The Single Dad's Redemption. Roxanne Rustand
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“That isn’t necessary. Really.”
She waved away his protest. “Consider it a part of your workday, because this will help me a lot, as well. You can talk to Dad while I make supper and then you can eat with us. I am sure there’ll be a time or two when I need to send you over there, so it’ll help if he gets to know you. Maybe not anything about your, um, recent past, though. Not just yet.”
Frowning, he hitched a shoulder as if wanting to turn her down. “Well...”
She bit her lower lip. “I want to apologize in advance for anything Dad might say or do that seems rude. He wasn’t always that way. His doctor says it’s probably part of his dementia.”
A corner of Connor’s mouth kicked up into a brief grin. “Actually, it sounds just like home.”
Not for the first time, she wondered about what Connor’s life had been like before he’d ended up in prison.
Not always happy, apparently, from his hints about his troubled family life back at the ranch. Yet he’d been nothing but polite, with the subtle undercurrent of Texas charm that made her heart warm. Whatever he’d suffered during his unjust incarceration, he’d still managed to come through it as a kind and decent man. “So you’ll join us?”
He hesitated, then nodded.
This was strictly business—a way to help introduce Dad to this stranger. So why did she feel such a flicker of delight at his answer?
Connor would be leaving town in no time. She’d never see him again. And she’d already had too many lessons in the art of failed relationships to ever risk her heart again.
She would not—could not—have any personal interest in Connor Rafferty.
He raised an eyebrow and she realized she’d been staring at him while sorting out her thoughts. She scrambled for something else to say.
“Um, just steer clear of Dad’s dog and you’ll be fine.”
“I think I’ll manage...though it sounds like your dad might be the bigger challenge.”
She bit back a laugh. “I forgot. You had a career riding bulls or broncs or something equally intimidating. Right?”
“Saddle broncs.”
“So you can easily deal with a grumpy dog.” She ushered Connor out the back door of the shop and then locked the door behind them. “I’ve had a five-pound pot roast in Dad’s Crock-Pot since this morning, simmering away with plenty of fresh vegetables and garlic. I hope you’ll enjoy it more than a soggy campground and cold food.”
He flashed a smile that warmed her clear down to her toes. “On that score, I have no doubt.”
* * *
Once he’d heard about that beef roast, it would have taken a herd of stampeding Herefords to keep him from joining Keeley and her dad for dinner.
But now that they’d been at her dad’s house for an interminable hour, Connor wished he could tactfully leave despite the otherworldly aromas wafting into the family room from the kitchen.
Paul North sat in his La-Z-Boy recliner, his arms folded tightly across his chest.
He’d said nothing when Keeley introduced the two of them, and his icy demeanor hadn’t wavered since. Now and then he directed a glare in Connor’s direction.
If eyes could shoot flames, Connor would have been a pile of cinders by now. He shifted his weight on the leather sofa and tried another topic. “So...are you a sports fan?”
“No.”
Connor had never followed sports, so that would’ve been a dead end anyhow. “Golf?”
“No.”
“Camping? Hiking?”
Paul’s thick, steel-gray brows drew together in a frown. “Do I look like someone who would go camping?”
Connor glanced around the spacious room. Paneled in dark wood and cluttered with twice as much heavy furniture as it needed, and stacks of magazines on every flat surface, the room was so full that he’d even missed noticing the fireplace at first.
Toenails clicked on the hardwood floor and a white-muzzled, overweight dog appeared at the end of the sofa. It swiveled its head toward Paul then took a long, hard look at Connor, its teeth bared and hackles raised.
The dog and Paul had such similar personalities that Connor nearly laughed. “Nice dog.”
“Be careful. Bart doesn’t like anyone but me.” From the tone in his voice, Paul was proud of it, too.
But just then Bart ambled over to Connor, sniffed at the hem of his jeans, gave a sigh of contentment and planted his rear on the floor.
Connor reached down to ruffle the shaggy hair on his neck and scratch behind his ears. The old dog flopped down to rest his chin on Connor’s running shoe. In seconds he was snoring, his flaccid cheeks whuffling in and out with each wheezy breath.
Paul eyed his traitorous dog, and the old man’s bushy eyebrows lowered. “I guess he thinks you’re okay,” he muttered.
“Have you had him long?”
“Twelve years. He was a rescue from the animal shelter. No one wanted him till I came along, and we’ve been pals ever since.” A glimmer of a smile appeared briefly at the memory. “You have dogs?”
“I did, when I was still on my dad’s ranch in Texas. It was a long time ago.”
“A ranch?” Paul’s aloof expression faded. “I thought maybe you were some tramp.”
From the kitchen came the sound of a strangled laugh, and Keeley peered around the corner of the door. “Dad—for heaven’s sake. I told you he’s camping while his truck is being repaired. That doesn’t make him a hobo.”
When she disappeared back into the kitchen, Paul gave him a narrowed look. “A real ranch?”
Connor nodded, relieved to finally find some common ground. “Real. Horses. Cattle mostly. Around four hundred acres of hay.”
“I read a lot of Westerns. Seems like a great life, out there with the wide-open spaces. Clean air.”
“That’s what I miss most. But it’s a hard life and a lonely one at times.”
The rich aroma of beef roast grew stronger now, coupled with the scent of biscuits and something that smelled suspiciously like apple pie.
Homemade apple pie? The very thought made Connor’s mouth water and stomach rumble. The food had been okay in prison, as far as institutional cooking went, but he could already tell that this meal would be unbelievably good. “I’m guessing your daughter is a very good cook.”
“She’ll do.”
“I heard that, Dad,” Keeley teased from the kitchen. “So beef pot roast for Connor but bread and water for you.”
Paul ignored her. “Now, my wife, Frances—there was a woman who could cook. She could make magic happen in the kitchen.” Paul settled back in his chair, his eyes closing as he drifted back through his memories. “Flakiest piecrusts and fluffiest biscuits you ever tasted. And her fried chicken? Whoo-eee. She could make a man almost cry, just by promising to make it for supper.”
Once again Keeley appeared at the door to the kitchen with a pot holder and a smile. “What Dad said is all true. Mom was a wonderful cook. Even using her recipe files, I can’t measure up.”
Connor’s estimation of Keeley moved up another notch.
Apparently the old man didn’t appreciate how much his daughter helped him, and he certainly didn’t consider his words before speaking. Yet she remained consistently kind, handling him with grace and a touch of humor. Traits so far removed from the party