Page 45 of Wrangled Up

“I talked to Claire this morning.”

Tucker jerked. The last thing he’d expected to hear was that.

“She’s told me a lot about you. Say…what are ya drinkin’?”

Drawing a deep breath through his nostrils, Tucker analyzed the emotions ping-ponging through his body. Punch the man square in the teeth or sink to a barstool next to him?

“Beer.” His throat constricted around the word, making him sound as if he really needed that drink.

Tucker shot a glare at Jones on his way to the stool, but his bartender friend tried to make peace by sliding a longneck of Tucker’sfavorite brew across the wooden bar top. Damn the man for knowing too much, but most bartenders did. Of course he would know. Tucker had been holding down this barstool long enough.

Mickelson hitched himself onto the stool beside Tucker. Too close for Tucker’s comfort, but there was nothing to do but wait to see if the man challenged him.

Tucker took three long swallows of the earthy liquid before Claire’s father spoke.

“Heard you was on the run from my little girl.”

The cords in Tucker’s neck grew taut. He slowly turned his head to pierce the man in his gaze. “You heard that, huh?” Hurting Claire made Tucker’s stomach burn.

“Letty told me.” Mickelson raised a brow as if in challenge then sipped from his foamy glass.

For a moment, Tucker couldn’t make sense of the name. Then it filtered in, along with the wail of the woman on the jukebox. Claire’s aunt. Sweet woman, who also saw too goddamn much.

“Ah.”

Mickelson shifted on the stool. “A lot of guys are clamoring for my girl’s attention, you know. She’s a beauty, and men want her. Letty acts as a sort of buffer between them, and in my stead.”

In your absence.

“So my mother’s sister tells me everything about the goings-on with Claire. Says she’s living in your house.”

Tucker dug his boot into the wrung of the stool to keep from falling off. “What?”

Mickelson’s eyes were dark, too much like Claire’s when she got angry. “Yeah, Claire moved in to take care of your cattle—”

With Christian. Fuck.

“—and she brought Letty along.”

So they were all living there, cozy as three bugs, while Tucker camped out in a shitty motel room with nothing but beer and afternoon game shows for company. But whose fault was that?

“Seems that you had something serious with my little girl.” The accusation was clear in Mickelson’s tone as well as the set of his jaw.

Tucker looked away. That dark shadow of hair on her father’s face brought a dizzyingneed for Christian. He brought the mouth of the bottle to his lips and drank the rest down.

“Drowning yourself in beer won’t make that guilt go away.”

Tucker swung around in a flash. “What do you know of my guilt?”

“I know you were fooling with my Claire, and you left her. Anyone with a brain would feel guilty about that. Hurting her is like hurting Mother Theresa.”

Fuck, the man was right. Maybe he did know his daughter—at least well enough to know she was soft and pure as new snow.

Tucker nudged the brim of his hat lower. “Your daughter is an amazing woman.”And she deserves better than me.“And I wish her the best.” Tucker climbed off the stool and made it two steps before Mickelson’s low voice reached him over the dying remnants of the song.

“What if the best was you?”

Swallowing convulsively, Tucker stared at the door.Move toward it. Don’t look back.With supreme willpower, he moved one boot ahead of the other. Outside, he controlled the urge to break into a run. To run long and hard acrossthe land until grasses swished around his knees and his lungs burned for air.

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