needn’t have worried.
Betty Jean pulled bottles of glittery nail polish from her backpack, earning herself a big tip and his daughter’s instant devotion. Soon, the girls were chatting like magpies as they cleared away the tea things to make room for a manicure station. And when Mitch bent to deliver the promised good-night kiss, Hailey barely offered her cheek with a, “Bye, Daddy, see ya later,” before asking the babysitter which polish matched her outfit.
Seeing his child engrossed in the girlie stuff he didn’t quite understand, Mitch rubbed at an empty spot in his chest. For the moment, he shoved the feeling aside. But weaving his way through rows of cars parked on a grassy field twenty minutes later, he couldn’t avoid second-guessing his plans for the night. Now that his ex-wife had breezed back into town demanding not just a place in their child’s life, but full custody, should he have stayed home, tried harder to be both mother and father to his little girl?
The heel of one cowboy boot caught a divot in the grass, and his other foot came down hard. The move jarred Mitch, and he smiled, thinking it might have knocked some sense back into him. He was a prominent attorney. He’d worked hard to make a good home for Hailey. While he couldn’t guarantee the judge’s ruling, he could definitely prove he was a better parent than the woman who hadn’t called or visited her child in four years.
His thoughts settled, he stopped by the Boots and Spurs barn, where a band was setting up for the dance following the rodeo. Making his way past scattered hay bales and picnic benches, he dutifully checked out the silent auction part of the fundraising event. This year’s prizes ranged from a dance with one of the rodeo stars to riding lessons. Since Hailey would enjoy the latter, he scribbled down a bid before dropping a generous check in the donation box.
Then it was on to the arena, where he plunged into a milling throng. He bought a bag of freshly roasted peanuts from a vendor, and worked his way toward the stands, chatting with people he knew, greeting some he didn’t. He traded nods with Randall Hill, the county’s district attorney, before taking a seat in the reserved section. Mitch had barely settled into it when a cowboy on a gray horse raced onto the dirt track, quickly wove between several flagpoles, and sped back the way he’d come.
Top-notch entertainment?
Maybe not, Mitch decided as he cracked a few peanut shells. By the end of his summer at rodeo camp, he’d ridden nearly as well. He smiled, remembering how Mandy had taken pity on his inexperience and given him a few pointers on calf roping. He’d spent the next six weeks head-over-heels for her. His thoughts drifted to the stolen hours they’d spent in each other’s arms. The innocence of those days helped keep his fears about the looming custody case at bay. Or so he told himself, until the arena emptied and he realized he’d been so lost in thought he’d missed the warm-up acts.
“We’re sorry to hafta tell ya’ll that Tom Markette can’t be with us tonight,” a voice drawled over the loudspeakers. “But we got a real treat for ya. Takin’ his place is one time-member of the Markette Ropin’ Team and a champ-een barrel racer in her own right…Ma-a-and-y Mar-ket-t-te.”
Mitch searched the ring below. Had he heard correctly? Or had the flood of memories about his first love tricked his ears into deceiving him?
As he watched, an elaborately costumed blonde calmly made her way to the center of the arena astride a large and equally bedecked golden horse. Mitch’s gaze narrowed in on the rider as the pair turned, giving him his first good look at the woman Mandy had become. Gone was the coltish figure of that long-ago summer, replaced by womanly curves. Horse and rider stood still for several long seconds, until a hush fell over the crowd.
Then, without warning, Mandy let loose a rebel yell. Dirt sprayed from the horse’s hooves. The big palomino raced through a dizzying series of figure eights. Coming out of a final turn, the rider called, “Hee-yah!”
Instantly, the horse beneath her surged into a full gallop.
Mitch stared, unwilling to move, hardly daring to breathe. His heart pounded while Mandy danced in the saddle, sometimes standing, sometimes leaning so far over her long braids brushed the ground. When she wheeled for the final run, everyone in the crowd surged to their feet. Mitch scrambled to his, glad for the extra few inches that let him see over those in front.
Below, a broad smile on her face, her arms spread wide, Mandy stood atop the prancing palomino. While the crowd roared in approval, horse and rider raced for the gate.
All too soon the last dirt clod settled to the ground. By the time a rodeo clown stepped into the arena, doffed a ten-gallon Stetson and latched the gate, Mitch’s feet were in motion. With every step he took closer to the barn, his plans firmed. He would attend the dance and talk shop with the law clerks who lingered around the punch bowl. But first, he’d enter a bid in the silent auction. One high enough to win a dance with the star of tonight’s rodeo.
* * *
HEART PUMPING, limbs trembling from the exertion, Amanda slid from Brindle’s saddle, patted the horse soundly and slipped him a couple of well-deserved sugar cubes. The big palomino snorted in pleasure, and she gave him a hug. Together, they had nailed it. Delivered the performance of a lifetime. So what if the ride hadn’t been quite flawless? The applause from the grandstand proved that no one at the Saddle Up Stampede cared if she’d lost her hat halfway through the second cloverleaf. Or nearly lost her footing as she rode out of the arena.
“Be sure you walk him until he cools off.” She handed Brindle’s reins to a waiting stable hand. “Then give him an extra measure of oats and a long rubdown.”
Lucky horse. His work was done. Hers, not so much.
The sawing screech of an out-of-tune fiddle drifted across the parking lot, a reminder of the country dance that would end the evening’s festivities. Her pulse still racing on the high of a near-perfect ride, Amanda spun on a boot heel. The barn, where cowboy hats bobbed on a sea of plaid shirts above straight-legged Levi’s, beckoned.
At a gingham-covered table, she asked about the winning bid for the first dance.
“Great show, Amanda.” The auctioneer beamed. “You musta’ made an impression on Mitchell Goodwin.” He pointed to the dark-haired man who strode toward them from the cashier’s booth.
Mitch? Now, that was a name she hadn’t expected. Memories rose like smoke from the campfire she and Mitch had once cuddled beside. They’d gazed at the stars and talked for hours, and ended up falling in love.
Frowning at her exaggerated version of puppy love, Amanda swallowed a wave of nostalgia. At sixteen, Mitch had been all knobby knees and elbows. Tonight, there was nothing awkward about the man whose long strides brought him ever closer. Laugh lines around his mouth enhanced his broad smile. Her own lips curved upward as she noted his familiar straight nose and high cheekbones, and her breath hitched when their eyes met. His were so deep that, for a moment, she let herself get lost in their azure depths, the way she had one summer night as they stood in line for the Ferris wheel. How had she ever forgotten eyes such a vibrant blue? Or the way his quick smile had once thrilled her heart? She’d kept a diary that summer, each page crammed with inky script, their initials entwined along the edges.
She gave him her best smile. “It’s good to see you, Mitch.”
“Mandy.” His focus never wavered as he extended a hand. “It’s been too long.”
She’d left the nickname behind the day she’d walked away from professional rodeo, but mentioning that now seemed petty. Slipping her fingers into his
