Cowboy Daddy. Angel Smits

for her...again...and after he helped her forget, helped her get back on an even keel, she’d leave him with another haunting memory to torment him—until the next time she needed something.

      Last time she’d shown up in his neck of the woods had been a couple months ago, the day after her mother died. She’d looked shattered and beautiful, just like now. Just like that summer night back in high school.

      Lane groaned. The memories assaulted him. Reality drowned in the storm and her. His lips found hers, drinking her in, grinding against her, tasting the salty sweet of her tears. Wanting to erase anything, everything that had ever hurt her.

      * * *

      THIS WAS NOT why Amanda had come here. But, oh, she wanted it. Wanted it bad. Her world was falling apart and she needed Lane to fix it.

      Would he even notice? Would he feel the difference in her? The smidge of extra weight, the new curves? Or could she count on the cloud of lust he felt for her to blind him?

      “Lane?”

      “Mmm?”

      Her next words disappeared between his lips, and her thoughts evaporated as his hands slid up to cup her full breasts. She ached, everywhere, but more so where his hands touched her.

      She had so much to tell him, but not yet. Later. After. After he’d eased all the aches and hurts. Heat permeated her palms where her hands met the solid contours of his chest. Too much shirt. She wanted it off. Now. The neat little pearl buttons slid easily through the worn buttonholes. Feeling hot skin under her fingertips tore a groan from somewhere deep in her chest.

      “Easy, honey.” Lane pulled back, dragging in ragged breaths. “This old truck isn’t the best place—”

      His words splashed over her as effectively as if the rain had slipped inside, abruptly waking her out from her reverie. Mandy quickly scooted away as if the cowboy stretched out in front of her was afire. The denim work shirt lay open, the neon lights of the bar glinting off the light sheen of sweat trailing down...

      His Wrangler jeans, worn too thin in places, hid nothing. He wanted her. Her mouth went dry and she swallowed. The only thing about him that looked undisturbed was the black Stetson still snugged down over his brow.

      “And that old hay loft in high school was a better choice?” she asked.

      He winced and moved farther away from her.

      “We need to talk—” She settled on the seat, her hands clasped tight, just in case she couldn’t resist touching him again.

      “I’m not rehashing the past—”

      “Lane!” Someone with a meaty fist pounded on the window behind him. He jumped and cursed.

      “What?” he yelled.

      “Hurry! Hank’s here. He’s lit.” The disembodied voice cut through the rain as well as the cloud of want within the cab. The cool night air erased the rest when Lane shoved the door open with a curse.

      He didn’t bother closing it as he jumped out, as if he expected her to follow. A glance back was all she got—she couldn’t read his expression through the shadows. His boots slapped in the mud as he took off at a run.

      Amanda stared after him. No. Not yet. He couldn’t leave now. She hadn’t told him. It had taken her weeks to get up the nerve to come here. And nearly as many hours figuring out what she was going to say. Her fear and hurt for DJ had been the last straw to push her here. To Lane.

      The rain pounded down in earnest now, beating on the roof and hood of the metal truck. As she sat there, the roar only grew. A flash of white light came from behind her, and as she huddled in the cab, she counted. Only a few seconds passed before thunder rumbled and shook the world. She closed her eyes, convincing herself it was the childhood fear of storms she was shutting out.

      Not the hurt that came with the realization that Lane had left her like this. In his beat-up, secondhand truck. In the mud-filled parking lot of a hick bar. In the pouring rain. Alone.

      For what? She had no idea. What had that guy said to him? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter.

      Damn it. Slowly, she shoved open the passenger door and climbed out. Open-toed shoes had been a stupid choice for a country bar, and even stupider for walking through mud. But what choice did she have? She tromped through the thick gooey slop. At least they weren’t expensive shoes.

      “Amanda?” A woman’s voice came through the darkness. “Mandy? Where’d you go?”

      Trina was the last person Amanda wanted to talk to right now. They’d been friends since they were kids, and no matter how long between visits, Trina could pick up on her mood. She wouldn’t give up until she’d wormed every painful detail from deep inside her. But the secret Amanda held now wasn’t for public consumption.

      She loved her friend, but the only reason she’d come out tonight was in hopes of seeing Lane, telling him.

      Breaking into a semi run, Amanda wound her way through the crowded parking lot. Finally, she reached her car on the edge of the dirt. She’d been frustrated having to park so far away because she’d been running late. Now she was thankful for the quick getaway.

      Struggling, she pried her car key out of her sodden jean pocket. Taking a purse into a bar where there was dancing and drinking was pure folly. She’d locked it in her trunk, claiming the key and a few dollars before going inside.

      Now it made escape easy.

      As long as the tires didn’t sink into the mud.

      She stumbled, falling against the hard fender. Her hip hit a sharp edge and she gasped. Oh, God. No. She took several deep breaths, waiting, hoping and praying she hadn’t hurt anything. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, feeling the gentle swell. When she looked in her mirror each morning, she could barely see a difference, but she felt it. Inside and out.

      Finally, convinced all was well, she yanked open the door and crawled inside. The slam of the door was oddly soft compared to the none-too-gentle rat-tat of the rain beating on the car.

      But it did muffle the storm.

      And made her feel even more alone.

      Could it get any worse? Leaning her head back on the seat, she felt her cold, damp hair snake down her back. She shivered. At least she thought it was shivers. From the cold. It couldn’t possibly be her emotions. She refused to break down.

      Refused to let— The first sob was the hardest. “Damn you, Lane Beaumont. Damn you for making me want you,” she yelled at the neon-colored water covering the windshield. “Damn you,” she whispered.

      She cranked the ignition, and the starter ground hard before her shaking fingers let go. She didn’t care. She wanted out of here. Now.

      Mud flew up behind her, splattering the truck in the next row. She didn’t care about that, either. As if that would be a surprise to the cowboy who’d stumble to it half-lit in a few hours?

      Finally, the tires found purchase somewhere beneath the muck. She pulled on to the two-lane highway, the windshield wipers slapping out an even tune. She crept along, barely able to see more than a few feet ahead in the dark, wet night.

      Or through the damp in her eyes. She scrubbed impatiently at the stupid tears. This was so not her. Hormones. It had to be the hormones.

      That was it, she was sure. Miles sped by as she headed back to the ranch house. She had ten miles to pull herself together. She’d told her older brother, Wyatt, that she was going to Trina’s party, despite the painful news about DJ. She gasped as that pain returned. Oh, DJ. Please don’t die.

      Pretending she was okay had been a mistake. She’d been able to fake it until Lane walked in. Something about that man turned her inside out.

      Then the lights of Wyatt’s big ranch house appeared above the horizon. Awash in damp, broken only by the even beat of the