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Home on the Ranch
Allison Leigh
SIX FOOT-PLUS OF RUGGED, UNSMILING MALE STOOD THERE…Cage Buchanan hated her. The proud rancher might have hired Belle Day out of sheer desperation, but she was determined to help heal his injured daughter. Now here she was, installed at the Lazy-B Ranch, trying not to respond to this ornery, overbearing, incredibly arousing man.Cage was at the end of his rope. What else explained inviting a Day to live under the same roof? His daughter, Lucy, was Cage's first priority, but with her sexy therapist around, it was hard to focus on daily chores. What would it take to turn passionate enemies into lovers for life…and, together, make a real home on the ranch?



“I’m sorry.”
Belle shivered. She tugged away from his hold, that wasn’t really a hold at all when Cage let go of her so easily, and she was grateful she hadn’t betrayed the way he made her feel.
“I’m sorry, too,” she whispered.
About so many things.
She walked out, leaving Cage standing there in the barn, surrounded by weights and mats and bars and bells, all procured with the intention of helping his daughter walk and run and dance again.
Just then, however, it felt to Belle as if she and Cage were the ones in need of walking lessons.
Dear Reader,
It’s that time of year again—back to school! And even if you’ve left your classroom days far behind you, if you’re like me, September brings with it the quest for everything new, especially books! We at Silhouette Special Edition are happy to fulfill that jones, beginning with Home on the Ranch by Allison Leigh, another in her bestselling MEN OF THE DOUBLE-C series. Though the Buchanans and the Days had been at odds for years, a single Buchanan rancher—Cage—would do anything to help his daughter learn to walk again, including hiring the only reliable physical therapist around. Even if her last name did happen to be Day….
Next, THE PARKS EMPIRE continues with Judy Duarte’s The Rich Man’s Son, in which a wealthy Parks scion, suffering from amnesia, winds up living the country life with a single mother and her baby boy. And a man passing through town notices more than the passing resemblance between himself and newly adopted infant of the local diner waitress, in The Baby They Both Loved by Nikki Benjamin. In A Father’s Sacrifice by Karen Sandler, a man determined to do the right thing insists that the mother of his child marry him, and finds love in the bargain. And a woman’s search for the truth about her late father leads her into the arms of a handsome cowboy determined to give her the life her dad had always wanted for her, in A Texas Tale by Judith Lyons. Last, a man with a new face revisits the ranch—and the woman—that used to be his. Only, the woman he’d always loved was no longer alone. Now she was accompanied by a five-year-old girl…with very familiar blue eyes….
Enjoy, and come back next month for six complex and satisfying romances, all from Silhouette Special Edition!
Gail Chasan
Senior Editor

Home on the Ranch
Allison Leigh


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ALLISON LEIGH
started early by writing a Halloween play that her grade-school class performed. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.
She has been a finalist in the RITA
Award and the Holt Medallion contests. But the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from a reader that they laughed, cried or lost a night of sleep while reading one of her books.
Born in Southern California, Allison has lived in several different cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighborhood church, and currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at P.O. Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772.



Contents
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
Epilogue

Chapter One
“He is not an ogre.”
Belle Day flicked her windshield wipers up to frenzied and tightened her grip around the steering wheel of her Jeep. She focused harder on the unfamiliar road, slowing even more to avoid the worst of the flooding, muddy ruts.
It wasn’t the weather, or the road, or the unfamiliar drive that had her nerves in a noose, though. It was the person waiting at the end of the drive.
“He is not an ogre.” Stupid talking to herself. She’d have to keep that to a minimum when she arrived. Not that she did it all the time.
Only when she was nervous.
Why had she agreed to this?
Her tire hit a dip her searching gaze had missed, and the vehicle rocked, the steering wheel jerking violently in her grip. She exhaled roughly and considered pulling over, but discarded the idea. The sooner she got to the Lazy-B, the sooner she could leave.
Not exactly positive thinking, Belle. Why are you doing this?
Her fingers tightened a little more on the wheel. “Lucy,” she murmured. Because she wanted to help young Lucy Buchanan. Wanted to help her badly enough to put up with Lucy’s father, Cage.
Who was not an ogre. Just because the therapist she was replacing had made enough complaints about her brief time here that they’d found a way through Weaver’s grapevine didn’t mean her experience would be similar.
That’s not the only reason. She ignored the whispered thought. The road curved again, and she saw the hooked tree Cage had told her to watch for. Another quarter mile to go.
At least the ruts in the road were smoothing out and she stopped worrying so much about bouncing off into the ditch. The rain was still pouring down, though. Where the storm had come from after weeks of bonedry weather, she had no idea. Maybe it had been specially ordered up to provide an auspicious beginning to her task.
She shook her head at the nonsense running through it, and slowed before the quarter-mile mark. It was raining and that was a good thing for a state that had been too dry for too long. She finally turned off the rutted road.
The gate that greeted her was firmly closed. She studied it for a moment, but of course the thing didn’t magically open simply because she wished it.
She let out a long breath, pushed open the door and dashed into the rain. Her tennis shoes slid on the slick mud and she barely caught herself from landing on her butt. By the time she’d unhooked the wide, swinging gate, she was drenched. She drove through, then got out again and closed it. And then, because she couldn’t possibly get any wetter unless she jumped in a river, she peered through the sheet of rain at Cage Buchanan’s home.
It was hardly an impressive sight. Small. No frills. A porch ran across the front of the house, only partially softening the brick dwelling. But the place did look sturdy, as the rain sluiced from the roof, gushing out the gutter spouts.
She slicked back her hair and climbed into her Jeep once more to drive the rest of the way. She parked near the front of the house. Despite the weather, the door was open, but there was a wooden screen. She couldn’t see much beyond it, though.
She grabbed her suitcase with one wet hand before shoving out of the Jeep, then darted up the narrow edge of porch steps not covered by a wheelchair ramp. A damp golden retriever sat up to greet her, thumping his tail a few times.
“You the guard dog?” Belle let the curious dog sniff her hand as she skimmed the soles of her shoes over the edge of one of the steps. The rain immediately turned the clumps of mud into brick-red rivulets that flowed down over the steps. Beneath the protection of the porch overhang, she wiped her face again, and flicked her hair behind her shoulders. Of all days not to put it in a ponytail. She couldn’t have arrived looking more pathetic if she’d tried.
She knocked on the frame of the screen door, trying not to be obvious about peering inside and trying to pretend she wasn’t shivering. Even sopping wet, she wasn’t particularly cold. Which meant the shivers were mostly nerves and she hated that.
She knocked harder. The dog beside her gave a soft woof.
“Ms. Day!” A young, cheerful voice came from inside the door, then Belle saw Lucy wheel into view. “The door’s open. Better leave Strudel outside, though.”
“Strudel, huh?” Belle gave the dog a sympathetic pat. “Sorry, fella.” She went inside, ignoring another rash of shivers that racked through her. It was a little harder to ignore Strudel’s faint whine when she closed the screen on him, though.
She set her suitcase on the wood-planked floor, taking in the interior of the house with a quick glance. Old-fashioned furnishings dominated mostly by a fading cabbage rose print. An antique-looking upright piano sat against one wall, an older model TV against the other. The room was clean but not overly tidy, except for the complete lack of floor coverings. Not even a scatter rug to quiet the slow drip of water puddling around her.
She looked at the girl who was the reason for her waterlogged trek. “Your hair has grown.” Too thin, she thought. And too pale. But Lucy’s blue eyes sparkled and her golden hair gleamed.
Lucy dimpled and ran a hand down the braid that rested over her thin shoulder. “It’s dry, too. Come on. We’ll get you some towels.” She turned her chair with practiced movements.
Belle quickly followed. Her tennis shoes gave out a wet squeak with each step. They were considerably louder than the soft turn of Lucy’s wheelchair.
She glanced through to the kitchen when they passed it. Empty. More than a few dishes sat stacked in the white sink. The stove looked ancient but well preserved.
“This is my room.” Lucy waved a hand as she turned her chair on a dime, stopping toward the end of the hall, unadorned except for a bookshelf weighted down with paperbacks. “Used to be Dad’s, but we switched ’cause of the stairs.” She smiled mischievously. “Now I have my own bathroom.”
Belle’s gaze drifted to the staircase. “And up there was your old room?”
“Yeah, but the bathroom’s in the hall. Not the same. There’s an empty room up there, though. You don’t have to sleep, like, on the couch or nothing.”
Belle smiled. “I know. Your dad told me I’d have my own room.” She hoped the two upstairs rooms were at least at opposite ends of the hall.
She walked into Lucy’s bedroom. It may have been temporarily assigned because of Lucy’s situation, but it bore no sign that it had ever been anything but a twelve-year old girl’s bedroom. There was pink…everywhere. Cage had even painted the walls pale pink. And in those rare places where there wasn’t pink, there was purple. Shiny, glittery purple.
Hiding her thoughts, she winked cheerfully at Lucy and squished into the bathroom where the towels were—surprise, surprise—pink with purple stripes. As she bent over hurriedly scrubbing her hair between a towel to take the worst of the moisture out, she heard the roll of Lucy’s chair. “Is your dad around?” She couldn’t put off meeting with him forever, after all. He was employing her. He’d hired her to provide both the physical therapy his daughter needed following a horseback-riding accident several months ago, and the tutoring she needed to make up for the months of school she’d missed as a result.
Lucy didn’t answer and she straightened, flinging the towel around her shoulders, turning. “Lucy? Oh.”
Six plus feet of rangy muscle stood there, topped by sharply carved features, bronze hair that would be wavy if he let it grow beyond two inches and eyes so pale a blue they were vaguely heart stopping.
“I guess you are.” She pushed her lips into a smile that, not surprisingly, Cage Buchanan didn’t return. He’d hired her out of desperation, and they both knew it.
After all, he loathed the ground she walked.
“You drove out here in this weather.”
Her smile stiffened even more. In fact, a sideways glance at the mirror over the sink told her the stretch of her lips didn’t much qualify for even a stiff smile. “So it would seem.” It was easier to look beyond him at Lucy, so that’s what she did. “Sooner we get started, the better. Right Lucy?”
For the first time, Belle saw Lucy’s expression darken. The girl’s lips twisted and she looked away.
So, chalk one up for the efficiency of Weaver’s grapevine again. Judging by the girl’s expression, the rumor about Lucy’s attitude toward her physical therapy was true.
Belle looked back at Cage. She knew he’d lived on the Lazy-B his entire life. Had been running it, so the stories went, since he’d been in short pants.
Yet she could count their encounters in person on one hand.
None of the occasions had been remotely pleasant.
Belle had had her first personal encounter with Cage before Lucy’s accident over the issue of Lucy going on a school field trip to Chicago. Lucy had been the only kid in her class who hadn’t been allowed to go on the weeklong trip. Belle—as the newest school employee—had been drafted into chaperone service and had foolishly thought she’d be able to talk Cage into changing his mind.
She’d been wrong. He’d accused her of being interfering and flatly told her to stay out of his business.
It had not been pleasant.
Had she learned her lesson, though? Had she given up the need to somehow give something back to his family? No.
Which only added to her tangle of feelings where Cage Buchanan was concerned. Feelings that had existed long before she’d come to Weaver six months ago with great chunks of her life pretty much in tatters.
“Did you bring a suitcase?”
She nodded. “I, um, left it by the front door.”
He inclined his head a few degrees and his gaze drifted impassively down her wet form. “I’ll take it upstairs for you.”
“I can—” But he’d already turned on his heel, walking away. Soundless, even though he was wearing scuffed cowboy boots with decidedly worn-down heels.
If she hadn’t had a stepfamily full of men who walked with the same soundless gait, she’d have spent endless time wondering how he could move so quietly.
She looked back at Lucy and smiled. A real one. She’d enjoyed Lucy from the day they’d met half a year ago in the P.E. class Belle had been substitute teaching. And she’d be darned if she’d let her feelings toward the sweet girl be tainted by the past. “So, that’s a lot of ribbons and trophies on that shelf over there.” She gestured at the far wall and headed toward it, skirting the pink canopied bed. “Looks like you’ve been collecting them for a lot of years. What are they all for?”
“State Fair. 4-H.” Lucy rolled her chair closer.
Belle plucked one small gold trophy off the shelf. “And this one?”
“Last year’s talent contest.”
Belle ran her finger over the brass plate affixed to the trophy base. “First place. I’m not surprised.” Belle had still been in Cheyenne then with no plans whatsoever about coming to Weaver for any reason other than to visit her family. Her plans back then had involved planning her wedding and obtaining some seniority at the clinic.
So much for that.
“Won’t be in the contest this year, that’s for sure.”
“Because you’re not dancing at the moment?” Belle set the trophy back in its place. “You could sing.” She ignored Lucy’s soft snort. “Or play piano. I thought I remembered you telling me once that you took lessons.”
“I did.”
“But not now?”
Lucy shrugged. Her shoulders were impossibly thin. Everything about her screamed “delicate” but Belle knew the girl was made of pretty stern stuff.
“Yeah, I still take lessons. But it doesn’t matter. If I can’t dance then I don’t want to be in the contest. It’s stupid anyway. Just a bunch of schoolkids.”
“I don’t know about stupid,” Belle countered easily. Most talented school kids from all over the state. “But we can focus on next year.” She took the towel from her shoulders and folded it, then sat on top of it on the end of Lucy’s bed. She leaned forward and touched the girl’s knee. The wicked scar marring Lucy’s skin was long and angry. “Don’t look so down, kiddo. People can do amazing things when they really want. Remember, I’ve seen you in action. And I already think you’re pretty amazing.”
“Miss Day.”
Belle jerked a little. Cage Buchanan was standing in the doorway again. She kept her smile in place, but it took some work. “You’d better start calling me Belle,” she suggested, deliberately cheerful. “Both of you. Or I’m not going to realize you’re talking to me.”
“The students called you Miss Day during the school year,” he countered smoothly.
“You’re not a student, Cage.” She pointedly used his name. More to prove that she could address the man directly than to disprove that whole ogre thing. The fact was, she knew he was deliberately focusing on her surname. And she knew why.
She was a Day. And he hated the Day family.
His eyes were impossible to read. Intensely blue but completely inscrutable. “I need a few minutes of your time. Then you can…settle in.”
Belle hoped she imagined his hesitation before settle. Despite everything, she wasn’t prepared to be sent out on her ear before she’d even had a session with Lucy. For one thing, she really wanted to help the girl. For another, her ego hadn’t exactly recovered from its last professional blow.
She was aware of Lucy watching her, a worried expression on her face. And she absolutely did not want to worry the girl. It wasn’t Lucy’s problem that she had a…slight…problem with the girl’s dad. “Sure.” She rose, taking the towel with her. “Then I’ll change into something dry, and you—” she gently tugged the end of Lucy’s braid “—and I can get started.”
The girl’s expression was hardly a symphony of excitement. But she did eventually nod, and Belle was happy for that.
She squeaked across the floor in her wet sneakers and, because Cage didn’t look as if he would be moving anytime this century, she slipped past him into the hall. He was tall and he was broad and she absolutely did not touch him, yet she still tamped down hard on a shiver.
Darned nerves.
“Kitchen,” he said.
Ogre, she thought, then mentally kicked herself. He was a victim of circumstances far more than she was. And he had painted his bedroom pink for Lucy, for heaven’s sake. Was that the mark of an ogre?
She turned into the kitchen.
“Sit down.”
There were three chairs around an old-fashioned table that—had it been in someone else’s home—would have been delightfully retro. Here, it obviously was original, rather than a decorating statement. She sat down on one of the chairs and folded her hands together atop the table, waiting expectantly. If he wanted to send her home already, then he would just have to say so because she wasn’t going to invite the words from him. She’d had enough of failure lately, thank you very much.
But in the game of staring, she realized all too quickly that he was a master. And she…was not.
So she bluffed. She lifted her eyebrows, doing the best imitation of her mother that she could summon, and said calmly, “Well?”
Interfering, Cage thought, eying her oval face. Interfering, annoyingly superior, and—even wet and bedraggled—too disturbing for his peace of mind.
But more than that, she’d managed to make him feel out of place. And Cage particularly didn’t like that feeling.
But damned if that wasn’t just the way he felt standing there in his own kitchen, looking at the skinny, wet woman sitting at the breakfast table where he’d grown up eating his mother’s biscuits and sausage gravy. And it was nobody’s fault but his own that Miss Belle Day—with her imperiously raised eyebrows and waist-length brown hair—was there at all.
He pulled out a chair, flipped it around and straddled it, then focused on the folder sitting on the table, rather than on Belle. This was about his daughter, and there wasn’t much in this world he wouldn’t do for Lucy. Including put up with a member of the Day family, who up until a few years ago had remained a comfortable distance away in Cheyenne.
If only she wasn’t…disturbing. If only he hadn’t felt that way from the day they’d met half a year ago.
Too many “if onlys.” Particularly for a man who’d been baptized in the art of dealing with reality for more years than he could remember.
He flipped open the folder, reining in his thoughts. “Doctors’ reports.” He shoved a sheaf of papers toward her. “Notes from the last two PTs.” Two different physical therapists. Two failures. He was running out of patience, which he’d already admitted to her two weeks ago when he’d flatly told her why the other two hadn’t worked out; and he was definitely running out of money, which he had no intention of ever admitting to her.
He watched Belle’s long fingers close over the papers as she drew them closer to read. He pinched the bridge of his nose before realizing he was even doing it. Maybe that’s what came from having a headache for so many months now.
“Your last therapist—” Belle tilted her head, studying the writing, and a lock of tangled hair brushed the table, clinging wetly “—Annette Barrone. This was her schedule with Lucy?” She held up a report.
“Yeah.”
She shook her head slightly and kept reading. “It’s not a very aggressive plan.”
“Lucy’s only twelve.”
Belle’s gaze flicked up and met his, then flicked away. He wondered if she thought the same thing he’d thought. That Annette had been more interested in impressing her way into his bed than getting his daughter out of her wheelchair.
But she didn’t comment on that. “Lucy’s not an ordinary twelve-year-old, though,” she murmured. The papers rustled in the silent kitchen as she turned one thin sheet to peruse the next. Her thumb tapped rhythmically against the corner of the folder.
“My daughter is not abnormal.”
Her thumb paused. She looked up again. Her eyes, as rich a brown as the thick lashes that surrounded them, narrowed. “Of course she’s not abnormal. I never suggested she was.” She moistened her lips, then suddenly closed the folder and rested her slender forearms on top of it, leaning toward him across the table. “What I am saying is that Lucy is highly athletic. Her ballet dancing. Her riding. School sports. She is only twelve, yes. But she’s still an athlete, and her therapy should reflect that, if there’s to be any hope of a full recovery. That’s what you want, right?” Her gaze never strayed from his.
He eyed her. “You’re here.”
She looked a little uneasy for a moment. “Right. Of course. You wouldn’t keep hunting up therapists who are willing to come all the way out here to the Lazy-B on a lark. But my point is that you could just drive her into town for sessions a few times a week. She could even have her tutoring done in town. All of her teachers want to see her be able to start school again in the fall with her class, rather than falling behind.” Her lips curved slightly. “The cost for the therapy would be considerably less if you went into town. You could have a therapist of your choice work with Lucy at the Weaver hospital. I know the place isn’t entirely state of the art, but it’s so new and the basics are there—”
“I’ll worry about the cost.” That faint smile of hers died at his interruption. “You’re supposed to be good at what you do. Are you?”
Her expression tightened. “I’m going to help Lucy.”
It wasn’t exactly an answer. But Cage cared about two things. Lucy and the Lazy-B. He was damned if he’d admit how close he was to losing both. Like it or not, he needed Belle Day.
And he hoped his father wasn’t rolling over in his grave that this woman was temporarily living on the ranch that had been in the Buchanan family for generations.
He stood, unable to stand sitting there for another minute. “Set whatever schedule you need. Your stuff is in the room upstairs at the end of the hall. Get yourself dry. I’ve got work to do.”
He ignored her parted lips—as if she was about to speak—and strode out of the room.
The sooner Belle did what he hired her for and went on her way, the better. They didn’t have to like each other. The only thing he cared about was that she help Lucy and prove that he could provide the best for his daughter.
Once Belle Day had done that, she could take her skinny, sexy body and interfering ways and stay the hell out of his life.

Chapter Two
The rain continued the rest of the afternoon, finally slowing after dinner, which Belle and Lucy ate alone. Cage had shown his face briefly before then, but only to tell Lucy to heat up something from the fridge and not to wait on him. Belle had seen the shadow in Lucy’s eyes at that, though the girl didn’t give a hint to her father that she was disappointed. And it was that expression that kept haunting Belle later that evening after Lucy had gone to bed. Haunted her enough that she didn’t close herself up in the guest room to avoid any chance encounter with Cage.
Instead, she hung around in the living room, knowing that sooner or later he would have to pass through the room in order to go upstairs. But, either she underestimated his intention to avoid her as much as possible, or he had enough bookkeeping to keep him busy for hours on end in his cramped little office beyond the stairs.
When she realized her nose was in danger of hitting the pages of the mystery she’d borrowed from the hallway shelf, she finally gave up and went upstairs. Walked past the bedroom that Cage had traded with his daughter. The door was open and she halted, took a step back, looking through the doorway. There was only the soft light from the hall to go by, but it was enough to see that the room was pink.
He hadn’t painted over the walls in Lucy’s original room as if she was never going to be able to return to it.
She chose to take that as a good sign. All too many people entered physical therapy without really believing they’d come out on the other side.
Though the room was pink, it still looked spare. All she could see from her vantage point was the bed with a dark-colored quilt tossed over the top, a dresser and a nightstand with a framed photograph sitting on it. The photo was angled toward the bed.
“Something interesting in there?”
She jerked and looked back to see Cage stepping up onto the landing. He looked as tired as she felt. “Pink,” she said, feeling foolish.
His long fingers closed over the newel post at the head of the stairs. He had a ragged-looking bandage covering the tip of his index finger. She’d noticed it earlier. Had squelched the suggestion that she rewrap it for him, knowing it wouldn’t be welcomed.
His eyebrows pulled together. “What?”
She gestured vaguely. “The walls. They’re pink. I was just noticing that, I mean.”
“Luce likes pink.” His lashes hid his expression. “She’s a girl.”
“My sister likes pink.” Belle winced inwardly. What an inane conversation.
“And you?”
“And I…what?” He probably thought she was an idiot.
“Don’t like pink?”
“No. No, pink is fine. But I’m more of a, um, a red girl.”
His lips lifted humorlessly. “Pink before it’s diluted. You fixed pizza.”
She blinked a little at the abrupt shift. “Veggie pizza. There’s some left in the refrigerator.”
“I know. And I’m not paying you to play cook.”
That derailed her for half a moment. But she rallied quickly. Anyone with two eyes in their head could see the Buchanans could use a helping hand. “I didn’t mind and Lucy—”
“I mind.”
She stiffened. Did he expect her to assure him it wouldn’t happen again? “The whole wheat pizza and fresh vegetables, the fact that Lucy didn’t want to eat that leftover roast beef you told her to eat, or the fact that I dared to use your kitchen? Any other rules I need to know about?”
Apparently, he didn’t recognize that her facetious comment required no answer. “Stay away from the stables.”
“Afraid a Day might hurt the horses? Why did you even bother talking me into taking this job?”
“The horse that threw Lucy is in the stable. I don’t want her tempted to go there, and if you do, she’ll want to, as well. And the only thing my daughter needs from you is your expertise.”
“Which, by your tone, it would seem you doubt I possess. Again, it makes me wonder why you came to me, not once but twice, to get me to take on Lucy’s case for the summer.” The hallway seemed to be shrinking. Or maybe it was her irritation taking up more space as it grew.
“You have the right credentials.”
“Just the wrong pedigree.” Her flat statement hovered in the air between them.
Every angle of his sharp features tightened. “Is your room comfortable enough?”
“It’s fine.” She eyed him and wondered how a man she barely knew could be so intertwined in her life. “Sooner or later we might as well talk about it.” His expression didn’t change and she exhaled. “Cage, what happened was tragic, but it was a long time ago.” She ought to know.
Finally, some life entered his flinty features, and his expression was so abruptly, fiercely alive that she actually took a step back, earning a bump of her elbow against the wall behind her.
“A long time ago?” His bronze hair seemed to ripple along with the coldness in his voice as he towered over her. “I’ll mention that to my mother next time I visit her. Of course, she probably won’t mind, since she barely remembers one day to the next.”
Belle’s stomach clenched. Not with fear, but sympathy and guilt. And she knew he’d never in a million years accept those sentiments from her, if he even believed she was capable of experiencing it.
She’d heard he was overbearing. But he believed she was the daughter of a devil.
She folded her hands together. Well, she’d been warned, hadn’t she? “This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come here. You…you should bring Lucy into Weaver. I will work with her there.” She didn’t officially have hospital privileges, but she had a few connections who could help arrange it, namely her stepsister-in-law, Dr. Rebecca Clay. And it didn’t matter where Belle and Lucy did the tutoring.
“I want you here. I’ve told you that.”
Belle pushed her fingers through her hair, raking it back from her face. “But, Cage. It just doesn’t make any sense. Yes, I know it’s a long drive to make every few days into town, but—”
His teeth flashed in a barely controlled grimace. “My daughter will have the best care there is. If that seems extravagant to you, I don’t care. Now, are we going to have this—” he barely hesitated “—discussion every time we turn around? Because I’d prefer to see something more productive out of your presence here. God knows I’m paying you enough.”
She sank her teeth into her tongue to keep from telling him what he could do with that particular compensation. Compensation they both knew was considerably less than she could have charged. “I’d like my time to be productive, too,” she said honestly. “I have no desire to spend unnecessary time under your roof.”
“Well, there’s something we agree on, then.”
Her fingers were curled so tightly against her palms that even her short nails were causing pain. “And here’s something else we’d better agree on.” She kept her voice low, in deference to Lucy sleeping downstairs. “Lucy doesn’t need the added stress of knowing you detest me, so maybe you could work on summoning a little…well, friendliness is probably asking too much. But if Lucy senses that you don’t trust me to do my best with her, then she’s not going to, either, no matter how well she and I got along when she was in my P.E. class.”
“I don’t need you telling me what my daughter needs. I’ve been her only parent since she was born.”
“And it’s amazing that she’s turned out as well as she has.” She winced at the unkind words. “I’m sorry. That was—”
“True enough.” He didn’t look particularly offended. “She is amazing.”
Belle nibbled the inside of her lip as thick silence settled over them. Should she have listened to her mother’s warning that she was getting in over her head? Not because of the skill she would require to work with Lucy—as her therapist as well as a tutor—but because of who Lucy was?
Probably.
She sighed a little and pressed her palms together. “Lucy is a great kid, Cage. And I really do want to help her.” That was the whole point of all this.
Mostly.
A muscle flexed in his jaw and his gaze slid sideways, as if he was trying to see the bedroom downstairs where his daughter slept. “If I believed you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”
Which, apparently, was as much a concession as she was likely to get out of the man. For now, anyway. Fortunately, somewhere in her life she’d learned that a retreat didn’t always signify defeat.
“Well. I guess I’ll hit the sack.” She was twenty-seven years old, but she still felt her face heat at the words. As if the man didn’t know she’d be climbing into bed under his roof. She was such a head case. Better to focus on the job. The last time he’d come to her house—after she’d already refused Lucy’s case once—he’d admitted that he’d fired Annette Barrone because of her overactive hormones. Belle had assured him that he had no worries from her on that score.
As if.
“I went over and checked out the barn earlier,” she said evenly when neither one of them moved. “The setup is remarkable.” And another indication of his devotion to his daughter. Every piece of equipment that she could have wished for had been there, and then some. The hospital in town should only be so lucky. “I rearranged things a little. If that’s all right.”
Now, his hooded gaze slid back over her face. And she refused to acknowledge that the shiver creeping up her spine had anything to do with his intensely blue gaze.
“Use your judgment.”
She nodded. “Okay, then.” The door to her bedroom was within arm’s reach. Not at all at opposite ends of the hall from his. “Good night.” She wished he would turn into his own bedroom. But he just stood there. And feeling idiotic, she unplastered her back from the wall behind her and went through the door, quickly shutting it behind her.
A moment later, she heard the squeak of a floorboard, and the close of another door.
Relief sagged through her. After changing into her pajamas, she crossed to the bed and sat on it, dragging her leather backpack-style purse up beside her. She rummaged through it until she found her cell phone and quickly dialed.
A moment later, her sister, Nikki, answered with no ceremony. “So, are you there?”
Belle propped the pillow behind her and scooted back against it. The iron-frame bed squeaked softly, as if to remind her that it had survived years and years of use. It was a vaguely comforting sound. “Yes.” She kept her voice low. The house might be sturdy, but the walls were thin enough that she could hear the rush of the shower from the bathroom across the hall.
She stared hard at the log-cabin pattern of the quilt beneath her until the image that thought brought about faded. “The drive was hellacious in the rain.”
“Well, we’ve heard Squire say often enough that Cage Buchanan doesn’t like visitors, so there’s not a lot of need for him to make sure the road is easy.”
“I know.” Squire Clay was their stepfather, having married their mother several years earlier. She tugged at her ear. “Anyway, I know it’s late. You were probably already in bed.”
“It’s okay. I wouldn’t have slept until I knew you hadn’t been beheaded at the guy’s front door.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“Not bad to look at, maybe. I still can’t believe you took this job. What do you hope to prove, anyway?”
“Nothing,” Belle insisted. “It’s just a job to fill the summer until—” if “—I come back to the clinic.”
Nikki snorted softly. “Maybe. But I’m betting you think this is your last chance to prove to yourself that you’re not a failure.”
Belle winced. “Don’t be ridiculous, Nik.”
“Come on, Belle. What other reason would have finally made you agree to that man’s request?”
“That man has a name.”
Nikki’s sudden silence was telling. That was the problem with having a twin. But Belle was not going to get into some deep discussion over her motivation in taking on this particular job. “Speaking of the clinic,” she said deliberately. “How are things there?”
“Fine.”
Now it was Belle’s turn to remain silent.
“They still haven’t hired anyone to replace you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Nikki finally said after a breathy huff.
“That’s something, at least.” And a bit of a minor miracle, given the number of patients the prestigious clinic handled. She still wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t because of the position her sister held as administrative assistant to the boss that Belle had been put on a leave of absence rather than being dismissed.
“And I know you’re wondering but won’t ask,” Nikki went on. “So I’ll just tell you. Scott’s only coming in once a week now.”
She wasn’t sure how she felt at the mention of him. A patient she hadn’t managed to completely rehabilitate. Briefly a fiancé she shouldn’t have completely trusted. “You’ve seen him?”
“Are you kidding? I hide out in my office. If I saw Scott Langtree in person, I’d be liable to kick him.” Nikki paused for a moment and when she spoke, her voice was acid. “She comes with him, now, apparently. Has most of the staff in a snit because she’s so arrogant. Not that I’m condoning what Scott did, but from what people around here are saying about his wife, it’s no wonder the man was on the prowl for someone else.”
Belle plucked at the point of a quilted star. “But you haven’t seen her?”
“Nope. And I consider that a good thing. I’d have something to say to her, too, and then I’d have my tail in a sling at work, just like you.”
Belle smiled faintly. Nikki was her champion and always had been. “Hardly like me. You’d never be stupid enough to fall for a guy who already had a wife.”
“And you wouldn’t have fallen for Scott, either, if he hadn’t lied about being married,” Nikki said after a moment. “Good grief, Belle. The man proposed to you and everything. It’s not your fault that he left out the rather significant detail that he wasn’t free to walk another aisle.”
“I caused a scandal there.”
“Scott created the scandal,” Nikki countered rapidly, “and it was half a year ago, yet you’re still punishing yourself.”
Belle wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. Her relationship with Scott Langtree had caused a scandal. One large enough to create the urgent need for Belle to take a leave of absence until the furor died down. But it wasn’t even the scandal that weighed on Belle so much as the things Scott had told her in the end.
Things she didn’t want to dwell on. Things like being a failure on every front. Personal. Professional. Things that a secret part of her feared could be true.
“So,” she sat up a little straighter, determined. “Other than…that…how are things going at work? Did you get that raise you wanted?”
“Um. No. Not yet.”
“Did you ask for it?”
“No. But—”
“But nothing. Nik, you stand up for me all the time. You’ve got to stand up for yourself, too. Alex would be lost without you, and it’s high time he started realizing it. I swear, it would serve the man right if you quit.” But she knew Nikki wasn’t likely to do that. Alexander Reed ran the Huffington Sports Clinic, including its various locations around the country. He had degrees up the whazoo, and was a business marvel, according to Nikki.
Belle just found the man intimidating as all get-out, but had still worked her tail off to get a position there.
A position she was going back to, she assured herself inwardly.
“So, what’s he like? Cage, I mean. As ornery as everyone says?”
Belle accepted Nikki’s abrupt change of topic. Alex was too sensitive a subject for her sister to discuss for long. “He is not an ogre,” she recited softly.
Nikki laughed a little. “Keep telling yourself that, Annabelle.”
Belle smiled. “It’s late. Get some sleep. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Watch your back,” Nikki said, and hung up.
Belle thumbed off her phone and set it on the nightstand. She didn’t need to watch her back where Cage Buchanan was concerned. But that didn’t mean she would be foolish enough to let down her guard, either.
The bed squeaked again when she lay down and yanked the quilt up over her. Even though the day hadn’t been filled with much physical activity, she was exhausted. But as soon as her head hit the pillow, her eyes simply refused to shut, and she lay there long into the night, puzzling over the man who slept on the other side of the bedroom wall.
When he heard the soft creak of bedsprings for the hundredth time, Cage tossed aside the book he was reading and glared at the wall between the two bedrooms. Even sleeping, the woman was an irritant, and as soon as she was busy for the day, he was going to oil her bedsprings.
The last thing he needed night after night was to hear the sound of that woman’s slightest movement in the bed that was so old it had been ancient even when he’d used it as a kid.
He hadn’t noticed the squeaks before. Not with either therapist. Hattie McDonald with her militant aversion to smiles and her equally strong dislike for the remoteness of his ranch, nor Annette Barrone who’d made it clear she’d rather be sleeping in his room, anyway.
He climbed out of bed—fortunately a newer model than the one next door—and pulled on his jeans. He’d never been prone to sleeplessness until six months ago when he’d gotten the first letter from Lucy’s mother. A helluva way to kick off the New Year. She wanted to see her daughter, she’d claimed. A daughter she’d never even wanted to have in the first place. He’d put her off, not believing her threat that she’d enlist her parents if he didn’t comply. When he’d known Sandi, she’d wanted nothing to do with her parents beyond spending her tidy trust fund in any manner sure to earn their dismay.
Only she hadn’t been bluffing. And it was a lot harder to ignore the demand for access to Lucy when it came from Sandi’s parents. Particularly when it was backed up by their family attorneys.
Then came Lucy’s accident several weeks later and his insomnia had only gotten worse. In the past week, with Belle Day’s arrival pending, it was a rare night if he got more than an hour or two of sleep at a stretch. It was pretty damn frustrating.
He’d given up coffee, counted sheep and even drunk some god-awful tea that Emmy Johannson—one of the few people he tolerated in Weaver—had suggested. Nothing had worked.
And now he could add Belle Day’s bed-creaking presence to his nightly irritations.
Barefoot, he left his bedroom. He could no more not glare at her closed door than he could get a full night’s sleep these days.
He went downstairs, automatically stepping around the treads that had their own squeak, and looked in on Lucy. She’d kicked off her blankets again and he went inside, carefully smoothing them back in place. She sighed and turned on her side, tucking her hands together beneath her cheek in the same way she’d done since she was only months old.
There were times it seemed like twelve minutes hadn’t passed since then, much less twelve years. Yet here she was, on the eve of becoming a teenager.
That was the problem with baby girls.
They grew up and started thinking they weren’t their dad’s baby girl anymore.
He left her room, leaving the door ajar so he could hear if she cried out in her sleep. Since she’d been thrown off that damn horse he should have sent back to her grandparents the day it arrived, she’d been plagued in her sleep almost as much as Cage.
He didn’t need any light to guide him as he went through the house. The place was as familiar to him as his own face. Nearly the only thing that had changed since his childhood was the bed he’d just left behind and, if he’d had any foresight of the financial hit he would soon be taking with all manner of legal and medical costs, he wouldn’t have bought the thing last year at all.
He went out on the front porch where the air still carried the damp from the rain even though it had finally ceased. It was more than a little chilly, but he barely noticed as he sat down on the oversize rocking chair his mother had once loved.
If the room at the care center would have had space for it, he’d have moved it there for her years ago. There wasn’t much she hadn’t done sitting in the chair here on this very porch. She’d shelled peas, knitted sweaters and argued good-naturedly with Cage’s father when he and Cage came in after a long day.
But her room, while comfortable enough, wasn’t that spacious.
And the one time he’d brought her back to the Lazy-B, she hadn’t remembered the chair any more than she remembered him.
He leaned back, propping his feet on the rail, and stared out into the darkness. Strudel soon appeared beside him, apparently forgiving Cage for his banishment after dining on yet another pair of Cage’s boots. He scratched the dog’s head for a minute, then Strudel heaved a sigh and flopped down on the porch. In seconds, the rambunctious pup was snoring.
Lucky dog.
There were a lot of things Cage wished for in his life. But right then, the thing at the top of the list was sleep. He’d nearly achieved it when he heard a short, sharp scream.
Lucy.
He bolted out of the chair, leaving it rocking crazily behind him as he went inside. And he slammed right into the slender body hurtling around the staircase.
He caught Belle’s shoulders, keeping her from flying five feet backward from the impact. “Lucy—” Her voice was breathless. Probably because he’d knocked the wind clean out of her.
“She sometimes has nightmares since the accident.” He realized his fingers were still pressing into her taut flesh and abruptly let go. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, picked up the pale oval of her face, the faint sheen of her skin. A lot of skin, it seemed. She was wearing loose shorts and some strappy little top that betrayed the fact she wasn’t skinny everywhere.
He deliberately stepped around her and went into Lucy’s room. But his daughter was already quiet again. Still sleeping, as if nothing had disturbed her at all.
He raked his fingers through his hair, pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. God, he was tired. Then he felt a light touch on his back and nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned, pulling Lucy’s door nearly closed again. “What?”
His harsh whisper sent Belle backward almost as surely as their collision had.
“Sorry.” Her voice was hushed. “I thought…” He felt her shrug more than saw it. “Nothing.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. He could smell her, rainwater fresh. The sooner she went back to bed, the better. He wasn’t interested in what she thought. Or how she smelled. Or why she couldn’t keep still for five minutes straight in that old bed. “You thought what?” he asked wearily. He wished the moon were shining a little less brightly through the picture window in the living room, because with each passing second, he could see her even more clearly. Definitely not all skinny.
She tugged up the narrow strap of her pajama top and hugged her arms to herself. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“Fine. Then go to bed.”
She laughed—little more than a breath. “You sound like my dad used to.”
He knew it was an innocent enough comment, aimed at the order he’d automatically given. Knowing it, though, didn’t keep him from reacting. Before he could say something that might send her straight for the decrepit Jeep she’d arrived in—and away from any possibility of helping his daughter—he stepped around her and headed upstairs.
“Cage—”
He didn’t want to hear anything she had to say. She’d said the magic word, sure to remind him just who she was, and to what lengths he’d been driven for his daughter’s sake.
Dad.
“Just go to bed, Belle,” he said, without looking back.

Chapter Three
Belle propped her hands on her hips and counted off a slow inhale and an even slower exhale. It was far too beautiful a morning, all promising with the golden sunrise, to let annoyance ruin it already. “Cage, I need to go over a few things with you about Lucy. I wanted to last night, but we never got to it.”
His long legs barely paused as he passed her in the kitchen and headed out the back door of the house. “I’ve got a water tank that needs fixing.” His tone was abrupt, as if he begrudged providing even that small bit of information.
Clearly, that somewhat approachable man she’d encountered in the middle of the night was banished again.
She hurried after him, letting the screen door slap shut noisily after her. She darted down the brick steps and jogged to keep up with him. She raised her voice. “Lucy told me yesterday that you haven’t worked with her on any of the exercises she’s supposed to do on her own.”
He stopped short. Tilted his head back for a moment, then slowly turned to face her. The shadow cast by his dark brown cowboy hat guarded the expression in his blue eyes, but even across the yards, she could feel the man’s impatience. “I can’t be in two places at once, Miss Day.”
She mentally stiffened her spine at his exaggerated patience. So much for his one slip of calling her Belle the night before. “I’m aware of that, Cage. But you hired me to help Lucy, and—”
“I didn’t hire you to lecture me on my ability to parent my own daughter.”
Her lips parted. “I wasn’t suggesting—”
His eyebrow rose, making him look even more sardonic than usual. “Weren’t you?”
“No!”
“You weren’t so reticent before Lucy’s accident when you accused me of being unreasonable where she’s concerned ’cause I wouldn’t let her go on that god-forsaken field trip to Chicago.”
She glanced back at the house where Lucy still slept. The truth was, she had thought he was being unreasonable. But that was half a year ago and there were more important things on the agenda than eliciting his approval for a simple school field trip. “Look, maybe we should just talk about…things.” She’d thought so all along, but hadn’t had the courage to do so. Hadn’t had much of an opportunity, either, given their brief conversations about Lucy where Cage had firmly kept control.
His expression hadn’t changed. “You’re here for one reason only, Miss Day. It’d be better all around if you’d remember it.”
Her jaw tightened uncomfortably. “I’m not the enemy, all right?”
His expression went from impatient to stony.
Her hands fell back to her sides. “I see. I am the enemy.” Of course. Resulting from long-past history neither could change.
“If you need something that strictly pertains to Lucy—whether it’s her therapy or her schoolwork—I have no doubt you’ll let me know. Other than that—”
“—stay out of your hair?” Her tone was acid.
“That’s one way to put it.” He slapped the leather gloves he held against his palm. “Excuse me.” He turned on his heel and strode away.
Belle stuck her tongue out at his back, and returned to the house. She yanked open the aging avocado-green refrigerator door. Maybe it was wrong of her, but she took great delight in making breakfast out of a leftover slice of pizza.
For Lucy, however, she set out an assortment of supplements on the counter, and then prepared a real breakfast. After peeking in the girl’s bedroom to see that she was still sleeping, Belle pushed her feet into her running shoes and went back outside.
Even though the sky was clear, the dawn air still felt moist from the previous day, as she set off in a slow jog. Well beyond the simple brick house stood the sizable barn, doors open. She didn’t want to wonder if Cage was in there. She wondered anyway, quickening her pace and then had to tell herself that she was being a ninny. The man ran a ranch. If he was in his barn, so what? Better there than in the house, bugging her and Lucy. Might present a problem when she and Lucy went to the barn to use the equipment, though.
She didn’t doubt that he wanted the best for Lucy, which she certainly couldn’t fault. Nevertheless, she’d never met a more antisocial man in her life. But, then, she’d been warned well enough before she took on this job, so complaining about it now was only so much wasted energy.
She figured she’d run a good hour by the time she returned to the house. She darted up the brick steps and went in through the front door, peeling out of her sweatshirt as she went. Surely the bathroom wouldn’t still hold the lingering scent of Cage’s soap by now.
The bathroom was no longer steamy, true. But she still took the fastest shower in her life before changing into fresh workout clothes. Then she went and woke Lucy. While the girl was dressing—something she didn’t need assistance for—Belle wandered around the cozy living room.
She peered again at the silver-framed black-and-white photos hanging above the fireplace mantel. Cage’s parents. And a young Cage. She sighed faintly as she studied the Buchanan family. She knew only too well that he’d been a teenager when he’d lost his father, and for all intents, his mother, as well. She ran her fingernail lightly over the image of the solemn-looking little boy. Were there any photos of him smiling?
Did Cage Buchanan ever smile? Ever laugh?
“Hey, Belle. I’m fixing waffles for breakfast. You know the fruity kind with whipped cream? Those frozen waffles are really good that way. Like dessert.”
Belle looked back to see Lucy rolling her chair into the kitchen. She headed after her, and hid a smile at Lucy’s disgruntled “Oh.” Obviously, she’d seen the breakfast that Belle had already set out for her. There would be no frozen waffles.
She stepped around Lucy’s narrow chair, tugging lightly on her gilded braid along the way. “It’ll be good, I promise.”
“Dad calls breakfasts like this ‘sticks and weeds.’”
At that, Belle laughed softly. “Well, these sticks and weeds are a lot better for you than just a frozen waffle out of a box. It’s a bran mix. And the strawberries on top are plenty sweet already without adding cream or sugar. But I could fix you eggs if you’d rather.” She refused to wonder what Cage had eaten.
Lucy’s perfectly shaped nose wrinkled. “Eggs. Gross.”
“Yeah,” Belle agreed. “I used to think so, too. But they’re good for you, and there are lots of ways to fix them. So, what’ll it be?”
Lucy eyed the table for a moment. Then she shrugged, and started to wheel forward. Belle casually stepped in her path and held out her hands expectantly.
And she waited.
And waited.
Finally, Lucy put her hands in Belle’s. And she stood, her weight fully concentrated on her uninjured leg.
Belle winked cheerfully. Lucy wasn’t the first patient she’d ever had, and certainly not the first who was leery of leaving the safety net, no matter how much they wanted to. But there was absolutely no reason why Lucy should still be depending entirely on the chair. “Stiff?”
Lucy nodded. There was a white line around her tight lips. Belle supported her as she twisted around and sat at the table. Then she tucked the wheelchair out of the way and sat down across from Lucy.
“Aren’t you having any twigs?”
“Ate earlier. Not everyone sleeps in until noon.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.” She picked up the spoon and jabbed at her food. Gave an experimental taste. When the girl gave a surprised “hmm” and took another taste, Belle busied herself by filling a few water bottles and putting away the dishes they’d used and washed the night before as well as the stack that had already been there. She refused to feel guilty about it, either. It wasn’t as if she was stealing the Buchanan family silver. She was just washing some crockery.
Lucy was nearly finished with her breakfast before she spoke again. “Did you see my dad this morning?”
“Yes, for a few minutes.” Belle folded the dish towel and left it on the counter next to the sink. “He was heading out to fix a water tank.”
“Oh.” Lucy passed over her dishes.
Belle took them and set them in the sink. She flipped on the faucet to rinse them and glanced at Lucy. “Were you hoping for something different?”
Lucy shrugged but couldn’t quite hide her diffidence. “He works the Lazy-B mostly by himself, you know.”
Belle did know. She also knew that he hired on hands as needed, and that he usually didn’t much want to admit to needing anything.
The man gave loner new meaning.
“I know.” She smiled gently and moved the chair back around for Lucy. “Come on. It’s beautiful outside. Let’s go for a little walk.”
“No exercises yet?”
Lucy looked so hopeful that Belle had to smile as she helped the girl back into her chair. She crouched in front of her. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she confided lightly. “Exercise comes in all sorts of forms. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re doing it.” She grazed her fingertips over Lucy’s injured leg. “So. What do you say? A walk?”
Lucy nodded. Satisfied, Belle rose and handed Lucy a bottle of water, took one for herself and they headed out the front of the house, where Lucy’s ramp was located.
Before long, Belle had to push the chair for Lucy because of the soft ground. The morning was delightfully quiet, broken only by the song of birds flirting in the tall cottonwoods that circled the house.
They walked all the way down the road to the gate then headed back again. “Do you like living on a ranch?”
Lucy lifted her shoulder, her fingers trailing up and down her braid. “It’s okay, I guess. I used to spend part of the week in town. During the school year. Dad pays my friend Anya Johannson’s mom for my board for part of the week. She teaches me piano and takes me to my dance lessons after school and stuff. Well, that’s what we used to do.” She tossed her braid behind her back.
They were within sight of the large red barn before Lucy spoke again. “You grew up in Cheyenne. Right?”
“Yup. Until I took the job at your school last year, and when I went away to school, I’d always lived in Cheyenne. My sister, Nikki, still does. And my mother’s been living at the Double-C Ranch since she married Squire Clay a while back.”
“Were your parents divorced?”
“No. My dad died just before Nikki and I turned sixteen.”
“Does she look like you? Nikki?”
Belle grinned. “Nah. She’s the pretty one. Likes to shop for real clothes, not just jeans and workout gear. She looks like our mom. Auburn hair, an actual figure.”
Lucy made a face, looking down at herself. She plucked the loose fabric of her pink T-shirt. “Yeah, well, I’m never gonna get…you know…boobs, either.” Lucy’s pale cheeks turned red. “Not that you don’t, uh—”
Belle laughed. “It’s okay. I do. But believe me, my sister got the larger helping in the chest department. And you’re only twelve. You’ve got oodles of time yet.”
“I’m gonna be thirteen next month.”
Belle renewed her grasp on the handles of the chair, pushing it harder over the gravel road. “Why sound so glum about it? Are you going to have a party?”
“And do what?” Lucy thumped her hands on her chair.
“Who needs to do anything? You’re going to be thirteen. I remember when Nik and I turned thirteen. We sat around with our friends and talked boys and makeup and music, and ate pizza and popcorn and had a blast.”
“Doesn’t matter. Dad’s not going to let me have a party, anyway.”
“Has he said that?” She would be upbeat if it killed her. “It never hurts to just ask. What’s the worst that could happen? That he’d say no? You’ve already decided that, anyway. And he might surprise you.” Whatever she’d seen or heard about Cage, the man was admittedly doing back flips for his daughter. What was one small party?
“He doesn’t want me to do anything,” Lucy insisted flatly. “Ever since my accident, he’s been—” she shook her head, and fell silent.
“Worried about you, perhaps?” Belle maneuvered Lucy’s chair through the opened barn door.
Lucy didn’t respond to that. But she did respond to the changes Belle had made inside the barn. Most particularly the portable sound system she immediately flicked on. Banging music sounded out and Belle looked past Lucy’s slack jaw as she handed her a sizable stack of CDs. “Hope there’s something you like in there. I brought a little of everything.”
Lucy flipped through the cases. Pulled one out. “Dad would like this.”
Belle glanced over. Beatles. Drat. Her own personal favorite. “Anything you like?”
“Classics.” Lucy shrugged diffidently. “Weird, huh?”
She felt as if she’d hit a treasure chest when she leaned over to flip down several more CDs in Lucy’s lap and the girl laughed delightedly. “Beethoven. Pachelbel. Rachmaninoff. A little of everything.”
Belle took the stack and set it on a crate next to the portable boom box. She slid in a CD and the strains of Mozart soared right up to the rafters.
Cage could hear the music a mile away. It was loud enough to scare his prized heifers out of breeding for another two seasons, and certainly loud enough to put his daughter in hearing aids before her next birthday. He wanted to race hell-bent for leather to the barn the way Strudel was, but he kept his pace even for Rory’s sake. He was walking the horse back to the stable, hoping Rory’s lame leg wouldn’t require more than some TLC and rest. He knew the vet would come if he called, but it sat wrong in Cage’s belly to keep looking at the balance of his bill with the man, knowing he wouldn’t have it paid off anytime soon.
Naturally, the music grew even louder the closer he got to the barn and it showed no sign of abating even after he’d tended to Rory. He strode inside, only to stop short at the sight of Belle and Lucy. His daughter was lying on the incline bench. Not an unusual sight. But she was laughing, her head thrown back, blond hair streaming down her thin back, her face wreathed in smiles.
And Belle was laughing, too. She sat on the floor in front of the bench, her legs stretched into a position he thought only Olympic gymnasts could obtain, and she was leaning forward so far her torso was nearly resting on the blue mat beneath her. The position drew the tight black shirt she wore well above her waist, and for way too long, he couldn’t look away from that stretch of lithe, feminine muscle.
Neither his daughter nor Belle noticed him and he felt like an outsider all over again. He liked it no more now than he had the previous day.
Then Belle turned her head, resting her cheek on the mat, and looked at him.
Not so unaware, after all.
“Come on in,” she said. And even though she hadn’t lifted her voice above the music, he still heard her. Her brown gaze was soft. Open.
She didn’t even flinch when Strudel bounded over to her, snuffling at her face before hastily jumping over her to gleefully greet Lucy.
Safer to look at the slice of Belle’s ivory back that showed below the shirt than those dark eyes. Maybe.
He deliberately strode to the boom box and turned down the volume. “Trying to make yourselves deaf?”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t that loud.”
He wished for the days when she hadn’t yet learned to roll her eyes at him. “I’m going in to get your lunch.”
“Belle already did.”
At Lucy’s blithe statement, Belle pushed herself up and drew her legs together, wriggling her red-painted toes. He saw a glint on one toe. She wore a toe ring. Figures.
“We left a plate for you,” she said, apparently trusting that he wouldn’t lecture her about her “place” in front of Lucy.
In that, she was correct. For now, at least. He eyed her for a moment. “Then I’ll go down to get the mail.”
Lucy ignored him as she flopped back on the slanted bench. Belle’s gaze went from him to Lucy and back again. “If you have some time this afternoon, maybe Lucy could show you a few of the new exercises we’ve been working on.”
He nodded and resettled his hat as he left. In the seconds before someone—his daughter probably—turned up the volume of the music again, he heard Lucy’s flat statement. “He won’t show. He never does.”
It was an exaggeration, but that didn’t stop the words from cutting. But he was only one man. As he’d told Belle, he couldn’t do it all. Keep the Lazy-B going and spend hours with his daughter when he’d already hired a therapist for her for that very purpose. He whistled sharply and Strudel scrambled out of the barn, racing after him. The dog might have promise, after all.
He drove the truck down to get the mail. There was a cluster of boxes belonging to the half-dozen folks living out his direction. His place was the farthest out, though. The box was five miles from the house. Usually, he swung by on Rory. Not today.
Back in the house, he dumped the mail and the morning paper on the kitchen table and yanked open the refrigerator door. Sure enough. A foil-wrapped plate sat inside. The woman made pizza with whole wheat. Whole wheat? He wasn’t even aware that he’d had any in his house. Either she’d brought it in her suitcase, which was entirely possible since she had no qualms about thinking she knew best where his family was concerned, or the stuff had been lurking in his cupboards courtesy of Emmy Johannson, who periodically brought groceries out for him.
God only knew what lurked on that plate under the foil. He ignored it and made himself a roast-beef sandwich, instead. He was standing at the counter eating it when he saw Belle through the window over the sink striding up to the rear of the house. He turned a page of the newspaper and continued reading. Something about a chili cook-off.
It wasn’t engrossing stuff, but it was better than watching Belle. The woman had a way of moving and it was just better off, all around, if he didn’t look too close. He didn’t like her, or her family, and she was there only out of his own desperation. So he needed to get over the fact that she turned him on and he needed to do it yesterday.
The screen rattled as Belle pulled it open and popped into the kitchen. His gaze slid sideways to her feet. Scuffed white tennis shoes—a different pair than the wet blue ones the day before—now hid the red-painted toes and the toe ring. He looked back at the newspaper and finished off the sandwich.
Only Belle didn’t move along to the bathroom, or to do whatever it was she’d come in the house to do. She stood there, her arms folded across her chest, skinny hip cocked.
He swallowed. Finished the glass of milk he was drinking.
She still hadn’t moved.
He sighed. Folded the newspaper back along its creases. Crossed to the table to flip through the mail. Too many bills, circulars advertising some singles’ matchmaking network, an expensive-looking envelope with an all too familiar embossed return address. He folded the envelope in half and shoved it in his back pocket. “What is it now?”
“I noticed that Lucy is still depending exclusively on her wheelchair.”
The one remaining nerve not gone tight at the sight of the envelope now residing next to his butt joined the knotted rest. He opened a cupboard and grabbed the bottle of aspirin that had been full only a few weeks ago. He shook out a few, the rattle of pills inside the plastic sounding as sharp as his voice. “And?” He shut the cupboard door again only to find her extending a condensing bottle of water toward him.
“And it concerns me, because it’s encouraging her to keep favoring her injury.”
“She’s not supposed to use her leg, yet.” He swallowed the aspirin.
“She’s not supposed to use it completely,” Belle countered. “But she should have been up on crutches weeks ago, yet since I’ve been here—”
“Twenty-four hours now?”
“—I haven’t even seen a pair of crutches. She does have them, doesn’t she?”
Cage strode over to the tall, narrow closet at the end of the kitchen and snapped open the door. Inside, along with a broom and the vacuum cleaner, stood a shining new pair of crutches. “Satisfied?”
Her lips tightened. She flipped her long ponytail behind her shoulder and brushed past him to remove the crutches. He looked down at her, clutching the things to her chest. The top of her head didn’t reach his chin. In fact, she wasn’t much taller than Luce.
The realization didn’t make Belle seem younger to him. It only made his daughter seem older.
He pushed the closet door shut and moved across the room. “She says that she still hurts too much to use ’em.”
Belle nodded. “I understand, believe me. But getting on her feet with these is a major component of her recovery. And the longer we wait, the more it’s going to hurt. You’re going to have to get over trying to protect her, Cage. Her recuperation is not going to be pleasant all the time, but she does have to work through it before it’ll get better.” Her hand reached out and caught his forearm, squeezing in emphasis. “And it will get better.” Then, seeming to realize that she was touching him, she quickly pulled back.
“Easy advice,” he said flatly. “You ever watch your child trying to straighten or bend a leg that doesn’t want to do either despite two separate surgeries that should have helped it? To steel yourself against the pleading in her eyes when she looks at you wanting permission to…just…stop?” If he’d expected her to look shocked at his unaccustomed outburst, he was wrong. Shock would’ve been better, though, than the expression softening her eyes. It was easier to take when she figured he avoided Lucy’s sessions because of the never ending needs of the Lazy-B.
“I haven’t watched my child,” she said. “Since I’ve never even had one, that would be difficult.” Then she suddenly lifted her foot onto one of the kitchen chairs and whipped the stretchy black pants that flared over her shoes up past her knee. The scar was old. Faded. It snaked down from beyond the folds of her pants on the inside of her taut thigh, circled her knee and disappeared down her calf. “But I have dealt with it myself.”
The water and aspirin he’d just chugged mixed uncomfortably with his lunch. Lucy’s healing surgical scars were bad. But when they healed, he knew they would look far better than Belle’s.
“Not pretty,” Belle murmured, and pulled her pant leg back down. “My hip doesn’t look quite so bad.”
“What happened?”
It was hard to believe it, but her brown eyes looked even darker. “I thought you knew.”
“I suppose that’s why you went into physical therapy,” he surmised grudgingly.
“Yes.” She sucked in one corner of her soft lip for a moment. Her expression was oddly still. “I was with my dad that night, Cage. The night of the accident.”
He’d been wrong. His nerves could get tighter. “I didn’t know you’d been hurt.” He couldn’t have known since her family had been living in Cheyenne at the time.
She studied the crutches she held. “I was lying down in the back seat. I didn’t have on my seat belt, which my dad didn’t know. When…it…happened, I was thrown from the car. Metal and flesh and bone. Don’t mix well usually.” She lifted her shoulder slightly. “Which is something you know only too well, I’m afraid. I’m sorry. I thought you knew,” she said again then fell silent.
She looked miserable. And damned if he could convince himself it was an act, though he wanted to.
“Look, Cage, it’s not too late for me to go. I know Lucy knows about the accident between our parents and she doesn’t seem to hold it against my family. But everyone warned me this would be just one constant reminder after another.” Her gaze whispered over him, then went back to the crutches. “I can hold my own against those opinions.” Her voice was vaguely hoarse. “But if your feeling the same way gets in the path of Lucy’s progress then my efforts here will be for nothing. Are…are you sure you want me to stay?”
No. He stared out the window. Lucy was sitting in her chair just outside the barn, Strudel half in her lap while they played tug with a stick. “Lucy still needs help.” His voice came from somewhere deep inside him.
He heard Belle sigh a little. “I could talk to the people I worked with at Huffington. Maybe I could find someone willing to—”
“No.” He couldn’t afford to bring someone else out to the ranch, to pay their full salary. Belle had been willing to agree for less than half what she deserved, and he knew it was only because of her fondness for his daughter. Something he’d deliberately capitalized on. The fact that she’d be able to provide the tutoring Lucy needed was even more of a bonus. “You came to help Lucy. I expect you to hold to your word.”
“All right,” she said after a long moment. She tucked her arm through the center of the crutches and carried them to the door. Then paused. “I’m really sorry your father didn’t survive the accident, Cage.”
“So am I,” he said stiffly. He’d lost both his parents that night, even though his mother had technically survived. Apparently, the only one to escape unscathed that winter night nearly fourteen years ago had been the man who’d caused the accident in the first place.
Belle’s father.
And even though he’d died a few years later, Belle was, after all, still his daughter.

Chapter Four
“I want to go with you.”
Cage shook his head, ignoring Lucy’s mutinous demand. “Not this time, Luce.”
“Why not? I want to see Grandma.”
He wished Belle wasn’t standing at the kitchen sink washing up the pans she’d used to prepare Lucy’s breakfast. He wished she’d stop doing things he wasn’t paying her to do. She’d been under his roof for three days. He’d already warned her to stop dusting the shelves and mopping floors. They may have needed it, but when he’d come upon her doing the chores, he’d lit into her. More than necessary, he knew, but seeing her so at home in his house bugged him no end. He didn’t want her being helpful. Not unless it was on his terms. “I’ll take you to see her another time.”
“When?”
“A few weeks.”
Lucy’s lips thinned. “I haven’t seen her all summer.”
“And nothing’s changed.” Her eyes widened a little at his sharp tone. He stifled a sigh. Before Lucy’s fall, they’d gone every weekend. “Maybe this weekend. When Miss Day is off.”
The prospect seemed enough to satisfy his daughter. “Miss Day’s day off,” Lucy quipped. Her lips tilted at the corners, thoroughly amused with herself and he felt his own lips twitch.
God, he loved the kid. “Yeah.”
“Don’t make fun of my name,” Belle said lightly over the clink of dishes in the sink. “I grew up hearing every pun you could ever think of.”
“Day isn’t bad,” Lucy countered. “You oughta hear what people used to call my dad.”
Belle leaned her hip against the counter as she turned to look at them. The towel in her hand slowed over the plate she was drying. “Oh?”
“Yeah, Cage isn’t his real name, you know. Who would name their kid that?”
Cage caught his daughter’s gaze, lifting his eyebrow in only a partially mock warning. “Did you make your bed?”
Lucy laughed. But she took the hint and didn’t pursue the topic of Cage’s first name. She lifted her arms and he automatically started to reach for her to transfer her from the chair at the table to her wheelchair. But he caught Belle’s look.
How to protect someone in the long run by causing them pain now? He felt the humor sparked by his daughter drain away and instead of lifting her, he handed her the crutches that were leaning against the wall.
“Dad.” Lucy pouted.
“Lucy,” Belle prompted gently. “We’ve talked about this.”
He supposed that wasn’t surprising. If she’d taken him to task about the crutches, she’d probably done the same with his daughter. Understanding the reasons was one thing. Liking it another.
Lucy took the crutches. Belle set down the towel and helped the girl to her feet. With the crutches tucked beneath her arms, Lucy looked at Cage. “She told me not to pout around you ’cause you were too much of a marshmallow to hold out against me.” Then she shot Belle a look before awkwardly swinging out of the kitchen.
Belle’s cheeks were pink and she quickly turned back to the dishes.
Cage filled a coffee mug with the fragrant stuff she’d made earlier, damning the consequences, and watched her for a moment. She was wearing another pair of those thin, long pants. Jazz pants, he knew, because he’d had to buy some for Lucy for something her dance class had done last winter.
Today, Belle’s pants were as red as a tomato. She wore a sleeveless top in the same color that hugged her torso and zipped all the way up to her throat.
She’d have been about Lucy’s age when the accident happened. How long had it taken her to recover from her injuries?
He abruptly finished off his coffee. Learning that she’d been hurt in the same accident as his parents didn’t change anything. Gus Day had killed his father on a stretch of highway outside of Cheyenne, pure and simple. He sat the emptied mug down with a thunk. “Marshmallow?”
“She wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“She’s still young. She hasn’t learned the art of discretion.”
“She’s learned a lot of other things. If you’re worried that going with you to Cheyenne today will be too taxing, don’t. She’s up to the trip.”
He’d told Belle and Lucy that he was making the drive when they’d both stopped in surprise at finding him in the kitchen that morning instead of already out for the day as he usually was. “It’s business,” he said again. True enough in a sense. Personal business. The kind he wasn’t inclined to share, not even with Lucy. Not until he was forced to. “I probably won’t be back until late.”
Belle didn’t look happy.
“I told you that I can have Emmy Johannson come over to watch her.”
“And I told you that would be ridiculous since I’m staying here anyway. You want to have the argument you’ve been spoiling for now that Lucy’s out of range?” She shot him a look, her eyebrows arched, and when he said nothing, she deliberately dried another plate. Short of yanking it out of her hands there wasn’t much he could do about it. “I’m not going to twiddle my thumbs between sessions and lessons, Cage, but that wasn’t what I was trying to get at anyway. Has it occurred to you that maybe Lucy wants to be where you are?”
“She wants to see my mother. And this discussion is over.” Maybe he couldn’t keep her from washing the damn dishes, but he didn’t have to listen to advice unrelated to Lucy’s rehabilitation.
Belle shrugged and focused on the dishes again, seeming not to turn one hair of her thick brown ponytail at his decree. But her lashes guarded her eyes. And he damned all over again the turn of events that had prompted him to bring her into this house.
A timely reminder of why he was going to Cheyenne in the first place.
He rose and grabbed his hat off the hook. “Luce has my cell-phone number,” he said as he strode from the room. He thought he heard her murmur “drive carefully” after him, but couldn’t be sure.
Lucy was in her bathroom when he hunted her down to tell her he was leaving. He rapped on the door. “Behave yourself,” he said through the wood.
She yanked open the door, leaning heavily on her crutches. “What else is there to do,” she asked tartly. “You won’t let me go near the horses anymore.”
“When I’m sure you’re not going to go near that horse, I’ll consider it.”
“You’re never going to let me ride Satin again, are you?”
It was an old refrain and one he didn’t want to be pulled into singing. “Make sure you feed Strudel,” he said. “And do the exercises on your own that Miss Day says you’re supposed to be doing.
“I hate doing them. They hurt. And they’re boring.” Her face was mutinous. An expression that had been too frequent of late.
“I’m sorry they hurt, but I don’t care if they’re boring,” he said mildly. “They’re necessary.”
Her jaw worked. Her eyes rolled. Then all the fight drained out of her and she gave him a beseeching look. “How come you won’t let me go with you today?”
Dammit, he was a marshmallow where she was concerned. But not this time. “You got a problem hanging around here with Miss Day?”
Lucy rolled her eyes again. “Jeez, Dad. Her name is Belle. And no I don’t have a problem with her. Not like you do, anyway.”
“I don’t have a problem with Miss Day.”
“Right. That’s why you watch her like you do. You oughta just ask her out on a date or something.”
“I do not want to date Miss Day,” he assured evenly and gently tugged the end of her braid as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Behave.”
She grimaced. “Like there’s anything else you’d let me do? Say ‘hi’ to Grandma for me.”
He nodded as he headed out. If he did go by the care center, he’d pass on the greeting, but he knew there would be no reciprocation, which was the very reason why he would never want to date Miss Day.
“Have you ever been in love, Belle?”
The question came out of the blue and Belle looked up from Lucy’s leg. “Is the cramp gone?”
Lucy nodded, gingerly flexing her toes.
It was evening and they were back in the barn again. Cage hadn’t yet returned from Cheyenne.
“So, have you?”
Belle leaned back and grabbed a hand towel, wiping the remains of oil she’d been using from her palms. “Yes.”
“With who?”
Belle flicked Lucy with the end of the towel and rolled to her feet. The CD had ended and she exchanged it for another. “Howie Bloom,” she said.

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