How to Kiss a Cowboy (17 page)

“Well, I don't know what you girls read. Everything else looked too old-ladyish. He looked her dead in the eye, making sure she was paying attention. “I'm not saying you need any help in that department, okay? I just thought it looked like—well, I thought it looked like fun.” While she was trying to figure out how to answer that, he tossed two more magazines on the stack. “I grabbed a word search and some crosswords too. Don't know if you like that kind of thing.”

“Oh, I love them.” She picked one up with undisguised delight. “I love word puzzles. Thanks.”

He reached behind her head and fooled with the lights, then hooked a cord around the bed rails. He was careful not to look at her while he did it, but he was close enough to smell her hair. “There's a switch on that cord that'll turn the reading light on and off. You want the big light off?”

She nodded and he went over and flicked off the overhead lights. Now the room was lit only by a bar of light over Suze's bed. It sparked gold off her blond hair and shadowed her face, accentuating the high-cheekboned Scandinavian cast of her features.

Pausing in the doorway, he shoved his hands in his pockets. The darkness made the room seem like a world apart, an intimate place where only the two of them mattered. Suddenly, to Brady, the two of them mattered a lot.

“You still mad at me?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.”

“Be mad,” he said. “Be you. Please. Don't let this change who you are.” He clutched his hat to his chest so hard he crushed the crown again. He needed to engrave this picture of her, hurt and helpless, on his heart, so he wouldn't fail in the task he'd set himself. “I could stand just about anything, but I couldn't stand it if you changed.” He shot her a sheepish smile. “Besides, the thing I'm supposed to work on? That big challenge? I think what it really is, is you.”

“Brady, no.”

“Why not? I've messed up every time I've been lucky enough to be around you. Every single time. I don't want things to be this way. I want us to be friends.” He looked down at his feet, then lifted his eyes to meet hers and locked on. “Maybe more than friends.”

Suze glanced wildly around the room, seeking out something to throw at Brady. She needed to stop him before the conversation entered dangerous territory. Unfortunately, the only thing she could reach was a tissue, which fluttered uselessly to the floor about three feet short of its target.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said.

“Why not?” He moved toward the bed and sat down near the end, carefully avoiding her feet. “Don't you remember that night? We're great together, Suze. More than great. We were—”

Desperate now, she interrupted him with a laugh—a harsh laugh, so cold she wondered if she'd been suddenly possessed by a Disney villain. “I know very well what that night was all about, and I have no problem with it,” she told him.

“Really?”

“Really. There was an attraction there. We didn't expect it—I mean, I sure as hell didn't—but once we felt it, well, the itch needed to be scratched, right? Why let it aggravate you when you can make it go away and have fun doing it?”

“So that worked for you? The itch went away?”

Up until now, she'd managed to look him in the eyes when she spoke, but now she picked up the top magazine and pretended to flip through it rather than look at him. The only trouble was, the top magazine just happened to be
Cosmo
, and the first article she came to was entitled “Most Embarrassing Moments.” Maybe she should submit hers: reading a magazine with a blazing headline about orgasms in front of the man she was trying to discourage from—well, from giving her blazing orgasms.

“Sure,” she lied, dropping the magazine a little so the cover wasn't staring him in the face. “The itch went away.”

“Because I have to tell you, I was kind of surprised you didn't have anything to say to me the next morning.”

She flipped to another page, pretending to be absorbed in the magazine but feeling her face redden. She'd read
Cosmo
once before, since she was smack-dab in the middle of their “fun, fearless woman” demographic. But according to the magazine, that meant she was interested in three things: orgasms, shoes, and driving men crazy with lust.

She liked orgasms as much as the next girl, but there wasn't a single article about quarter horses in the whole magazine.

“I bet you were surprised,” she said. “And relieved too. I talked your ear off the night before, didn't I? You were probably thinking,
just
shut
up
and
do
it
.”

He had the decency to look outraged. “I wasn't thinking that.”

She smiled—or rather, she stretched her lips out and struggled to make the ends tip upward. Now she probably looked like a clown possessed by a Disney villain. The more she faked it, the scarier she got.

“Brady, you don't have to explain. I mean, I know who you are.”

“Do you?”

“Sure. You're Brady Caine. You need me to explain that?”

“Yes.”

“You're a good-time cowboy who rides broncs for fun and women for pleasure.” She remembered their conversation about finding meaning in life, and she knew each word would wound him. But they'd also drive him away, as surely as a gun pointed at his family jewels. “Your life is all about beer, buckles, and babes.”

“So you figure you were just one of the babes.”

“I
know
I was one of the babes. Look, I know you're feeling all guilty and stuff right now. I can see how the accident would make you feel like you have to take care of me, and if that's what it takes to make you feel better, go ahead.” She tossed the magazine to the foot of her bed. “But do it from a distance, okay? You and me together—it never ends well.”

* * *

Brady reached Decker Ranch just as the sky was shifting from blue to pale silver, giving the cluster of aspens by the corner of the house a skeletal glow. Parking his Silverado in the drive beside his brothers' trucks, he jogged up the front steps and into the hall, slamming the screen door.

“Hey,” he said to Shane, who was standing in the kitchen with a dish towel thrust through his belt. The flowered towel blended strangely with Wrangler jeans and workingman's shirt. Shane was foreman of a ranch up north of Wynott, and rode herd over fifteen or more cowboys and thousands of purebred Black Angus cattle, but he was as at home in the kitchen as he was in the saddle.

“I think that's the first time you've ever walked into this house without asking what's for dinner,” Shane said. “You must have something on your mind.”

“Just a little.”

“Good. You got a plan?”

Shane knew about what had happened to Suze Carlyle and who was responsible. Brady figured everybody in the county did. Everybody in the state, maybe.

“Sure do.” Brady took the stairs two at a time. “I'm going out there to the Carlyle place tonight to take care of her horses and stuff. I'll be doing that until she's better.”

“What about the horse?”

“Speedo?”

Shane nodded.

“I'm heading out tomorrow to check every abandoned barn I can think of. Somebody probably hid him, so I figure that's a good bet.”

“It's a thought,” Shane said. “There are enough places on the back roads to keep you pretty busy.”

Brady nodded. “Busy is good right now. I keep reliving that accident in my head, thinking what I could have done different.”

“The key word is
accident
,” Shane said. “It's not like you
meant
to hurt her.”

“That's for sure.”

“So does Suze approve of you going out to her place? I mean, she threw you out of the hospital.”

Shane wasn't given to displays of levity, but the corner of his mouth was twitching and Brady was pretty sure he was holding in a laugh.

“She did. But I was just there, and we made up.”

“So she approves of this? Of your going out there?”

“I told her I was going.”

“That's not the same thing, and you know it.”

Brady spread his hands helplessly. “There's nobody else to help her. Her dad's useless, and she doesn't have any other family. You know what that's like. So do I.”

Shane nodded. “Ridge talked to Sierra about sending one of the kids over.”

“What's a kid going to do for her?”

“Help with meals, maybe. If she's really laid up, he can fetch stuff for her. That kind of thing.”

“Well, tell her to send the toughest kid she has. Earl Carlyle hasn't grown a heart anytime in the last ten years. He's still as ornery as God could make a man.”

“Why can't
he
help Suze?”

“There's some kind of trouble between them, I think. He hasn't even been to see her yet.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. I had to go pack up her clothes and stuff. He wouldn't do it.”

Shane looked down at the floor and shook his head. “That girl deserves a way better life than she's got.”

“She sure does,” Brady said.

“You going to make sure she gets it?”

“I'm going to try. It won't be easy, since she can't stand the sight of me. But I'll manage somehow.”

Shane stared at Brady a long time—long enough to make Brady uncomfortable. His oldest brother saw deeply into people, into their hearts. Maybe it was because he'd experienced so much, so young. Though he'd grown up a foster child, he'd been an exemplary student and athlete in high school—until he got his girlfriend pregnant their junior year. Shane had proposed marriage, but she'd taken off the day after graduation. He'd never even seen his son, who would be almost six years old by now. So he knew about mistakes, and he knew about heartache.

His expression was a combination of compassion, surprise, and maybe approval—something Brady rarely got from Shane.

“Hell's bells,” Shane said. “You just might be starting to become a decent human being.”

“Yeah, well, I'd better.”

Brady strode down the stairs, enjoying the sense of purpose he felt and resisting the temptation to turn around and look—even though he was pretty sure that finally, he'd earned a look of respect from the brother he most admired.

For the next few days, Brady's life took on a new sense of order. Normally, he was on the road chasing rodeos ninety percent of the time; when that was out of season, he spent his days tormenting his brothers and his nights raising heck at the local bars. Lately he'd turned it down a notch. He wasn't sure why; he wasn't getting old, and he sure as hell wasn't growing up.

Or was he? He'd always resisted that notion. Growing up had always looked like a lot of work. But taking care of Suze wasn't work, somehow.

Maybe, in order to grow up, you needed to learn how to love. Once you loved someone, you didn't mind being responsible, because you wanted to take care of her. Make a home for her. Be worthy.

At any rate, he was up with the sun every day, rolling out of bed at dawn to head out to the Carlyle place to take care of Bucket. Then he'd hit the road, searching every place he could think of where someone might hide a stolen horse that was too famous to be seen in public.

Late in the afternoon, he'd go home for a shower and then visit Suze. Her moods were all over the map. Sometimes she seemed almost starved for company, and she'd pay rapt attention while he detailed his work with Bucket. Unfortunately, she'd begged him to bring Ridge sometime, so she could talk to him about Speedo. Somehow, Brady managed to stave off her inevitable discovery that the horse was missing. Right now, the knowledge wouldn't do her any good—at least, that's what he told his conscience.

Some days, she turned her face to the wall and told him to go away. At first he assumed that attitude was well-deserved anger toward him for his part in the accident, but lately he worried that it was pain or, worse yet, depression that made her unwilling to talk.

After visiting Suze, he'd run little errands, picking up anything she asked for and quite a few things she hadn't. She went through most of Bill Decker's collection of old horse-training manuals, along with a few trashy magazines Brady threw in for fun. Once he turned up with a set of pajamas he'd found at Kohl's, flannel ones with horses on them. That had been one of her bad days, and he'd thought maybe the gift was too personal, but the next time he visited she was wearing them. Neither one of them said a word about it.

In between, Brady made occasional forays into the Carlyle house, trying to get Earl to go visit his daughter. He'd originally planned to stay away from the old man, but it turned out to be a good thing he didn't; Suze had apparently been the housekeeper in the family. Brady wound up washing a pile of dishes and cleaning the bathrooms, but he drew the line at doing the old man's laundry. Suze's he was happy to do. She had pretty things to look at. Doing Earl's would be gross, and besides, something had to get the man out of that chair.

Finally, the day of Suze's release came. Brady stayed late at the house the night before, cleaning things and tidying up so the place looked warm and welcoming. He even made another wildflower bouquet for Suze's room.

He wished he had time to do something about the front porch. The screened-in area seemed to have been added to the house as an afterthought. It would have been a nice place to sit on a summer afternoon, but it was full of lumber, old windows, and other evidence of Earl's pack rat ways.

Brady wondered if the old man planned to build something, or if he just hated to see things go to waste. He could understand both urges, but the stuff belonged in the barn, not the house. He sure wouldn't want people to see all that crap before they even made it to his front door.

He'd fix it sometime. Sometime soon.

But right now, there were more important things to do. Like inform Earl that his daughter was coming home.

“Suze comes home tomorrow,” Brady said. “You excited?”

The old man grunted. Up until that night, his plan seemed to be to ignore Brady as much as possible. Brady figured it worked out well that way for Earl; he never had to make excuses for the piles of dishes in the sink or thank Brady for taking care of his mess if the two of them didn't speak. But on hearing Suze was coming home, he finally roused himself enough to get out of his chair and come to the door.

“I want to go with you to pick her up.” Earl's voice was gravelly from disuse, and he looked fierce as he spoke, gazing up at Brady from beneath dark, unruly eyebrows. His eyes were startlingly like Suze's if you ignored the network of wrinkles that surrounded them.

Brady glanced out at his truck. “I've got a two-seater,” he said. “I don't see how that can work. She can't cram in there with two grown men. Not with her crutches and all.”

“Well, then.” Earl gave him a hostile look that seemed to signal the start of some war Brady hadn't realized was brewing. “I'll go get her myself.”

Brady groaned to himself. He'd hoped to take Suze home, if only so he could listen in on the doctor's final instructions. Suze always waved him away when he asked about doctor's orders, even when she was in a good mood, and she never allowed him to stay in the room when the doctors made their rounds. What little he knew came from eavesdropping.

There was a broken wrist, he knew that. And her left leg was a mess, with damage to the tendons in the knee and ankle, and a break in the foot. She wouldn't be able to walk on her own for a while, and she'd suffered some nerve pain along with her broken bones and bruises.

That was the part that bothered him the most. Irene had suffered from MS, which included a lot of nerve pain. He didn't know much, but he knew that once nerves were damaged, they took a long time to heal—and sometimes they never did.

He also knew the pain could be excruciating. Once in a while, Suze would rock back in the bed, crossing her arms over her chest and squeezing her eyes shut. He knew that meant the pain was bad, and there was nothing in the world that made him feel so helpless. There she was, suffering because of him—and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

“I can pick her up,” he told Earl. “She'll need help getting into the house.”

Earl shot him a hostile glare. “We'll be fine. We don't need your kind of
help
.” He rose from his chair. “I wouldn't want to
sit
in
my
damn
chair
and
sulk
while you weasel your way into my daughter's life. We can take care of our own selves.”

“Since when?” Brady said. “I went through her underwear almost a week ago, Earl. She's been in the hospital five days. You never bothered to go see her, never even sent flowers. Now she's coming home, and all of a sudden you give a shit. What happened?”

“I had enough of you, that's all,” Earl said. “I want you out of here.”

Brady gave him a hard stare. “I'm the only one that's done anything for her. How do I know you'll take care of her?”

“You don't,” Earl said. “You don't know anything about us.”

Brady clamped his mouth shut, determined to keep his temper under control. The only way to do that was to leave, so he stepped out into the night, slamming the screen door behind him.

“And another thing,” Earl called after him. “Bring that horse back, you hear? That animal's valuable. I don't want that brother of yours messing around with him.”

* * *

Suze sat on the edge of the hospital bed, wondering why Brady was so late. He'd said he'd pick her up once the doctor signed the release forms, and that had been done two hours ago. Since then, she'd taken some half-serious ribbing from the nurses, who said she ought to treat her handsome cowboy better if she wanted him to show up on time. As usual, Brady had managed to charm every female in the place.

Except her.

He'd come close. He'd softened her up considerably that first day, and his jokes and tales of Bucket's and Dooley's misdeeds made her smile in spite of herself.

It wasn't easy to hold on to her anger, but the accident had been Brady's fault. He'd been as careless with her safety as he was with everything else—his talent, his own safety, and the hearts of the women who loved him.

The door opened, and she looked up fast, trying not to smile for Brady and utterly failing. But it was just a nurse, the young one who always wore juvenile scrubs with teddy bears and clowns on them. She seemed to have even more of a crush on Brady than the other girls, and sometimes Suze sensed a whiff of jealousy under her cheerful professionalism.

“Your dad's here to pick you up,” the nurse said. “Guess the cowboy's not coming after all.”

The professionalism slipped as the little nurse shot Suze a triumphant glare and spun out of the room, leaving her alone with her dad, who shambled in pushing an empty wheelchair.

“Can you get yourself into this thing?”

It figured. He hadn't seen her in a week, not since the wreck, but there was no “Hi, how are you?” no “What can I do for you?” It was all about how much—or better yet, how little work he'd have to do to care for the daughter he could hardly bear to look at.

She'd always thought it was because she was such a disappointment—a plain daughter who looked nothing like her lovely mother. But after that glimpse in the mirror, she knew different.

She really did look like her mother. So why wouldn't her dad look at her? Why wouldn't he love her, like other dads loved their daughters?

Fortunately, an orderly turned up and helped her make it from the bed to the chair. He was good at his job, and the transition barely hurt at all. She set her crutches across her lap and off they went.

They headed out of the hospital to the smiles of the staff, Suze in the chair, the orderly pushing, and her father shuffling alongside. Suze looked down at his feet.

“Dad, you're still in your slippers.”

“They're comfortable.”

She told herself not to ask about Brady, but she only managed to wait until they got into the elevator.

“Where's Brady?”

“Don't know,” her father said.

She sighed as the elevator began its descent. This had to be some kind of record. Five minutes—less than five minutes—and they were already annoyed with each other.

“You must have talked to him, Dad. He was the one who told you I was getting out, right?”

“We don't need him,” her dad said.

Oh, great.
Her father always liked to play the part of the independent old cuss, even though he rarely did anything for himself. He didn't even make his own meals unless Suze was away, and making the meals was the limit of his involvement—cleaning up after himself was apparently too much to ask. She always arrived home to find every dish they owned in a filthy pile on the kitchen counter, and the garbage heaping with half-eaten Hungry Man meal trays.

She kept her mouth shut while he wheeled her across the lobby. When they reached the double exit doors, her dad turned to the orderly.

“We can take it from here.”

Suze almost corrected him but swallowed her protest. She could probably get up into the truck with just a little bit of help from her dad.

“Okay.” The orderly set a stack of paperwork in her lap. “The wheelchair and crutches are yours to keep. They'll bill your insurance.”

“I'm sure they will,” her dad muttered. Since he'd retired as a CPA, he'd done freelance work helping seniors deal with insurance companies. He spent a lot of time barking into the phone, haranguing insurance reps. It was the perfect job for a crotchety old man who still had his wits about him—and his temper too.

His truck was parked in the roundabout reserved for emergency room drop-offs and patient pickup. He wheeled her to the passenger side, opened the door, and stared down at her. Judging from the expression on his face, this was the first time it had occurred to him that things might be a little tricky.