“And you’ll need to pour out all that liquor,” he said.
She smiled. “That, too. And besides, I’m going to drive. I’ll need my car in California.”
He swallowed hard. How long would he be alone with the kids? An hour sometimes seemed like forever. Could he manage without help for a day or two? “When do you think you’ll arrive?”
“By Thursday or Friday. Will that be all right?”
“Sure.” It would have to be. “No problem.”
Had he really agreed to have her come and help? To move in with him and the kids for a month or so? To be in such close proximity that she’d see how useless he was as a father? To have her learn that his cavalier attitude masked his shortcomings? He’d always made it a point not to let women get close enough to see his flaws, to find him lacking.
She pulled her foot from his hand, offering him a glimpse of her bare inner leg, the inside of her thigh that he’d wanted to touch, to stroke. Desire stirred, and he shifted his legs so she wouldn’t know.
But he knew, and it brought about a whole new worry.
He hadn’t had sex since he’d moved in with the kids. How was he going to handle the sexual attraction he felt, if she came to stay for a month or so?
Keeping a woman at a distance was hard to do once she’d shared a man’s bed. There was no way he could let himself get involved with Dr. Maggie Templeton. Not sexually.
She stood. “Why don’t I show you to the guest room. Since you need to wake up early, you’ll probably want to get some sleep.”
He nodded, although he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink tonight.
Or any of the nights to follow.
Chapter Three
Maggie turned off the highway at Winchester, the small Texas town that neighbored Buckaroo Ranch.
Winchester hadn’t changed much in fifteen years. A streetlight had been erected on the corner of Main and Second, and Roy’s Grocery was now the Main Street Market. Other than that, everything looked much the same.
She turned right at Avery’s Feed Store and followed the old county road south, passing cattle grazing in green pastures. She and her stepfather had driven along this same road many times, and he never failed to complain about the money her paternal grandmother had paid for Maggie’s summers at Buckaroo Ranch.
Why doesn’t that old lady just give us the cash? You’d rather stay cooped up in your bedroom reading, anyway. Sending a lazy kid like you to a fancy camp is a waste of money.
Maggie had never responded to her stepdad’s tirades, mostly because he wouldn’t have put up with her arguments, but also because there was more to her grandmother’s offer than he knew.
Crippling arthritis had confined Gram to a convalescent home at the age of sixty-three, so the only escape from a dysfunctional home she could offer her granddaughter was three summers at Buckaroo Ranch.
The last, five-mile stretch passed quickly, and Maggie soon drove under the Ponderosa-style signpost that bore the name of the posh dude ranch Jake now owned.
Since this wasn’t Sunday, the beginning of a Buckaroo week, there was no sign of the buckboards that carried guests and luggage from the parking lot to the plush cabins in which they would reside.
In the past, Rascal, the one-eyed cattle dog, had run beside the wagons, greeting those arriving with a bark and a wag of his stumpy tail, but he’d been an old dog then. With Sharon gone and Jake undoubtedly busy with the responsibilities that were now his, there wouldn’t be a familiar face to welcome her to Buckaroo Ranch.
A pang of disappointment struck. As much as Maggie hated to admit it, she’d thought a lot about Jake in the past few days. Too much, in fact. She’d close her eyes and see the flirtatious glimmer in those intense blue eyes, feel the heat of his touch, relive the knee-weakening kiss.
She blew out a heavy sigh. She’d had enough psychology to know that her ex-husband’s rejection had triggered a need to feel loved and worthy again. The attraction she felt for the grown-up Jake was entirely out of line, and the sooner she got the sexually charged thoughts under control, the better.
Instead of freshening up after six hours on the road, she gave only a cursory glance in the rearview mirror. She and Jake were old friends, for goodness’ sake. There was no reason to primp.
Maggie grabbed her suitcase from the back seat, slipped the strap of her tote bag over a shoulder and shut the car door. She followed the shadow-dappled pathway that led to the house. Several of the outbuildings lay ahead—the hair salon and spa for those wanting more of a luxury vacation, the dining room where guests ate gourmet food while seated family style at long, wooden tables.
Nearing the house, she spotted an older man dressed in cowboy garb leading a mounted group along the riding trail that bordered the indoor arena. He looked a bit like Earl Iverson, the man who’d managed the ranch fifteen years ago, although grayer and much heavier.
She climbed the steps to the rustic front porch of Buckaroo Ranch, feeling as though she’d stepped into a time warp of Twilight Zone proportions. Everything seemed the same, yet eerily different.
For a moment, some of the old childhood insecurities crept back into the forefront of her mind.
Get a grip, she told herself. The gangly teen who had once perched awkwardly between woman and child no longer existed.
She lifted her hand to knock, but before her knuckles could rap on the carved-oak entry, the door swung open.
“Thank God, you’re here.” Jake took her bags, dropped them onto the floor and quickly swept her into his arms, accosting her with his scent of leather and musk.
Her heart did a swan dive, and her knees nearly gave out. But before she could react or speak, he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the house.
They crossed the Spanish-tiled entry, the leather soles of his boots clicking, her tennis shoes squeaking. Maggie briefly scanned the spacious living room, where the adult guests of old had always gathered for the cocktail hour. Other than a new cream-colored sectional in the corner and a few toys scattered on the floor, the room looked the same.
When Jake led her into the kitchen, she couldn’t help but gasp.
A cyclone, it appeared, had swept through, causing major damage to the kitchen. Dirty dishes lined the counters and filled the sink, and splatters of food littered the walls and floor.
A towheaded toddler sat in a high chair, chocolate ice cream smeared across the tray like finger paint. The boy smiled in greeting, screeching and raising his spoon in a sticky fist.
“That’s Sam,” Jake said, nodding toward the messy little boy.
Sam offered a chocolaty smile, and Maggie couldn’t help but grin. Had she ever enjoyed ice cream with such barbaric abandon?
“And this is Kayla,” he added.
A little redheaded girl sat at the kitchen table, an open coloring book before her. She wore her curly hair loose and parted at the side, a red-and-black ladybug hair clip holding a large lock away from her face. Kermit-green eyes gazed at Maggie with wisdom beyond the little girl’s years. All signs of the mild to moderate cerebral palsy that plagued Kayla appeared to lay dormant.
Five years ago, shortly after Kayla’s birth, the pediatrician’s diagnosis had rattled Sharon. Maggie had offered as much long-distance counseling as she could, before referring her friend to national support groups and online resources.
Extending a hand to Sharon’s daughter, Maggie smiled warmly. “I’m glad to meet you, Kayla.”
The little girl accepted the greeting, but continued to peruse the adult she’d been introduced to.
Such a solemn expression