Much as he hated the thought of hauling out his party manners and shining the almost new boots that still pinched his toes, it suited his sense of irony that the party to celebrate the town’s recovery from the June blackout was occurring on a night when the weather was nearly as brutal.
He’d been saddle sore and weary when he rode in from the pasture, a long list of urgent jobs for his men already taking shape in his head. As he hurried toward the house, he’d been desperate for a hot shower, a gallon of steaming coffee and, maybe, just maybe, a quick bout of loving from his wife. Tired as he’d been, he’d gotten hard at the thought. He and Karen hadn’t had sex for weeks, and he was about as frustrated as the wild stallion he’d glimpsed racing the wind on the horizon a few hours earlier.
But, when he reached the house, he found Vicki in tears, Wanda June at her wit’s end and Karen running late—as usual. It had nearly torn him apart to see the disappointment in his little girl’s big brown eyes when she’d come racing out of her bedroom at the sound of the back door closing, only to find him standing. According to Wanda June, Vicki had been waiting for the better part of an hour for her mother to get home.
It had taken him five harrowing minutes to narrow the problem to a hem that needed to be pinned up and sewed in place. Wanda June had offered to help, but Vicki had wanted her mom to do it. Like they’d planned, she kept telling him, her eyes flashing with impatience at his failure to understand.
He’d wanted to smash a fist into the nearest wall. Instead, he swallowed the anger that flared inside him like a familiar stab of pain and offered himself as a substitute. Which was why he was presently standing like an awkward, barefoot idiot in his own dining room, one hand clamped on a patch of flimsy cotton skirt, the other awkwardly trying to retrieve yet another tiny dressmaker’s pin from the small plastic box on the table. He’d rather eat dust and wrestle fifty terrified calves on branding day than pin up a damned skirt hem.
“Darn it, Vick, hold still.”
Vicki stood ramrod stiff on the tabletop, her small pixie face screwed into a knot of worry. He winced as she let out yet another long-suffering sigh. “How much longer till you’re done, Daddy?”
“Couple of minutes,” he mumbled, all thumbs and masculine frustration.
“You keep saying that.”
He drew a steadying breath. “Cut me some slack here, peanut. I’m doing the best I can.”
One pin later she was scowling at him again. “Your hands are too big.”
“Luck of the draw, peanut.” Damn pins were slippery, too.
“My hands are puny, like Mommy’s.” She lifted her hands and glared at them. “I can’t throw a rope worth spit.”
“Little girls aren’t supposed to throw a rope worth spit—or otherwise.”
Looking down, Vicki traced an imaginary pattern on the shiny tabletop. “Did your daddy teach you how to rope?”
“No, and hold still.”
“If your daddy didn’t teach you, who did?”
“I taught myself.” Cassidy felt sweat sliding between his shoulder blades, and his head hurt from squinting at the striped fabric. “Son of a—buck,” he all but shouted when the wickedly sharp sliver of steel pierced the ball of his thumb.
“Daddy, be careful! You’ll bleed on my beautiful dress and ruin it.”
His thumb stuck in his mouth, Cassidy regarded his daughter over the tops of his callused knuckles. “I’m bleeding to death, and all you care about is your dress?” he muttered.
Vicki’s dark eyes danced with mischief. “You’re not very good at this, are you?” She reached up to catch hold of his hand. After giving his injured thumb a quick appraisal, she wrinkled her nose. “It’s only a little prick.”
Cassidy turned his thumb to assess the damage. “That is not a prick. That’s a wound. Probably get infected and ruin my roping for a solid month.”
He stuck the smarting digit into his mouth again to stop the bleeding, his indignant gaze locked with his daughter’s laughing one. At least she was no longer worrying that her pretty new dress might not be finished in time for the party tonight, he congratulated himself.
Maybe he wasn’t much of a seamstress, but he could still tease a smile out of his little girl, even if she did seem more grown-up and femininely unpredictable with each passing day.
“After you pin it, you have to sew it by hand,” she informed him, her small mouth twitching suspiciously at the corners. “With a needle and thread, so no one can see them. Mommy said.”
“So you’ve told me about a dozen times already.”
Vicki nudged her chin down far enough to direct an imperious little-girl frown his way. “Just so you know.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
Cassidy gripped the blasted hem and braced himself for another attempt. At the same time, he cast another hopeful glance at the window. At the sight of the hovering clouds, which appeared to grow more threatening minute by minute, a nagging unease gripped him.
Karen had a reliable four-by-four and the best cell phone money could buy. Come winter, he always made sure she had new snow tires. Nevertheless, he hated the idea of her driving back and forth to town alone at night or when the weather was bad. One more reason to hate that frigging job of hers.
“Make sure it’s pinned real even, okay?” Vicki ordered with a worried frown as he tightened his hold on the material. “I don’t want to look like a loser in front of my friends.”
Eyeing the scrape on his daughter’s right knee, Cassidy bit off a sigh. Yesterday, she’d been happily running wild on the ranch in dusty jeans and a cowboy hat. Tonight she was as haughty and poised as a princess about to depart for a fancy ball. Was this yo-yoing back and forth normal for little girls? Or was he just inept at parenting? Either way, he was as worried as a greenhorn facing his first branding.
“Look, I have an idea,” he said with a forced heartiness. “Why don’t you wear your jeans and a nice shirt tonight? Maybe that blue one with the fancy buttons you wore to church last Sunday?”
Vicki managed to look both offended and impatient. “Because tonight is special, Daddy. All my friends are going to be there. And some important people from town are going to give Mommy a certificate. I can’t go wearing an icky old pair of jeans.”
It was special, all right, he thought sourly. Half the town would be showing up to honor the folks who’d helped out in last June’s massive storm—rescue workers, firefighters and hospital staff. Grand Springs’s own heroes and heroines. Since the invitation had arrived last month, Vicki had talked about little else. Her mom was a genuine heroine, just like in the movies or in the games on her Xbox.
A man had to be blind not to notice how proud Vick was. The more she talked, the more Cassidy bit his tongue. Okay, so Kari was good at her job. He respected that. But dammit, her patients weren’t the only ones who needed her care and compassion—and love. What about a little girl who spent more time with a sitter or hanging around the corral talking to the hands than she spent with her mom? Or a husband who was beginning to wonder if his wife would even miss him if he suddenly up and disappeared?
“Stop fidgeting, Vick,” he muttered, his temper almost as frayed as the ragged edge of the pink-and-white material he was trying to hide under a little fold the way Vick had ordered.
“I