Chasing the Sun (18 page)

Blake almost choked on a rush of angry words. He wanted to hit the bastard. Grind him under his heel. Cut off his balls and stuff them down his throat.

Instead, he smiled. “Sure, Ashford. I’ll take care of it.”
And then I’ll come for you, you little pissant.
Nobody talked to Franklin Blake that way.

Ten

“NOW WAS THAT SO BAD?”

Jack stopped the pony next to the paddock rail that Daisy held in a white-knuckled grip.

“Are you asking me or Kate?” Daisy said in a strained voice.

“Go again!” Kate bounced in the saddle so vigorously her stuffed cat almost fell to the ground. “Go again. Now!”

Jack tossed the stuffed toy to Daisy, then proudly patted his daughter’s chubby knee. “A born Wilkins, aren’t you, Katie-girl?” Glancing back at Daisy, he made a subtle shift in his smile. “We’re all good riders, you know. And not just horses.”

Instead of the anticipated blush, she smirked. “I wonder if Jessica and Molly would agree.”

Undeterred, Jack leaned against the rail beside her. “Probably not as enthusiastically as their husbands might wish, but then they are older. Their husbands, I mean.”

“Get her down before she falls.”

“The ground’s soft. Besides, kids bounce.”

“Jack!”

“Okay. But don’t blame me if she starts crying.” Lifting Kate from the saddle, he settled her astride his shoulders, a hand locked around each ankle.

Kate immediately began to cry and lean toward the pony, arms outstretched.

“Uh-oh, Katie-girl.” Jack sent an I-told-you-so look to Daisy. “You’re scaring Lightning. I think he actually blinked.” Moving closer to the dozing pony, Jack turned so Kate could reach the animal’s neck. “Why don’t you pet the poor horse, Katie-girl, and make him feel better.”

Kate did as instructed, crooning, “Nice horsy,” as she wound her little fingers in the coarse black mane.

Jack smiled, enjoying his daughter and admiring the day. The sky was that sharp clear blue that came only in the early spring before dust hazed the air and the horizon disappeared behind dancing heat shimmers. And even though the mountains still wore their caps of snow and the slopes were just starting to bud, the valley floor was already such a vibrant green it reminded him of some of the tropical islands he’d visited. Standing silhouetted against it, Daisy looked as pretty as a museum painting.

“It’s a beautiful place,” Daisy said, echoing his thoughts.

“It is. Brady always says living in this valley is like going to heaven without having to die first.”

She chuckled, the sound friendly and relaxed. “And what do you think?”

With the sun bringing out the gold in her hair and eyes, and a smile tugging at her lips, she was a striking woman. He could see why he’d been attracted to her, even though he’d been in love with another woman at the time. And still was, he quickly reminded himself. “I think he needs to travel more.”

“You’re not as taken with the ranch?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Daisy. I love this country. I’m proud to be a part of it. But behind every mountain out there is another mountain, another lake or river, another city or island or ocean. And I want to see them all.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I can understand that. I’d like to travel too.”

He felt as if a connection was forming between them, something so tenuous and fragile just to acknowledge it would snap the bond. So he remained silent under her scrutiny, hoping she saw nothing that would alarm her or cause her to pull back. He told himself because of Kate it was important that Daisy accept him. But he sensed there might be more to it than that.

Kate’s high voice shattered the moment. “Go again! Go again!” She started bouncing on Jack’s shoulders so hard he had to tighten his grip on her ankles. “Ouch,” he muttered when she grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged.

Daisy raised her brows. “You started this.”

Gently lifting Kate from his shoulders, he leaned over the fence and set her on the ground beside her mother. Immediately the scamp tried to crawl through the rails to get to the horse. Laughing, he reached over and swept her up again. “How about we put Lightning away and go on a picnic?”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Daisy reminded him.

“Then we’ll go on a snack. It’s a pretty day and the walk will do you good.” Sensing hesitation, Jack gave her a lopsided grin. “Come on, Daisy. Do it for Kate. You know she’d love it.”

“She can’t walk very far. She’s still a baby, after all.”

“Not a baby!” Kate protested, squirming in Jack’s arms. “Go again.”

Shifting smoothly into his most disarming smile, Jack gave Daisy a wink. “You know you want to. I know I sure do. We’ll go to the creek.”

Daisy burst out laughing. “Does that really work?”

His grin faded. “Does what work?”

“Never mind.” Still chuckling, she pushed away from the rail. “A walk sounds nice. Watch Kate. I’ll get a few things and be back in ten minutes.”

Thirty minutes later, Daisy stood beside Jack, who had Kate and Kitty on his shoulders, and studied the flooded creek. The cottonwoods and aspens along the bank were just beginning to bud and the warm afternoon sunlight shone brightly through the web of bare branches high overhead. The sound of rushing water created a musical background to the chirp of birds darting through the brush.

The water was running high and fast, churning with sticks and tinted brown with silt from the spring runoff. Daisy suspected it would be a beautiful spot in summer, but now, with the slippery banks and swirling currents, it was too hazardous for a toddler. “I don’t think this is a safe place for a picnic,” she ventured, watching a six-foot branch bob by.

“It isn’t. Especially in spring or after a rain. It’s really dangerous then. Hank said they built a bridge farther up. We’ll cross there.”

The bridge was constructed in the same overbuilt style as the house, with two-foot-diameter logs spanning the water, anchored on either bank to huge rock and log abutments. The spanners were topped by thick, rough planks held in place by railroad spikes, and were bordered on each side by sturdy rails. The bridge was wide enough to accommodate a buckboard wagon, but Daisy still felt uneasy, knowing the rushing water had risen to within a couple of feet of the planks beneath her feet. Once on the other side, they followed a trail that wound past toppled boulders, up through a stand of spicy-scented junipers, finally ending in a large clearing atop a low ridge.

“Is this better?” Jack asked, swinging Kate off his shoulders and setting her on her feet.

Daisy would have said yes even if it weren’t. Her arms felt like they’d been stretched on a rack from carrying a pouch packed with blankets, jackets, and toys for Kate. “On the way back, I’ll carry Kate,” she said, letting it thud to the dirt.

Jack grinned over at her. “I told you we didn’t need all that.”

“You would have had us sit on the bare ground?”

His grin widened. “If you’re worried about getting our clothes dirty, we could have taken them off.”

“And gotten our ... selves ... dirty instead?” She looked askance at the sparse grass pushing up through the sandy soil. “There could be bugs and things. Lizards. Spiders even.”

“I thought you were a farm girl.”

“Living on a farm doesn’t automatically mean you like crawling things. Kate, come away from there.”

“She’s fine.” Jack moved to where his daughter clambered over a pile of rocks. “I’ll check it for snakes.”

“Snakes!” She must have shrieked it, judging by the way Kate startled and Jack flinched. “You never said there might be snakes.”

Laughing, Jack scooped his daughter up in his arms. “Your ma is such a sissy-girl. Not brave like you.” He made slurping noises against Kate’s neck, which sent the child into thrashing giggles.

“There’s brave and there’s foolish,” Daisy muttered. Bending to pull the blanket from the pouch, she felt again that prickle of uneasiness at the sudden closeness that was developing between Jack and Kate. How was she to shield Kate from the heartache that was sure to come? Resentment eddied through her. Jack was a fine playmate but more likely to chase the sun across the sky than stay in one spot. And this time it would be a confused child he would leave behind.

As she spread out the blanket, she watched Jack dig through the rocks while Kate, who still had difficulty with the
sn
combination, called, “Come out, nake,” every time he turned over a stone. With their blond heads together and their grinning faces only inches apart, they made such a beautiful picture it brought a catch to Daisy’s throat.

I could have loved this man. I did love this man.

But it wasn’t enough.

She
wasn’t enough.

Lifting her face to the warm sunshine, she willed the pain away. She’d wept enough tears over Jack Wilkins. She would never let him get past her defenses and cause her that pain again.

But how was she to protect her child?

Pushing that dreary thought aside, Daisy concentrated on enjoying the lovely day and watching Jack introduce his daughter to the wondrous treasures all around them—a bird’s nest in a low bush, mouse holes beneath the rocks, shiny bits of quartz and mica in the weeds. The man could make dirt sound grand.

Daisy smiled as pleasant memories washed over her.

Jack’s greatest gift was his passion for life. The simplest things brought him delight, and every new experience was a joyful challenge. His enthusiasm was so compelling it pulled one along like a dinghy sucked into the wake of a giant barge.

The experience was all—the moment, everything—now overshadowed past and future. It had been like a lifesaver for Daisy, newly orphaned and feeling so lost and alone when he had come into her life. He had been the light at the end of a long tunnel of loneliness. He had been the cure for her despair.

At first.

She had seen him in the Silver Spur. How could one not notice a man like Jack? Looks and stature aside, his ready smile and laughing eyes were a lure no woman could resist, although Daisy had tried.

She didn’t think much of him at first. He was just another gambler, another anonymous face. Then she heard the other women talking about Jack Wilkins and curiosity made her take a second look. What she saw was a big, laughing, cheerful man who was such a charmer even the men who gambled against him seemed to take their losses with good humor. Most of them anyway. Those who quibbled often found themselves resting on the floor for a while.

He didn’t notice her at first either, although she did find him staring at her breasts a time or two. Not surprising, since she was required to wear a low-cut gown when she sang. A whore dress really. Daisy had a time of it convincing the men ogling her that she was a singer and not a prostitute. But Jack didn’t seem to see her that way. In fact, he rarely looked at her at all. Above the neck anyway. Which left her free to look at him.

He was handsome, for sure. Clean-shaven, with dark brows and lashes in contrast to sandy, sun-bleached hair. Eyes the color of storm clouds, as changeable as smoke, the irises edged with dark bands that made them even more distinctive. Despite his size, he moved with the controlled assurance of a man comfortable in his own skin. He didn’t gloat over his wins or pout over his losses, and laughed with the same good-natured enthusiasm when he brawled, whether he was giving damage or receiving it. He wasn’t a smoker and despite his high spirits, he wasn’t that much of a drinker either.

At first.

Then something changed.

For over two months she had watched him every night as she sang. He had become the one joyful aspect of her dreary evenings, one of the few faces that didn’t reflect back her own despair and helplessness. She needed his easy smile and deep laughter to counterbalance the empty days, the bleakness of harsh reality.

Then suddenly it was gone. The laughter, the joy, the easy banter with the other gamblers. It was as if Jack Wilkins had died. Or someone close to him had.

He began to drink more and more. He gambled foolishly, lost more often than not, and erupted in violence at the slightest provocation. Soon no one would sit at the table with him, so he sat in a shadowed corner and drank alone.

She missed him. Even though they had never spoken, she felt the loss of the man she had come to think of as almost a friend. Until one evening, when she had felt more depressed than usual, and she had sung a sad Irish ballad about a briar and a rose that told of heartbreak and lost love.

Halfway through the second chorus, he lurched to his feet so abruptly his chair toppled to the floor. Teeth bared, his face twisted in fury, he stumbled toward her.

Daisy stood frozen, words caught in her throat, not sure what to do, or why he was so angry. She tried to continue the song, but suddenly he was looming over her.

“Don’t,” he said hoarsely.

She shrank back as he reached out and clamped his big hand around her jaw in a firm, but not hurtful grip.

“Don’t sing that. Don’t say it. Just ... don’t.”

She stared into bleak, empty eyes and felt something long smothered stir within her. Empathy. Pity. A reflection of her own pain perhaps. It sang through her veins in a refrain no woman could ignore.