This is the woman who’d accused my brother of rape. The woman who burned my life to ash ten years ago.
And yet…she looks like she was born to have my daughter in her arms.
I grip the rail hard enough my knuckles pop, then stride up and scoop Evie out of Sarah’s lap. The stuffed horse Evie was holding falls to theground.
“I told you to stay away from my kid,” I rasp roughly. I keep it low. I don’t want to wake up Evie.
Sarah picks up the stuffed horse that Evie was sleeping with. “Elena had to run a check on one of her hands at the bronc riding…so….” She clears her throat, holds the toy out like a peace offering. “I got this for her.”
I sneer at the damn thing, hating myself for being annoyed over a fucking stuffed animal. “I don’t want her to have anything that came from you.”
Her face crumples, devastation flashing in her eyes, and it slices through me sharper than barbed wire.
I turn on my heel before I say or do something stupid, like apologizing or hugging her. I walk fast, running away, Evie heavy in my arms and my own words like spurs raked across hide.
That burn only intensifies when Evie wakes up at home and cries for Pinky, the horse that Dr. K got for her.
I seem to have a knack for hurting the women in my life.
Sarah is not a woman in your life, Cade.
Right!
CHAPTER 12
sarah
Dusk settles over the rodeo. The last bronc riders hang on in the ring, but most folks drift toward the food stands or start hitching up trailers.
For me, the day isn’t done. After all, a vet’s work doesn’t stop when the announcer calls it quits.
I walk the line of horse trailers, checking legs for swelling and eyes for cloudiness. I’m running a hand down a gelding’s cannon bone when a voice startles me. I straighten too fast, bumping my shoulder against the horse’s flank, and mutter an apology under my breath.
“Dr. Kirk?”
I brush hay off my jeans. A blonde woman stands just outside the stall, mid-thirties maybe, her blazer looking out of place in all this dust. She has a press badge clipped to her lapel.
“I’m Marnie Evans.” She offers a business card. “I’m a reporter withThe Washington Herald.”
I take her card and read it. It confirms her name, profession, and place of work. “If this is about being a vet at a rodeo…you probably want Dr. Bodie Tiller. He’s the senior animal doc around here.”
Her smile sharpens. “Actually, I want to speak with you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
I give her a puzzled look. “Why?”
“I want to ask you about Congressman Mercer.”
For a beat, gravity falters, and I can’t pull a full breath. “What…?”
She glances around to make sure there’s no one nearby to overhear us. “I spoke to your father…. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I remembered then what Lyle Dunn had said—that the last time he saw Daddy, he joked about a reporter reaching out.
“Thank you. What did you discuss with my father?” I ask, my heart hammering.
