The Texan's Little Secret

by Barbara White Daille

  “Not yet, anyhow. I was just thinking. It’s been a long time.”

  “And you’ve come a long way.” If he picked up on the added meaning behind her words, he didn’t show it. Anger at his reminder of their past couldn’t quite overcome the hurt. Still, she managed to keep her voice even. “I hear you’re manager now. Daddy’s right-hand man. You finally made the connection and landed a job on the Roughneck, the way you’d always wanted.”

  He got that message, all right. His jaw hardened, and his chest rose with a deep breath, as if he’d had to summon his patience.

  What did he expect—that she would have forgotten the way he’d tried to use her to get a job on her dad’s ranch?

  “Maybe I had other reasons for showing up that day, besides the job.”

  “What reasons? Trying to win me over?” She laughed without humor. “Why bother, when you already had me where you wanted me?”

  “You think that’s what it was all about? I wanted to get to your daddy through you?”

  “I said that to you then, and you didn’t argue. But it looks like you found a way without me, after all.”

  He stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “Funny. By now, I would have thought you’d grown up some.”

  The pity in his tone rubbed her nerves raw. “I expected you’d have grown beyond working for my daddy.”

  “A man’s gotta have a job,” he said mildly. “And I guess none of us knows what the future has in store.”

  “I’m not concerned about the future, only in what’s happening today. And in making sure not to repeat the past.”

  “Yeah. Well, what’s happening in my world today includes managing this ranch. I’d better get back to it.”

  “That’s what Daddy pays you for,” she said, forcing a lightness that vied with the heaviness in her heart.

  He touched the brim of his Stetson. “See you around.”

  Not if I can help it.

  He turned and walked away with enough of a tight-jeaned swagger to make her breath catch.

  She leaned back against the sun-warmed truck, bombarded by memories she’d tried for so long to forget. Memories of that innocent, insecure high-school girl who always blended into the woodwork. Who had felt lost in the crowd of her own family. And who could never push away the vision of herself as a little girl her own mother couldn’t love.

  At least, not enough to make her stay.

  Not even being the apple of her daddy’s eye could make up for all that.

  Just once, she’d wanted someone to single her out, to notice her differences, to see her as an individual, not as simply one of the Baron brood.

  She had thought she’d found that someone in Luke Nobel.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong. Or been so betrayed.

  Pushing herself away from the truck, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him as he made his retreat. Their first meeting in seven years had gone no better than she’d expected, no worse than she’d feared.

  Regardless of what he thought, she had grown up since the days they were together. Toughened up, too. And yet she wished this could be the last time she would ever see him.

  All the needs and secrets and sorrows she kept from her family had to be kept from Luke, as well.

  Especially from Luke.

  He was a big part of the reason she had so much to hide.

  Chapter Two

  In the foyer of the main house, Carly paused to take inventory. Her breathing had returned to its usual even rhythm. The flush of anger warming her cheeks could be attributed to the heat outside. Only her hands might give her away. They continued to shake in irritation over the meeting with Luke. Whether or not the tremble would be visible to anyone else’s eye, she didn’t know. But she wasn’t about to get caught out here, checking her reactions in the hall mirror.

  After plastering a smile on her face, she crossed to the living room. Brock sat in the wheelchair with his leg extended, a file folder in his hands and papers spread across the cushions of the couch beside him.

  Before she could say a word, he grumbled, “This is no way to conduct business. I ought to bring the damned desk from the den in here.”

  “The boys told you they’d happily move it for you.” Her brothers would do anything to help cut down on Brock’s crankiness. Deliberately, she had just now done the opposite, giving him a chance to be contrary. Letting off some steam with her might make him ease up on the rest of the family.

  Sure enough, he snapped, “Moving furniture still wouldn’t get things done properly.”

  “And you probably wouldn’t be happy, anyway, unless you could spread everything across that ginormous conference table you’ve got downtown. But that’s out for now. If you’ve been listening to your doctor, you know that won’t happen for a while yet.” Lord only knew much longer she’d be needed here. How much longer she could force herself to stick around.

  She picked up the edge of the afghan trailing on the floor and fluffed the pillow behind his back.

  “Stop messing. This isn’t a sick room.”

  “Yessir.” Biting her lip to hold back a smile, she studied him. Tall and slim, he had a vigorous head of hair, pure silver now. His eyes, bright blue against his slightly weatherworn skin, didn’t miss much. They never had.

  She moved to perch on the arm of the couch. The paperwork spread below her might have started out in neat piles but now lay haphazardly across the cushions, threatening to slip to the floor. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Not unless you’ve learned how to take dictation.”

  “Why, Daddy—” she batted her lashes “—I’m an expert at it. Thanks to you, I’m now dictated to on a daily basis.”

  “Don’t be fresh.”

  She laughed, knowing she was the only one of his kids who could get away with smart-mouthing him.

  Or, usually get away with it.

  Leaning forward, she kissed his temple. “You should be more grateful to have me here. Admit it. Sparring with me gives you another reason to get up in the morning.”

  He grunted and turned a page in the file, but she saw the tic in his cheek and knew he had fought back a smile.

  “Come on, let’s get some of your paperwork taken care of. My handwriting has to be better than your chicken scratches.” With a notepad and pencil from the desk held ready, she prepared to take notes. “Go slowly, and I’ll write in longhand.”

  They went through one batch of paper after another. Carly jotted memos to be typed up by his secretary and directions to be passed along to various members of his staff, including her oldest sister, Lizzie, who had temporarily taken over as acting president of Baron Energies.

  With the flood of papers finally corralled and roped into neat piles, Brock sat back and eyed her as if seeing her for the first time that day. “What are you doing around here, anyhow? Aren’t you planning to do some traveling soon?”

  “Home to Houston, you mean?” she said, deliberately misunderstanding. “Are you already tired of me hanging around?”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m talking about competing. You’re keeping up with your skills, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. But you know what they say about all work and no play. I’m not competing this weekend.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to sign up anywhere. Not for barrel racing, anyhow. I’m ready to give it up.”

  “Don’t be absurd. You’ve barely gotten your saddle broken in.”

  “You can hardly say that when I’ve been competing since the age of four.”

  “Yes, and you haven’t done badly,” he said grudgingly. “You’ve got what it takes to go all the way to the top, if you’ll just settle down and focus. But you won’t get far competing only part-time.�
�� His eyes narrowed. “And backing off isn’t going to help. You need to put everything into it if you want to be the best.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe I don’t care about being the best. Maybe I’m bored.”

  “Bored, hell. You can’t walk away from this—rodeo’s in your blood. In your genes.”

  “I know. I didn’t say I’d give up rodeo, just barrel racing. My heart’s not in it anymore.” She made a mental bet on how long it would take him to go ballistic once he heard her next statement—probably about half a second. But it would be guaranteed to get him off her back about not competing lately. “I’m going to try bull riding.”

  He barely allowed her to finish her sentence. “And do what?” he demanded, gesturing at his elevated leg. “Crack yourself up, like I did? Don’t be foolish. You leave that event to the boys and stick to your barrels.” Raising his chin, he glared at her.

  She lowered her chin, so like his, and stared back.

  Only the sudden rapid click of high heels on the foyer floor made her break eye contact with him.

  Brock’s wife, Julieta, entered the living room. “Hello, you two. How’s the patient?”

  Brock made a derisive sound.

  She smiled. “Carly, I’ll take over now, if you have things you want to do before supper.” She slid the plum-colored suit jacket from her shoulders. “I’ll go up and change as soon as I run a few items of business past your father.”

  Carly nodded. Julieta must have picked up on the tension in the room. She gave the woman credit for providing her with a graceful escape.

  She gave Julieta credit for a lot of things. As well as being Brock’s third wife, she managed the public relations department at Baron Energies. She was good at her job, good at handling folks—and her husband. Knowing his wife went into the office every morning while he sat confined to the ranch had to help keep Brock’s crankiness level...well...cranked up. But it didn’t keep Julieta from taking care of business.

  “See you in a bit.” Carly smiled at Brock in farewell. He nodded.

  As she took the stairs to her room, she held back a laugh. Who knew how long that stalemate between them would have lasted if Julieta hadn’t walked in.

  She didn’t care. No matter what, she wouldn’t have backed down on the statement she’d made about bull riding.

  Once, she had thought she would never get enough of barrel racing, of the thrill of commanding her mount, honing her skill, increasing her speed. But since she’d left the ranch, with each year that had gone by, her interest and enthusiasm had waned by ever-increasing degrees. Though her eyes stayed on the prize, the motivating spark was gone.

  And she needed a spark. A lure. A challenge. She needed something to make her feel whole again.

  Like Brock, she needed a reason to get up in the morning.

  * * *

  “IF THIS DAMNED contraption doesn’t turn out to be the death of me, that girl will,” Brock Baron said, slapping his hand on the arm of the wheelchair.

  His wife placed her briefcase next to the piles of paperwork on the couch. “And why is that?”

  “She’s a worry to me in general. Always has been. You’re well aware of the reasons, including the fact she hasn’t spent more than a handful of weeks on this ranch since she finished high school.”

  “A slight exaggeration.”

  He shrugged. “Fair enough. But there’s no denying she’s the least settled of any of the kids.”

  “She is settled, Brock. Just out of the area.”

  And out of his range of influence. That didn’t sit well with him at all. Not for any of his offspring, and especially not for Carly.

  Now that his being laid up had caused her to spend some time at the Roughneck again, he’d had the chance to confirm his fears. “She’s as wild as she ever was, and I don’t see her wanting to change.”

  “In view of all the time you two have spent together, coming home probably hasn’t helped that.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “As you always tell me, she’s the child who most takes after you in temperament.”

  He couldn’t deny that. To borrow a phrase, she was a chip off the old Baron block. But he’d never tell his wife—or anyone—that Carly’s ways made him hold a soft spot in his heart for her. “What are you saying?”

  “I’d guess neither one of you realizes, but spending so much time together has only reinforced how alike you are.”

  “And you’re insinuating that’s a bad thing?”

  She laughed. “No, of course not. But considering she’s young and female, she doesn’t need to come across quite so strong on some of your traits.”

  “She needs her head set on straight, that’s what she needs,” he grumbled. “Bad enough she won’t live on the ranch or work at the family business. And now there’s this damned-fool idea she’s come up with.”

  “Ah. I thought I saw daggers drawn when I came in here. What is it?”

  “She’s got it into her mind she wants to give up barrel racing.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You mean quit the rodeo? Now, that does surprise me.”

  “No, not quit.” He could barely bring himself to share what his youngest daughter had said. “She tells me she wants to go in for bull riding.”

  Julieta looked at him thoughtfully. “Why does that bother you? It’s all part of the tradition, isn’t it?”

  “Not for the women of this family.”

  “Maybe not originally. But times change. And it’s more common now for women to ride bulls.”

  “It’s damned dangerous, that’s what it is.” He exhaled heavily. “At any rate, what’s the point of my having it out with the girl? As headstrong as she is, she’s sure to want to ride despite my arguments.”

  “Or because of them.”

  “That, too.” Again, he slapped the arm of the wheelchair. “And I’m going to have to do something about it.”

  * * *

  “YOU THINK LUKE will show up before the barbecue’s over?” Kim Healy leaned against the counter in the ranch house kitchen. Her brown eyes, opened wide, counteracted her offhand tone.

  Carly shrugged. They had returned to the house for reinforcements, including another batch of the homemade biscuits that Anna, their cook and housekeeper since long before Carly had been born, had left in the still-warm oven. She looked at Kim and pointed toward the stove. “I haven’t got the first clue about Luke Nobel’s plans.”

  “You would have, if you’d been back here the past couple of years.”

  Carly gnawed her lower lip. Kim wouldn’t let this ride.

  Every Fourth of July, Brock laid on a barbecue for his family and any of the hands who were around to attend. Once she’d heard Luke had started working on the ranch, she had deliberately begun missing the event, using her job in Houston as an excuse, even though it meant passing up Anna’s barbecued beef.

  Fortunately, Anna knew her well. The casual meal always showed up on the menu during her infrequent visits.

  “In all this time taking care of your dad, you must have seen Luke by now,” Kim persisted. “Have you talked to him yet?”

  “Briefly.” Two days ago, and she still felt unsettled by the memory. Not that she’d need to confess that to Kim, who would already know. And she couldn’t blame Kim for her question.

  They had been fast friends since second grade, when Kim had tried to take over in a kickball game. Carly had punched her lights out and, to her delight, Kim had punched back. Someone squealed about the tussle to their teacher, which resulted in Mrs. Blake’s frog-marching them to the principal. She and Kim had sat waiting in the hallway outside his office, both of them covered in dust from the unpaved playground, sporting a rapidly swelling eye and a bloodied nose, respectively, and grinning at each other.

  “Briefly,�
� Kim repeated in a low tone, though they were alone in the room. “That one word is speaking volumes to me. And what did you speak to him about? What did he say to you?”

  “Not much.” Sad, really, when she and Luke once had so much to talk about.

  “He’s still single, Carly, and since there’s never any gossip floating around about his love life, that means he doesn’t have one. Which means he’s unattached. He works for your dad, he takes care of his daughter—you know Rosie’s two already, right? He helps out his mom. Once in a while he stops at the Longhorn for a couple of beers. And that’s about it.”

  “Enough already, Kim.”

  “Don’t you even care that he’s still up for grabs?”

  “What I care about are those biscuits.” Carly gestured toward the oven again. “We’ve got a herd of hungry cowboys waiting out there.” After taking a sleeve of plastic cups from the pantry, she urged Kim toward the back door.

  She couldn’t blame her best friend for her curiosity. Since that day in the schoolyard, Kim had been the one whose shoulder she’d cried on at Christmas and on her birthday, the days she had most missed the mom who’d gone away and left them all. Kim had been the friend she had ranted to a few years after her mom’s departure, when Brock had remarried. Adding her first stepmother and two stepbrothers into her life, making the family even larger, had thrown Carly into the middle of the crowd that had left her feeling so lost.

  Kim was still the one she told all her secrets to.

  Or almost all of them.

  Outside, the ranch hands milled around the yard, already lining up for seconds at the serving table Carly and Kim had loaded down with Anna’s ovenproof dishes of ribs, baked beans and potatoes in their jackets.

  At another table, her sisters presided over an assembly line of pop bottles. A few feet away, her brother, Jet, had set up the beer keg.

  Kim veered toward one of the tables spread with food.

  Carly walked up to Jet. “Hey, little brother.” She never missed a chance to greet him with the teasing reminder he was a year younger. “Don’t drink too much of that poison. We’ve got a date for tomorrow, remember? And when I take you on at the arena, I don’t want you claiming a handicap because you’re hungover.”