Swept Away

“You got any idea what you’re so scared of?”

Tears bit at Carly’s eyes. “All of this. The town…my options. You.”

Sam’s eyes flashed as he quietly said, “I don't suppose you’d care to explain that.”

“I don’t know that I can. It’s just that this all seems so real. And I’m—” she met his gaze, sadly shaking her head “—not.”

Sam’s face hardened. “That’s crap, Carly.”

He withdrew his hands from his pockets, then took three or four slow, deliberate steps toward her. “Funny thing,” he said, “but I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on the difference between illusion and reality, And as far as I’m concerned, you are one of the most real women I’ve ever met. So deal with it.”

He headed for the door, only to turn back and say, “By the way, I’ll be picking you up for the dance tomorrow night around seven. I’d appreciate it if you’d wear something to make every male in the room regret not being me.”

Swept Away
Karen Templeton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KAREN TEMPLETON,

a Waldenbooks bestselling author and RITA^® Award nominee, is the mother of five sons and living proof that romance and dirty diapers are not mutually exclusive terms. An Easterner transplanted to Albuquerque, New Mexico, she spends far too much time trying to coax her garden to yield roses and produce something resembling a lawn, all the while fantasizing about a weekend alone with her husband. Or at least an uninterrupted conversation.

She loves to hear from readers, who may reach her by writing c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, or online at www.karentempleton.com.

Thanks to Debra Cowan, Pam Martin, Teresa Harrison, Kari Dell and Leta Wellman, who patiently answered all my farming questions—I trust I gave you guys a good laugh or two along the way. Trust me, I’ll never look at bacon the same way again!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 1

In the three years since his wife’s death, Sam Frazier had prided himself on not tumbling into the abyss of helplessness common to many widowers, especially those with young children. Whether his refusal to let chaos gain a toehold stemmed from his wanting to do Jeannie proud or just plain stubbornness, he had no idea, but he thought he’d been doing okay. Until this bright and sunny September morning when his teenage daughter tried to sneak past him wearing more makeup than a Las Vegas showgirl and not a whole lot more clothes, and he realized he had one foot in that abyss, anyway.

Not that Libby was having a good morning, either, having attempted her little maneuver when the kitchen was filled with her five younger brothers, several of whom thought girls had cooties as it was. Girls who were related to you and who had suddenly taken to looking like women were clearly the embodiment of evil and hence to be thwarted at every opportunity. Or at the very least greeted by a chorus of disgusted gagging sounds, which even Sam—inured as he generally was to such noises—would be hard put to ignore.

Sam caught Libby’s hand and spun her around on her army-tank shoes, the ends of her long, dark hair stinging his bare arm. Silence shuddered in the room, broken only by one of the dogs lapping at his water dish, as something damn close to terror shot through him, that his little girl—especially in that skimpy, midriff-baring top and dark lipstick—was no longer “little” in any sense of the word. And he knew damn well exactly how every teenage boy in the county was going to react to that fact.

“More fabric, less makeup,” Sam said calmly, his gaze riveted to Libby’s defensive light brown one. He felt a twinge in his left leg, an old ache trying to reassert itself. “Go change.”

“No time, Sean’s already here—”

“He can wait.” Sam dropped her hand, nodding toward her room, an old sunroom off the kitchen he’d converted so she’d have more privacy and because five boys in two small bedrooms upstairs was no longer working.

“I’m not changing,” she said, chin out, arms crossed, in a pose that would have been the picture of defiance but for the slightly trembling lower lip. Sam felt for her, he really did: teenage angst was bad enough without the added indignity of being the only girl in a houseful of males. “All the other girls wear makeup, everybody’ll think I’m a total loser if I don’t.”

“First off, baby girl, all the other girls don’t wear makeup. Or wear clothes that look like they outgrew them four years ago.” Since Sam substituted up at the high school on a regular basis, Libby knew better than to argue with him. “And anyway,” he added before she could load her next round of ammunition, “I didn’t say you couldn’t wear any makeup. Just not enough for three other girls besides you. And you know the school dress code won’t allow a top like that—”

“Well, duh, I’ve got a shirt in my backpack to put on over it when I’m in school. This is just for, you know, before and after.”

“And this is, you know, not open for discussion. Go change. Or,” he added as the black-cherry mouth dropped and an indignant squawk popped out of it, “Sean goes on to school and you take the bus. Or better yet, I’ll drive you.”

A fate worse than death, Sam knew. “This is so unfair!” she yelled, then stomped away, only to whirl around and lob across the kitchen, “You’re only on my case because you don’t like Sean!”

“Has nothing to do with whether I like him or not,” Sam said mildly, even though hormones poured off the boy like sweat off a long-distance runner. Locking Libby away in a tower somewhere for ten years or so was becoming more appealing by the second. “I don’t trust him,” he said, just so there’d be no mistake.

Eyes flashed, hands landed on hips. “What you mean is, you don’t trust me!” Four-year-old Travis snuggled up to Sam’s flank and asked to be picked up; behind him, he could hear muted clanks and clunks as Mike and Matt, his oldest boys, went about making sandwiches for lunch. “God!” Libby said on a wail. “I wish you’d find a girlfriend or get married again or…or something so you’d stop obsessing about us all the freaking time!”

Five sets of eyes veered to Sam as he idly wondered where the sweet little girl who used to live here had got to, even as he tamped down a flash of irritation that would do nobody any good to let loose. Smelling of Cheerios, Travis wrapped his arms around Sam’s neck, while eight-year-old Wade and first-grader Frankie, still at the breakfast table, silently chewed and gawked.

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Libby,” Sam said levelly. “But you’re upsettin’ your brothers, you’re keeping Sean waiting, and you’re gonna be late for school. So I suggest you keep those thoughts to yourself until a more appropriate time. Now get moving, baby girl.”

“Don’t call me that!” she shrieked, then clomped out of the room.

Letting Travis slide back down to the floor, Sam turned to the boys and said, “It’s gettin’ late. Time to get a move on. Wade, is it my imagination, or is that the same shirt you had on yesterday?” He frowned. “And the day before that?” At the kid’s sheepish shrug, Sam swallowed back a smile. “Go change before your teacher makes you sit outside, okay?”

The eight-year-old trooped off as, with a time-honed precision that was truly a thing of beauty, breakfast dishes were cleared, lunches distributed, assorted arms shoved into jacket or sweatshirt sleeves, and Sam felt a little of his hard-won peace return. Farming was a challenge, no doubt about it; raising six kids by himself even more so. But it was amazing how smoothly things could run—or at least, had run up until the Attack of the Killer Hormones—by simply establishing, and enforcing, some basic parameters, making sure everybody did their fair share.

As all the boys except Travis filed out to catch the school bus, Sam shifted his weight off his complaining leg, deciding there was no reason at all why the method that had stood him in good stead since Jeannie’s passing shouldn’t continue to do so. Not that it hadn’t been hard at first. Lord, he’d missed her so much those first few months he’d thought he’d go crazy, both with grief and unfulfilled longing. But the pain had passed, or at least dulled, as had the collective ineptitude. Jeannie hadn’t meant to make them all dependent on her, Sam knew that, but it had simply been in her nature to do for them. She hadn’t wanted anyone else messing in her kitchen; there was no reason for the kids, or Sam, for that matter, to remember where anything was because Jeannie had a photographic memory. But when she died, of a freak aneurism that nobody could’ve predicted, let alone prevented, and it became clear exactly how useless they all were in the house….

Well. Never again, was all Sam had to say. And now that everything was running more or less smoothly, he saw no need to go mucking it all up by introducing another human being into the mix. He’d had his one true love. Maybe it hadn’t lasted as long as he’d hoped, but there’d be no replacing Jeannie, and he had no intention of trying. No matter how much Libby thought otherwise.

No matter how bad the loneliness tried to suffocate him from time to time.

His daughter clomped past again, her midriff now covered, her makeup more in keeping with what Sam considered appropriate for a girl who didn’t turn fifteen for another month. He grabbed her again, this time to inflict a one-armed hug, which she patiently suffered for a moment or two before grabbing her backpack and sailing out the back door. Now alone in the kitchen, except for a dog or two and a cat who must’ve slipped inside when everybody left, he silently reassured his wits it was okay to come out of hiding.

Like his mother used to say, it was a great life if you didn’t weaken.

He found Travis in the living room, on his stomach in front of the TV, watching a faded Grover through a scrim of wiggly lines. One of these days he was gonna have to break down and get a satellite dish, he supposed, except he couldn’t work up a whole lot of enthusiasm for making TV even more appealing to a houseful of kids.

“Hey, big stuff—you make your bed?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then go pee and get your jacket, we’ve got supplies to buy, fences to fix.”

A half minute later, the little boy returned to the living room, trying to walk and straighten out his elastic-waisted jeans at the same time and not having a whole lot of success. Underneath a pale blond buzz cut, big blue eyes the exact color of his mother’s met Sam’s as he squatted to fix the boy’s twisted waistband. “C’n Radar come, too?”

Sam glanced over at their most recent acquisition, who looked to be part Heeler, part jackrabbit. Biggest damn ears he’d ever seen on a dog. Mutt had shown up during a thunderstorm a month or so back and didn’t seem much interested in leaving. Despite Sam’s regular declarations of “No more animals,” every homeless cat or dog in Mayes County seemed destined to land on their doorstep, although Sam told himself this was not because he was a pushover.

“Don’t see why not,” Sam said, and boy and dog practically tripped over each other on their way out the door. Seconds later, they were all in the pickup, headed into Haven and Sutter’s Hardware. Granted, you could find bigger, fancier, and probably cheaper home improvement centers in Claremore and Tulsa. But what with gas prices being what they were these days, and the fact that Abe Sutter carried only what the local farmers needed and not a whole lot of stuff they didn’t, thus drastically reducing the temptation to spend money they didn’t have to begin with, most folks found Abe’s more of a bargain than you might think.

The sun had pretty much burned off the morning chill, leaving behind one of those nice Indian Summer days that could make a man feel in charge again, even of headstrong teenagers who craved their freedom right when they needed the most watching. Never mind that the thousands of black-eyed Susans bobbing in the breeze on either side of the road seemed to be laughing at him, that the golden fields falling away as they crested each rolling hill stirred up memories of another teenage girl, her face flushed with newly discovered sexual passion during some hot and heavy necking sessions with a certain teenage boy who’d ached to take them both to places they’d never been, even as he knew the time hadn’t been right for either of them, not yet.

Sam had respected Jeannie’s wish to remain a virgin until marriage, but waiting had nearly killed both of them. Especially as “waiting” had meant until after they’d both finished college and Sam was sure he could support a family. Was it any wonder that Jeannie had gotten pregnant on their wedding night? Or that Libby was the way she was, being the product of all that pent-up passion?

Considering how good his and Jeannie’s sex life had been, doing without all this time hadn’t been nearly the struggle he’d thought. The farm, though, was in better shape than it had ever been, leaving Sam to consider, as he crested a hill to find himself trailing a camper-shelled pickup with an Ohio plate, that he probably was the only farmer in existence who actually liked repairing fences.

His musings disintegrated, however, when, with a great deal of squealing, the truck suddenly swerved like a spooked elephant, lurched off the road into the shallow, weed-tangled ditch, then shuddered to a stop as if grateful the ordeal was over. Adrenaline spiked through Sam as he pulled up behind the listing vehicle, squinting in the glare of sun flashing off white metal.

“You stay put while I make sure everybody’s all right,” he said to Travis, unbuckling his belt and climbing out just in time to hear a female voice let loose with a very succinct cussword, followed immediately by a man’s admonition to watch her language. Which in turn resulted in an even more succinct cussword.

The driver’s side door popped open, slammed back shut—which resulted in a loud “Dammit!”—then opened again, this time to stay put long enough for the skinniest woman he’d ever seen to push herself up and out of the truck like a frantic, if emaciated, butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Pinpricks of light flashed from a series of earrings marching up her ear.

“You okay?” Sam asked, not realizing she hadn’t seen him. She jumped back with a startled “Oh,” one hand pressed to her flat chest, her long fingers weighted down with so many rings Sam wasn’t sure how she could lift her hand. Especially considering her wrist looked like it would snap in two if a person breathed on it hard.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said on a pushed-out breath, swiping one hand over dark hair yanked back from her face to explode into a surprisingly exuberant, curly ponytail on the back of her head. “Just pissed.” Startlingly silver-blue eyes glanced off Sam’s for a split second before, her forehead creased, she returned her attention to the still-open truck door. “Dad? Can you get out?”

Forget the butterfly image. The set to her mouth, the way her nut-colored skin stretched across her bones, brought to mind the kinds of insects that cheerfully devoured their mates after sex.

Sam moved closer to lend a hand, if needed, just as a pair of chinoed legs in lace-up walking shoes emerged from the truck, followed by a white head and wide shoulders. With a grunt, the tall man levered himself out onto his feet.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he said to the gal, then turned back to glare at the listing truck. “Although my state of mind pretty much echoes my daughter’s.”

Reassured that nobody was hurt, Sam chuckled, then extended his hand. “Sam Frazier. I’ve got a farm a couple miles up the road.” The older man’s grasp was firm, his ramrod posture bespeaking a military background. As did his direct, blue gaze, only a degree or two warmer than his daughter’s.

“Lane Stewart,” he said, then nodded toward the woman, his expression a blend of exasperation and amusement with which Sam was all too well acquainted. “My daughter, Carly. To whom a certain squirrel owes its life.”

That got an indignant roll of those clear blue eyes, the gesture not unlike Libby’s. Her outfit, too, was straight out of the Young and Reckless catalogue, complete with baggy, low-riding drawstring pants—revealing a small tattoo above her left hip—the filmy overshirt billowing out behind her in the breeze doing little to hide the expanse of midriff visible underneath her cropped tank top. But this gal was no teenager: telltale age lines fanned from the corners of her eyes, had begun to dig in on either side of a full mouth glistening in one of those no-color lipsticks. And whereas most teenagers seemed to think good posture somehow violated their right to free expression, Carly stood as though tied to a ladder, shoulders back, practically nonexistent—and unconfined—breasts thrust forward. Her feet—knobby, used-up looking things in lime-green, ridiculously high-heeled sandals—pointed simultaneously to the north-east and south-east, as if undecided which way to head. And yet, pissed though she was, bony though she was, she moved with an almost hypnotic grace that had Sam thinking things not normally associated with helping out strangers with car problems.

Right. Car problems.

“Think you can move your truck?” he asked Carly’s father, as Travis and Radar hopped out of Sam’s, the dog bounding off into the weeds to chase something or other. That squirrel, most likely.

“Have no idea,” Lane said, which Sam took as an invitation to join the older man in the ditch to check underneath the vehicle. A minute later, having agreed that, yep, the axle was bent, all right, Lane called Triple A on his cell phone as Sam took in Carly and Travis standing four feet apart, sizing each other up. Neither one seemed quite sure what to make of the other.

Since apparently nobody’d yet answered, and to distract himself from staring at the man’s daughter as much as anything, Sam said, “Mostly likely, they’ll send out Darryl Andrews. Since he’s the only mechanic in town.”

“And what town might that be?”

“Haven. Oklahoma,” he added, since you could never be too sure with tourists. Then Lane said “Hello, yeah, I’ve got a broken down vehicle here, I need a tow” into the phone and Sam went back to watching Carly and his son, who appeared to have started up something resembling a conversation.

The kid was kind of cute, Carly supposed, if you were into that sort of thing. Like the way the sun glinted off his hair, fine and white blond like peach fuzz, the pudgy little tummy pooching out his sweatshirt, his scuffed Spiderman sneakers. He was subdued but not shy, which she found nearly as disconcerting in the preschooler—when did kids start losing their baby teeth, anyway?—as she did in grown men.

Like the lanky one with the honeyed gaze currently talking to her father.

“That’s my daddy,” the child said, and Carly forced herself to look away from whatever she found so fascinating. Because other than a slight hitch in his gait which raised the question How? there was nothing remarkable about the man. Just a country guy in jeans and plaid shirt worn open over a T-shirt, sun-baked features shadowed by the brim of a Purina ball cap. Nothing noteworthy at all. But her eyes would keep moseying back over there, wouldn’t they?

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t had breakfast.

“I kind of figured that,” she said to the kid, thinking maybe she should smile or something. “What’s your name?”

“Travis. How come you got so many earrings?”

Carly’s hand lifted to one ear, touching the dangling strand of beads hanging from her lobe. A pair of studs kept it company, while farther up a small gold loop hugged the rim. “’Cause I like ’em,” she said. “And this way, I don’t have to narrow it down to a single choice every morning.”

Travis seemed to consider this for a minute, then said, “My sister, Libby, has holes in her ears, too. But only one set. Does it hurt?”

“No,” Carly said as the dog—a mottled gray and black thing with enormous ears and a toothy grin—exploded out of the weeds in front of them, dancing around the boy for several seconds before realizing he’d been remiss in not acknowledging the other human standing there. The beast plopped his butt down in the dirt, his wagging tail stirring up a dust cloud as he woofed hello.

“His name’s Radar,” the boy said. “He likes everybody. Daddy says he’s nothing but a big ol’ pain in the butt.”

The dog woofed again, and Carly laughed, which the dog took as an invitation to jump up and plant his paws on her thighs.

“Radar! Down!” “Daddy” said, striding over to grab the dog’s collar, even as Carly said, “No, no—it’s okay, really,” and then she looked up into his face and damned if she didn’t forget to breathe for a second or two. Because there was a substance behind those brandy-colored eyes that she hadn’t seen in an extraordinarily long time. If ever. Something that went beyond the surface friendliness, or even the shrewd intelligence that masked—barely—a simmering sensuality that made her slightly dizzy.

It was honesty, she thought with a start. The completely ingenuous openness of a man with no hidden agenda, with nothing to hide.

Or to lose.

“Shouldn’t be more’n ten, fifteen minutes before Darryl gets here with the wrecker. Hey,” he said when she swayed slightly. “You sure you’re okay?”

“What? Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just, um, hungry. I skipped breakfast,” she hastily added, thinking, Oh, brother.

The crumples now rearranged themselves into a grin, one which created not a few wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and made her realize this was not a man in his first—or second—blush of youth. Either.

“Well,” she said. “Thanks for stopping. But there’s no sense in your hanging around any longer, since you said the tow truck would be here pretty soon….”

“And only one of you can fit in Darryl’s cab for the ride into town, so I guess that means the other one gets to ride with me.” Despite the man’s grin, Carly got the weirdest feeling he wasn’t all that happy about this turn of events.

Travis tugged on Sam’s shirttail. “Did you see all her earrings, Daddy?”

“Yeah,” he said, staring hard at the side of her face. “I saw ’em.” Then his gaze swept down and she realized that wasn’t all he’d seen. Or, she guessed, approved of. Well, that was his problem, wasn’t it?

Travis and Radar wandered over to watch her father assess the damage to the camper’s interior. Brave souls, the pair of them.

“You really swerved to avoid hitting a squirrel?” Sam asked.

She looked back at Sam. “I really did. Although my guess is he probably darts out in front of cars on a regular basis, just for the hell of it. Squirrel ‘chicken,’ or something.”

“Dangerous game.”

“Guess he figures what’s life without a little danger to make it interesting? Crap,” she said on a wince as her knee tried its level best to give out on her.

Sam’s hand instantly cupped her elbow, followed by a heart-piercingly gentle, “What is it?”

“My knee. Or what’s left of it. I need to sit.”

“Can you get up into the truck?”

She nodded, and Sam put an arm around her waist and helped her over to his truck, then boosted her up into the passenger seat. It smelled very…male, although she couldn’t have possibly said what she meant by that.

“I’m not playing the damsel in distress, I swear,” she said, lifting the hem of her pants to massage the muscles around her Ace-bandaged knee.

“Didn’t figure you were.” Standing by the door, he nodded at her knee. “What happened?”

“Repetitive stress injury, basically. I’m a dancer. Was a dancer,” she added with a rueful glare at the offending joint.

“In your case, I’m guessing that’s not a euphemism for stripper.”

Despite pain bad enough to make her eyes cross, she laughed. “No, I don’t exactly have the equipment for that line of work.”

His grin managed to be both slightly devilish and very dear. And he was giving off this amazing, basic masculine scent of clean clothes and sun and that indefinable something that makes a woman’s mouth water, and she thought, Oh, God, just shoot me now.

“I was a ballerina,” she said, refusing to believe her dry mouth was due to anything other than a craving for orange juice. “In Cincinnati.”

“No fooling?” Sam leaned one wrist on the truck’s roof. “I always wondered how you gals danced on your toes like that.”

“Painfully.” His low rumble of amusement made her mouth even dryer. “What about you?” she said, nodding toward his right leg.

He grimaced. “Had a run-in with a bad tempered cow, Thanksgiving Day, a couple years ago. They tell me it healed perfectly, but corny as it sounds, I can definitely tell when it’s going to rain. So…what brings you to these parts?” he said over her chuckle.

She pulled her pants leg back down over her knee, then nodded over to her father, who was showing something or other to Travis. Seemed a shame, really, to waste such great grandpa material on a daughter who had no interest in being somebody’s mother.

“Road trip,” she said.

“Now, why do I get the feeling there’s a story behind this?”

She smiled, then shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position for her knee. “My mother died a couple years ago,” she said softly over the ache of loss that still hadn’t quite dissipated. “Dad insisted he was okay—and here’s the part where I blow any chance I had of making a good first impression—and I chose to believe him because it made my life easier. Except then when I suddenly didn’t have a life, I took a good look at my father and realized I didn’t like what I was seeing. So I suggested we hop in the camper and drive until we got bored.”

“Is it working?”

“My dad, you mean?” She squinted over at the man. “Hard to tell. He’s a master at putting up a front. I suppose twenty years in the Army will do that to a man. Oh! Is that the tow truck?”

Sam glanced over. “Sure is. So what do you say I take you into town, and your father can ride with Darryl in the wrecker?”

“Sounds good to me,” she said, even though it didn’t sound good at all. What it sounded, was dangerous.

Unaware of her rampant ambivalence, Sam shut her door before starting to walk away, only to twist back around and say, “Just so you know…as far as impressions go, you did okay.”

“Oh,” she said as blood rushed gleefully to her skin’s surface. “Is this a good thing?”

He stared at her harder than a stranger had any right to, then shook his head. “No, ma’am, it most definitely is not,” he said, then strode off toward the beeping wrecker, leaving Carly feeling as tilted as her father’s truck.