Today was the day she intended to confront Lucky Welch.
Suddenly, Lucky was heading straight for her with a lanky walk that screamed pure cowboy. His belt buckle was even bigger than his confident stride. He wiped dust from his hat, smiled, and Natalie thought maybe he had the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. Another bull rider walked beside him.
Natalie stopped in her tracks. Lucky stopped, too, and caught her eye. “Do you want an autograph?”
Oh, no! He thought she was a buckle bunny. In a way, his assumption knocked down the defenses she’d so carefully erected while she was watching him.
“No,” she blurted, “I don’t want an autograph. I want help with Marcus’s son.”
PAMELA TRACY
lives in Arizona with a newly acquired husband ( Yes, Pamela is somewhat a newlywed. You can be a newlywed for seven years. We’re only on year five ) and a confused cat ( Hey, I had her all to myself for fifteen years. Where’d this guy come from? But, maybe it’s okay. He’s pretty good about feeding me and petting me ) and a toddler ( Newlymom is almost as fun as newlywed! ). She was raised in Omaha, Nebraska, and started writing at age twelve ( A very bad teen romance featuring David Cassidy from the Partridge Family ). Later, she honed her writing skills while earning a BA in Journalism at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas ( And wrote a very bad science fiction novel that didn’t feature David Cassidy ).
Readers can write to her at www.pamelakayetracy.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
Daddy for Keeps
Pamela Tracy
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
— James 1:17
To every mother who gave her heart at first sight,
first touch, first cry.
Plus, special thanks to Mark Henley, who shared bull riding expertise. The ride in the last chapter is really his. And to Wendy Lemme, who read the book in its final stage and helped with fine-tuning.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
T he billboard on top of the grocery store featured a picture they’d taken straight from his mother’s photo album. Lucky Welch, headliner of this year’s Selena Rodeo, shook his head and hoped no one recognized the bull in the background. It had belonged to his grandfather and was a family pet named Whimper.
Pulling out his cell, Lucky punched in his mother’s number. She didn’t even bother with “hello.” Instead, in a no-nonsense voice, she said, “Lucky, I’m right here with Bernice. She says it’s silly to pay good money to stay at a campground when you’re surrounded by family.”
Surrounded by family was a bit of a stretch, but Lucky knew better than to mention that detail. “Mom—” He paused, knowing that no matter what he said, he’d be staying at Bernice’s. That Bernice Baker was his mother’s best friend from childhood and not really family had never been an argument that worked. Nope, his mother always had one better, like…
“Bernice has already changed the sheets in Mary’s room.”
The changing of the sheets for company, at least in his family and most West Texas families, for that matter, was a time-honored tradition and not one to mess with. Plus, Lucky had met bulls easier to win over than his mother. Well, okay, one bull, to be exact: Whimper.
An hour later he pulled his truck into Bernice’s yard and waited for the fireworks. They came in the shape of his mother and her best friend, who exploded out the front door and down to meet him.
Since his brother’s death six months ago, his mother had taken excitable to a new level. After assuring her he was doing just fine—well, fine for a bull rider who’d put 52,000 miles on his truck this year—he unpacked in Bernice’s oldest daughter’s bedroom. He stuffed his rigging bag into a closet already full of old clothes, old shoes and old suitcases. He piled his Blackwood spurs and hand-tooled leather chaps on top of a hope chest that Mary had often referred to as hope less. Slightly older and full of jokes and mischief, Mary had taught him that girls could be tough but that sometimes the toughness was an act.
His mother and Bernice waited for him on the porch, enjoying the sunset. Polar opposites, they’d been friends since their first day of high school. Lucky’s mother, Betsy Welch, had ridden the bus an hour each way from a neighboring town. She stood almost six feet tall and still favored the big hair of her generation. Bernice had always called Selena, Texas, home. She edged just over the five-foot mark and was nearly as round as she was tall. She still wore her hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She’d been the tomboy; Lucky’s mother had been the princess and Selena’s rodeo queen when she was just eighteen.
“We’re going to have fried chicken later on,” Bernice said.
“Sounds good, but I want to check out the town.”
“You mean the competition,” his mother guessed.
“Yup.”
Lucky headed for his truck. Bernice’s young son, Howard Junior, called Howie by everyone, followed Lucky down the path. “I’m gonna be a bull rider when I grow up,” he bragged.
Ten-year-old Howie looked like he should still be pushing cars on the ground, watching cartoons or carrying a snake and chasing girls—not planning to hop on the backs of bulls. “You practice every day?” Lucky asked.
“Nope.”
“Then you’re not gonna be a bull rider.”
“Yes, I am,” Howie insisted stubbornly.
“You gonna practice every day?”
“Don’t haf to.”
Lucky
