” The tone of his voice made even Anne sit up and take notice.

  The girl shrugged. More silence. Anne searched her mind for a topic of conversation. She didn’t know very much about teenagers. Most of her friends had chosen the career path rather than marrying and having children. A few had recently changed their minds, but they were still in the pregnant stage or had infants and toddlers. Her cousin, Becky Sue, had teenagers, but Anne couldn’t ask her for advice without getting a lot of questions in return. Questions she wasn’t ready to answer. Anne didn’t watch much TV, and she had a feeling her taste in music and movies was light-years away from the girl’s.

  In the kitchen, a timer rang. Anne sprang to her feet and raced toward the other room. “Dinner is almost ready,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  But her escape was short-lived. Laurel followed her into the kitchen and leaned against one of the counters. Like the other rooms in the condo, this one had been professionally decorated and the predominant color was white. The counters, floors and appliances gleamed. Copper pots provided contrast, while the bleached wood cabinets softened any glare.

  Laurel watched with interest as she poured the steamed vegetables into a serving bowl. “Daddy called you Ms. Baker.”

  “I know.”

  Anne thought she was lucky that was all he’d called her. His distrust and anger radiated like a giant beacon, circling through the room and lighting up all the corners. She felt so exposed having him in her house. It was difficult to act normally knowing he sat in judgment of every word she said. She half expected him to decide that she was an inappropriate role model and march his daughter out of her presence. If it were up to him, there never would have been a meeting at all.

  Anne looked at the young woman glancing around the room. Curiosity brightened her hazel eyes, turning the multicolored irises more green. Long brown hair bounced and swung with each turn of her head. So alive, Anne thought. Bright and pretty and interested in everything. Pride swelled within her. She savored the sensation before allowing her practical nature to firmly squash it. Laurel was her child by birth, but not by environment. She had no justification for her pride; she’d done nothing to earn it. And yet—

  She stuck a serving spoon into the bowl of vegetables and handed the container to Laurel. “Put this on the table, please. Through there.” She motioned to the dining room, off the opposite end of the kitchen.

  And yet, she didn’t want to lose her. Not after just meeting her. One meeting, Jake had said. But was that Laurel speaking or was it his own agenda?

  Laurel returned. “Should I call you ‘Ms. Baker’?”

  “My name is Anne,” she said.

  “Anne,” Laurel repeated. “Okay.” She said it again. “Does anyone call you Annie?”

  Anne smiled. “My mother used to. My cousin still does. Just family members I guess.”

  Laurel propped her elbows on the center island and rested her chin in her hands. “Can I call you Annie?”

  “It’s ‘may I.’ Not ‘can I.’”

  Anne hadn’t heard Jake enter the kitchen, but he stood just inside the room, leaning against the cabinets.

  Laurel straightened. “May I call you Annie?”

  Anne hoped she didn’t look as flustered as she felt. She understood that Jake wouldn’t want her to be alone with his child for too long. Heaven knows what sort of corrupting influence she could be in two or three minutes. But did he have to be so obvious about it?

  “I’d like that, Laurel.” She thought about telling Jake Masters he could continue to call her “Ms. Baker,” but figured he wouldn’t appreciate her minor attempt at humor. “Here. The potatoes are ready to go into the dining room. Then if you’d like to wash your hands, the powder room is down the hall on the right.”

  “Be right back.”

  Laurel moved forward and picked up the dish. As soon as the swinging door closed behind her, Jake straightened. “You’re handling this very well.”

  Anne pulled open the stove an
d shut off the rotisserie. “If anyone else were saying that, I’d think it was a compliment.”

  “It’s not?”

  She slid the rack out toward her, then began to move the heavy roasting pan closer to the edge. “I know it’s not. You made your decision about me thirteen years ago. There’s nothing I can do to change your mind.” She lifted the pan and placed it on the counter. She stepped back and glanced up at him. The bright overhead lights caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes. She’d been right. Anger flared there, right alongside distrust and a few other emotions she didn’t want to name.

  “My main concern is Laurel.”

  “That much is obvious.”

  He raised his eyebrows, as if surprised she’d admit that.

  “Oh, you don’t make it easy to dislike you, Mr. Masters. You’re judging me based on some very out-of-date information. Even this minute you’re standing over me waiting to pounce in case I say something inappropriate.” She tossed her oven mitts onto the counter and rubbed her hands on her silk trousers. “Your only saving grace is that you obviously love Laurel very much.” She took another step back.

  “Look out!” he said. “The oven is open.”

  He leapt forward and grabbed her arms, jerking her hard against him. One of her hands got caught between their bodies and she felt the cold metal of his belt buckle. Her breasts flattened against his hard chest. His thighs brushed hers. Their breath mingled as she exhaled sharply with the impact.

  “What are you—?”

  Their gazes locked. Something dark and hungry flared to life in his eyes, and the flames turned the flecks of gold almost iridescent. The fingers holding her arms tightened their grip. It hurt and she told herself to pull away but she couldn’t. Whatever had exploded in him sparked a response deep within her body. The need, the want, raced through her like a fire storm consuming dry brush. Everywhere they touched—his hand on her arm, her breasts mashed against his chest, their legs trembling against each other—electricity arced. The scent of his body—clean, masculine, he was not a man to wear cologne—made her wonder what he would taste like if she were to kiss him.