Texas Ranch Justice. Karen Whiddon

his cantankerous tone curious. “I want to hear what she has to say.”

      Though he didn’t want to, Travis opened the door wider and stepped aside so she could enter.

      “Thank you,” she said, confidently moving past him, close enough that he caught a whiff of her scent, something exotic and floral. Heels clicking on the wood floors, she walked with an easy sort of grace, both innocent and confidently sensual. Desire hit him low in the gut, which irritated him, though it didn’t come as a surprise. No matter what she wanted, she was a gorgeous, sexy woman. Even men like him couldn’t ignore such flawless beauty.

      * * *

      Heartbeat echoing in her eardrums, Scarlett stepped into the old Victorian house, admiring the polished wooden floors. A million times she’d pictured the man who’d sired her, even though her childhood fantasies eventually became replaced with teenaged bitterness and, finally, adult acceptance. She’d never met him and hadn’t even known his name. Until she’d found her mother’s diary after her death and finally learned his name and address.

      Hal Gardner of Anniversary, Texas.

      Though at first she’d been frozen in fear, how could she not go meet him? She’d made the trip out west as fast as she could. Finally, here she stood. Hopeful, and trying not to be. Yearning, yet telling herself she’d made it thirty years without him, so it wouldn’t hurt at all if he refused to acknowledge her and ordered her to leave as the handsome younger man had.

      “In here,” the tall, grumpy guy ordered, turning and leading the way. “He’s in the living room.”

      Trailing along after him, she caught her breath at her first glimpse of a man who could only be her father. Sitting in front of the TV in a wheelchair. He looked frail, old, and she could see that he was ill from the pallor of his skin, the way his green eyes—the exact shade as her own—seemed to burn too brightly in his wan and lined face.

      He wore his thinning gray hair combed to one side. His too skinny body appeared almost skeletal, though his smile seemed friendly enough. She caught a hint of skepticism in his expression, as though he also believed she might be here to try to sell him something.

      Deliberately, she kept her expression neutral, though her steps faltered for a second before she regained her equilibrium.

      “Well, ain’t you a pretty one,” the old man drawled. “Now tell me you ain’t with Wave Oil so I don’t have to throw you out.”

      Suddenly struck dumb, she shook her head. “I’m not,” she managed. She’d rehearsed a speech a bunch of times while she’d searched for him. All of that seemed woefully inadequate now.

      Cocking his grizzled head, he continued to study her. “You look awfully familiar. Like someone I used to know, many years ago.”

      Finally, she found her voice. “My name is Scarlett. Scarlett Kistler. People always said I’m the spitting image of my mother, Maggie. Maggie Kistler.”

      When she said her mama’s name, Hal stiffened. Suddenly alert, watchful even as he slid his gaze over her once more. “Maggie,” he breathed. “You do look an awful lot like her. Maggie Kistler was the love of my life.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Now there’s a name from the past. I always wondered what became of her.”

      For the first time she realized her mother’s death might come as a shock to him. “She passed away,” she said softly. “Not all that long ago.”

      He stared at her, disbelief and perhaps a brief flash of pain in his expression. “Was she ill? She wasn’t very old.”

      Younger than he, that’s what he meant, Scarlett figured.

      “She had breast cancer,” she said, her voice still going shaky when she said the awful words. She’d think she’d be used to the idea by now. She’d helped her mother fight for the last year and a half, and the word cancer had become an integral part of their vocabulary.

      A shadow crossed his face. “Cancer. I hate cancer,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He turned his face, giving her his hawklike profile while a muscle worked in his too-thin cheek.

      Wondering if he also had some sort of cancer, she waited silently, not sure what to say. Her mother’s passing had drained her, made her realize she was now completely and utterly alone in the world. Without family. Until she’d found the diary, buried deep in a box of old photographs and mementos in the back of her mother’s closet. She’d realized she wasn’t actually alone. She had him. Her father. Whether he wanted to be or not. For the first time she wondered if he’d even been aware of her existence.

      Finally, he swiveled his head to look at her again. “Why have you come here?” he rasped. “Surely you didn’t travel all this way to bring me news of her death.”

      “No,” she admitted, glancing toward the doorway to see that the other man had remained, standing in a defensive stance just inside the doorway. As if he thought she might attempt bodily harm on the old man and he might have to jump in and perform a rescue. She wished he would leave, but lacked the nerve to ask him to go. Instead, she squared her shoulders and turned back to face the old man in the wheelchair.

      “When my mother left you, she was pregnant,” she told him, holding her chin high and hoping her voice didn’t quiver with nerves. “I’m realizing you might not have been aware of that.” Another deep breath. Steady, steady. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to meet you. I’m your daughter.”

      Hal stared, his mouth working. “No,” he said faintly. “She wouldn’t have done that to me.”

      Behind her, she was conscious of the other man moving into the room and toward her. A gesture from Hal’s age-spotted hand stopped him.

      Scarlett refused to look away from her father, fully expecting him to deny her, demand proof, a DNA test. She wouldn’t blame him. Here she was, showing up after thirty years, a grown child he hadn’t even known he had.

      “Why?” The plaintive question tore at her heart. “Why wouldn’t she have at least let me know?”

      “I’m not sure. She was a proud woman,” she said softly. “She never even told me your name. All she would say was that she’d loved you once.”

      Pain formed new creases in the loose skin on his face. He swore, looking away and covering his face with his shaking hands.

      “You need to go.” The younger man grabbed her arm. “Don’t be bothering him with your ridiculous claims.”

      Furious, she jerked away, glaring up at him. “Don’t even think you can sum up my life that way. I came here to meet this man—my father. This has nothing to do with you, whoever you are.”

      Eyes hard, he started to speak.

      “Wait,” Hal interceded. “She’s right, Travis. This is private, between the two of us.”

      The other man shook his head. He wouldn’t go easy, she saw. “Don’t let her come in here and try to con you. I’m not sure what she wants, but she wants something. I can see right through her. She’s a gold digger, nothing more.”

      “A gold digger?” She glanced around the room with its threadbare carpet and worn furniture in disbelief.

      He snorted, opening his mouth again. Hal’s sharp bark of laughter forestalled him.

      Her first reaction was hurt, that he found her somehow amusing. Her second, alarm as his laughter segued into a wheeze, then a round of jagged coughing that appeared to steal his breath away, making him gasp for air.

      She rushed over, ignoring the other man completely. Once she reached the wheelchair, she wasn’t sure what to do. She settled for patting Hal’s hunched back as if he was a small child, making soothing sounds while praying he wouldn’t choke to death or something.

      After a moment, he recovered. Swiping at his eyes with his gnarled fists, he flashed her a wan smile.