The Texan's Little Secret. Barbara White Daille
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.
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.”