The Rancher's Dance Read Online Free PDF Page A

can show you what they did at her summer camp today.”
    There was no point in bracing against the prick of guilt Beck felt at the mention of his daughter. Ever since her mother had died, he got that guilty feeling every single time he left his little girl. Didn’t matter if he had good reason. Didn’t matter that he knew she was just as happy being cared for by Stan—who’d ended up being a helluva lot better grandfather than he’d ever been a father—or at her summer day camp or even in school.
    Shelby and Nick were the only things left of Harmony. His daughter deserved to grow up with a father and a mother, just the way Beck and Harmony had planned it from the time they’d been high school sweethearts. She deserved to have what their son, Nick, had enjoyed growing up; namely the loving attention of his mother.
    Dammit to hell.
    Beck hated July.
    The rest of the year he could manage to get by without sinking too deep into the grief that never really left him.
    But July?
    Not even the prospect of Nick coming home for the weekend to celebrate his twenty-first birthday was enough to make the month bearable.
    He shoved one hand through his hair and focused on the here and now. “What’s in the pot?”
    Stan gave him a look, as if he knew good and well what put the gravel in Beck’s voice. “Marinara sauce. Saw the recipe on that cooking channel the other day. Figured I’d give it a go. Gonna put it on some pasta.”
    For the first time that afternoon, Beck felt a hint of amusement. Spaghetti noodles had become “pasta” since Stan had taken up watching the pretty female chefs on television.
    Most of Stan’s “give it a gos” were on the fair side of mediocre, but he was happy and willing to keep them in food so Beck and Shelby were happy and willing enough to let him. “Sounds good.”
    â€œGuess we’ll find out,” Stan said wryly. “Lord knows Nick’ll tell me plain enough if it’s not when he gets here tomorrow night.” He gestured with his spoon and a splotch of red sauce landed on the granite counter. “Don’t forget Shelby.”
    As if Beck would. He veered away from the back staircase he’d been aiming for when he entered the house and headed through the kitchen to the dining room instead.
    His daughter was perched on one of the chairs, sitting on top of two old telephone books that raised her up enough so she could reach the table better. Her walnut-brown head was bent over the papers spread across the glossy wood surface of the long table. She heard his footsteps and hereyes—Harmony’s golden eyes—looked up at him, then swiftly shied away.
    She might have been waiting for him just as Beck’s father claimed, but it was still a hell of a note when his own daughter was shy with him.
    Which left him feeling like he was always walking on eggshells around her. “Hey, peanut. Whatcha drawing?”
    Her narrow shoulders hunched. “Pictures.” She leaned closer to the table, as if she wanted to hide whatever it was she’d been wanting to show him.
    Since the moment they’d lost Harmony, Beck had missed his wife. But the times when he missed her most were in the morning when he’d first wake up and think—just for a split second—that his life was still complete and he could turn his head and find her laying beside him. And times like now, when he was with Shelby, wishing like hell that Harmony was there to help him be the kind of father their daughter deserved.
    He slowly pulled out the chair next to his baby girl and sat down. “Pictures of what?”
    Her shoulder hunched again. She was wearing a light pink shirt with dark pink flowers on it and for a second—only a second, he assured himself—an image of Lucy Buchanan danced in his thoughts.
    She’d been wearing pink that morning, too.
    And that afternoon, when she’d been driving that