Callie heard a gasp. Her gaze darted to her mother, whose eyes were wide with shock and dismay.
“There will be no more of that kind of talk,” she said.
“You can’t deny—”
“Jesse, please,” her mother said, cutting off her father.
“Jesse, please,” Hannah mimicked.
Callie clamped a hand over her daughter’s mouth. She could feel the tension stretching the distance of the table between her parents, like a piece of barbed wire strung too tight and ready to snap.
Callie had heard enough arguments between her parents over the years to know her father was still jealous of her mother’s long-ago relationship with Jackson Blackthorne. She had never even seen her mother speak to Blackjack, but to hear her father talk, their romance had never ended.
It was impossible for Callie to imagine her mother in love with Jackson Blackthorne. Even more difficult to imagine Blackjack in love with her mother. And if they’d been in love with one another, as her father suspected, why hadn’t they gotten married? To hear her father talk, all Blackjack would have needed to do was crook his finger, and her mother would have come running. So what had gone wrong?
Callie had never asked. Would never ask. And her mother had never volunteered to tell. But Callie couldn’t help wondering. Was rage over losing her mother the reason Blackjack seemed so determined to ruin them financially? Or was he merely carrying on the tradition begun by previous generations of Blackthornes and Creeds?
In the end, her father was no match for the pleading look in her mother’s eyes. “All right, Ren,” he said. “I’ll let it go … and see about getting some flak jackets for my cows.”
Her mother smiled. “Thank you, Jesse.”
“Will you come to the auction at the Rafter S with me, Dad?” Callie asked. “I could use your help.” With everything at risk, she didn’t want to make a mistake.
“Sure,” he said. “Count me in.”
“Can I come, Mom?” Eli asked.
“Can I come, Mom?” Hannah echoed.
“We’ll see,” Callie said.
“That means no,” Eli moaned. “Can I come, Grampa?”
“We’ll see,” he said with a smile and a glance at Callie.
Callie made a face at her father. Eli was more excited by a flashy-looking horse than one with the right bloodlines, but maybe she ought to take him along. It wasn’t too early for Eli to start learning what he needed to know. Someday he’d be helping Luke to manage the ranch.
Assuming Blackjack didn’t figure out a way to swallow Three Oaks whole … and spit the Creeds back out.
Chapter 3
“I’VE FOUND A HORSE I THINK CAN WIN THAT bet for me,” Trace said. “He’s being auctioned here at the Rafter S this afternoon. I want your okay to buy him.”
Blackjack thumbed away the condensation on the ice-cold bottle of Lone Star that sat on the red-checked tablecloth before him, then looked up and said, “You’re wasting your time.”
“It’s my time.”
“But my money,” Blackjack pointed out.
Trace didn’t plead. He didn’t cajole. He didn’t demand. He kept his eyes shuttered, his body still, as though his father’s answer mattered not at all.
“All right. Go ahead,” Blackjack said at last. “If you see anything else you like, help yourself. I’ve got deep pockets.”
Trace forcibly held his tongue.
“Hey, Boss!” a cowboy called.
“What is it—”
“What do you want—”
Trace cut himself off, realizing he and Blackjack had both answered the summons. Trace tipped his head, conceding the role to his father.
“What is it, Whitey?” Blackjack asked.
“Uh … I was …” The cowboy took off his sweat-stained hat and swatted it against his jeans, raising a cloud of dust.
“Spit it out,” Blackjack ordered.
“Trace said I was to come and get him when the auctioneer got around to the cutting stock,” the cowboy answered.
Trace felt his gut twist as an anguished look flickered briefly in his father’s eyes.
“You’ve delivered your message,” Blackjack said, dismissing the cowboy. He took one last swallow of his beer, then, without another word, shoved his chair back and headed toward the corral where Dusty Simpson’s stock was being sold. Trace followed a respectful step behind him.
Trace was more than willing to play the dutiful son for the benefit of their neighbors, not to mention the myriad strangers who’d shown up at the Rafter S wearing Larry Mahan hats, silver belt buckles, and ostrich boots. It seemed half the state of Texas was hoping to buy a small piece of Dusty Simpson’s life.
The auction had the look of an upscale fair, with a striped food tent that offered the choice of free champagne, cold beer, or iced tea with the catered barbecue. A clown entertained the children with balloon tricks, and bleachers had been set up near the corral where several girls in tight jeans and white hats handed out printed four-color brochures giving details of the sale. The late August day was sunny and hot, with no threat of rain.
“You two hold up there while I get your picture.”
“Sure, Mom.” Trace waited for his father to sling an arm around him and pull him close, as he might have when Trace was a boy, but Blackjack stuck his thumbs in his front pockets. Trace stood next to him, his hip cocked, as his mother snapped away with her Nikon. She did all of her paintings from photographs and had come along with them to the Rafter S, camera in hand, in search of a subject for her next work.
“Smile, Trace,” his mother coaxed
Trace tipped his hat back off his forehead and bared his teeth.
“You, too, Jackson,” his mother ordered his father, snapping away.
He and his father glanced at each other, saw the corresponding grimaces, and broke out laughing.
“Wonderful!” his mother said.
Trace’s gaze slid beyond his father to a commotion in front of the reviewing stands near the corral. A sorrel stallion with the numeral 2 painted on its hip was rearing, trumpeting its fear and rage as it struggled to pull free of the handler showing it off in the ring. Trace’s smile faded as he recognized the woman hauling a boy off his perch on the corral and out of harm’s way.
“Callie,” he murmured.
She fiercely hugged the skinny shoulders of the long-legged boy, while a little blond girl clung tightly to her knee. He realized they must be her kids.
He looked for the changes time had wrought, but for her, it seemed time had stood still. The delicate lines at the corners of her eyes hadn’t been there eleven years ago, but he recognized the familiar fullness of her breasts, her still-slim waist, and trim hips. The sun kissed a long blond braid where it trailed down her back beneath a battered black Stetson. An erotic memory flashed of her silky hair spread across his flesh.
Trace didn’t want to remember. He turned away and heard his father murmur something under his breath. He followed his father’s gaze and saw what had caught Blackjack’s attention.
“Ren,” his father repeated. “And Jesse.”
Trace had expected Jesse to show up for the sale. It was common knowledge in town that the Creeds needed stock to replace what had been stolen a few weeks ago. But he hadn’t expected to see Jesse’s wife. Or his daughter. Or her kids.
Trace felt an ache in his chest, almost a physical pain, as he watched Callie brush at a stubborn cowlick in the boy’s short black hair. The kid ducked out of her reach, bending to retrieve his lacquered straw hat from the dust where it had fallen. She gave him a quick, reassuring pat on the butt before he climbed onto the bottom rail of the corral, lapping his elbows over the top rail to steady himself.
Callie then picked up the little girl, who clasped her legs around Callie’s hips. She tousled the girl’s fine blond curls, then kissed her on the nose and gave her another hug, before crossing back to stand beside Jesse and Ren near the bleachers.
She should have be
en my wife, he thought. Those should have been my kids. He fought to control the anger that had been so carefully banked, but it flared to ferocious life. He clenched his fists, struggling to find some measure of control.
“Come on.”
Trace felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, urging him in the direction of the stands. It was the last place he wanted to go.
But maybe it was time—hell, it was long past time—he confronted Callie, time he exorcised the memories of her he had carried with him for the past eleven years. Once and for all he wanted her out of his heart and his head. He probably should have confronted her sooner, but he’d been too afraid of what he might say or do. Feeling the way he did right now, he was glad he hadn’t sought her out. It was bound to be safer to meet her in a crowd, where he would be forced to keep a rein on his temper.
“Hello, Jesse. Ren,” Blackjack said.
Trace’s gaze had never left Callie’s face as he approached her, so Jesse’s snarled reply came as a shock.
“Get your goddamned eyes off my wife.”
Trace felt the sudden tension between the two men, who reminded him of nothing so much as two barnyard dogs faced off over a bitch in heat, fangs bared and neck hairs hackled. He’d always known his father wanted Three Oaks. He’d never realized how much he hated Jesse Creed.
After one narrow-eyed glance at Jesse, his father’s eyes lingered provocatively on Jesse’s wife. “You always were a fool, Jesse,” Blackjack said in a condescending voice. “There’s nothing between me and your wife—”
Jesse’s fist caught Blackjack completely by surprise and staggered him backward. He would have fallen, except Trace grabbed his father’s arm and kept him upright.
“I should have killed you a long time ago,” Blackjack said through gritted teeth.
“You can always try,” Jesse replied menacingly.
Lauren Creed’s sob of distress distracted Blackjack just as Jesse launched another blow. Instinctively, Trace caught Jesse’s fist before it could reach his father’s jaw.
“I see you need your boy to fight your battles now,” Jesse taunted.
“I can take care of myself,” his father bit out.
Too late, Trace realized his error. It would have been far less humiliating for his father if Trace had simply let the second punch land.
“Jesse, let’s go,” Ren pleaded.
“I’m not finished here,” Jesse said, shrugging off his wife’s hand and pulling himself free of Trace’s hold.
“Dad, come on,” Trace said.
“Stay the hell out of this!” his father snapped at him.
“Jackson.”
At the sound of his name, his father’s head swung around like a Longhorn bull facing a pack of wolves. Trace thought his mother had—for once—intervened. But it turned out to be Jesse’s wife who’d spoken.
Trace would have given anything not to witness the glance of longing and despair that passed between Ren and his father. He turned quickly to locate his mother and saw that she was still snapping pictures. There was nothing beautiful here for her to capture, Trace thought. The scene was as ugly as it could get.
Then a whirling dervish attacked Blackjack.
“You leave my grampa alone!” Callie’s scrawny boy slugged away with his fists at Blackjack’s belly and kicked with his booted feet at Blackjack’s unprotected shins.
“What the hell?” Blackjack grunted.
“Get him, Eli!” the little girl in Callie’s arms shouted.
“Stop it, Eli!” Callie cried.
Trace hesitated only an instant before grabbing the boy around his middle like an orphaned calf and holding him snug against his hip.
“Put me down, you yellow-bellied, toad-eating varmint!” the boy shouted, fists and feet thrashing helplessly in the air.
“What do you want me to do with this prickly piece of cactus?” he asked Callie.
“Give him to me,” she said in a shaky voice. “We’re leaving.”
Jesse stepped forward. “No! I’ll take the boy home. You stay and get us those horses we picked out.”
“Daddy, I—”
“Set the boy down,” Jesse ordered.
Trace set the boy down.
Before the kid could launch himself at Trace, Jesse snagged the boy’s arm and pulled him close. “Get the hell out of my way,” he said to Blackjack.
Trace was certain his father would have stood his ground, except Ren moved between the two men to take the little girl from Callie’s arms. “I think Hannah should go with us,” she said.
Ren remained as a buffer until Jesse and the boy had passed and were well on their way to the parking area. She looked up at Blackjack with stricken eyes, then followed after her husband.
“I’m out of film.”
Trace realized his mother had crossed to his father’s side. She slipped her arm through his and said, “Will you take me home please, Jackson? I need to get this film developed immediately. I believe I’ve found the subject for my next painting, and I want to get started right away.”
His father shot him a look that asked for deliverance, but Trace wasn’t feeling too charitable toward him at the moment. Someone had to drive his mother home, and he had unfinished business with Callie Monroe. “I’ll see you later, Dad. I hope those pictures turn out, Mom.”
“I’m sure I’ve got something I can use,” his mother said.
A moment later, Trace was left facing Callie, with half the population of Bitter Creek watching to see what they would do.
Callie could feel the tension radiating from Trace. She forced herself to meet his gaze and then wished she hadn’t. The ruthless predator was back. If she ran, he would only come after her. The only way to survive was to stand her ground. Her mouth was dry, her voice harsh to her ears when she spoke. “Hello, Trace.”
“Hello, Callie.”
There was a world of malice in those two words. Callie felt only pain. And fear. Had Trace recognized his son? It seemed he had not, but maybe he was baiting her, playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse it can crush at its leisure. Her heart pounded so loud she thought Trace must be able to hear it.
She became aware of the silence around them and realized they were being watched. She couldn’t afford for people to notice them together. Someone else might put two and two together and come up with three—Callie and Trace and Eli. She had to get away from him.
Callie lifted her chin and said, “Good-bye, Trace.”
He caught her wrist before she’d taken two steps. “Take a seat, Callie.”
She fought her terror by speaking with all the disdain she could muster. “You’re hurting me.”
He let her go, but Callie knew there was no escape. She didn’t dare make a scene, and besides, she had horses to buy. She turned to survey the stands and saw a spot where there was a single seat left between two cowboys. She climbed up two rows and squeezed in, relieved to have outmaneuvered Trace.
A moment later, she watched Trace stare down the cowboy sitting on the aisle next to her. The young man rose, touched the brim of his hat, and excused himself. Trace took his place, but he was larger than the cowboy who’d given up his seat, and his leg was jammed tight against the entire length of her thigh.
Callie edged away to the opposite side, so their bodies were no longer touching, but it was too late. The damage was already done. She had already felt the heat of his flesh. She had already experienced the rush of unwanted desire.
She viciously squelched the feeling. Trace had abandoned her. He had refused to wait, even a little while, to see if they could work things out. And he had made sure she knew how easily she could be replaced. She had heard stories in Bitter Creek about the women who had come and gone from his bed. The first had been told within three weeks of their separation.
She had died inside. She had cried bitter, resentful tears. Until Nolan had found her and comforted her. And married her.
Callie had wondered how she would feel when she saw Trace a
gain. She had wondered what he would say, what he would do. Well, she had her answer.
He was nothing like the man she remembered. There was nothing honest and fair about his behavior. Trace seemed every bit as ruthless as his father, every bit as callous and uncaring of the harm he might cause by coming back into her life. It seemed, after all, that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
She focused her gaze on their parents as they retreated to the parking lot. “All these years, and nothing has changed,” she murmured.
Except her love had died a lingering death. And Trace felt nothing but contempt for her.
“What do you want from me, Trace?” she asked brusquely.
“You’re still a beautiful woman, Callie.”
Her gaze collided with his. But it wasn’t love she saw in his eyes, it was lust. Callie felt a spurt of panic.
“Don’t do this, Trace. Please. I’m begging you.”
“The Callie I knew wouldn’t have begged anyone for anything.”
“I don’t have that luxury anymore,” she retorted. “I have a family that depends on me. I can’t afford to indulge myself—”
“Is that what we did? Indulged ourselves? I thought we were in love.”
“How dare you speak of love,” she hissed at him, keeping her voice low. “You walked away. You were the one who left!”
“And you stayed. And married within—How long did you wait for me, Callie? A month? Two months?”
He had left her first, but she didn’t dare argue the point. She didn’t want him counting the months between her marriage and the birth of his son. “Nolan loved me. He didn’t want to wait to get married,” she said defiantly.
“And he gave you a son,” Trace accused, “that should have been mine. Mine, Callie, not his.”
He believes Eli is Nolan’s son.
Callie felt a profound rush of relief.
Before she could change the subject, Trace said, “That kid of yours is as rank a colt as I’ve ever seen. It’s been a while since Blackjack had his shins kicked.”
The Cowboy Page 5
