Rancher Daddy: A Single Dad & Nanny Romance Read online

  “I’m okay,” she says, as if trying to prove to me that she’s up to the task. “I was on the clock when I left Raleigh. How’s Emma? I can’t wait to see her.”

  Emma is ecstatic to see Grace again. She spins like a top, shrieking in that way only small girls can. The two of them pirouette in the foyer before my mother shows from the kitchen, offering bear hugs and hot tea.

  I take Grace’s things upstairs, depositing them in her room. I return to find my daughter and her newly installed nanny sitting hand-in-hand at the table, talking about sledding over to the reservoir and ice skating.

  “I’ve never been ice skating,” Grace says, her pretty, pale eyes flashing. “Is the ice on the lake thick enough yet?”

  If it’s not today, it will be in a tomorrow.

  “You’ve never been ice-skating?” I ask, joining their conversation while mom plates up our meal of beef brisket and potatoes. “Really?”

  Grace shakes her head. “When I left Raleigh, it was almost seventy degrees and sunny. We don’t get anything close to what you would call winter in North Carolina.”

  I don’t think I’d like a world without seasons.

  “Speaking of all that. I bought you some winter gear. A good coat, gloves, a hat. It’s in your closet. Try it all on. We can exchange anything that doesn’t fit. On Monday we’ll ride to Ronan and get you a couple pairs of good boots.”

  Grace’s expression shows concern. “You didn’t need to do that,” she says. “I could have—”

  I shake her off, interrupting. “You could have tried,” I say. “But you don’t know where to shop or what to buy. Amanda helped with the sizing. It was the least I could do. I can’t have you tramping about the county freezing to death.”

  “Enough with Filson coats and mittens,” Mom chirps, sliding a plate in front of me. “This poor girl’s been driving since Tuesday without a break. She needs to eat.”

  Mom knows best.

  After dinner, after I’ve put Emma to bed with a story, I find Grace sitting alone in my dad’s library, curled up in a big leather chair with a book and a cup of hot tea. She starts when I come into the room, stiffening like a feral pony. She snaps the book shut and sits up straight.

  “Your mom said it was okay to come in here,” she says, apology in her tone.

  I make her nervous. I can’t imagine why. I was only cross with her once, weeks ago when Stoney got lose, but I’ve put a lot of effort into getting past that.

  “It’s fine,” I say, taking a seat across from her, settling down. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I just don’t want to be presumptuous.”

  Presumptuous? Big words for such a small girl. I smile at her.

  “You live here now,” I remind her. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Okay. I’ll try.”

  She draws her knees up, tucking her wool sock clad feet underneath her round hips, and I realize she’s cold. I could offer her a blanket, but I have a better idea for how to warm the room, and maybe warm her up to me.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say.

  When I return, it’s with an armload of seasoned oak and hickory. I bypass Grace’s curious looks, setting to work at the hearth, putting together a fire. I generally don’t go to the trouble of laying a fire unless we’re entertaining or it’s some special occasion, but it strikes me that it may be something novel for Grace, and it will take the chill off the air.

  When the fire gets going and I’m satisfied with its progress, I turn back and find Grace watching me intently. Her expression is impassive, but I believe I detect the tiniest little smile creasing her eyes. She’s pleased; whether it’s with me or the fire, I can’t tell.

  I return to my seat, pulling my boots off, stretching my legs out, letting the warmth reach me, hoping it reaches Grace.

  “That’s nice,” she says finally, breaking the long silence. “I’ve never had a fireplace before.” She lets her eyes wander around the room. “Or a real library either. I love this room.”

  I love this room too. It’s the oldest room in the house. It’s actually the original house, built in 1907; a one room structure occupied by a large family, with a loft above where everyone slept. The loft is now a reading nook accessible by a wrought iron, spiral stair in the corner. That’s a modern upgrade I added a few years back.

  “My dad spent a lot of evenings in here,” I say. “Reading, doing the ledgers. He liked a fire when he was reading, and he liked his books almost as much as he loved his horses.”

  Grace listens as I ramble on absently about the history in this room. How the big hearth was used for more than just warmth, but also for cooking the family’s meals a century ago. I probably talk too long, but she doesn’t seem to mind my meandering along the details of my family’s settling here, building, and then adding on. When I finally pause, I catch her eye, and she’s smiling.

  “What?” I can’t imagine what I’ve said that’s so entertaining.

  “Nothing,” she replies. “I think that’s the most you’ve ever spoken on any subject since we met. It’s nice you know your family’s history. It’s nice you see how precious this place is.”

  “I’m probably boring you to death,” I admit, feeling a trifle embarrassed.

  “Not at all.” Grace relaxes back in her chair, letting the warmth of the fire reach her toes. “I love a story. I love a true story even more.”

  I’d love to know her story.

  “What are you reading?” I ask her. It’s the only safe way I can think of to draw her out.

  She glances down at the book, then offers me a tight smile.

  “I’m reading a book I’ve probably read twenty times already,” she says. “I know almost every line by heart. I read it whenever I’m feeling untethered.” She hauls in a deep breath, sighing. “It’s nothing. Stupid. Chick-lit.”

  Romance novels. Girls love them. I wouldn’t have pegged her for a fan of that kind of thing, but at least it reveals that she does at least have a sentimental side. I wonder if her hero is a knight in shining armor or a bad boy from the wrong side of town. Whoever he is, he’s probably not a hack cowboy with callouses and a kid.

  A girl like Grace—whatever her story—probably has ambitions well-beyond the fences of this old place. She’s beautiful, and smart, with a lot going on behind those careful, pale eyes. I have an idea that she’s on her way somewhere. The Kicking Horse Ranch is just the first stop on her journey.

  “I’ll leave you to your reading,” I say, reaching for my boots. “See you in the morning. Sleep well.”

  “You too.”

  I don’t sleep well.

  My dreams that first night after her return, and almost every night following, are tormented with visions of Grace, of her smooth skin against mine, of my rough fingers gripping handfuls of ample flesh at her hips and thighs. I dream of her body wrapped in mine, of being inside her, of making her mine. I dream of her lips and her tongue going to places I’m almost ashamed of imagining.

  When I wake, it’s always the same. I’m alone, and lonesome, and I hate myself for thinking of my daughter’s nanny in such inappropriate ways.

  Every day I promise myself it’ll be different. I’ll be different. But every day it gets more and more difficult not to fall a little further into the abyss of those pale eyes. When she smiles at me, or at anything, I feel her pleasure in my gut and I want to slip my arms around her and draw her to me. I want to kiss her, stroke her short, thick hair, and tell her how I feel.

  But I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I try harder every day to keep a safe distance between us, to say as little as possible, and to hide what I’m feeling.

  My dad used to have an old saying about bad horsemen: The harder they try, the harder they fail.

  Truer words were never spoken.

  Chapter 7

  Grace

  I’m finding my way here. It hasn’t been without a few bumps in the road, but I’m learning how to avoid
them. Emma is my daily salvation. She’s quick as a whip and curious about everything, and as joyful as any kid I’ve ever met. I’m teaching her how to read (it’s never too early) and she’s teaching me everything else.

  I’m acclimating to the weather too, and to the idea that the Davis family is huge. We had twenty-two people in the house for Thanksgiving. It was a raucous party that lasted all day and well into the evening, filled with good food, good people, and football games on the television in the den. Every hearth in the house had a roaring fire and everyone was kind to me, doing their best to treat me just like another member of the family.

  Everyone except Camden, of course. He doesn’t have much to say. He’s polite, but distant. I’ve come to accept it. He’s my employer, not my friend. What’s more, I’m starting to suspect that there may be more to it than just his desire to keep a professional distance. Amanda warned me not to flirt with Camden, which is fine, but there had to be a reason she felt such a warning was necessary. Just a few days ago when I was dropping Emma off at preschool, one of the moms—a sweet young woman named Cherry—asked me if I was Camden’s girlfriend. I laughed and told her in no uncertain terms that I’m just the nanny. Then, without a bit of prompting, Emma piped up and said, “Daddy doesn’t like ladies. He doesn’t have girlfriends. He’s got Tyler and me and Grandma, and that’s all he needs.”

  I swear to God, I thought both of us were going to bust a rib we laughed so hard. After Emma was safely handed over to her teacher, I made Cherry swear she would never repeat what Emma said. I hope I can rely on her, but you never know about these things.

  Ever since Emma’s bold observation, I’ve begun noticing things I never paid attention to before, like the fact that Camden and Tyler take off together three or four times a week, disappearing for hours on end without explanation. They’re together constantly, and Tyler teases Camden remorselessly, to the point that sometimes it gets physical, and they wind up wrestling in the snow like kids.

  One could draw certain conclusions, and it would explain a lot about why a man with so many positive attributes is alone. Maybe he’s not alone. Maybe he’s just on the down-low.

  It would also explain why he steers so clear of me. I’m sure he’s caught me checking him out more than a few times. I can’t help it. He’s too beautiful not to be appreciated, and I’m a sucker for a handsome man. Sadly, all the truly beautiful men I have ever known have been gay. It’s one of nature’s harshest cruelties.

  If it’s true that he’s gay, it’s a damn shame for me and femininity in general. Despite the fact that he’s sullen and distant, and that I often feel his judgement, I can’t help but like him. He’s smarter than he lets on. He’s a wonderful father and a loving, respectful son. He’s good to the people who work for him, and they respect him for it. Basically, he’s perfect.

  But he’s got no interest in me—at all.

  We had a big crowd at Thanksgiving, but we’re expecting an even bigger gathering for Christmas, and that’s posing some challenges for me because of one important Davis family tradition. On Christmas Eve all the kids go riding from house to house, pausing at each neighbor’s home for carols, hot chocolate, and cookies. Camden wants me to go, but my horsemanship isn’t up to his standards. This is a fact he’s obviously frustrated with.

  Every day while Emma is at preschool, I spend at least two hours in the indoor arena with Mirabel and Camden, trying hard to conquer this thing they call riding. It’s not an easy skill to master, commanding a massive animal to do your bidding using only your feet, legs, hands, and voice. I’m not a natural at it, and most days I feel Camden’s impatience with my slow progress.

  Today is no different.

  Mirabel won’t do a thing I ask. It doesn’t matter how I squeeze my calves or tug her reins. She just meanders from place to place, or backs up when I do something wrong.

  “You’re pulling back when you should be letting up. You’re giving her mixed signals,” Camden says for what feels like the third time from his place at center ring. “Squeeze and when her head drops, you’ll feel it in the reins. Then let up.”

  I still only have the vaguest notion of what this means, but I try. Mirabel begins moving forward at a walking pace.

  “That’s good,” Camden says, walking with us, “Straighten her up. Left leg…”

  She blows out a big gust of hot air, then veers to the right instead of adjusting.

  “Too much,” Camden insists. “Lighter, with your leg…”

  I can barely keep track of his instructions, and am thrilled when I see Manuel, the head groom, walking toward us. The distraction will give me a chance to collect my thoughts and refocus.

  Manuel is leading a horse into the ring. It’s a beautiful animal, ebony black, rippling with muscles. The horse stands at least a foot taller at the shoulder than Mirabel, whom he regards with keen interest.

  “Hang on,” Camden says to me, turning to Manuel.

  Manuel speaks in Spanish to Camden, motioning toward the twitchy Stallion at the end of a long lead. They converse a moment, them Manuel retrieves a stack of stapled papers from his jeans pocket, showing them to Camden with what’s clearly a question of some import.

  Then, with both men’s backs turned, my Mirabel lifts her head, calling out a loud whinny. She takes a step forward toward the big stallion, who steps sideways toward her, shaking his head.

  “Camden,” I call with measured caution, pulling hard on Mirabel’s reins to halt her. She doesn’t obey.

  In three seconds it all goes sideways.

  The big horse lunges for Mirabel, yanking the loosely held lead from Manuel’s hand. Both he and Camden swing around just in time to see the stallion come up alongside us, head down, eyes wide, mouth open. He makes contact with the crest of Mirabel’s neck, inflicting a hard bite, hanging on. She reacts instantly and violently, bucking, then rearing up, striking at her captor, screaming in protest.

  I manage to hang on for the buck, but when she tips up on hind legs, flailing and striking with her front feet, I tumble backwards, falling between the two struggling horses. I land on the packed ground, feet first—miraculously—coming down hard on my right foot. The big stallion hits me with his rump, shoving me to my knees, then he gives me a half-hearted, glancing kick.

  Camden shouts instructions at me, none of which register until it’s all over. I should have covered my head. I should have balled up. I should have wrapped my arms around her neck, so I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place. I should have punched the horse in the nose when he came at us, so he wouldn’t have bit. So many things I should have done.

  Now, Camden is on his knees beside me. Manuel and the stallion are gone. Mirabel is tied to the fence rail, un-phased. And I’m lying in a crumpled heap in the dirt, tears streaming down my face, my ankle in excruciating pain.

  “What hurts?” Camden asks calmly, no longer angry or frantic. This tone is the same measured voice he uses to speak with his horses. “Show me.”

  “My ankle,” I say, rubbing tears away with my sleeve. “I’m okay. It’ll be okay.”

  “Anywhere else?” he asks. “Did you get kicked anywhere? Your chest? Your belly or back?”

  No. I shake my head.

  “Okay,” he says. “Catch your breath. Deep breaths. In and out. Count to ten.”

  I do as I’m told, and to my astonishment, his advice settles me. My trembling hands still. My tears cease.

  “Can you stand up?” he asks me.

  I nod, but I’m uncertain. I try, but when I put weight on my right foot, the pain shoots straight up to my hip. My knee gives way. Camden catches me, keeping me from staggering sideways. He steadies me as I hobble on one foot.

  “I’ll carry you,” he says. Before I can protest, he lifts me up as if I’m weightless, cradling my knees, his arm slipping under my shoulders. He moves toward the stables and the dressing rooms inside. He sets me down on a bench by the lockers, then kneeling in front of me, he proceeds to lift my right foot on
to his lap.

  The first tug at my boot sends a jolt of sharp pain to my ankle, causing me to gasp and curse. He stops, looking up at me.

  “I need to get this boot off,” he says. “I need to look to see if you broke anything. It’s going to swell, and if we don’t take it off now, I’ll have to cut it off later.”

  I nod, gritting my teeth.

  He doesn’t do it gently. He pulls hard, making it go quick. The pain is explosive and intense.

  “I’m sorry,” Camden says, looking up again, his blue eyes darkened with sympathy.

  Laying the boot to the side, he slips his hands up my calves, gripping my sock, peeling it off. Even that small motion is agony.

  Finally, with my bare foot in his hands, he runs his fingers along the lines of my ligaments and tendons. When he attempts to roll my foot, it sends a burning zing up to my knee and again I grimace and curse.

  “You didn’t break anything,” he says with confidence. “And you didn’t snap any tendons. I think you just jammed it.”

  He slips one hand around the back of my heel while wrapping the other tightly around my lower shin above my ankle. He pulls my foot down firmly with a pop, and that feels better instantly. Something slips deep inside my heel bones, causing the pain to diminish.

  “What did you do?” I ask, amazed.

  Camden smiles, his hands still on my bare foot. He begins rolling it gently around, his strong fingers firmly massaging the joint and its tendons. This time there’s almost no pain, just soreness.

  “It’s going to hurt tomorrow,” he says. “But you’ll be good as new in a day or two.”

  He continues massaging my foot, prolonging for what seems beyond entirely necessary. While I don’t exactly mind, it does strike me as odd that he’s this interested in my foot’s wellbeing.