The Rancher's Dance (9 page)

“Bummer. So what did you do instead?”

“I drew pictures in my room. Wanna see?” She stared up at Lucy with such a mix of shyness and hope that it made her ache a little inside.

Lucy balanced the containers in one hand and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Shelby's ear with her other. “Absolutely,” she assured softly.

But even as she did, Beck's dismay seemed to form around her like a visible cloud. He didn't voice his protest, though, and took the plastic containers from her when Shelby grabbed her hand and led her toward the staircase that curved grandly into the foyer.

Lucy hid a grimace when she reached the base of the
daunting flight and started to follow the child up. Unfortunately, by the time she'd made it halfway to the landing, she was sweating from the effort of not favoring her sore knee.

A quick glance down to the foyer told her Beck was still there watching them. Even from the distance she could tell his eyes were narrowed. Could feel the waves of his disapproval.

She didn't have any desire to upset him. But she also had no desire to dim Shelby's excitement.

She still remembered how it had felt before Belle entered their lives. How it had felt to be motherless.

It didn't matter how much she knew her dad loved her.

She'd wanted a mom.

And short of that, she'd wanted the attention of a grown woman. Nearly anyone would have done.

“My room's up here, Lucy.” Shelby was nearly bouncing on her feet where she was waiting on the landing.

Six more steps to go.

She reminded herself that she'd managed much worse in her time. She tightened her hand around the banister and started climbing again, never mind trying to save face by moving naturally.

She heard an oath from below. Beck's voice had been soft, but still audible above the pulse throbbing inside her head. And then he took the stairs three at a time, reaching Lucy before she'd accomplished even two more steps.

“Don't say a word,” he muttered when he lifted her straight off her feet and carried her up the remaining few steps. Before she even had a chance to draw breath, he'd lowered her back down again on the landing, right next to Shelby, who was watching them with astonishment.

Then he strode down the hallway and disappeared
through a doorway. The slam of the door afterward made both her and Shelby jump.

Lucy couldn't shake off the unsteadiness inside her, but she didn't have to let Shelby know how much her father unsettled her. She squeezed the little girl's hand. “Where's your room?”

A shy smile grew on Shelby's face and she started off in the opposite direction that her dad had taken. Lucy followed along. But she couldn't help glancing back along the hallway one more time.

Beck's door remained shut.

E
ntering Shelby's bedroom was like entering a fantasy world for a little girl.

The furniture—from the canopy bed that was tucked into a sweet alcove just made for daydreaming, to the built-in bookshelves and cabinets lining two walls—was painted a cheerful, glossy white. The two wide windows that covered half of the third wall had deep, cushioned window seats and airy blue-and-white curtains that matched the cloud of pillows and comforter covering the bed.

Lucy knew that Beck had designed and built the beautiful house because Sarah had mentioned it. But she wondered if he'd also decorated the room himself.

If he had, he'd done a magnificent job.

If he'd hired someone, they'd done a magnificent job.

Either way, the man deserved a lot of credit for giving his daughter a wonderful space of her own.

Shelby pulled her straight to the desk built into the center
of the shelves, which were loaded down with every item straight out of a little girl's dreams. Toys. Games. Stuffed animals. And lots and lots of framed photographs, nearly all of which featured a woman with thick, curling auburn hair and pale brown eyes, the same shade as Shelby's.

As the girl dragged the shining white chair away from the desk and pushed aside Gertrude the rabbit to shuffle through a messy stack of oversized papers, Lucy picked up one of the photos. “Is this your mother, Shelby?”

She barely glanced up from her papers. “Uh-huh. Her name was Harmony. That's my middle name, too.” She held up one of her drawings. “See?”

Lucy replaced the frame on the shelf above the desk and took the drawing. Even as childishly drawn as it was, she could immediately tell the two figures—one tall with yellow hair, one small with brown—were ballerinas complete with stiff pink tutus. And judging by the glance she got of the other papers, it was a consistent theme. “Very nice.” She perched on the side of the canopy bed. “Can I take it home and pin it on my refrigerator?”

The golden-brown eyes widened. She nodded. “Grampa puts my pictures on our 'frigerator, too.”

“I'll bet he does.” Lucy glanced over the shelves again. As far as she could tell, the only thing missing from the A-Z collection
was
a tutu. “Tell me what kind of things you usually do at day camp.”

Shelby swiveled her legs around on the chair and hung her arm over the back. “We play tetherball and hopscotch and run races. And sometimes we go on a field trip. Like to Braden for the swimming pool. And we watch a movie sometimes. They're just baby movies, though. Not like when I go to real school. We'll have big-kid movies then, I bet.”

Lucy held back a grin. “Real” school, in Shelby's ver
nacular, obviously meant first grade. “It sounds like a lot of fun.”

Shelby nodded, then her expression fell a little.

Lucy didn't need to turn around to know that Beck had returned. She could feel the pinprick of nerves tingling at the back of her neck.

“Okay, peanut,” he said. “You've shown your pictures to Ms. Buchanan and she's probably got other things she wants to do today.”

Shelby's chin ducked a little and Lucy wanted badly to point out that she'd been with Shelby for only a few minutes. But she also knew that arguing with Beck in front of his tender daughter wasn't likely to endear her any.

So she pushed off the side of the bed. The rest of the summer stretched out in front of her and she had nothing but time on her hands. And one way or another, she hoped to see the child again. If only to give her a few of her old tutus that were stuffed in storage boxes in her bedroom.

“I'm going to go right home and hang this up,” she told Shelby as she held up the drawing. “Thank you so much for letting me have it.”

Shelby smiled but it was nowhere near as bright as it had been.

And despite the gaze she could feel coming from behind her, Lucy leaned down and kissed Shelby on the forehead. “I love it,” she whispered, “because I think it looks just like you and me.”

Then she gave the little girl a wink and mentally girded herself to turn toward Beck.

His expression was just as unsmiling as she'd expected. So naturally, she had to smile even more brightly in the face of it as she moved past him into the hallway.

“Wash your hands and brush your hair,” she heard Beck
tell Shelby behind her. “We're meeting Grandpa in town for dinner and we're leaving in a few minutes.”

Lucy headed toward the stairs, pretty certain he'd added that last bit more for her benefit than his daughter's. Even though it hurt like hell, she quickly descended. The last thing she wanted to do was prompt another display of his irritated—and unwelcome—chivalry.

When she reached the foot of the stairs, he was already close behind her. The containers she'd brought were sitting on the foyer table and she wondered if the brownies would hit the trash the second she was out of sight. “Did you have a nice weekend with your son?”

“Yes.” He moved past her and pulled open the door.

Here's your hat, what's your hurry?

She deliberately dawdled. “He fly out of Cheyenne?”

“Yes.”

This was about as productive as conversing with a rock. “Are you working on the addition tomorrow?” she asked doggedly.

His wide shoulders lifted in a sigh. He shifted and his big body seemed to nudge her an inch closer to the doorway even though he didn't touch her at all. “Yes.”

“If you bring Shelby, I'd like to give her—”

“No.”

“Beck, I'm only—”

“It doesn't matter what you're
only.
It's not a good idea.”

Her lips tightened. She glanced at the top of the stairs and saw no sign yet of his daughter. “Why not? Is it just me you object to,” she asked softly, “or all women?”

A muscle in his jaw worked. His eyes looked pained. “Does it matter?”

“It does when it affects my friendship with Shelby.”

His hand suddenly closed around her elbow, nudging her
outside onto that wide, beautiful porch. Then he closed the door behind them and released her like his hand had been burned. “My daughter doesn't need friends like you.”

Stung, she turned on him. “What on earth is
that
supposed to mean?”

His teeth came together for a moment. “I don't mean you personally,” he said gruffly.

She raised her eyebrow and folded her arms over her chest, the oversized drawing dangling between her fingers. “Felt pretty personal.”

“I'm just trying to protect Shelby. She doesn't need people around who aren't going to
stick
around.”

Regret shadowed his eyes, and her irritation fizzled. She could recognize a protective father having grown up with one. “Are you sure you don't mean
you
don't need people around who aren't going to stick around?” she asked softly.

He frowned. “I'm protecting my daughter,” he said again. “And I'd appreciate it if you'd just stay out of something you know nothing about. Please,” he added raggedly when she opened her mouth to refute that.

Feeling something ache inside, Lucy just looked up at him, but then the door swung inward to reveal Shelby clutching Gertrude by a long ear, and she swallowed whatever it was that churned inside her. “I know more than you think,” she managed huskily, and directed another reassuring smile at Shelby, whose gaze was bouncing warily between Lucy and Beck. “Enjoy your dinner,” she said before heading down the shallow steps toward her truck.

“See you later, Lucy,” Shelby called after her.

She kept her smile in place as she waved again.

But the minute she was in her truck and driving back down that beautifully landscaped drive, her smile died.

Beckett Ventura could claim that he was protecting his
daughter. But she knew with every fiber in her soul that he was protecting himself even more.

She could even understand why.

Lucy was as certain of his attraction to her as she was of her own to him. But the man was clearly still in love with his wife.

Lucy couldn't fight that.

She wasn't sure she'd even want to. No woman could compete with a ghost.

But when it came to Shelby?

Beck didn't know as much as he thought he did about the needs of a motherless daughter.

She hit a rut in the road and the steering wheel jerked under her hands.

She automatically tightened her grip and hit the brakes and when she did so, a killing pain shot through her knee.

She gasped and stared hard at the road ahead of her, not daring to shift her foot until the pain subsided.

She'd been sitting on the side of the road for a full five minutes by the time that happened. A treacherous five minutes during which she had to remind herself that one more pain didn't necessarily mean her knee was worsening instead of improving.

But when she finally, gingerly, pressed the gas pedal, she finished the drive home much more cautiously.

When she arrived, she parked closer to the door than usual and carried Shelby's picture inside where she pinned it right in the center of the wide refrigerator door.

Then she pull out a gelled ice pack and because moving to one of the kitchen chairs was just too much work, she sat down right there on the warm hardwood floor, with her back to the cupboards and pressed the pack over the ache in her knee.

The cold easily penetrated through her jeans and she exhaled with relief, leaning her head wearily back against the cabinet. She studied Shelby's drawing across from her.

Beck needed to understand that no matter how hard he tried or how much he wanted to, as a father he couldn't replace his daughter's need for a woman's attention.

Lucy might not be able to get her knee healed no matter how hard
she
tried, but getting Beck to realize that particular truth about his daughter was one thing she could accomplish. And once she did, she'd be able to know that at least one good thing—a very good thing—resulted from her stupid fall down those stairs.

 

She was walking with crutches.

Beck watched Lucy maneuver herself out of her truck she'd parked on the side of the ranch house and tuck the metal devices under her arms before swinging herself in his direction.

He grimaced and focused on the exterior sheathing he was putting up before he shot a damn nail through his own thumb.

He really didn't want another encounter with an annoyed and emotional female. Not when he'd already tangled with a six-year-old one that morning.

Day camp had been cancelled again. And when Beck had flatly refused Shelby's begging to come with him to the Lazy-B while he worked, she'd let him know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't happy about the decision.

His painfully shy, quiet little girl had pitched one very large, very loud fit.

Even now, a hot, half day later since he'd left her sulking in the care of her grandfather, Beck still felt stunned. And stung.

And judging by the intent way Lucy was heading toward
him and the way her jaw was determined and set, he figured he was in for more of the same.

So when she finally limped to a stop and faced him, he went on the offensive. “Maybe you've learned the price for overdoing it now that you're stuck on crutches.”

Her soft lips tightened. She tucked her crutches to one side and with more grace than someone with an injured knee should have, perched on the top of an unused sawhorse. Only then did he notice the edge of a brace around her knee showing below the hem of her bright pink sundress.

As if she'd noticed him noticing, she twitched her skirt and the brace disappeared from view. “I want to talk to you about Shelby.”

So much for the offensive.

“I don't.” If he hadn't already decided that he needed to get the addition finished as soon as possible so he wouldn't have any reason or need to spend time at the Lazy-B—more specifically in the vicinity of Lucy Buchanan—he'd have packed up his tools and left.

July or not, he didn't welcome the woman's temporary interest in his daughter any more than he welcomed his reaction to her whenever she came within ten yards of him.

He turned away and slid another board of sheathing off the pile.

“Just because you want to crawl into a grave doesn't mean your daughter deserves having to join you there.”

The sheathing fell back on the stack with a crash.

He rounded on her. “How many daughters have
you
raised?”

“None. But I—”

“How many husbands have you buried?”

Her gaze flickered. “None.”

“Then until you have, I don't really need your advice, do I?”

“Yes, you do need my advice,” she countered, pushing to her feet much more awkwardly than she'd sat. “Or at least some insight into something
you
don't know what it's like to experience.” She stared up into his face. “Or did you grow up without a mother, too?”

His jaw went so tight that it felt locked together.

His mother was quite alive and living in Florida where she'd moved after divorcing Stan when Beck was eighteen.

They all exchanged cards and gifts for birthdays and Christmases and that was about the extent of their relationship nowadays. As far as Mary no-longer Ventura was concerned, she'd already put in more than her share of time as wife and mother. And if Beck were fair, he knew that her life hadn't exactly been easy. Not with the way Stan had been drinking back then.

None of which had anything to do with anything. Particularly the woman standing in front of him. “As if you do? I've met
your
parents.”

She gave him a pitying look that set his nerves even more on edge. “Belle is my mother in every sense of the word that matters to me.” Her voice was quiet. “But she didn't
become
that until I was a teenager.”