Excerpt of The Texan's Forbidden Affair by Peggy Moreland

Stephanie Calloway had always prided herself on her ability to handle even the most complex situations with both efficiency and calm.As one of the most sought-after photo stylists in Dallas, Texas, those two traits were crucial to her success. On any given day she juggled six- figure budgets, kept track of prop inventories valued sometimes in the millions, and coordinated the schedules of the photographers, models and assistant stylists assigned to a particular shoot. If requested, she could transform an empty corner of a photographer's studio into a beach on the Caribbean, outfit a dozen models in swimwear to populate the space, then tear it all down and create an entirely different setting on the whim of a hard- to-please client.

So why, when faced with the task of disassembling and disposing of the houseful of items her parents had accumulated during their thirty years of marriage, did she feel so overwhelmed, so inadequate, so utterly helpless?

Because this is personal, she reminded herself as she looked around the den of her childhood home. Each item in the room represented a massive mountain of emotion she feared she'd never find the strength to climb.

"And standing here dreading it isn't accomplishing a thing," she told Runt, the dog at her side.

Taking a deep breath, she crossed to her father's recliner and laid a hand on its headrest. Oh, how he'd loved his recliner, she thought as she smoothed a hand over the impression his body had worn into the leather. When he wasn't out working on the ranch, he could usually be found reared back in the chair, with one of his dogs curled on his lap. He'd always had a dog tagging along with him, Runt being his most recent... and his last.

As if aware of her thoughts, Runt nudged his nose at her knee and whined low in his throat. Blinking back tears, she looked down at him and gave him a pat, knowing by his soulful expression that he was missing her father as much as she was. Runt — the name her father had given him because he was the runt of the litter — wasn't a runt any longer, she noted. The top of his head struck her leg at midthigh. Part Australian sheepdog and part Labrador retriever, he had inherited traits from both breeds, resulting in an intelligent long-haired dog with a sweet temper. But a long line of other canines had preceded him, and not all had been as endearing as Runt. Biting back a smile, she dipped her head in search of the section of frayed upholstery at the recliner's base, compliments of Mugsy — a Jack Russell terrier — and made during a chewing stage her mother had feared would never end.

The tears rose again at the thought of her mother, and she glanced over at the overstuffed chair positioned close to the recliner. Though her mother had preceded her father in death by two years, the floor lamp at its right remained angled to shed light on her hands and the endless knitting projects she worked on at night. An afghan for the church auction. A warm shawl for one of the ladies at the nursing home. A sweater for Stephanie.

Her chin trembled as she envisioned her mother and father sitting side by side, as was their habit each night, her mother's knitting needles clicking an accompaniment to the sound of whatever television program her father had tuned in at the moment.

How will I ever get through this alone? she asked herself, then sagged her shoulders, knowing she had no other choice. With no siblings to share the responsibility, the job was hers to do.

Releasing a shuddery breath, she said, "Come on, Runt," and forced herself to walk on.

They made it as far as the hallway before she was stopped again, this time by a gallery of pictures depicting her family's life. Her gaze settled on a photo of her and her father taken at a Girl Scout banquet when she was eleven. Few would guess by the proud swell of his chest that Bud Calloway was her stepfather and not her natural father. From the moment Bud had married her mother, he'd accepted Stephanie as his own and had assumed the full duties of a father. Never once in all the years that followed had he ever complained or made her feel as if she were a burden. She touched a finger to the glass, his image blurred by her tears. She was going to miss him. Oh, God, she was going to miss him so much.

Gulping back the grief, she tore her gaze away. She had taken no more than two steps when Runt stopped and growled. Linking her fingers through his collar to hold him in place, she glanced back over her shoulder. She strained, listening, and tensed when she heard the familiar squeak of hinges that signified the opening of the front door. Since she hadn't told anyone of her plans, she wasn't expecting any visitors — especially one who could get past a locked door. Mindful that burglars sometimes read the obituaries in search of vacant homes to rob, she whispered to Runt, "I hope your bite is as ferocious as your growl," and cautiously retraced her steps, keeping a firm hold on his collar.

As she approached the doorway that opened to the entry, she caught a glimpse of a man standing just inside the door. She might've screamed if she hadn't immediately recognized him. The thick sandy-brown hair that flipped up slightly at his ears, just brushing the brim of his cowboy hat. The tall, lanky frame and wide shoulders. The faded chambray shirt, jeans and scuffed cowboy boots.

No, she had no problem recognizing him. As she'd learned the hard way, Wade Parker was a hard man to forget.

Runt whined, struggling to break free. At the sound, Wade whipped his head around and his gaze slammed into Stephanie's. As she stared into the blue depths, she felt the old familiar tug of yearning and forced steel into her spine, pushing it back.

Runt wriggled free and leaped, bracing his front paws on Wade's chest.

Smiling, Wade scrubbed his ears. "Hey, Runt. How you doin', boy?"

She advanced a step, her body rigid with anger. "What are you doing here?"

The smile Wade had offered Runt slid into a frown. Urging the dog down to all fours, he gestured at the front window. "Drapes were open. Since they're usually closed — or have been since Bud's funeral — I figured I'd better check things out. Didn't see a car. If I had, I would've knocked."

"I parked in the garage," she informed him, then narrowed her eyes to slits. "How did you get in? The door was locked."

"I didn't break in, if that's what you're suggesting. Bud gave me a key after your mother passed away. Figured someone close by should have one in case anything happened to him and needed to get inside the house."

She thrust out her hand. "There's no need for you to have a key any longer. Bud's gone."

He whipped off his hat. "Dang it, Steph!" he said, slapping the hat against his thigh in frustration. "Do you intend to spend the rest of your life hating me?"

She jutted her chin. "If emotion ends with death, yes, at least that long."

Scowling, he tucked his hat beneath his arm and dug a ring of keys from his pocket. "I thought you went back to Dallas after the funeral," he grumbled.

"Only long enough to tie up a few loose ends."

He worked a key from the loop. "So how long are you planning on staying?"

"That's none of your business."

He slapped the key on her palm and burned her with a look. "Maybe not, but Bud's cattle are."

She drew back to peer at him in confusion. "But I assumed Mr. Vickers was taking care of the cattle. He always helped Dad out in the past."

He snorted and stuffed the key ring back into his pocket. "Shows how much you know. Vickers moved to Houston over a year ago. When Bud got to where he couldn't do his chores himself, I offered to do them for him."

Her eyes shot wide. "You worked for my father?"

"No," he replied, then added, "Not for pay, at any rate. I offered, he accepted. That's what neighbors do."

She stared, stunned that her father would accept anything, even a favor, from Wade Parker. "I...I had no idea."

"You might've if you'd ever bothered to come home." She jerked up her chin, refusing to allow him to make her feel guilty for not visiting her father more often. "Dad and I talked on the phone three or four times a week."

He snorted. "That was mighty nice of you to squeeze him into your busy schedule."

His sarcasm rankled, but before she could form a scathing comeback, he held up a hand.

"Look," he said, suddenly looking tired. "I didn't come here to fight with you. I only came to check on the cattle."

She wanted to tell him that she didn't need his help, that she would take care of the livestock herself. But it had been years since she'd done any ranch work, and she wasn't at all sure she could handle the job alone.

She tipped up her chin. "Hopefully I'll be able to free you of that obligation soon. When I finish clearing out the house, I'm putting the ranch on the market."

He dropped his gaze and nodded. "Bud said he didn't think you'd keep the place."

She choked a laugh. "And why would I? I have no use for a ranch."

He glanced up and met her gaze for a long moment. "No, I doubt you would." He reached for the door-knob, preparing to leave. "Have you talked to Bud's attorney?"

She trailed him to the door. "Briefly. We're supposed to meet after I finish clearing out the house." She frowned. "Why do you ask?"

He lifted a shoulder as he stepped out onto the porch. "No reason. If you need anything —"

"I won't."

Her curt refusal dragged him to a stop at the edge of the porch. Dropping his chin, he plucked at the brim of his hat as if he had something to say but was having a hard time finding the words. Seconds ticked by, made longer by the silence, before he finally spoke.

"Steph...I'm sorry."

Scowling, she gave Runt's collar a firm tug to haul him back inside and closed the door without replying.

As far as she was concerned, the apology came years too late.

Wade exited the barn and headed for the house, exhausted after the long hours he'd put in that day. No, he mentally corrected. His exhaustion wasn't due to the amount of time he'd worked or the effort expended. His weariness was a result of his run-in with Steph. The woman frustrated the hell out of him and had for years.

He knew it was his fault she felt the way she did about him, but what the hell had she expected him to do? He'd made a mistake — a big one — and had tried his best to rectify it by doing what was right. In doing so, he'd hurt Steph. But dammit, he'd suffered, too. He wondered sometimes if she realized how much.

As he neared the house, music blasted from the open windows, the bass so loud it reverberated through the soles of his boots and made his teeth ache. Stifling a groan, he made a quick detour to his toolshed. He wasn't in the mood for another argument and he knew if he went inside now he was bound to wind up in one. Meghan called that junk she listened to hip-hop. He considered it trash and had forbidden her to play it. Unfortunately she hadn't docilely bowed to his wishes. Instead she'd screamed and cried, accusing him of ruining her life — which was nothing new, since she accused him of that at least once a day.

He slammed the door of the toolhouse behind him and succeeded in muffling the sound of the irritating music only marginally. Sinking down on an old nail keg, he buried his face in his hands. How the hell was a father supposed to deal with a rebellious daughter? he asked himself miserably. If Meghan were a boy, he'd take her out behind the woodshed and give her a good spanking, the same as his father had when Wade had disobeyed the rules. A few swats on the behind had made a believer out of Wade, and he figured it would Meghan, too...if he could bring himself to spank her.