a horse nickered. A large pale head leaned out over the door. Amanda ran a hand over the horse’s neck and felt the palomino quiver.
“Hey, big guy,” she whispered to her dad’s second-best mount. “It’s been a while. You remember me?”
The horse snorted and nudged her shoulder, looking for a treat.
“That’s a good boy,” Amanda said. She might have put the rodeo scene behind her, but some things never changed. She pulled the expected handful of carrots from her pocket.
Blowing soft wet kisses, Brindle lipped them from her open palm.
“You ready for a little run?” she asked the horse.
Spangles glinted from the saddle her dad had tossed over one wall of the chest-high pen. A pile of blankets, bridles and other tack sat beneath it. Amanda straightened the fringe on a costume of soft caramel buckskin she hadn’t seen in years. She shook her head. Her father had thought of everything, eliminated every reason why she couldn’t take his place.
Well, except that maybe she was so out of practice she’d have trouble sitting in the saddle, much less standing on top of it while Brindle thundered across the arena. She gave a final thought to the case that had landed in her lap earlier that morning, and sighed. There was a ton of work to do in the two weeks before she and her client made their first courtroom appearance.
But all that would have to wait until Sunday morning, when the performance she’d never wanted to give was behind her.
* * *
MITCHELL GOODWIN LIFTED the miniscule teacup from the wooden table in the playroom. Shifting uncomfortably on the narrow painted bench, he raised the tiny piece of china, tipped an imaginary toast to his hostess and pretended to drink.
“Yum.” His cup rattled into its saucer. “Hailey, that hit the spot. Thank you so much.”
Across the table, a frown clouded a pair of brilliant blue eyes. Mitch noted the purse of rosebud lips, and leaned forward.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“You forgot to crook-ed your pinkie, Daddy. Mrs. Birch says it’s a rule.” Four-year-old Hailey Goodwin demonstrated. “Now your turn, Daddy.”
Beneath the tiny picnic table, the pointed toe of Mitch’s left boot pinched. He flexed his ankle to stave off a muscle cramp brought on by the longer-than-usual tea party. Cup in hand, finger properly bent this time, he took another sip.
“Wait! Your cup is empty. Put it down here.” Hailey pointed to a doll-size serving tray. “I’ll pour some more.”
Hoping to goodness that the exorbitant tuition he paid to Mrs. Birch’s Angel Care covered a lot more than lessons in etiquette, Mitch held out his cup as his daughter poured make-believe tea from a tiny china pot.
“Did your class sing the A-B-C song, honey? Did you practice your letters?”
“Would you like a cookie, Daddy?” Hailey held out a small plate filled with plastic wafers. “They’re coconut. Mrs. Birch says they’re the bestest kind.”
Uh-oh.
Mitch’s smile froze. When he’d stocked up on treats for the evening, coconut hadn’t been on his shopping list.
“The best, huh? Last week, you asked for chocolate chip.”
“Did you buy some?” Her eyes going wide, Hailey stared over his shoulder at the door to the kitchen.
“There’s a brand-new box on the counter. I bought them especially for you and Betty Jean.”
Hailey’s fists landed on her sturdy little hips. “Why does she have to be here, Daddy? I want you to tuck me in, same as always.”
“Hailey, remember your promise.” An hour of dolls and stories were his part of the bargain. In exchange, Hailey had promised to behave for the babysitter. Lifting his cup again, Mitch blew out air that he hoped his daughter took for a cooling breath and not an exasperated sigh. Life wasn’t fair, and little girls—even ones without mothers—couldn’t have their way all the time. “We talked about this,” he reminded his daughter when her glower continued. “Betty Jean will help you say your prayers, but I’ll kiss you good-night before I leave, and again after I come home. You’ll get lots of kisses.”
“And cookies?” Hailey asked, the picture of innocence.
Mitch bit back a laugh and shook his head. There were a few consolations to having a wife who’d abandoned her newborn to run off with another man. Karen hadn’t stuck around long enough to teach their daughter the fine art of manipulation.
“You know the rules.” Too much sugar and Hailey wouldn’t sleep well. “Just one.”
Dark curls spilled onto her face, nearly hiding the gleam in her eyes. “If I’m extra good, can I have more?”
His daughter drove a hard bargain. Someday she’d make a good lawyer, just like her father, and his father before him. His resolve weakening, Mitch answered, “Two. But only if you play nice with Betty Jean.”
“I will, Daddy,” Hailey said solemnly.
The storm that had gathered in his child’s face dissipated. This time, Mitch didn’t bother to try to hide his relief. His attendance at the bar association’s charity event was not optional. The district attorney might not stand at the gate with a clipboard or check names off a list, but the man would soon name his successor. As his protégé, Mitch expected to get the nod. Now was not the time to slip up by skipping an important appearance.
Besides, he practically had an obligation to speak with the star of tonight’s show, didn’t he? Sure, he’d been only sixteen that summer he’d worked as a counselor at Camp Bridle Catch. But he hadn’t forgotten the long days in the saddle, any more than he’d forgotten the green-eyed girl who’d stolen his heart the night they’d slipped away to a carnival in town. He tapped a finger against his lips, recalling the wonder of that first kiss, and the others they’d shared during long nights around the campfire. Though their love hadn’t survived past the summer, he’d followed her meteoric rise on the rodeo circuit. When she’d suddenly retired eight years ago, he’d wondered why. Tonight, he’d finally have a chance to ask Tom Markette about his daughter.
Strictly as one old friend asking about another, of course.
Mitch shot the cuff of a suitably Western-style shirt and checked his watch just as chimes signaled the arrival of the babysitter. Hailey’s little-girl laughter rang through the room. Their tea party abruptly forgotten, she charged toward the front door.
In the entryway, where stick-figure artwork crowded the walls, Mitch motioned Betty Jean into the air-conditioning that made life on Florida’s east coast bearable. The college student was familiar with their routines, so once Hailey calmed down enough for him to get a word in edgewise, he made quick work of the necessary instructions.
“There’s leftover spaghetti, mac ’n cheese, chicken tenders or fish sticks for supper.” He rattled off the list of Hailey’s current favorites. “Cookies for dessert. She can have a couple.” He waited until Hailey’s back was turned to signal that three would be okay.
“I’ll
