A Rancher's Pride - By Barbara White Daille Page 0,38
always been good to us, but I’m afraid…”
Afraid your history with the judge will hurt us.
She didn’t need to say the words aloud.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” he told her again. “Things will be just fine.”
By the time he left the porch, he had succeeded in calming her fears. He’d made her believe everything would work out.
He just wished he could believe it, too.
A FEW MINUTES LATER, he stood inside the ranch house, willing his feet to move forward.
Midafternoon sunlight stained the white walls of the entryway and the pine planks of the floor he’d laid himself. Putting down those planks had made him feel he’d added something solid to the land his family had owned for generations.
Well, the floor might still stand firm, but the rest of his life had fallen out from under him, thanks to the woman he could see through the kitchen doorway. The one he tried not to ogle like he was a dumb seventeen-year-old who’d never seen a real lady before.
Kayla was real, all right. No denying that, with the proof right there in—or he should say, flowing out of—a blue-checked sleeveless shirt that left her shoulders bare and a pair of denim shorts that showed a whole lot of leg.
Still, his fingers itched to touch her long, tanned limbs. To find out for sure if he could trust her existence. Maybe he’d get lucky and discover she’d been just a figment of his imagination.
He finally managed to tear his gaze from her. After he’d reached her ankles.
When he glanced up, he found she’d been watching him. Her appraising eyes and pink-blushed cheeks made him look away again in a hurry, searching for something else to focus on. But he couldn’t seem to look past her altogether.
Hands. He kept his eyes on her hands. She held a striped dish towel and the drinking cup Becky had been using for her breakfasts. The bunny-covered plastic tumbler put a cold dose of reality into what could easily have turned into one hot fantasy.
Wouldn’t take but a couple dozen strides, and he could have himself across both rooms and right up next to Kayla.
He stopped at the kitchen archway.
Kayla set the towel and Becky’s cup on the counter. Living up to its name, the tumbler tumbled off the edge.
They lunged forward at the same time to catch it and a second later backed up just as quickly, as if they’d gotten hit with a few volts from an electric fence just from getting close. The cup bounced several times on the tile floor before rolling to a stop against the refrigerator.
Kayla didn’t move.
It took an effort not to touch her as he bent down to pick up the tumbler. It took another effort not to crush the colorful plastic in his tight grip. Carefully, he placed the tumbler on the counter beside her.
“Th-thanks. Did you get everything you needed at the store?” she asked, just as Sharleen had.
He nodded. “Took care of the whole list,” he confirmed.
“You were gone longer than I expected.”
“I ate at the Double S at noon, then helped Manny with a couple of things.”
She nodded.
Silence fell again.
He stood staring at the woman who seemed to fill all his waking moments lately—and more than a few of his sleeping ones, too. Of course, the waking ones were his own fault. Or the judge’s, to tell the truth.
Thanks to Judge Baylor, all the trips to town with Becky and Kayla put Sam closer than he liked to the woman. Yet he knew he had to follow through. And not just to satisfy the judge.
To convince Kayla.
Once she learned what Sam was really like, she would accept that his daughter should stay in his care.
But this undercurrent between them—this electric-fence rush of energy he felt every time he got near her—told the truth. He should stay away from her. Far away.
Even knowing this, he couldn’t seem to get his feet to move far enough to get himself out of the room. Or his mouth to stay shut long enough to stop himself from talking to her. His words ought to take care of her talking to him, though.
“Saw the judge on the way back through town, too,” he said, forcing a light tone. “Told him we’d be having that barbecue he keeps asking about. Sunday.”
“Sunday?” Her brows rose. “You mean this Sunday? Three days from now?”
“Yeah? Something wrong with that?”
“No.”
But she didn’t look like she meant it.
“Don’t go worrying yourself over the cooking,” he said in the same