Chance McCall by Sharon Sala Page B

front of him. It was all up to Jenny. She was the only one who could stop Marcus, but she didn’t seem to give a good damn what happened to her. Henry sighed. He knew the reason why.
    Chance’s heart swelled in his chest, making it harder to speak, to bring each breath painfully past the constriction in his throat. He saw the defeat on her face and knew it was because of him. She didn’t care about herself because she thought he didn’t care about her.
    “Jenny…” His voice was low, the pain of her words sharper than a knife in his belly. There had to be a way to take away the horrible distance between them.
    She stared up at him through a veil of unshed tears, for once allowing her vulnerability to show. “Unless you can say it, Chance McCall, don’t even talk to me.”
    He knew instantly to what she was referring. And there was no way he was ever going to say the words aloud. If he did, there’d be no turning back. How could he tell her he loved her? What would he have to offer but a past full of ugliness and shame. And love? It was too small a word for the feeling he had for her.
    She watched the pain and indecision sweeping over his face. Then he recoiled as if remembering himself…and his place. His mouth tightened and his fingers knotted into fists as he turned and walked away.
    “Oh, Chance,” she whispered. “You’re going to be the death of us both. Why? God in heaven, why?”

    “Jenny, I’d like you to meet Nelson Turnbull,” Marcus said. “His father and I grew up together back in Missouri. Imagine my surprise when Nelson showed up at the cattlemen’s dinner today as one of the speakers.”
    “Imagine,” Jenny drawled, and limply shook the hand of the tall, sandy-haired man who was eyeing her breasts with more than normal interest. “So,” she said, willing to play their game, “exactly what do you do, Mr. Turnbull?”
    “Nelson, please. And I’m a stockbroker from New York.”
    Jenny recoiled inwardly. “How interesting,” she murmured. She walked over to the bar and got herself a glass of cola. “Anyone?” she asked, as she tipped her glass to her lips.
    “I’d love a whiskey, neat,” Nelson said as he slid onto the cushioned seat opposite the bar.
    “Nothing for me, thanks,” Marcus said. “I’ve got a few phone calls to make. I’ll leave you two kids to get acquainted and then maybe we could go out to dinner?”
    “That would be great!” Nelson said. “My treat of course.”
    “Of course,” Jenny muttered to herself, and let the sharp tang of the cola slide down her throat too fast. She coughed and gasped as quick tears stung her eyes. It was just as well. It was a good cover for the real tears that brimmed as she watched her father’s exit.
    “We’ve just been set up,” Nelson said. It was the wisest thing he could have done. It took the edge off of Jenny’s resentment.
    “It’s not the first time,” Jenny said, sliding the requested whiskey toward him with a skilled move.
    “But I’d like it to be the last,” Nelson said quietly.
    He stared at her, his pale green eyes mentally undressing the small but shapely heir to the Triple T.
    He’d heard through the Dallas grapevine that Marcus Tyler was parading eligible bachelors through the Triple T. Gossip claimed the daughter was a looker, but gossip didn’t even do this woman justice.
    Jenny had long ago left the scruffy urchin of her childhood in the Texas dust. She was a well-groomed, fashionable female with more than ample curves. Her shoulder-length black hair was perfectly cut and styled. Her face was china-doll perfect in features and proportion. But there was one aspect of Jenny that had remained the same over the years. Her wide, clear blue eyes missed nothing and, at the moment, were as cold as ice. She might look feminine, but she was still as tough as they came.
    “So,” she asked, “where are you taking us for dinner? I’m not going to pretend you haven’t already made reservations. I need