Cowboy Daddy. Angel Smits

doorframe, his eyes hidden as the bright light from the kitchen backlit him.

      “Hello,” she whispered, afraid to get her hopes up.

      “Hi.” He didn’t move any closer. “You getting settled in okay?”

      She nodded. “I think so. Can you take him and put him in the crib?” She wanted so badly to do it herself, but she couldn’t. She was too sore, too tired and too weak. She couldn’t risk Lucas’s safety. He was too tiny, too fragile, too precious.

      “Tara?” Lane called over his shoulder and Amanda’s sister hurried toward them. Lane stepped aside, and Tara came to take Luke.

      “Thanks,” Amanda whispered. “I’m afraid I’ll drop him.” She couldn’t control the shiver in her voice.

      “That’s okay. That’s what we’re here for.” Carefully, Tara settled the baby in the crib, pulling the soft blue blanket up over him. She turned to face Amanda. “Do you want to join us in the kitchen or lie down?”

      Amanda’s eyes met Lane’s for a brief instant. Why was he here? Why now? Why hadn’t he helped with Lucas? Everything was wrong. He was so distant, so far away. Tears threatened and she mentally cursed him the same instant she ached for him to pull her into his arms. “I think I’ll rest.”

      Tara came over to the rocker, and put her arm beneath Amanda’s. “Take it slow.” Amanda wobbled to her feet, putting her free hand on the solid arm of the chair.

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lane said impatiently, stalking across the room. Before either of them could say a word, he’d swept Amanda up into his arms.

      Her head spun, or at least that was the excuse that she gave herself for laying it against his shoulder.

      “Don’t get used to this,” he admonished softly.

      She barely had time to wonder what “this” referred to. His surly manner? The comfortable feel of the worn chambray of his shirt against her cheek? The solid warmth of his arms?

      For the first time in ages she felt safe. All too quickly, Lane reached the bed and lowered her to the spread. Tara rearranged the pillows and pulled up the crocheted afghan from the foot of the bed. Lane took it from her and shook it out, tucking it around Amanda.

      For an instant he paused and their gazes met. Heat washed over her, the same spark of heat she saw reflected in his eyes. If Tara hadn’t been here...

      Then he blinked and hastily stepped away. He stood there suddenly looking as lost as she felt. His gaze flicked over to the crib, and she tried to read the emotion on his face, but he covered it too quickly.

      The faint beeping of a cellphone had him scrambling through his pockets and quickly moving away. “Beaumont,” he answered.

      She watched his brow furrow and heard the soft curse words that came past his lips. “I don’t have time for this,” he told whoever was on the other end of the line. Without another glance at her, he said, “Gotta go.” Then he was gone, out the door, with the sound of the screen slamming behind him in the distance.

      “Something’s seriously wrong with that man.” Tara stood with her hand on her hips, a classic pose for Tara-the-curious as they both stared after Lane. “Wyatt says he gets these random calls and just takes off. Whoever is on the other end sure has him at their beck and call.”

      “Does anyone know who it is?” Amanda asked.

      Tara shook her head. “He won’t say a thing. Wyatt says he gets really ticked off if anyone even asks.”

      What—or who—was Lane hiding? It wasn’t an easy task to hide anything on the ranch or in any of the local small communities, especially the nearest one, Haskin’s Corners. She racked her brain but found nothing.

      And then a thought crossed her mind. A painful thought. They weren’t really a couple. What if...? No, surely she’d have heard through the grapevine. But what if there really was someone else who’d managed to steal his heart while Amanda had been busy hiding the truth and avoiding him?

      Had she imagined the flash of heat she’d seen in his eyes?

      Rolling over, she pulled the afghan up tighter around her shoulders. She’d hide under the covers for now—it was safer than facing the reality that she didn’t have the energy to follow him and demand the truth.

      But later?

      Later, all bets were off.

      * * *

      “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Lane barked into the phone. “The sun hasn’t even set!”

      “Sorry, man,” the bartender at the Lucky Chance said. “He’s getting worse, Lane. You gotta do something.”

      “What can I do?” Lane leaned against the far side of his truck, the side away from the house. He closed his eyes and tried not to take his exhaustion and frustration out on Sam. But he was tired and envied Mandy that soft comfy bed.

      It had taken every ounce of his strength to put her down on the bed and not crawl in beside her. She’d felt so right in his arms, and the way she’d laid her head on his shoulder had him wishing—

      “You coming to get him?” Sam asked.

      “Yeah.” With a deep breath, he stalked around the truck and climbed in. “Give me half an hour at most. Can you keep him there that long?”

      “You want me to open a tab?”

      “No. But if that’s what it takes, yeah.” Lane wanted to chuck the damned phone across the pasture, but he didn’t. He shoved it back into his pocket where he’d answer it again the next time, because there was always a next time. Was he making a mistake? Aiding and abetting his father in getting even drunker? He cursed and tore out of the drive, a plume of dust billowing up from his tires.

      The Lucky Chance seemed to be his dad’s favorite hangout lately. How many times in the past two weeks had he been here? Lane had lost count.

      The parking lot wasn’t yet full, which gave Lane hope—for about half a minute. Until he climbed out of the truck and heard the sounds of a loud crowd coming from behind the building. With a curse, Lane broke into a run.

      Easily a dozen people stood in a circle in the empty lot behind the bar. Lane shoved his way through to find his dad and another man swinging clenched fists at each other. Dust from their stumbling, shuffling feet filled the air.

      Hank Beaumont looked like hell—in other words, like normal. His eyes were bloodshot, and his greasy, thinning brown hair was matted to his scalp for any multitude of reasons. His right cheek sported a jagged cut, and blood trickled down to his jaw.

      The blood apparently had been oozing for a while as there were stains on the torn white T-shirt Hank wore. Dust covered his jeans and ratty boots, which meant this fight had been going on for some time, and Hank’s backside had hit the ground at least twice.

      Lane cursed and strode into the middle of the crowd, hoping like hell he wouldn’t have to take the next punch to end this. “All right. Party’s over, folks.”

      “No, it’s not,” Hank slurred. “I was just getting warmed up.” Hank spat and Lane noticed blood smeared on his father’s teeth. Great. He hoped it wouldn’t mean more dental work. Hank didn’t have enough money to cover something like that and now that Lane needed to give Mandy—

      “I tried to stop ’em.” A tall, beefy cowboy had hold of Hank’s opponent, a young cowpoke with enough muscle to kill Hank—if he had been even slightly sober, which he thankfully wasn’t.

      “That’s okay, Billy,” Lane said to the bouncer, knowing full well he probably had at least five bucks on one of the contenders, and more likely had been cheering on and not trying to stop this mess. “Come on, Dad.”

      Hank pulled his arm from Lane’s grasp, stumbling backward. His dusty butt hit the ground and, after