Cowboy Daddy. Angel Smits

didn’t move. “Give me a minute, boss.”

      Amanda turned to stare out the kitchen window, watching him in her peripheral vision. Tara and Juanita were pretending, badly, not to listen, as the men stood and prepared to leave.

      “You doin’ okay?” Lane asked softly.

      Amanda couldn’t help but glance over at him. Nor could she look away as she caught a glimpse of the gentle man she knew. The man who was Lucas’s father.

      “I’m getting better, slowly.”

      Dear God, the scintillating conversation was astonishing. Amanda barely resisted the urge to bang her head on the counter in frustration. What was wrong with her? What was wrong with them?

      Lane glanced around the room, then back to the door where a couple of the men sat on the porch, having a smoke. He shook his head and she wondered what he was thinking. Before she could ask, his fingers curled around her wrist, not tight, but gentle and warm. “Come on.”

      Amid the catcalls and soft whistles, Lane led her through the kitchen, across the living room and hall into the front parlor. Memories and sensations slammed into her.

      She’d always loved this room. So many memories here.

      Granddad had built this place, and this room had been his pride and joy. Decorated with mahogany and typical cowboy décor, it was the family room, the ranch office, and on Friday and Saturday nights, a gathering place for the hands. The well-stocked, carved mahogany bar at the other end of the room had been well used and cared for. And off-limits to a bunch of nosy kids.

      But those memories faded as more recent ones arrived. The last time she’d been in this room she’d been with Lane, too. Alone. At night. In his arms.

      “Why are we here?” she asked, pulling her arm from his grasp, a bit disappointed when he let her step away so easily.

      “Because this is as close as we’ll get to alone. I’m not interested in an audience.”

      “For what?” Butterflies settled in her stomach. She took a tiny step forward.

      “Damn it, Mandy.”

      She stared at him, shocked. Why was he upset with her? She hadn’t been the one harassing him earlier. She’d stuck up for him when he wasn’t stopping the men.

      Hurt rippled through her. “What do you want?” She backed away, not sure where to go. Her room was just off the kitchen, and the last place she wanted to be right now. Juanita and Tara were in the kitchen. The men on the porch. This room was it. She settled on the couch, leaving Lane in the doorway. He stood there a long minute, glaring at her.

      “What do we need privacy for?” she finally, angrily, asked him.

      “Don’t push me, Mandy. I don’t need you or anyone else taking care of me. Stay out of my business.”

      His words were hurtful, and from the anger in his eyes, she realized they were meant to be. She wanted to curse, wanted to yell at him and call him all the names she’d used when they were kids. But that seemed childish with their son asleep in the other room.

      “So, I’m supposed to just let it go? I’m supposed to just stand by while they harass you?”

      He sighed. “They weren’t harassing me.” He threw up his hands. “That’s the way they are.”

      “I don’t like it.”

      “I don’t remember asking you if you did or not. It doesn’t matter what you think.” He stalked to where she sat, looming over her. He was doing it on purpose, and she had no idea why he was acting like this. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “I wasn’t kidding at the hospital,” he said.

      “Wh-what do you mean?” She was afraid she knew exactly what he was referring to and she swallowed.

      “I am not cut out to be anyone’s dad,” he said through gritted teeth. “Find someone else.” He stalked back to the doorway.

      “What if I don’t want anyone else?” she whispered.

      He froze, briefly closing his eyes. The stare he turned on her was painful to face. “Then you’ll have to do it alone.”

      She heard the sound of his receding footsteps and the slamming of the screen door. Closing her eyes, she fought the burn of her unwanted tears. Why was he being like this? What had happened to the kind, caring, sweet man who’d held her when she’d been hurting? The man who’d never turned her away when she’d needed him?

      * * *

      SOME DAYS, AND more frequently lately, sitting on a horse was the last thing Lane wanted to do. He loved being outdoors and riding Midnight, the big black cowpony, he was on now. But while he was busy all day, every day, he couldn’t help but think there was more to life.

      Against his will his gaze wandered to the big ranch house perched up on the ridge. There were few places on the ranch property where you couldn’t see the house. Wyatt’s granddad had purposefully built it that way.

      Was the “more to life” he kept thinking about there?

      Mandy had looked and smelled amazing earlier today. If there’d been even the hint of privacy, he was fairly sure he’d have taken her through the bedroom door instead of to the study.

      He couldn’t help but wonder how she’d have reacted. She always came to him tear-stained and tattered, and he’d never turned her away. She’d never come to him put together and sexy. Hell, it might kill him to deny her.

      Lane tore his gaze away and focused on the task at hand. Climbing down, he let Midnight munch on the thick wild grasses as he set to work. He was already behind getting this fence back up, and Wyatt was unhappy with the delay.

      The wide-open prairie on both sides of the fence stretched for miles. Pal Haymaker, one of the most influential ranch owners in the state, owned the spread next to Wyatt’s.

      Pal was one of the meanest men Lane had ever had the displeasure to meet. Growing up, Lane had imagined Pal was the equivalent of a city kid’s experience with an old man yelling, “Get off my lawn.”

      The sandiest stretch of riverfront in these parts was smack in the middle of Pal’s ranch. And he hated finding kids with a bonfire on his property. Lane had lost count of how many times in high school Pal had chased he and his friends off. The only thing that had saved them all from a juvie record was the fact that Pal’s grandson, Trey, had been at every one of those parties.

      Lane had met Mandy at one of those bonfires. She’d been seventeen and wearing cutoff jeans and a bikini top. Trina had been there, too, trying to convince Mandy to get on the tire DJ and Trey had rigged to swing out over the water.

      She’d been scared to death—Lane had seen it in her eyes. But that hadn’t stopped her. Being the middle of six kids had given her gumption. After soaring out of the swing at its highest arch, she’d climbed out of the water, soaking wet, her clothes, what little there had been of them, had clung too provocatively to her lovely curves.

      She’d soon been shivering and Lane had pulled off his over-shirt for her to wear. His plain white T-shirt and the hormones raging through his body had been enough to keep him warm. He wondered what had become of that shirt, as he’d never gotten it back.

      That was the first of many times DJ had warned Lane to stay away from his sisters.

      Pain cut through Lane’s hand suddenly, bringing him back to the present. A barb had gotten through his thick work glove and he pulled it off to check the damage to his finger. He cursed, sick and tired of the calluses and pain of his beat-up hands. He didn’t mind the pain—he just hated the work that caused it.

      His back to the ridge, his injured finger wrapped in the tail of his shirt, Lane stared at the horizon with its late-afternoon shimmer of heat.

      How many times had he thought about heading straight to that