A Rancher's Pride - By Barbara White Daille Page 0,43

in the beginning. But my older sister and I taught them to sign.” She looked at him. “You could learn, too, Sam.”

He gave a gravelly laugh. “Nah. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

So much for his assurance that he had things “covered.”

“My parents were older than you are now. And Sharleen seems to be picking up signs without any trouble.”

“All right, then you can’t force a young dog to learn new tricks.”

Force. Was that what it would take for him to get the skills necessary to communicate with his daughter?

Then she recalled the expression she’d seen on his face when he’d looked at Becky. The fear.

She had to come up with something to get him around that. But what? She thought for a moment then asked, “Have you ever donated blood?”

His brows rose. “Are you saying learning sign language is like giving blood?”

He gave a lopsided grin that had her heart rate soaring. But even that couldn’t stop her. “I’m not kidding, Sam. Have you ever donated? Or even gone for blood-work, maybe for an annual physical?”

“Well, yeah. Of course.”

“What do they ask you to do to before they put the cuff on?”

He shrugged.

“Come on, I’m serious.” She leaned across him to reach for his hand and lay it upright on the arm of the couch. She hadn’t stopped to think things through, hadn’t realized the move would bring their faces close. So close, their lips nearly touched. His breath tickled her cheek. His hand warmed her fingers. She’d been innocent in her sincerity, in her need to convince him to listen to her. But the gesture had backfired, stirring up additional emotions she didn’t want to think about. She retreated to the safety of her corner of the couch.

“Show me,” she said, wincing at the breathless sound of her voice.

Slowly, he curled his fingers into a fist, squeezed and released it a few times. “Like that?”

Though her lips trembled, she forced a smile. “Just like that. And with a slight change of palm orientation—the way you turn your hand—you’ve just made one of the most important signs Becky knows. One of the first she learned. The sign for milk.”

He shook his head and looked away.

She held her breath, watching him. Whether he knew it or not, he was gently squeezing and opening the fingers of the fist he now rested on his knee.

She felt a sudden heaviness inside her chest. How could her heart harden into stone and break like glass, both at the same time?

“Give it a chance, Sam,” she urged. She couldn’t regret the pleading note in her voice. She was doing this for Becky.

“One word isn’t going to get me very far.” He stared off into the distance.

Again, she searched her mind for an argument that would prove otherwise. “What about that mama cow almost ready to give birth out in the barn? You said her calf would need a little time to get its legs under it, right?”

He refused to look her way.

She moved to stand in front of him, her hands on her hips to keep from reaching out. “You can’t expect to match Becky’s entire vocabulary in one easy lesson. And there are ways to communicate besides words, you know. You can learn those, too. Writing notes. Drawing pictures. Pointing. Gesturing. Even body language.”

“Like this?” He rose from the couch and stepped forward to slide his arm around her waist, until she was braced against his chest. “And like this?” He tilted his head and looked down into her eyes. “And like this?” He matched his mouth to hers, kissing her with an intensity that sent a vibration all the way through her.

Kayla couldn’t help herself. She’d dreamed of Sam’s kiss for too many nights now. She’d seen that vulnerability in his face. That fear in his eyes. The man was human, after all. And too much temptation for her to resist. She couldn’t just back off and walk away. Instead, she inched forward. He curled both arms around her, snuggling her close. He felt good against her, his hard planes a perfect balance for her curves, as if they’d been made to fit together.

She breathed deeply, taking in the scent of his aftershave mixed with the faint aroma of wood shavings, a surprising combination—but a lethally masculine one.

She couldn’t stop herself from running her hands over his broad shoulders and up his tanned neck and, finally, tangling her fingers in his hair. When she gave a gentle tug, bringing his mouth