little voice in the back of her head that sounded uncannily like her brother kept warning her this was a mistake.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, shocked to realize she hardly recognized the woman behind the wheel. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright as stars, excitement radiating from her. And determination. She was a woman who liked to finish what she started, one way or the other.
By the time she found the rodeo grounds on the far side of town, the rodeo was over and the crowd had gone home.
She parked, raked her hand through her long, unruly hair, wishing she’d had the sense not to put the top down on the car.
Getting out, she walked slowly toward the chutes at the rear of the arena, hoping that Jack would still be there.
She asked a cowboy loading his horse into a trailer where she could find Jackson Robinson. He pointed her in the direction of a dozen trailers, pickups and motor homes camped under a long row of old oaks—and one older model motor home in particular.
As Chelsea neared, she saw that the outside door was open and light was spilling out the screen door onto a piece of carpet in front of the metal pull-out step.
The evening was warm and filled with the fragrances of coming summer. Woven into the scents were the many different foods being cooked in the tiny community camped here, and the leftover smell of corn dogs, cotton candy and fried bread from the rodeo.
The lights, the warm breeze and the inviting aromas gave the encampment a cozy, homey feel. Horses whinnied in the corrals. Laughter drifted on the breeze from small groups of cowboys sitting outside their rigs in pools of golden light. There would be another rodeo tomorrow night, so it appeared most of the riders were staying for it.
As she approached the motor home, she thought she smelled something cooking inside. Then she heard a sound that stopped her cold. It drifted out the screen door. Light, lyrical, definitely female laughter.
She stopped walking, realizing just how rash she’d been. Had she expected Jack to pine away for her all these years as she had for him? Obviously she had.
Suddenly she was struck with a huge case of cold feet. She started to turn and stumbled, almost colliding with a child. The cowboy was small and slim, dressed in jeans, boots and a checked western shirt. His straw cowboy hat was pulled low over his eyes.
“Sorry,” Chelsea murmured, feeling like a coward. Didn’t she want to know the truth? If she couldn’t face the fact that Jack had someone else, how could she face it if he’d lied to her, rustled her cattle and taken off with her heart? Which right now seemed damned likely.
“Are you looking for someone? I know everybody here.”
“Oh you do, do you?” Chelsea asked with amusement. She’d thought the child a boy, but on closer inspection, she realized the cowboy was in fact a cowgirl of about eight or nine. And from the amount of dirt on her jeans and boots, Chelsea would say a tomboy. She recognized the look.
The screen door on the motor home banged open. Chelsea turned, afraid it would be Jack. Instead, a young woman dressed in western attire came out, still laughing and smiling back at whoever was inside. Her boots rang on the metal step of the motor home and her laughter echoed through the trees.
“See ya later, Jackson,” the woman said, and swinging her hips, sauntered off.
The tomboy next to Chelsea made a rude noise. “Terri Lyn Kessler. She’s a barrel racer.”
Just then, a man stuck his head out the door of the motor home. “Samantha?” he called, but the retreating woman didn’t turn around.
Chelsea’s gaze swung back around to the motor home and Jack standing in the doorway. It seemed as if it had been only yesterday. She stood rooted to the spot at the sight of him in the light from the open door. A whirlwind of emotions swirled like a dust devil around her, engulfing her, taking her breath away. Some things didn’t change—her reaction to Jack Shane one of them.
“Samantha?” he called again, his eyes seeming to adjust to the semidarkness.
Chelsea thought he was calling after the woman who’d just left. But to her surprise, it was the tomboy next to her who finally answered.
“Coming, Dad,” the girl said with obvious reluctance. “I got to go,” she told Chelsea. “It’s dinnertime and I’m late as usual and in trouble.” She sounded as if this was nothing new.
Chelsea watched the girl amble toward the motor home, kicking up dust with the scuffed toes of her worn boots.
Dad? Jack had a daughter.
Chelsea took a step back, ready to make a run for it, when she saw Jack’s gaze lift from Samantha to her.
“Chelsea?”
* * *
JACK KNEW the moment he breathed the word, it betrayed him. For years after he’d left Chelsea and the Wishing Tree Ranch, he’d imagined seeing her again. He’d always known he would look up one day and there she’d be. For years he’d search the rodeo crowd for her face. Other times he would think he saw glimpses of her in passing. Or hear her voice and turn so quickly it gave him whiplash.
For a long while after he’d left the ranch, he’d expected her to come looking for him. Had hoped she would. But she never had, and he’d stopped expecting it. Still, he’d always known he’d see her again. And feared the day.
“Jack.” She took a step toward him and stopped as if unsure what she was doing here. She wore a blue shirt that hugged her curves, designer jeans and boots.
What was she doing here? He shook his head, unable to believe she was anything more than a mirage. As he stepped toward her, he feared the moment he was within touching distance, she would disappear.
Samantha stood watching the two of them, looking too curious for her own good.
“Go on in and wash up, Sam,” he said as he passed her.
“But, Dad—”
“No buts,” he said firmly, his gaze on Chelsea. What was she doing here? He’d seen in the paper where her father had died. There’d been a big write-up.
“Chelsea,” he said again, just the sound of her name on his lips bringing back the old ache, reminding him of the feel of her in his arms.
She smiled tentatively. “Hello, Jack.”
He stared at her, searching for words. It had just been too long, and he was feeling way too much right now.
“What are you doing here?” He hadn’t meant to make it sound as if she were trespassing.
“I heard you were riding on the pro rodeo circuit and I just happened to be in the area,” she said too quickly.
“You just happened to be in Lubbock?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously. He’d known her well enough to know when she was lying. Also when she was nervous. Right now, she was both.
“It’s been a long time,” she said.
He nodded, shocked. He’d thought the years would have tempered the desire. Lessened the need, the gut-clenching ache inside him.
“Almost ten years,” he said. “What are you doing here, Chelsea?” he asked again, his voice filled with the anguish he felt. Whatever it is, just get it over with.
“I had to see you,” she said, her eyes shining, her voice cracking.
He swallowed hard, waiting for her to tell him what had made her drive all the way here just to see him. Nothing good, he would bet on that.
“I found the check my father tried to give you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
So that was it. He felt his jaw tighten.
“I didn’t know, Jack.”
He looked away, the pain fresh as a new wound, looked past her to the sports car parked