Rodeo Daddy Read online

  “Chelsea?” The sound of Dylan’s voice made her heart begin to pound.

  “You found Jack?” she whispered.

  “He doesn’t go by Jack Shane anymore,” Dylan said. “He calls himself Jackson Robinson.”

  Why did that name sound familiar?

  “He’s a bull rider on the pro rodeo circuit,” Dylan continued. “Shuns publicity but has made a name for himself by winning more than a few titles.”

  “You’re sure it’s Jack?” she asked, surprised the man she’d known would be riding bulls. Even more surprised he’d changed his name. But then according to Cody, she didn’t know the man at all, and ten years ago he would have had good reason to try to drop out of sight.

  “Unless someone else is using his social security number it’s the Jack Shane who worked for your ranch ten years ago,” Dylan said.

  “Where can I find him?” she asked, more determined than ever to see if this Jackson Robinson was really her Jack.

  “Hold on, now,” Dylan said. “I’ve just started digging. I would strongly advise you to wait until I get more information on this guy before you confront him.”

  She couldn’t bear the thought of waiting any longer. “Is he in Texas?”

  “Yes.”

  She took a breath. “Is he…married?”

  “I have no idea. Given more time—”

  “Where is he in Texas?” she asked, determined to get her own answers—and quickly. “Dylan, I need to see him. Now.”

  “Cody will have my hide for this,” Dylan said.

  “You’ve always been able to hold your own with Cody,” she returned. “Where, Dylan? You can’t talk me out of this any more than Cody did, and believe me, he tried.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Dylan said with a groan. “Jackson Robinson is riding in Lubbock tomorrow night.”

  Lubbock, Texas. That was only a day’s drive away.

  “That’s perfect. Thanks, Dylan. You don’t know what this means to me.” She started to hang up.

  “Chelsea, don’t get your hopes up too high.”

  Too late for that.

  “Why don’t you take Cody with you?” Dylan suggested.

  “Cody?” He had to be kidding. “I think not. Anyway, he has a ranch to run. I’ll be fine. Really.” She didn’t need her big brother protecting her.

  She hung up, her heart pounding. As impulsive as she’d always been, even she was shocked by what she planned to do. She was going to see Jack. Jackson. Whatever he called himself these days. She told herself that she’d know the truth the moment she looked into his dark eyes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN SHE GOT UP the next morning to leave, Cody was already gone. She loaded her bag into her car, scribbled a goodbye to her brother with the promise to call, and left.

  The night before she’d packed hurriedly, shaking with just the thought of seeing Jack again. Maybe Dylan and Cody were right. Maybe this man did have some power over her. He’d certainly stayed in her thoughts all these years. And in her heart.

  She hadn’t known what to pack or for how long. A few days max. What should she wear? What any Texas-born cowgirl wore to a rodeo—jeans and boots.

  But she threw in her favorite blue silk dress for good measure, just in case.

  Just in case what? What did she hope was going to happen? She tried not to go there.

  She’d just closed the bag when she heard a sound behind here.

  “So you’re really going to do this,” Cody said from the doorway.

  He no longer appeared angry, just concerned. She nodded.

  “Could you at least tell me where you’re going?” he asked.

  “Lubbock. He’s riding bulls with the rodeo circuit.”

  Cody nodded. He’d ridden a few bulls himself, and a few broncs.

  She hadn’t really wanted to tell him that Jack had changed his name, afraid Cody would only see it as more evidence of his guilt. “He’s riding as Jackson Robinson.”

  “Is he?”

  “Have you heard of him?” she’d asked, seeing something in her brother’s look that worried her.

  He hadn’t answered. “You realize you might be the last person he wants to see.”

  She refused to even consider that possibility.

  Cody had stood in the doorway for a moment. “I know better than to try to talk you out of this fool behavior.”

  “That’s good,” she’d agreed.

  “Could you at least call and let me know you’re not dead on the highway?”

  “What good would calling do? You’ll be out mending fence or chasing down some stray calf, acting like you work around here.” He didn’t seem to appreciate her sense of humor. But then he never had.

  “I’ll take the cell phone with me,” he’d said after a moment. He’d made a disgusted face and looked even more put out with her. Cody hated cell phones and refused to carry the one she’d bought him.

  “Then I’ll call,” she’d promised, and smiled. “Wish me luck?”

  “You’re going to need more than luck, little sister.”

  Last night she’d felt confident, but now that she was on the road, she was less sure of herself. What if she was wrong about Jack? What if he didn’t want to see her? Or worse, what if he admitted he’d never cared, that he’d only been after her cattle—and her ranch?

  That thought almost made her turn around. Almost.

  She remembered the day Jack had arrived in an old red pickup, rattling up the road in a cloud of Texas dust, looking for a job. He’d climbed out of the truck. Even at twenty-two he looked solid, as if he’d done a lot of manual labor. Had it been love at first sight? She’d always thought so.

  A terrible thought struck her. What if Jack thought she’d known about the check?

  She drove past San Antonio, took Highway 10 and headed west. At Sonora, she’d angle up 87 and on into Lubbock. She figured she’d be there before Jack rode.

  Turning up the music, she put the top down on the Mercedes her father had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday. But she couldn’t quit thinking about Jack. Or worrying that she might be wrong about him.

  * * *

  AFTER GETTING CAUGHT in road construction for hours, Chelsea was late reaching Lubbock, and suddenly, she wasn’t so sure this was a good idea. She was twenty-eight, no longer a kid. And yet she was still chasing rainbows.

  But she’d come this far. And if she didn’t see Jack, she would always wonder, right?

  A little voice in the back of her head that sounded uncannily like her brother kept warning her this was a mistake.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror, shocked to realize she hardly recognized the woman behind the wheel. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright as stars, excitement radiating from her. And determination. She was a woman who liked to finish what she started, one way or the other.

  By the time she found the rodeo grounds on the far side of town, the rodeo was over and the crowd had gone home.

  She parked, raked her hand through her long, unruly hair, wishing she’d had the sense not to put the top down on the car.

  Getting out, she walked slowly toward the chutes at the rear of the arena, hoping that Jack would still be there.

  She asked a cowboy loading his horse into a trailer where she could find Jackson Robinson. He pointed her in the direction of a dozen trailers, pickups and motor homes camped under a long row of old oaks—and one older model motor home in particular.

  As Chelsea neared, she saw that the outside door was open and light was spilling out the screen door onto a piece of carpet in front of the metal pull-out step.

  The evening was warm and filled with the fragrances of coming summer. Woven into the scents were the many different foods being cooked in the tiny community camped here, and the leftover smell of corn dogs, cotton candy and fried bread from the rodeo.

  The lights, the warm breeze and the inviting aromas gave the encampment a cozy, homey feel. Horses whinnied in the corrals. Laughter drifted on the breeze fr
om small groups of cowboys sitting outside their rigs in pools of golden light. There would be another rodeo tomorrow night, so it appeared most of the riders were staying for it.

  As she approached the motor home, she thought she smelled something cooking inside. Then she heard a sound that stopped her cold. It drifted out the screen door. Light, lyrical, definitely female laughter.

  She stopped walking, realizing just how rash she’d been. Had she expected Jack to pine away for her all these years as she had for him? Obviously she had.

  Suddenly she was struck with a huge case of cold feet. She started to turn and stumbled, almost colliding with a child. The cowboy was small and slim, dressed in jeans, boots and a checked western shirt. His straw cowboy hat was pulled low over his eyes.

  “Sorry,” Chelsea murmured, feeling like a coward. Didn’t she want to know the truth? If she couldn’t face the fact that Jack had someone else, how could she face it if he’d lied to her, rustled her cattle and taken off with her heart? Which right now seemed damned likely.

  “Are you looking for someone? I know everybody here.”

  “Oh you do, do you?” Chelsea asked with amusement. She’d thought the child a boy, but on closer inspection, she realized the cowboy was in fact a cowgirl of about eight or nine. And from the amount of dirt on her jeans and boots, Chelsea would say a tomboy. She recognized the look.

  The screen door on the motor home banged open. Chelsea turned, afraid it would be Jack. Instead, a young woman dressed in western attire came out, still laughing and smiling back at whoever was inside. Her boots rang on the metal step of the motor home and her laughter echoed through the trees.

  “See ya later, Jackson,” the woman said, and swinging her hips, sauntered off.

  The tomboy next to Chelsea made a rude noise. “Terri Lyn Kessler. She’s a barrel racer.”

  Just then, a man stuck his head out the door of the motor home. “Samantha?” he called, but the retreating woman didn’t turn around.

  Chelsea’s gaze swung back around to the motor home and Jack standing in the doorway. It seemed as if it had been only yesterday. She stood rooted to the spot at the sight of him in the light from the open door. A whirlwind of emotions swirled like a dust devil around her, engulfing her, taking her breath away. Some things didn’t change—her reaction to Jack Shane one of them.

  “Samantha?” he called again, his eyes seeming to adjust to the semidarkness.

  Chelsea thought he was calling after the woman who’d just left. But to her surprise, it was the tomboy next to her who finally answered.

  “Coming, Dad,” the girl said with obvious reluctance. “I got to go,” she told Chelsea. “It’s dinnertime and I’m late as usual and in trouble.” She sounded as if this was nothing new.

  Chelsea watched the girl amble toward the motor home, kicking up dust with the scuffed toes of her worn boots.

  Dad? Jack had a daughter.

  Chelsea took a step back, ready to make a run for it, when she saw Jack’s gaze lift from Samantha to her.

  “Chelsea?”

  * * *

  JACK KNEW the moment he breathed the word, it betrayed him. For years after he’d left Chelsea and the Wishing Tree Ranch, he’d imagined seeing her again. He’d always known he would look up one day and there she’d be. For years he’d search the rodeo crowd for her face. Other times he would think he saw glimpses of her in passing. Or hear her voice and turn so quickly it gave him whiplash.

  For a long while after he’d left the ranch, he’d expected her to come looking for him. Had hoped she would. But she never had, and he’d stopped expecting it. Still, he’d always known he’d see her again. And feared the day.

  “Jack.” She took a step toward him and stopped as if unsure what she was doing here. She wore a blue shirt that hugged her curves, designer jeans and boots.

  What was she doing here? He shook his head, unable to believe she was anything more than a mirage. As he stepped toward her, he feared the moment he was within touching distance, she would disappear.

  Samantha stood watching the two of them, looking too curious for her own good.

  “Go on in and wash up, Sam,” he said as he passed her.

  “But, Dad—”

  “No buts,” he said firmly, his gaze on Chelsea. What was she doing here? He’d seen in the paper where her father had died. There’d been a big write-up.

  “Chelsea,” he said again, just the sound of her name on his lips bringing back the old ache, reminding him of the feel of her in his arms.

  She smiled tentatively. “Hello, Jack.”

  He stared at her, searching for words. It had just been too long, and he was feeling way too much right now.

  “What are you doing here?” He hadn’t meant to make it sound as if she were trespassing.

  “I heard you were riding on the pro rodeo circuit and I just happened to be in the area,” she said too quickly.

  “You just happened to be in Lubbock?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously. He’d known her well enough to know when she was lying. Also when she was nervous. Right now, she was both.

  “It’s been a long time,” she said.

  He nodded, shocked. He’d thought the years would have tempered the desire. Lessened the need, the gut-clenching ache inside him.

  “Almost ten years,” he said. “What are you doing here, Chelsea?” he asked again, his voice filled with the anguish he felt. Whatever it is, just get it over with.

  “I had to see you,” she said, her eyes shining, her voice cracking.

  He swallowed hard, waiting for her to tell him what had made her drive all the way here just to see him. Nothing good, he would bet on that.

  “I found the check my father tried to give you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  So that was it. He felt his jaw tighten.

  “I didn’t know, Jack.”

  He looked away, the pain fresh as a new wound, looked past her to the sports car parked by the chutes. Her sports car. He smiled bitterly. For a moment, just looking at her, listening to her, he’d forgotten. Now he looked from the car to her, recalling only too well everything he’d once felt for her—and all the reasons they had been wrong for each other.

  Just look at the two of them. Chelsea, standing there in boots that probably cost more than everything he owned. Him, wearing worn jeans and a T-shirt, stocking-footed, a day’s growth of beard, and standing in front of a motor home that, like him, had seen better days.

  He’d almost forgotten how inadequate her wealth made him feel. He stepped back, purposely putting some distance between them.

  “Jack, if only you had—”

  “Chelsea, all that was years ago.” Only it felt like yesterday. He raked a hand through his hair. “I was sorry to hear about your dad,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She glanced around as if she didn’t like talking out here in the open. Her gaze settled on his motor home, and she suddenly seemed at a loss for words.

  He understood the feeling. Their lives had taken different paths, that was for sure. They were strangers now. No, he thought. He and Chelsea could never be strangers, not after everything they’d shared. That’s what made this so damned painful.

  “Chelsea.” He shook his head, shaken by her sudden appearance and the feelings that had once more been forced to the surface.

  “Dad?”

  “I thought I told you to go wash up for dinner, Sam,” he said quietly without turning around. He met Chelsea’s gaze, could see the pain in her expression.

  “If you’d just told me,” she said.

  How many times had he questioned that decision? How many times had he thought about going back to try to straighten things out? But what would have been the point? The memory of her father coming out that morning to the corrals with the check, the look in Ryder Jensen’s eyes, the accusations, the contempt—all had kept him moving on down the road. Still kept hi
m moving on.

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, Chelsea, I do.”

  “Dad?”

  He swore under his breath. “Sam—”

  “I’m interrupting your supper,” Chelsea said, looking as if maybe she finally realized the mistake she’d made in coming here. “I should go.” But she didn’t move.

  He figured she hadn’t gotten what she’d come for.

  “My brother told me about…” Her gaze locked with his and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. I’ll be damned. So she’d just found out about the rustling. The old man hadn’t told her.

  He waited, taking some perverse satisfaction in making her say the words. He watched her get up her courage. It was one thing Chelsea Jensen had never lacked, or so he’d thought.

  “He told me about the missing cattle,” she said.

  Jack let out a snort. “I wondered how long it would take before one of them told you.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, only a slight break in her voice betraying her.

  He turned away. He definitely didn’t need this.

  “Jack.”

  It come out a whisper, so familiar and so intimate he stopped in his tracks, remembering that soft sound, the feel of her breath on his skin, her lips—

  He didn’t need to be reminded. He’d tried for ten years to put it behind him. To put Chelsea and the Wishing Tree and all of it behind him. Damn her for coming here.

  “Believe it,” he said, walking away from her, just as he had ten years ago.

  “I’m hungry,” his daughter said, watching him intently from a short distance away. She’d obviously seen his reaction to Chelsea, if not overheard their conversation.

  “Then why didn’t you take the check?” Chelsea called after him.

  He stopped and turned slowly. “Don’t do this. Whatever it is you’re looking for, you aren’t going to find it here.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask her to have dinner with us?” Sam asked loudly.

  He gave his daughter a warning look. Don’t do this to me, Sam.