More Than a Cowboy. Cathy Mcdavid

      Relief battled with worry for control of her emotions. Was he still coming? Had he changed his mind? A deep breath failed to quell the tension that had been her constant companion this past week.

      “You want a table or a booth, honey?”

      Liberty blinked. A plump waitress had appeared from nowhere, cradling a stack of oversize plastic menus in the crook of her arm.

      “Um, I’m not sure.” She took stock of the restaurant that was as familiar to her as the local market or corner gas station. She must have eaten here two, no, three hundred times. The lunch crowd had long departed, and the dinner crowd wasn’t due for another hour. A lone customer sat at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee.

      Really? In this heat?

      Liberty wiped her damp forehead. “I think I’ll wait until my...” Her what? Father? Technically, yes. “Until my, um, other party arrives.”

      “Sure thing.” The waitress, someone Liberty knew by sight after all her years of patronage, gave her a funny look before bustling off.

      Other party? Where had that come from?

      Liberty silently chided herself and took a seat on the bench just inside the restaurant’s front door. Better to wait for Mercer here than at a table or a booth. No awkward pushing out of her seat, going for a hug when he only wanted to shake her hand.

      Mercer. Her father. Not just the man who was father to Liberty’s half sister and brother. No, make that full sister and full brother. Her mother had lied. Since the day Liberty was born. Probably from the day she was conceived. For twenty-four years.

      How could she?

      Why did she?

      Liberty had sacrificed a lot of sleep recently, tossing that question around and around in her head. At one time, she might have understood her mother’s motives for keeping such a huge secret. But her father—the word still sounded strange to her—had been sober for longer than Liberty could remember. At least, according to her brother’s infrequent communications. Several times a year their mother called Ryder, usually on birthdays or holidays. He never called them.

      The rift that had developed between her parents before Liberty was born had only widened through the decades, becoming impossible to repair after Ryder left to live with their father. Could that really be twenty-two years ago? Liberty, a toddler at the time, didn’t remember Ryder ever living with them. It had always been just her, her sister, Cassidy, and their mother for so very long.

      Three women running the Easy Money Rodeo Arena. Probably no one had thought they’d succeed in a predominantly man’s world. But they’d proved the skeptics wrong. How different Liberty’s life might have been if she’d known Mercer Beckett was her father and not some I-can’t-remember-his-name cowboy passing through, as her mother always claimed.

      Why had she lied? Liberty kept coming back to the same question. Maybe Mercer could provide the answer, if she worked up the courage to ask him.

      The door to the restaurant swung open, and Liberty swore her heart exploded inside her chest. She turned at the same instant a wave of adrenaline swept through her.

      Not him! She hugged her middle and tried to collect her wildly scattered wits.

      “Morning, Liberty. Is this seat taken?”

      Looking up into the tanned, handsome face of Deacon McCrea, she murmured, “N-no,” and automatically scooted to her left, making room for him. “Go right ahead.”

      He smiled as he sat, his brown eyes crinkling attractively at the corners. “I promise not to crowd you.”

      Only he did. His large frame consumed over half the available space on the bench. Their elbows inadvertently brushed.

      “Sorry,” he said.

      “No worries.” Liberty shifted her purse to her other side.

      There was only one bench in the Flat Iron Restaurant. She didn’t dare suggest Deacon wait outside. He’d melt. A hundred degrees in the shade was typical for summers in Reckless, Arizona. Today’s temperatures exceeded that.

      Besides, she and Deacon were friends. In a manner of speaking. Acquaintances for sure. He boarded his two horses at the Easy Money and, since his recent return, regularly entered the arena’s team penning competitions.

      She’d seen him around a lot, at the arena and in town, and that was okay with her. More than once, she’d intentionally put herself in his path, hoping he’d get the hint and ask her out. So far, no luck. But she wasn’t giving up. She sensed her interest in him was reciprocated, even if he hadn’t acted on it. Yet.

      Any other day, their unexpected encounter would be a perfect opportunity for her to flirt and hint at hooking up. Except Liberty was much too anxious about meeting Mercer to relax, much less ply her feminine wiles.

      Biting her lower lip, she studied the clock on the wall again. Ten minutes to go.

      Deacon removed his cowboy hat and balanced it on his knee, drawing her attention. “Are you meeting someone, too?” she asked, disliking the slight tremor in her voice.

      Damn Mercer for making her nervous. Damn her mother for the lies she’d told.

      “A client.”

      He had nice eyes. Dark and fathomless when he was concentrating, sparkling when he laughed. “Ah, business,” she said. “I usually see you on horseback and forget you’re an attorney.”

      “Thank you for not calling me a shyster or a shark.”

      She drew back to stare at him. “Do people really do that?”

      “Not to my face, anyway.” He chuckled. “I’ve been called worse.”

      Einstein. The cruel taunt suddenly came back to Liberty. She’d been in junior high, and Deacon in high school, but she remembered when he’d worked afternoons and weekends at her family’s rodeo arena. More than that, she remembered the terrible treatment he’d received at the hands of his peers, all because school hadn’t come easy for him.

      Obviously, things had changed. Graduating law school and passing the bar required enormous intelligence and dedication.

      “I saw a sign for your office on Sage Brush Drive.”

      He nodded. “I just moved into the space a few weeks ago.”

      “It’s a good area.”

      Good area? What was she, the local real estate agent? Liberty suppressed a groan. Nerves again. The most banal of comments were issuing from her mouth. Deacon’s proximity wasn’t helping matters.

      She briefly wondered what had happened to him in the eleven years he’d been away from Reckless, besides becoming an attorney. He’d departed under such bad circumstances, shortly after the horrible bull-goring accident. Some said he’d run away, an action that proved his guilt.

      Liberty refused to believe for one second he’d allowed the bull to escape and injure that cowboy. Deacon had been the Becketts’ most responsible hand. Unfortunately, her mother hadn’t seen it that way and, along with others, pointed the finger of blame at him. No wonder he’d left.

      The door to the restaurant whooshed open again, causing her to jerk in response. Deacon looked curiously at her but didn’t comment. Thank goodness.

      A trio of boisterous young men entered on an explosion of laughter. Tourists. Judging from their sunburned faces, they’d spent the day at Roosevelt Lake thirty miles up the highway. Liberty pegged them as water-skiers rather than fishermen. Their slip-on canvas sneakers, wraparound sunglasses and swim trunks covered by baggy T-shirts gave them away.

      Outdoor enthusiasts made up only a small portion of the visitors to Reckless, and they mostly happened to stop on their way to and from Phoenix. The rest were cowfolk. The Easy Money Rodeo Arena and its four annual PCA rodeos made Reckless a regular stop on the circuit for competitors