02-Let It Ride (21 page)

Because he is, and you know it.

Eric pressed a hand to his chest at the thought of the handsome cowboy, as if it could ease the pain that had yet to lessen. He sat down on the couch and tossed his phone onto the table, staring at it as if that would make it ring. If it rang now, he’d answer, but of course it didn’t. He’d made sure that wouldn’t happen either.

He reached out and picked up the phone, sliding his thumb over the surface. Bridge was in there. He’d called every day that first week, but Eric hadn’t answered. Too ashamed of how he’d run, too afraid to hear pain or anger in Bridge’s voice, and with no idea what to say to fix it. He’d listened to every message, and the broken, defeated tone in Bridge’s voice haunted his every waking and sleeping minute.

If he called now, would Bridge talk to him? Could Bridge really need, or even want, him back?

Not if he were judged on how he’d left Bridge—broken and alone in the driveway of his house in Redding. He’d known in that moment that he’d made a huge mistake. But he hadn’t been able to turn around, too caught up in the past to take the future into his hands . . . to put it in Bridge’s and just trust him.

Too much of a coward to put his heart on the line, he’d broken Bridge’s instead.

He knew the second it happened because he’d felt the pain as his own, and maybe that had scared him even more, because in that moment, he’d realized that somewhere along the way, he’d fallen in love with Bridge too.

Shit.
He stood up, dropped the phone on the table with a loud
clank
, and started pacing the small room. All that time he’d tried to keep himself from falling too deep into the rabbit hole, and he’d managed to fall into another one. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment when he did, but he knew now, without a doubt, that he was in love with Bridge.

And he’d run from the one person who’d given him every reason to stay.

For the next two days, Eric was barely able to concentrate on his work. Everything in him screamed at him to pack up and go back to California, back to Bridge, but the what-ifs kept him numb and static. What if Bridge wouldn’t take him back? What if Bridge didn’t love him anymore? Or never really had? What if Bridge had moved on already and had a girlfriend?

What if Eric just grew a pair and fought for the cowboy who’d only wanted to give him everything?

He sighed and pushed open the front door to the Steamed Beans Café, scanning the dining room for Carl, the owner. Carl stood behind the bakery display case making a coffee, and when he looked up, he paused for a second before a small smile lifted the edges of his mouth. He tipped his head, and Eric followed the motion to an empty table by the window.

Carl was one-part town busybody, one-part shrink, one-part psychic, and wholly genuine. The locals felt comfortable talking to him because he always seemed to know the right thing to say at the right time. He was one of those people with an uncanny knack for putting those around him at ease. Eric included. But Eric hadn’t yet shared his story, and Carl never pressed for it.

He regarded the old man who lowered himself into the seat across from him, wise gray eyes studying, searching, as he slid a cup of coffee in front of Eric.

“Heard you went back to the hospital to make sure that boy you pulled from the Yampa was okay,” Carl said. “Heard what you did for Maggie’s ma, too.”

Eric shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“Your job ended as soon as you delivered them to the ER.”

Eric looked out the small café window at the mountains that rose up and surrounded Steamboat Springs. He wanted to tell Carl his story, but now that he was here, he didn’t know where to start. Or how.

Carl, being the intuitive man that he was, thankfully got the ball rolling for him. “Awful dark cloud hanging over you lately, son.”

Eric pushed out a pent-up breath and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t had it cut since he’d left California, and now it was just long enough to run his fingers through. “I screwed up, Carl. Bad.”

“We all screw up sometime. That’s life. It’s how we deal with it that matters.”

“I haven’t been dealing with it very well at all.” He looked down into the black liquid in his cup, as if the future might reveal itself there.

“Never too late to start.”

“My life hasn’t been . . . great. There’s been some good for sure. I love my work and love being able to help people. Maybe make a few smile. But . . .” Eric shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “Let’s just say I haven’t had a lot of reason to believe good things can happen to me too.”

Carl nodded for him to go on, those wise gray eyes patient and compassionate.

“I met someone who made me think maybe this time would be different, and I got scared because this one . . .” He rolled his shoulders back and looked right into Carl’s eyes. “I love him, and I’m scared to death history will keep repeating itself and he’ll leave me like everyone else. I couldn’t bear it if he did that, so I fucked it all up and left him first.”

Carl didn’t even blink at the confession. “Can’t do nothing about the past, but you can control what you do in the present. That’s what makes your future.”

“Bridge said something like that once.” Eric huffed a halfhearted laugh.

“So why are you still here?” There was no malice or menace in the older man’s voice, just open sincerity.

Eric cupped the mug in his hands and frowned at the dregs in the bottom, having not remembered drinking the whole cup. “I doubt he’ll take me back now. I hurt him, and it’s been weeks.”

“Won’t know unless you try, will you? Pack up your truck and get on back home.” Carl stood and gathered the empty coffee cup. He came around the table and gave Eric’s shoulder a squeeze. His gruff voice benevolent, he said, “That’s where you belong, son.”

Carl had disappeared into the kitchen by the time Eric got up to leave. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, looked up and down the street, and then turned his face to the sky, closing his eyes. Warm spring sunshine kissed his cheeks, and instead of his heart weeping for the one he’d left behind, it sang for the hope that they’d be together again.

Time to stop being a coward, let all the what-ifs go, and take his future by the horns.

He walked around the corner and down to the river, where he found a vacant bench to sit on.

Inhaling a calming breath, he tapped the screen and pulled up his contacts, selected a number, and before he could second-guess himself, hit the Send key, and raised the phone to his ear.

Today was the day he’d start putting the past behind him.

His pulse picked up when a familiar voice answered, and the ache in his chest eased a little. Fuck, he’d missed them all so much, but he hadn’t realized how much until right now. Carl was right; he belonged back in California. He belonged with Bridge, if the cowboy would take him back.

“Hello, Marty.”

“Thank God!” The relief in Marty’s voice gave Eric pause. He’d expected fury, a ranting knock down. But relief? “I’m so glad you called. We were worried about you.” Marty paused. “But, fuck man. You seriously pissed us all off.”

There was the response Eric had expected. “I know. I’m so sorry. I just . . .”

“Yeah. Bridge told us what happened. But you didn’t have to run from all of us. You know that, right?”

“At the time I didn’t.”

Silence crackled down the line long enough for him to think Marty had hung up. His throat tightened, and he fought back the rush of tears building behind his eyes, closing his lids to contain them. “How’s Bridge?” His voice was ragged, the words choked off, and he dreaded the answer, but he had to know.

That heavy silence continued, and then a sigh rattled in his ear. “Not well. You took part of what made him who he was with you when you left. And, well . . . I’m kind of selfish and I want it back.”

A single sob managed to slip through Eric’s control, and the tears found their way out, making a run for freedom down his cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt him.”

“I know.” Marty’s voice was soft, more caring than he deserved. “Where are you?”

“Uh . . .” Eric swiped a sleeve across his face. “Colorado. Steamboat Springs.”

“We’ll be in Santa Maria this weekend.” Marty didn’t have to say more, the intention in his words was clear.

Santa Maria. The rodeo where Eric had first met the three cowboys who’d become the best friends he’d ever known. Where he’d first met Bridge Sullivan—the man who owned his heart hook, line, and sinker.

“Come back, Eric.” Marty’s voice was gentle, comforting, sincere. “We miss you. Bridge misses you. You belong here with him.”

Yes, I do.

No fear lodged in his chest at that thought, no flight instinct overruling all rational thought—just a sense of complete rightness. “If he’ll take me back.”

“He will. He won’t kick you to the curb, and neither will we. You’re part of our family, Eric, and family doesn’t turn on itself.”

“Some do,” Eric said.

Marty responded with conviction. “Not this one. Not ever. We all make mistakes, Eric. It’s how we deal with them, right?”

And prove our worth.
“Right.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled. Now get in your little Tonka truck and get your ass back here.”

The band that had been strung tight across Eric’s chest eased for the first time in weeks, and the laugh that rumbled up his throat was the first genuine one since he’d left California. “Will do.”

When Bridge rounded the faux-half-circle created by his and Marty’s trailers, he found the guys in a group hug with someone. He didn’t know who and really didn’t care. He was in no mood for making nice with anyone. The first half of day one at the Santa Maria rodeo hadn’t been going well. Already they’d had three accidents, one of which sent a barrel racer to the hospital with a concussion and possible internal injuries.

He ignored the happy trio, reined Breeze to the side of the trailer, and dismounted, keeping his back to the world.

“Bridge!” Kent called out, excitement clear in his voice. “Look who’s here.”

With a groan and an eye roll, because he really didn’t give a shit, Bridge turned around and promptly froze.

Eric, live and in the flesh, stood between Marty and Kent like he’d never been gone a day. Looking better than anybody had the right to, wearing worn jeans, a button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal muscular forearms . . . and snakeskin boots and a brown felt cowboy hat.

For a brief second, joy bubbled up in his chest. Someone turned the sun back on, and warmth started to push out the chill that seemed to have sunk permanently into his bones.

“Hey,” Eric said, his voice and small smile both tentative. Eyes uncertain.

And that brief second of warmth popped like a balloon.

Hey?
Six weeks of nothing. No calls, no messages, no
nothing
, then he has the gall to show up and say
Hey
? Like he’d just been off on a happy little jaunt with Bridge’s blessing and now that he was back everything would be peachy keen again?

No.

The dead place in his mind widened to replay the scene all those weeks ago. The scene where he’d stood motionless and numb all alone in an empty driveway until the sun had gone down and the desert night air had grown colder than the freeze of his heart. He’d somehow managed to get himself back to the rodeo grounds and continue on with the motions of daily life. Had continued to breathe air in and breathe air out without really knowing why anymore. And now that familiar cold began to spread in his bones again, freezing out the brief promise of relief.

Without responding, Bridge turned back to his horse and began unbuckling the cinch strap. He had things to do. Cool down and groom Breeze, get Gameboy saddled up and ready for the afternoon events. Stay on his game and do his job. Not think about Eric Palmer standing right behind him with those haunting violet eyes burning holes in his back just like they’d been burning holes in his dreams every night for the last month and a half.

Throats cleared. Boots shuffled. The sound of a hand clapping a back drifted the dozen feet or so to his ears. Kent’s voice low. “Good to see you, Eric. I hope you’re sticking around.” One set of footsteps faded away. Then Marty’s voice, too quiet to make out the words he spoke, but his tone was friendly, supportive.