Rodeo Daddy. B.J. Daniels

      CHAPTER FOUR

      DAMN! So much for thinking one look in Jack’s eyes would tell her everything she needed to know. All she’d seen so far was arrogance and anger.

      Not true. She’d glimpsed something when he’d first seen her. Surprise. And something that had set her heart running off at a gallop. It was one of the reasons she’d agreed to stay for dinner. That and the fact that Jack had been so dead set against it.

      She knew she should turn tail and run. Hadn’t Jack pretty much told her everything she’d come to find out? What more did she want him to say? That he’d never loved her? That he’d used her? That he’d been stealing her cows while seducing her?

      She felt tears rush her eyes. It seemed she was becoming a crier whether she liked it or not. She fought them back with the only weapon she had: anger. Damn Jack Shane—or whoever he was.

      “So you changed your name?” she said. “Got tired of Shane, did you?”

      He bristled but didn’t seem surprised, as if he’d been waiting for this. “Jackson is my given name and Robinson’s my mother’s maiden name. When she divorced my stepfather, I went back to Robinson.” He raised a brow as if to say, Satisfied?

      She couldn’t think of anything else to say. For the moment. She could feel Jack’s gaze on her, hotter than a Texas summer night.

      She felt the hair stand up on her neck and turned, unable to shake the feeling that Jack wasn’t the only one watching her. At the edge of the darkness, she would have sworn she saw a figure move, furtive as a cat, disappearing into the blackness beyond the camp.

      “It’s a little small,” Jack was saying as he opened the door to the motor home and stepped back for Sam and Chelsea to enter.

      Small was putting it mildly. The inside of the motor home was neat and clean but incredibly tiny, everything in miniature. How could she ever get through dinner in here with Jack so near? She wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite.

      “Go wash up, Sam,” Jack ordered.

      Sam seemed about to argue, but apparently changed her mind. As she slipped past her father, Chelsea heard Jack hiss something at his daughter.

      Jack stepped toward the kitchen. Chelsea had to move to give him enough space in the tiny living room. He appeared as uncomfortable as she felt. “Look, I know you didn’t come here for dinner so—”

      “No. I came for answers.” A thought pierced her heart, as unerring as an arrow. “Sam must be what? Nine?” she asked under the sound of water running at the back of the motor home.

      He raised a brow as if that should have been answer enough. “She’ll be nine in July.”

      It didn’t take an accountant to figure that one out. “You didn’t waste any time, did you?” she asked, turning her back to him so he couldn’t see her hurt. Damn the man.

      Sam came back into the small kitchen, glancing back and forth between the two of them, her gaze full of open curiosity.

      “Aren’t you going to set the table?” the girl asked her father.

      He turned to open one of the cupboards. “I don’t think eating inside is a good idea,” she heard him tell Sam.

      “The wind will blow out the candles if we eat outside,” Sam said. “Do you want to help me light them?” she asked Chelsea.

      Chelsea couldn’t miss the look that passed between father and daughter. Sam seemed especially pleased with herself. Her father, on the other hand, looked just the opposite. Chelsea almost felt sorry for him. “We don’t have to have candles if your father wants to eat outside.”

      “Sure we do,” Sam said. “Dad likes candles.”

      Somehow that didn’t seem likely. Chelsea wondered what was going on between the two of them as Jack began to set the table with more than a little racket. He was obviously upset—and not just because Sam had asked her for dinner.

      That’s when Chelsea noticed the foil-covered casserole resting on the stove and groaned inwardly. Next to it were two tapered candles and a bottle of wine. Someone had drawn a heart shape into the foil. The barrel racer! The woman had an intimate dinner planned and Sam was in the process of ruining it—with Chelsea’s help. Things were starting to make sense.

      As angry as she was with Jack, she actually felt a little guilty. “Jack, I’m interrupting your dinner plans—”

      “Why don’t you help Samantha light the candles?” he said, then gave a shrug. “Plans change.”

      “You’re going to use the good plates, aren’t you, Dad?” Sam asked.

      “Of course. Does this mean you plan to remove your hat?”

      Samantha let out an embarrassed laugh and pulled off her hat, a long reddish-brown braid tumbling out. She disappeared into the back of the motor home for a moment.

      The table sat between short booths to make up the rest of the kitchen-dining room-living room. Chelsea tried to stay out of Jack’s way as he set the table, but it was impossible in such close quarters. At the mere touch of a shoulder, the brush of fingers, they both jerked back as if burned. On second thought, this was a terrible idea.

      “Why don’t you sit down?” Jack said, his voice sounding tight.

      She nodded and hurriedly slid into the booth, surprised at her feelings. This Jack was different. More muscular. More solid. More attractive than the younger man she’d fallen in love with ten years ago.

      She tried to tell herself that she no longer knew him. But as she watched him move around the tiny kitchen, she realized that was a lie. This man was branded on her. The scent of him. The feel of his skin against hers. The sound of his voice, low and soft in her hair.

      She closed her eyes for a moment, the memory too sharp, too painful, the ache too intense. Why had she come here? What had she hoped to accomplish? The answer was obvious. She’d thought that once she told him about the check and the note, he would convince her of his innocence. They would put the past behind them...and take up where they’d left off. How foolishly romantic.

      When Sam came back, her hair was brushed out. She handed Chelsea the matches to light the candles, studying her openly. It seemed Chelsea wasn’t the only one with questions.

      “So when did you meet my dad?” Sam asked, not the least bit shy. She made it sound as if Jack met a lot of women but he’d sneaked this one by her.

      “Before you were born, Ms. Busybody.” Jack looked as if he could spit nails, but he didn’t try to stop her. As if he could. “A lifetime ago.”

      Chelsea let her gaze rise up to meet his. “Seems like only yesterday,” she heard herself say.

      Jack made a face. “Doesn’t it, though.”

      “Did you know my mother?” Sam asked.

      “No, she didn’t,” Jack said, answering for Chelsea once again as he put condiments on the table. “Get Chelsea a glass of water with her dinner.”

      Chelsea closed her eyes again, feeling overwhelmed.

      “Is she all right?” Sam asked.

      Chelsea opened her eyes to find both Sam and Jack looking down at her. “Fine. Maybe a little tired.” She let her gaze rise up to meet Jack’s. He knew what was wrong with her.