Cowboy Daddy

He loves them too much to stay

Lane Beaumont has always loved Amanda Hawkins. If his life weren’t such a mess he’d want much more than their current on-again, off-again relationship. But Amanda deserves a better life than he can offer. So when she gives birth to their son, Lane does the right thing and walks away.

Amanda should be devastated. Except his reaction doesn’t make sense. The Lane she knows would never turn his back on her or his responsibilities. Plus, she saw that cowboy’s heart melt when he held their son. Something else is standing in the way of their happiness and she won’t stop until she finds out what.

“I am not cut out to be anyone’s dad.”

Those words burned Lane’s gut, but he kept going.

“He needs someone else.” Anyone else. “Someone better, someone who can give him—and you—a better life than I can.”

Lane took a step back from the bed. “You don’t have to worry, Mandy. I don’t make much, but I’ll send what I can.” He took a few more steps. He knew this wasn’t what Mandy wanted and it tore him up to walk away from her. Their son’s tiny face floated in his memory, taunting his so-called noble gesture. But he knew the reality. He couldn’t put either of them through the mess that was his life.

Better to keep his distance now, before the attachment grew, than to hurt them later, like he knew he would.

Damn it.

Dear Reader,

Sometimes when writers get together, we get a little crazy. Most of the writers I know are longtime friends, which only makes matters worse. One night, several of us were talking about our stories, brainstorming and having fun. Somehow the idea of a “cowboy who wants to be a fireman” was mentioned. (It fit into the conversation, really it did.) In that instant, Lane burst into my thoughts, as alive as if I’d known him all my life.

I knew without a doubt that he was the perfect match for Amanda Hawkins, the next sibling in the A Chair at the Hawkins Table series. She’s as lost in life as he is and together, maybe, they can find their way. I certainly hope so since the story opens with their child coming into the world!

Those of you who’ve asked will be pleased to know life has continued on for Mandy’s siblings and you’ll get to catch up with them—and her nephew, Tyler—as well.

I love to hear from readers. You can always reach me through email at [e-mail] or Facebook and Twitter (@Angelwrite), as well as other social media. Also, for those of you who still indulge in the art of letter writing, please feel free to write me at 5740 N. Carefree Circle, Suite 120-4, Colorado Springs, CO 80917.

I hope you fall in love with these two as much as I have. They were such fun to write, and I still miss them now that I’ve finished my part. Now it’s your turn to enjoy.

Happy Reading!

Angel Smits

Cowboy Daddy

Angel Smits

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANGEL SMITS lives in Colorado with her husband, daughter and puppy. Winning the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award was the highlight of her writing career, until her first Harlequin book hit the shelves. Her social work background inspires her characters while improv writing allows her to torture them. It’s a rough job, but someone’s got to do it.

Sisters. Who needs sisters? The men in my books certainly do, and I’m lucky enough to have one of my own to use as a great example. April Wilkerson is one of my best friends. I don’t know what I’d do without her shoulder to cry on and her silly stories to laugh at. This one’s for you, April.

And as always, for Ron, for the good parts!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

HE LOVED HER. He’d always loved her. He couldn’t imagine not loving her. But she wasn’t for him. Leaning back on the bar stool, Lane Beaumont stared into the mirror behind the well-stocked bar. Between the whiskey and vodka bottles, he could see the entirety of the Lucky Chance Bar, all three thousand square feet of wood and country décor. Still, his vision narrowed to her.

Just her.

Amanda Hawkins sat with three of her friends in a booth toward the back. The live music hadn’t started yet, so he caught snatches of their conversation and every once in a while, a snippet of her laughter.

That laughter—sweet and warm—first had hit him way back during that summer between his junior and senior years of high school, the summer she’d spent working at her grandfather’s ranch. Right away, that sweet, husky sound had grabbed him and pulled him to her.

Their eyes met just then in the mirror, and Lane forced himself to be the first to turn away. Going for the casual, “I don’t give a damn” look, he took a deep swallow of his beer. He’d allowed himself only one drink, and this was it, so he intended to make the most of it.

“Hello, Lane.”

Her voice washed over him, and he mentally cursed. He didn’t need the temptation tonight.

“Hey, Mandy.” He didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to. He could see her—every beautiful inch—inside his head, in his memories. And felt her gaze roam over him. “Slumming again?”

“Don’t be a jerk.” She leaned against the bar. “Hey, Sam. Can we get one more round?” She gave the bartender—another member of their old summer crowd—a grin and a wink as she handed him an empty serving tray.

“Must be some celebration,” Lane said before the next swallow. “That’s your third trip up here.”

“You counting my drinks, cowboy?” She glared at Lane, then turned back to Sam and the four glasses of assorted drinks settled on the serving tray. Mandy had worked here one summer a while back—she knew how to carry a tray like a pro.

Mandy curled her long, slender fingers around the edge of the tray, her knuckles flashing white for an instant. Turning to lift it off the bar, she brushed against Lane’s shoulder, sending a shaft of something he refused to identify zinging through him. “Maybe you should ask why we’re here instead.”

Lane knew better than to ask anything that specific of Mandy Hawkins. He’d been down that rabbit hole before, and they didn’t serve tea at that Mad Hatter’s party. He shook his head and she carried the tray back to the table, a sweet little sway in her hips and long chestnut hair. He watched. Every. Single. Step.

“She’s not stupid, Lane,” Sam said as he filled more glasses on the other side of the bar.

“I never said she was.”

Sam’s right eyebrow shot up. “Then why do you ignore everything she throws at you?”

Lane wasn’t going to answer that. Sam needed to keep his nose in his own business, but Lane wouldn’t voice that thought, either. Something about protesting too loudly flitted through his mind. “So, what’s the occasion?”

“Trina’s moving to Chicago. Some new job. Some new guy, too.”

Lane picked Trina out of the group. He’d never liked her. Not when she’d been the head of cheer squad in high school, and even less when she’d dragged Matt Halloran down the aisle the summer after graduation.

Two years later, his friend Matt had found himself working double shifts at some big box store in Dallas in order to make the child support and alimony payments. So Trina could live in LA in the style Matt had never been able to provide.

Why Mandy had ever become friends with her, he had no idea.

Yet another reason to keep his distance.

Yeah, if he kept telling himself that he might start to believe he actually could. Sam walked away shaking his head, and Lane returned his gaze to the mirror.

Mandy looked good tonight. Pretty as always. But there was something off that he couldn’t peg. He frowned. Her smile seemed slightly dimmed. Her eyes—he looked harder—were distant.

Those eyes turned to him, caught him watching her in the mirror. And held. Why was she here?

Lane tilted his glass and finished his beer. He tossed a couple of bills on the bar to pay the tab. Time to go. He had a half dozen other places to hit tonight. Hank hadn’t shown up here, and his phone was oddly silent.

But it was early still. Maybe the old man hadn’t hit that mean drunk stage yet, wherever he was. Lane headed to the door, listening as the band warmed up on the miniscule stage. Some pseudo-country band that thought adding a fiddle and harmonica meant they could call what they played country music.

“Where you headed?” Mandy’s voice found him at the door.

He wasn’t interested in sharing his schedule with her tonight. He took a few more steps, her perfume following him.

“Go back to your friends, Mandy.” He hit the metal crash bar and stepped out into the night. Drizzle fell from the sky, making a mud puddle out of the parking lot. Great. Just great. He didn’t need this. He had too much to do.

He’d just reached his old truck when a soft hand touched his arm. What the—? “Mandy? What are you doing?”

“Something I should have done months ago.”

She must be drunk, he reasoned as she stepped in close. At the thought, his stomach churned. God, no. But when her lips found his, she didn’t taste like alcohol.

She tasted like the spring breeze wafting over the prairie, fresh and sweet. Welcoming. His arms instinctively went around her, holding tight, letting himself go—for just a minute—to the one place in the world he wanted to be. Lord, he’d missed her. Missed this.

His senses quickly returned, and he reluctantly removed her arms from around his neck and stepped away. “You want to explain what the hell this is about? I thought you’d decided we were finished.”

He looked closer. Her eyes glittered with damp. Tears? Mandy Hawkins was the only girl he’d ever known who didn’t know how to cry. “What’s wrong?” Deja vu slithered over him as rain fell in earnest.

“No...nothing.”

“Like hell.” He yanked open the door of his truck and lifted her in. The battered bench seat could take the damp. He climbed in after her. “Explain.” He pinned her with a stare and a stiff arm, keeping her from leaning against him. He couldn’t refuse her more than once a night. He wasn’t that good a man.

“DJ...” She hiccupped.

Her brother? The marine? “What happened?” He didn’t really want to know. He’d always respected DJ Hawkins. They’d even become friends over time. Even after he and Wyatt, her oldest brother, had beat the crap out of him that summer for, as they’d put it, “thinking about doing the deed with their little sister.” He hadn’t had the ability to tell them, “Too late.” His lip had been too swollen from meeting DJ’s fist. At least they hadn’t looked much better when all had been said and done.

“He...” She moved toward Lane, resting her head on his shoulder.

Lane leaned back against the side window, trying to keep his distance, praying the cool glass would jolt his system into a lower gear. Instead, the glass steamed over. “Tell me.” He needed to keep her talking. Take his mind off the close confines of the cab....

“He’s been in Afghanistan... There was an explosion.” She hiccupped again. “He’s in a hospital in Germany. In a coma.”

“Ah, hon.” How could he push her away? How could he refuse to pull her into his arms? She snuggled into him, bringing his body and his brain to life.

“Help me forget, Lane. Just tonight. Help me forget,” she whispered before reaching for him again. He cursed. He’d be there for her...again...and after he helped her forget, helped her get back on an even keel, she’d leave him with another haunting memory to torment him—until the next time she needed something.

Last time she’d shown up in his neck of the woods had been a couple months ago, the day after her mother died. She’d looked shattered and beautiful, just like now. Just like that summer night back in high school.

Lane groaned. The memories assaulted him. Reality drowned in the storm and her. His lips found hers, drinking her in, grinding against her, tasting the salty sweet of her tears. Wanting to erase anything, everything that had ever hurt her.

* * *

THIS WAS NOT why Amanda had come here. But, oh, she wanted it. Wanted it bad. Her world was falling apart and she needed Lane to fix it.

Would he even notice? Would he feel the difference in her? The smidge of extra weight, the new curves? Or could she count on the cloud of lust he felt for her to blind him?

“Lane?”

“Mmm?”

Her next words disappeared between his lips, and her thoughts evaporated as his hands slid up to cup her full breasts. She ached, everywhere, but more so where his hands touched her.

She had so much to tell him, but not yet. Later. After. After he’d eased all the aches and hurts. Heat permeated her palms where her hands met the solid contours of his chest. Too much shirt. She wanted it off. Now. The neat little pearl buttons slid easily through the worn buttonholes. Feeling hot skin under her fingertips tore a groan from somewhere deep in her chest.

“Easy, honey.” Lane pulled back, dragging in ragged breaths. “This old truck isn’t the best place—”

His words splashed over her as effectively as if the rain had slipped inside, abruptly waking her out from her reverie. Mandy quickly scooted away as if the cowboy stretched out in front of her was afire. The denim work shirt lay open, the neon lights of the bar glinting off the light sheen of sweat trailing down...

His Wrangler jeans, worn too thin in places, hid nothing. He wanted her. Her mouth went dry and she swallowed. The only thing about him that looked undisturbed was the black Stetson still snugged down over his brow.

“And that old hay loft in high school was a better choice?” she asked.

He winced and moved farther away from her.

“We need to talk—” She settled on the seat, her hands clasped tight, just in case she couldn’t resist touching him again.

“I’m not rehashing the past—”

“Lane!” Someone with a meaty fist pounded on the window behind him. He jumped and cursed.

“What?” he yelled.

“Hurry! Hank’s here. He’s lit.” The disembodied voice cut through the rain as well as the cloud of want within the cab. The cool night air erased the rest when Lane shoved the door open with a curse.

He didn’t bother closing it as he jumped out, as if he expected her to follow. A glance back was all she got—she couldn’t read his expression through the shadows. His boots slapped in the mud as he took off at a run.

Amanda stared after him. No. Not yet. He couldn’t leave now. She hadn’t told him. It had taken her weeks to get up the nerve to come here. And nearly as many hours figuring out what she was going to say. Her fear and hurt for DJ had been the last straw to push her here. To Lane.

The rain pounded down in earnest now, beating on the roof and hood of the metal truck. As she sat there, the roar only grew. A flash of white light came from behind her, and as she huddled in the cab, she counted. Only a few seconds passed before thunder rumbled and shook the world. She closed her eyes, convincing herself it was the childhood fear of storms she was shutting out.

Not the hurt that came with the realization that Lane had left her like this. In his beat-up, secondhand truck. In the mud-filled parking lot of a hick bar. In the pouring rain. Alone.

For what? She had no idea. What had that guy said to him? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter.

Damn it. Slowly, she shoved open the passenger door and climbed out. Open-toed shoes had been a stupid choice for a country bar, and even stupider for walking through mud. But what choice did she have? She tromped through the thick gooey slop. At least they weren’t expensive shoes.

“Amanda?” A woman’s voice came through the darkness. “Mandy? Where’d you go?”

Trina was the last person Amanda wanted to talk to right now. They’d been friends since they were kids, and no matter how long between visits, Trina could pick up on her mood. She wouldn’t give up until she’d wormed every painful detail from deep inside her. But the secret Amanda held now wasn’t for public consumption.

She loved her friend, but the only reason she’d come out tonight was in hopes of seeing Lane, telling him.

Breaking into a semi run, Amanda wound her way through the crowded parking lot. Finally, she reached her car on the edge of the dirt. She’d been frustrated having to park so far away because she’d been running late. Now she was thankful for the quick getaway.

Struggling, she pried her car key out of her sodden jean pocket. Taking a purse into a bar where there was dancing and drinking was pure folly. She’d locked it in her trunk, claiming the key and a few dollars before going inside.

Now it made escape easy.

As long as the tires didn’t sink into the mud.

She stumbled, falling against the hard fender. Her hip hit a sharp edge and she gasped. Oh, God. No. She took several deep breaths, waiting, hoping and praying she hadn’t hurt anything. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, feeling the gentle swell. When she looked in her mirror each morning, she could barely see a difference, but she felt it. Inside and out.

Finally, convinced all was well, she yanked open the door and crawled inside. The slam of the door was oddly soft compared to the none-too-gentle rat-tat of the rain beating on the car.

But it did muffle the storm.

And made her feel even more alone.

Could it get any worse? Leaning her head back on the seat, she felt her cold, damp hair snake down her back. She shivered. At least she thought it was shivers. From the cold. It couldn’t possibly be her emotions. She refused to break down.

Refused to let— The first sob was the hardest. “Damn you, Lane Beaumont. Damn you for making me want you,” she yelled at the neon-colored water covering the windshield. “Damn you,” she whispered.

She cranked the ignition, and the starter ground hard before her shaking fingers let go. She didn’t care. She wanted out of here. Now.

Mud flew up behind her, splattering the truck in the next row. She didn’t care about that, either. As if that would be a surprise to the cowboy who’d stumble to it half-lit in a few hours?

Finally, the tires found purchase somewhere beneath the muck. She pulled on to the two-lane highway, the windshield wipers slapping out an even tune. She crept along, barely able to see more than a few feet ahead in the dark, wet night.

Or through the damp in her eyes. She scrubbed impatiently at the stupid tears. This was so not her. Hormones. It had to be the hormones.

That was it, she was sure. Miles sped by as she headed back to the ranch house. She had ten miles to pull herself together. She’d told her older brother, Wyatt, that she was going to Trina’s party, despite the painful news about DJ. She gasped as that pain returned. Oh, DJ. Please don’t die.

Pretending she was okay had been a mistake. She’d been able to fake it until Lane walked in. Something about that man turned her inside out.

Then the lights of Wyatt’s big ranch house appeared above the horizon. Awash in damp, broken only by the even beat of the wipers, the house had never looked more beautiful. Or more frightening.

Several long minutes passed after she parked the car. Anyone inside would think she was waiting out the storm. They’d be wrong. She was waiting out herself.

Lifting her chin, she started the car again, pulled slowly out of the drive. If she went inside, Wyatt would take care of her. She’d let him take care of her.

And all her hard-won independence would be lost. She shook her head. Nope. Not going to happen. She floored the gas pedal and aimed the car back toward Dallas.

* * *

SLEEP. DAWN THREATENED as Lane stretched out on the battered picnic bench on the deck of his dad’s farmhouse. He’d closed his eyes just for a bit. He needed to rest before he hit the road and headed back to the bunkhouse for the day’s work.

Dad was asleep at last, the alcohol finally claiming him. If Lane listened carefully, he could hear the low snore the old man always made when he was sleeping it off. Lane tuned it out. He didn’t need that reminder of his childhood intruding.

The picnic bench was hard, but he didn’t care. This was his escape. His place. The backyard was empty and quiet. Peaceful. He focused on the outdoor sounds. The wind in the tall grasses. The creak of the useless windmill that had been there for a hundred years, not connected to anything for fifty.

Damp heat had shimmered on the dawn horizon from last night’s rain shower as he’d wrestled his father out of the truck and into the house. Thanks to the downpour few critters were out, though a rabbit or two hopped through the brush.

He listened now, picturing, pretending, just as he had as a kid, that this was how it was supposed to be.

His body longed to sleep, but his mind was too full. And his heart? He ignored that bit of himself, seeing in his mind’s eye the hurt and anger on Mandy’s face. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just stay away from her? Why did she have this...power over him? One wink, a single touch and he stopped thinking.

She wasn’t that kind of girl. She was the forever kind. Not the cab of a secondhand pickup truck in the parking lot of a run-down bar kind of girl. But that’s what she’d nearly become last night.

He mentally cursed, swearing that next time... Who was he kidding? He had no willpower when it came to Mandy. He just had to make sure there was no next time.

Exhaustion nearly claimed him—until he heard the sound of boot heels on the deck’s wood planking. His eyes shot open and he tried to sit up, only to smack his shoulder on the old table. The long shadow reaching across the wood didn’t tell him who it was. He turned.

Trina. What the hell was she doing here? He didn’t want to know. “Go away, Trina.”

He settled back down and pretended he was going back to sleep.

“Not a chance, cowboy.” She stomped over to him and he felt her shadow block the warmth of the rising sun. “What’d you say to her?”

“Who?” He could barely pretend he didn’t know who.

“Don’t try to play stupid. Mandy, that’s who.”

“Nothing.” There hadn’t been much talking going on in that truck, but he wasn’t sharing those details.

“You said or did something. She left.”

That got his attention. He opened his eyes, squinted up at her. “What do you mean, left?”

“Left. As in went away. Vanished. Gone. Bye-bye.”

Trina hadn’t been the star of all their high school drama productions for nothing.

“I’m not her keeper.”

“No, you’re certainly not,” she snapped. “You’re her loser.” She turned and stomped back to the edge of the deck. Her footsteps stopped, and he knew better than to open his eyes and look—no one had definitively proven that one of Trina’s glares couldn’t kill.