What A Rancher Wants. Sarah M. Anderson
She’d be delighted to meet Alex’s family. They always got along famously.”
Her smile tightened. “Alejandro often visited your home?”
“Yup.”
“Was he...?” She looked down at her bandaged hand, unable to finish the sentence.
This must be so hard on her, he realized. Then he remembered—he hadn’t come here to flirt with Alex’s sister, no matter how fun it might become. He had a purpose here. “How is he? Any better?”
Everything that had been warm and light about Gabriella shut down on him. She didn’t so much as move, but he felt the walls that went up between them.
Gabriella said, “He is much the same,” in a voice that was probably supposed to sound as though she wasn’t giving anything away. But he heard the sadness in her tone.
Gabriella appeared to care for her brother. For some reason, that made Chance happy. He didn’t know why.
“Can I see him?”
Joaquin stiffened behind her as Gabriella said, “I do not think that would be wise, Mr. McDaniel. He is still healing. The doctors have said he needs quiet and darkness for his brain to recover from the trauma he’s suffered.”
“Mr. McDaniel is my father. Call me Chance. Everyone does. Even Alex.”
Then she looked up at him, the full force of her brown eyes boring into him. “I do not think that would be wise, Mr. McDaniel.”
Hell, he’d overstepped, but he couldn’t figure out which thing had been too far. He couldn’t tell which part had pushed her over the edge. Was it the familiarity of using his given name—or of calling Alex by his American name? Whatever it had been, he was losing her. “I just thought that if he, you know, saw me, it might jog his memory. He might remember who I was.”
Lots of women had cried on Chance’s shoulder in his time—he was the kind of guy that women felt comfortable enough with that they could occasionally pour their hearts out to him. But when Gabriella del Toro lifted her gaze to his face, he was sure he’d never seen a sadder woman in his life.
“I had hoped that, as well.”
It shouldn’t have bothered him this much—he had known Gabriella for all of twenty minutes. But the pain in her voice cut right through him and, just like that, he felt the same way he’d felt when he’d first heard that Alex had gone missing—as though a part of him had been hacked off with a rusty saw.
He wanted to go to her, offer her a sympathetic shoulder to lean on. He wanted her to know that, despite what she might have heard, he’d had nothing to do with Alex’s disappearance—that he only wanted what was best for his friend. And his friend’s family.
But he also didn’t want to bleed today. So instead of risking the wrath of Joaquin the bodyguard, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and fished out one of his seldom-used business cards. It was a little worn around the edges because he needed them so rarely. Everyone in Royal knew him and how to get ahold of him.
But if Alex couldn’t remember Chance—couldn’t remember his own sister—then there was zero point in expecting him to tell Gabriella what Chance’s phone number was. He held the card out to her. “If anything changes—if you need my help in any way, here’s my number. I can be here in twenty minutes if Alex needs me.” He swallowed, hoping he wasn’t about to find himself thrown out of the house. “If you need me.”
She stood. For a moment he thought she would once again tell him that she didn’t think that a wise idea, but then she took the offered card. Her fingertips grazed the edge of his—a small touch, but one that made him want to smile again. “Thank you.”
“Who are you?” a voice thundered from behind him. Then he asked the same thing in Spanish. “¿Quién es?”
Chance barely caught the look of alarm on Gabriella’s face before he spun around to see the man who could only be Alex’s father filling the kitchen doorway. The older man stood with his feet spread, his hands on his hips and his chest puffed up. He was nearly as tall as Chance was—maybe a few inches shorter than Alex. He could have been Alex’s twin, if it weren’t for the lines etched into his forehead. Same black hair, same build—but the face was all different. Alex had an easy smile and warm eyes—the kind of guy a man could knock back a beer or two with on a Friday night.
This was not a man who probably ever knocked back a couple of beers. No doubt about it, this was the senior del Toro. Rodrigo. Nathan had said the old man was a force to be reckoned with. He hadn’t been lying.
“Papa,” Gabriella said in a soft—but not weak—voice. “This is Chance McDaniel, Alejandro’s friend.”
He sure did appreciate her putting it in those terms, as opposed to mentioning that he was also the lead suspect in Alex’s disappearance.
Not that she needed to. Rodrigo’s eyes blazed with an undisguised hatred at Chance’s name. “¿Qué está haciendo aquí?” he snarled as Gabriella went to stand next to her father. Chance felt Joaquin come up behind him; probably just close enough to grab Chance if he made a funny move.
What was Chance doing here? Rodrigo must not be as perceptive as his daughter. Gabriella had assumed that Chance spoke Spanish, but Rodrigo had incorrectly assumed Chance did not. So he said, “Hola, Señor del Toro. Alex hablaba bien de usted.” Alex spoke well of you.
Or at least, that’s what he hoped he’d said. Alex had always spoken in crisp English, much the way Gabriella did. Chance had never had private tutors, unless one counted the hired hands on the ranch—and they’d spent more time teaching him to cuss in Spanish than to make polite greetings.
When this didn’t get him shot, he added in his most polite business voice that he had come to see Alex. And he made damn sure not to flinch in Joaquin’s direction when the big man huffed. This would be a bad time to show any sign of nerves or fear. So Chance kept his face calm and his gaze steady. He may be a cowboy, by God, but he was a McDaniel and no one—not even Rodrigo del Toro—was going to stare him down.
Then he saw the corners of Gabriella’s mouth curve into a small smile. Even if Rodrigo hated his guts, at the very least, Chance had said what she’d wanted to hear.
“You are not welcome in this house,” Rodrigo said, switching back to English. His accent was thicker, less crisp—but his words flowed easily.
“Papa,” Gabriella said as she put a hand on his arm.
“Gabriella,” he shot back. She pulled her hand away and cast her gaze to the ground. “You are not welcome in this house,” he repeated, his voice a notch louder.
That did it. Chance could handle a man trying to bullshit him, but to speak to his daughter in such a callous manner? Nope. Not happening. “Last I heard, this was still Alex’s house and I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that I’ve spent more time here than you have. I’m welcome here until Alex says otherwise.” He saw the look of alarm on Gabriella’s face. “Señor,” he said in his most dismissive voice.
Still, he wasn’t stupid. He’d worn out his welcome in a big way. Before Joaquin could grab him by the scruff of his neck, he snatched his hat off the side table. “Ms. del Toro, it was a pleasure to meet you.” He then turned to Joaquin and was unsurprised to see the man’s fists swinging by his sides. “Keep up the good work, Joaquin.”
He heard footsteps behind him and tensed, expecting a blow of some kind. He was surprised, however, when Gabriella slipped past him to reach the door before him. She opened it and stood to the side with a confused look on her face. “I will tell Alejandro you stopped by,” she said.
Chance glanced back over his shoulder. Joaquin was fewer than five feet away—for a big man, he could move like a cat when he wanted to, apparently. Rodrigo del Toro had not moved from the doorway, though. He stood there with his arms crossed, glaring as if he possessed laser vision or something. Chance couldn’t help himself.