Hank had gotten to his feet as Doc spoke, and he paused. “Gonna tell Caleb and Jack that if they touch Becca I’ll break their hands.”
Doc snorted. “That wasn’t what this story is about. Sit down.” When Hank reluctantly sat once more, his uncle just gave him a thoughtful look. “I’m telling you this not because I think you should be suspicious of your brothers but because you’re going to lose out on a good thing if you wait for the timing to be just right.”
Hank clenched his jaw, frustrated. “It isn’t about timing.”
“It’s always the timing, son.” Doc shook his head. “Don’t kid yourself. If you have feelings for her, then nothing else matters.”
“I asked her to go to Alaska with me.” He admitted the words slowly. “She wouldn’t go.”
“Why would she? There’s nothing up there for her. She’s not like your ma was. She’s not into the fishing and hunting and living rough. You knew that, too, and you still asked her out.”
“She asked me out—”
Doc threw his hands up. “But you said yes, right? My point is you knew who she was when you accepted. You were fine with her being a soft girly girl who likes hair and pretty clothes until it no longer suited your timing.”
He hated to admit it, but his uncle was right. He’d known Becca was exactly the wrong kind of girl for him when he’d gone out with her . . . and he’d still done it. She was the kind of woman he said he’d always avoid, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Then again, Adria had been more his type, and look where it had gotten him. Meanwhile, Becca—who couldn’t bait a hook or chop a lick of wood—loved and cared for his daughter. She loved Hank, too . . . or at least she had.
Even if he could change who Becca was, Hank wasn’t so sure he would want to. He liked that Becca was soft and sweet. He liked that she loved to cook and curl up and watch movies. He loved that she was just a happy person, content to be exactly who she was.
They were at an impasse. He didn’t want her to change . . . but she didn’t fit into his life. “It’s not just about me. It’s about Libby—”
“Horseshit,” his uncle said, disgusted. “You’re hiding behind that as an excuse. Libby is four. She thinks Santa and the Easter Bunny are real. If you told her that school was amazing, she’d love it. But you and those brothers of yours have been telling her all along that school’s crap and she doesn’t need it, and of course she picked up on that. It’s no wonder she hated it. Millions of kids go to school every year and they get by just fine. You think Libby’s the one kid in the world that can’t figure out how to play well with others?”
Hank stared at his uncle in surprise. The man was utterly vehement.
Doc raised a hand in the air. “I know. I’m cussin’ up a storm. I just feel like you’re making mistakes, Hank. And I care for you boys—all three of you—and I want to help. Your father’s not around anymore, so it’s my duty to look after all three of you, even though you’re grown men.”
“What do you suggest, then?” Hank asked. “She won’t move with me.”
Doc gestured at him. “What do you want out of life? Let’s say you could have anything in the world. What would it be? What does your ideal situation look like? Is it a big house? Fancy cars? Seventeen children? What?”
Hank moved to the sink and washed his hands again as he thought. He’d washed them in the barn, but something about helping a cow give birth made him feel as if he had to clean them repeatedly, so he soaped up his arms to the elbow and thought. What did he want out of life? What was his perfect?
“I want Libby to be happy,” he admitted after a long moment, rinsing off the soap. He shook off the water and turned to face his uncle. “She’s my first priority.”
Doc nodded. “And for you?”
The answer was surprisingly easy. He didn’t want a big car or a big house, no. “I want a good woman at my side.” He knew just the one, too. “I want a big family. I want to be able to provide for them and keep them safe. I want nights in front of the fire with my family at my side, and I want to take my kids fishing and raise them somewhere safe where they can run free and be happy. I want to grow old with my wife . . . with Becca.”
“I’m not hearing Alaska in that fantasy of yours,” his uncle pointed out. “So why are you so fixated on it?”
He had no answer. The truth was, he’d always pictured Alaska as his home, but he thought about having a wife and half a dozen kids in their log cabin and . . . it didn’t work. The cabin was crowded with three men and a little girl. He couldn’t imagine squeezing more people into it. Plus, what if someone got hurt? He thought of Libby and the time she’d cut her finger and Jack had had to bandage it up because Hank had been out in the field, checking traps. What if it was something worse than a cut finger and they were a full day’s snowmobile ride to the most rudimentary of medical assistance?
What he claimed to want—Becca, Libby, more children, a quiet life—didn’t necessarily have anything to do with Alaska. It was just him being stubborn. Alaska was easy to run back to because he knew what was required of him there. With Becca, he sometimes felt out of his depth. Like he wasn’t going to live up to her expectations.
Doc just clapped him on the shoulder. “You think about it for a while, son. Maybe you stay here in Wyoming; maybe you don’t. There’s always a job for you at this ranch and a place to live. If that’s not what you want, though, that’s fine, too. But regret is a terrible bed partner, so make sure that you don’t let a good thing slip past you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hank thought about his uncle’s words all day. He cleaned the barn from top to bottom as he silently mulled his thoughts. What would his future look like if he stayed here? He tried to imagine it. There’d be cattle in his future instead of trapping, but he didn’t mind ranching. It was hard work, but it let him be out in the sunshine and there was a satisfaction to tending a fat, full herd. Maybe he wouldn’t keep living in the main house, though. Maybe he’d take one of the cowboy cabins and expand on it, make it a home.
Maybe he’d build Becca a new home right next to this one. Something with a big kitchen and a big wraparound sofa so they could cuddle up and watch movies together every night. He imagined a house with her in it, and it’d be full of scented candles and those silly throw pillows she was enamored with, but it’d also be full of her bright laughter and her joy. He pictured her holding Libby’s hand, her other hand in his . . . and his chest squeezed so hard with longing it felt like a physical ache. Yeah, he wanted that.
He wanted to give her the children she wanted. He wanted to see her smile every morning and every night. He wanted to hold her close and love her with all his damned heart.
And she’d shown up that morning, all pretty, with a box of doughnuts, a shy smile of greeting on her face. He hadn’t been able to figure out why she’d come by.
Had she . . . changed her mind about him, too? Did she miss him like he missed her? Because not having Becca at his side was like missing a limb . . . or having his heart ripped out of his chest. He wasn’t surviving without it. He needed her.
The realization hit him like a load of bricks. He didn’t need Alaska. He needed her.
Libby didn’t need Alaska, either. If she didn’t like school, they’d figure something out. But she needed Becca in her life, too. She needed two parents to love and look after her. With that thought swimming in his head, he dumped the rest of the fresh hay into the horse stalls and then headed inside.
“Libby?” he called out, and she came around the corner, riding on Jack’s shoulders. Her giggles were wild, her face lit up with amusement. There was a half-eaten peanut butter and jam sandwich in her hand, and some of her curls were dragging through the sandwich. Her overalls were filthy, and she looked like a damned mess.
“We’re just playing a bit of horsey,” Jack told him, and did a mock gallop to m
ake Libby laugh again.
Hank raised his arms. “Horsey time is over. You’re a mess, Libs.” She launched herself into his arms and he caught her, then settled her on his hip. “You and I need to talk.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she said brightly.
“What about?” Jack asked.
He frowned at Jack. His youngest brother had a good heart, but if anything, his stubbornness ran deeper than even Hank’s. He wouldn’t like to hear that Hank and Libby were going to stay in Painted Barrel, too. Best to hide that information from him until everything was settled. “Father-daughter stuff.”
Jack put his hands up. “Sounds creepy. I’m out.”
It wasn’t creepy, damn it. But if that got Jack to leave, so much the better. Hank bit back a retort and took Libby upstairs to the bathroom, removing the squashed sandwich from her hand and washing her arms and face. “Daddy needs to tell you some important stuff, okay, Libs?”
She gave him a surprisingly serious look. “Are you okay, Daddy?”
“I will be,” he promised her. “I’ve been . . . giving the future a lot of thought. And I was just thinking that maybe you and I will stay here for a while instead of going back to Alaska. What do you think?”
“Can I have a bubble bath?”
Clearly she wasn’t understanding the gravity of the situation. He expected that, since she was four, but he needed to make her understand. “If we stay here, that means you have to go back to school.”
Libby shrugged. “Okay.”
That . . . was it? “I don’t want you to feel anxious about it—”
“Can I have a bubble bath after school?”
“. . . Sure?”
She beamed.
“You’re not upset about school?”
Libby shrugged again and he decided not to press it. If she was happy, then going back to Alaska wasn’t all that necessary, was it? He sighed deeply, a load of stress off his shoulders. Why was everything with Libby so simple and yet so complicated at the same time? “Let’s get you in the tub, and Daddy’s going to text Becca, okay?”
She wiggled with excitement. “Are we going to see Miss Becca?”
“That’s my hope.”
He peeled filthy clothing off his daughter and grimaced at the nest of dirty curls atop her head. He didn’t want Becca to see what a mess his little girl was or make it seem like he was a wreck without Becca at his side . . . Then again, maybe that was the best idea. Nah. He ran the water for Libby and added soap, and while his daughter splashed and played in the tub, he sat on the toilet and texted Becca.
HANK: Bec cvcx aserer u therrte?
HANK: casn wwe talkk?
HANK: iu wanterdf to tsdlk tro youy
He cursed at his fat fingers. The phone keyboard was so small and his fingers so big that he was sending her nothing but streams of gibberish. Even so, he stared at his phone, waiting for her to respond.
Nothing.
All right, then, he was just going to show up and ask her to start over again. To give him another shot. Hank studied Libby’s messy, sticky hair, and . . . an idea hit. He grabbed a towel. “Hurry up with the bath, Libby. You and I have somewhere to go.”
“Where are we going?” She splashed, her voice rising in volume with excitement.
“Well, we’re gonna go to a ring store, I think,” he told her, because if he was getting back together with Becca—and he wasn’t going to allow a “no” into his head—then he wanted to make sure the entire world knew she was his. That ring would stake his claim on her.
Provided she talked to him. She was probably mad about this morning. He’d gotten totally tongue-tied when she’d showed up, unsure what to say without spilling his guts at her. So he’d said not much at all, and it had somehow turned out worse than saying nothing.
What if she was mad at him now? What if that was why she wasn’t responding to his texts? He studied Libby thoughtfully. “We might go by the store, too. How do you feel about pretending to put gum in your hair again?”
“No!”
“Just pretend—”
“No, Daddy!” She slapped her small fists against the water.
He raised his hands in the air. “It was just a suggestion.” He could always just pull her hair into a messy knot and hint at it if nothing else. He’d never sabotage Libby’s hair just to get into the door of Becca’s salon, but he could pretend. “Come on, let’s get dressed so we can go into town.”
* * *
* * *
Two hours later, he had a ring box in his sweating hand and his daughter’s tiny hand in his other one. Hank had tried to think of something clever to say, or a way to slide into the subject of marriage, but he was clueless. All he knew was that he was going to go through that door and talk to Becca, and if she wouldn’t listen to him, he . . . well, he just wouldn’t leave. She had to hear him out eventually, didn’t she? After all, she’d come by that morning to talk and he’d been tongue-tied. Hopefully she’d still be in a talking mood this afternoon.
Libby skipped at his side, all excitement as they headed down the sidewalk toward the salon. He’d parked down the street so Becca wouldn’t see just how nervous he was. He’d have a whole two hundred feet to pull himself together, after all. So he sucked in a deep breath, did his best not to squeeze the life out of his daughter’s hand, and led her toward the salon. At the last moment, he shoved the ring box into his pocket, hiding it.
Becca was sweeping up underneath one of her chairs. She looked up as the bell clanged against the door, and her face went pale at the sight of him.
“Becca!” Libby squealed, rushing forward. She flung her arms out and raced toward the woman, and he wasn’t surprised when Becca discarded her broom and hugged Libby, pulling her into her arms and showering her face with dozens of tiny kisses.
“Libby! I’ve missed you, baby girl! How are you?”
“Me and Daddy are here because—”
Hank cleared his throat, trying not to bark at his daughter before she spoiled the surprise. “Because we wanted to talk to you.”
Becca’s expression immediately grew wary. “Oh?”
He studied her. Couldn’t help but notice that she’d changed clothing from earlier. She’d been wearing tall heels and a dress with entirely too much cleavage that had made him crazy to think about. He’d pictured her leaning over her male clients, shaving them with her big, bouncy breasts in their faces, and he’d nearly come unglued. It seemed like that dress had just been for his benefit, though, because she was wearing one of her favorite outfits—a tunic and striped leggings and a flat pair of sandals. Either she’d come that morning to flaunt herself in his face or there was hope for him yet. So he smiled, even though it didn’t feel natural, and tried to flirt like Jack would. “Can I have a greeting like that?” he asked, indicating his daughter. He’d be all right if she peppered his face with a hundred kisses. He’d sit still for every one of them, too.
She flushed, looking nervous. With a quick kiss to Libby’s forehead, she set the little girl down and took her hand. “I need to talk to your daddy, sweetheart. Why don’t you look at the new coloring book I got for you? It’s at your desk. Pick out a few pictures and we’ll color one together in a bit, all right?”
Libby hugged Becca’s legs and then skipped away to her little pink desk in the corner of the salon. He noticed Becca hadn’t taken down any of Libby’s art, either. It had been almost two weeks since their big fight, and that was . . . downright promising. If she’d thought they’d never see each other again, wouldn’t she have taken that stuff down?
Or was he reading too much into this because he was desperate?
He licked his lips. “I . . . ah . . . think we need to talk. You came by earlier and I should have said something then. Shouldn’t have let it go on for as long as it has.” Because, hell, he’d missed her like nothing he’d e
ver experienced before. He’d thought he’d get over it, but every day it was just worse, and talking with Doc had made him realize that you didn’t get over some people. Some people were permanent, in both good ways and bad. Hank wanted that permanent with Becca—that forever—so he had to get her to realize that she needed him as much as he needed her.
Becca grew even paler at his words.
Should he have said more? He wasn’t sure how to lead into it. Hank took off his hat, nervous and utterly aware of the ring box in his jeans pocket. “Came here to settle it.”
Becca burst into tears.
That . . . was not what he’d expected. It horrified him to see her sobbing, and Libby looked up from her desk like a deer in headlights, took one glance at Becca, and then started wailing, too.
“I . . . Becca . . . Libby . . .” He clenched the brim of his Stetson with frustration. “What did I say?”
Becca just waved a hand, sobbing, as she went to retrieve Libby. He watched, frozen, while she scooped up his crying daughter and tried to soothe her. “It’s okay, Libby. It is. I promise.” She pressed another kiss to the little girl’s cheek even as she rocked her. “It’s just hard for me to hear. I’m sorry.”
Hard for her to hear? His belly suddenly felt like it was full of lead. Hard for her to hear because she’d already moved on? Was he making this awkward? Damn it, he didn’t know what to say. “I . . . Becca, I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, her hand going to the back of Libby’s head as she stroked the little girl’s soft curls. Her eyes closed and for a moment she looked utterly beautiful, just like a Madonna in a painting. “Like I said in the past, I just get attached easily. It’s not you; it’s me.”
Now he was getting confused. “I like that about you.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hell when someone breaks up with you.” She opened her eyes and a fat tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m sorry I came by earlier. I didn’t get the hint. I get it now. I won’t bother you anymore.”
The Cowboy Meets His Match Page 23
