How to Kiss a Cowboy (19 page)

So the house and barn had a funky, jerry-rigged look, and there probably wasn't a truly straight line or square corner on the place. But it was home, and there was nothing like it. After almost a week away, her love for the place hit her like a punch to the solar plexus, taking her breath away and reminding her of her greatest weakness.

If she'd been able to walk away from the place, she'd be living a very different life now. She could have used her winnings to buy a little house on a few acres, like so many of her fellow competitors had. Her dad had never done much for her. She could have walked away without much more than a faint twinge of guilt.

But this was the place they had lived with her mother. The place where Suze's few, vague memories of being part of a happy family took place. It was too precious to leave behind. So she'd stayed.

Now they were in danger of losing it all. Her stay in the hospital had undoubtedly cost a fortune. The two of them had a catastrophic health care plan with a sky-high deductible—so high they might have to take out a second mortgage on the place. If they could even get one.

She couldn't think about that now, though. Not when Bucket stood in the corral beside the barn, waiting for her. When she stepped out of the truck, the horse let out a soft nicker that told her he'd missed her, and invited her to come over and rub his velvety muzzle.

But by the time she made it out of the truck and into the wheelchair, she was sweating from the pain, and it seemed like every part of her body ached. When her father pushed her toward the house without asking her where she wanted to go, she didn't have the energy to protest. She'd have to boss him around enough in the days to come. She wasn't going to start any sooner than she had to.

Just this once, Bucket would have to wait.

Just this once, she'd put herself first.

Climbing the stairs was a painful and humbling experience for Suze, as well as a difficult one. It was painful because of that zinging pain in her back, and humbling because she finally had to ask her father to help her stand once she got to the top. The difficult part was avoiding Dooley, who thought they were playing some kind of game. He'd rushed up and down the stairs about a million times, panting happily as he welcomed her home over and over.

Her original plan had been to set herself up on the sofa in the front room. Then she'd be able to use the crutches to get to the kitchen, and with a little help she might be able to get outside and enjoy the nice weather.

She'd lasted about an hour before her father's grumpiness, combined with his incessant
Bonanza
reruns, chased her upstairs. She wanted to ask him to turn the danged TV off, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Lying on the sofa, watching him watch Ben Cartwright and his boys struggle through all their troubles as if the plot of the episode held some key to existence, she realized something might be seriously wrong with her dad.

But things were getting better. She'd almost cried when she saw how much housework he'd done while she was gone. She knew he hated washing dishes and dusting—“women's work,” he called it—but there wasn't a single dirty dish in the kitchen, and the old oak table gleamed in the Pledge-scented air. It must have taken two or more full days of work to wash the window curtains, shine the appliances, and clean the floors and even the windows. You knew a man really cared when he cleaned for you.

“Wow, Dad,” she'd said. “The place looks great.”

He'd only grunted.

Once she reached her room, she threw herself onto the bed—creating a whole new series of aches and pains—and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. After all the sleepless nights and broken dreams she'd had in the hospital, she slept like the child she'd once been, like a woman with no worries.

And that was something she hadn't been for a long time.

When she woke up, it was well past four in the afternoon and she had a raging headache as well as a rumbling belly. She opened her mouth to call her dad, but nothing came out. Sure, it was her first day back. Sure, she was legitimately hurt and needed help. And sure, he was her father.

But calling her father for help just wasn't something she could do. He'd never been the one she called. Never. That had been her mother. And after her mother died…then she'd helped herself.

She crutched her way to the top of the stairs, then glanced around as if someone might be watching. The house was quiet. Maybe her dad was napping.

Finally, she sat down on the top step, set her crutches beside her, and gave them a push so they careened down the steps and clattered on the tile floor of the foyer. Bumping her way downstairs on her bottom, she sacrificed dignity to practicality and joined them.

It hurt. It hurt her ankle, her back, and whatever nerve did that lightning-bolt thing that ran down her leg. She was sitting on the bottom step, panting and trying to ignore the pain, when Brady's voice jolted her back to the real world.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. You're up.” He frowned. “You're also down. Why didn't you just call?”

“I didn't know you were here.”

Struggling to cover up her undignified position, she leaned the crutches against the wall and pretended to be sitting casually at the bottom of the stairs, as if she did it all the time. Brady surely didn't believe that, but he just looked down at her and smiled, resting his elbow on the newel post. Dang, he looked hot—in the literal and figurative sense of the word. His skin glistened with sweat wherever it wasn't covered in dust. He'd traded his cowboy hat for a ratty baseball cap sporting the Cabela's logo, and he carried a rag in one hand. An extremely dirty rag.

“I've been cleaning. You got any more of these?” He waved the rag in the air.

Still sitting on the bottom step, she gaped up at him. “In—in the kitchen. The bottom drawer, next to the sink.”

She hated it when anyone looked down on her—she much preferred looking down on them from the back of a horse—but she didn't have the strength to stand up without resorting to an ungainly climbing of the newel post. So when he held out his hand, she took it and let him hoist her to a standing position.

She didn't look at him while he did it. It hurt less that way.

“You got hungry, didn't you?” He started for the kitchen and she stumped after him, cussing silently with every painful step. “Sorry. I would have made you something earlier, but you were asleep. Then I got busy, and…shoot, I should have checked on you again sooner. Time got away from me.”

“It's okay.”

She wondered what he'd been busy doing. She scanned him again and decided that whatever it was had to be dirty work, because his face, his arms, his clothes—even his shoes—were covered with a fine layer of gray dust.

She crutched her way into the kitchen and leaned in the doorway, unable to go any farther.

“What do you want?” Brady asked.

“I'm going to make myself a sandwich,” she said.

“Can I have one?”

She couldn't say no without sounding childish, so she nodded.

Brady was wearing a T-shirt so worn it was nearly transparent where it spanned his shoulders and chest. As he washed up and then explored the kitchen, bending over to open one cabinet, then reaching up to check another, he put on quite a show of male anatomy. Once he'd found bread and peanut butter, he scanned the refrigerator for jam. The cold white light from the open door lit the faint dark stubble that shadowed his jaw, and made his strong profile stand out in harsh relief against a backdrop of pickles and barbecue sauce.

Suze had never thought a man making a sandwich could turn her on, but she was starting to feel kind of squirmy inside.

Shut
it
down. You couldn't do anything if you wanted to. And you don't want to. You don't.

She forced herself to remember the accident, the feeling of the rope tightening around her body, the wild whoop of triumph she'd heard before she passed out.

“Strawberry or grape?” he asked.

She reached for the grape. “I'm making my own.”

She could feel his gaze on her as she slapped the peanut butter onto the bread with vicious slashes of the knife.

“What did that bread ever do to you?” he asked.

“The bread?” She tossed the knife in the sink, letting it clatter against the white porcelain. “Nothing.”

She shot him a hard glare, but he didn't seem to notice as he spread his own jam, smiling slightly.

Smiling. After what he'd done to her.

She slapped her sandwich together and sliced it in half. “There,” she said, leaning against the counter. “I'm fed. You can go now.”

“You throwing me out?” He gave her a rueful smile that took all the starch out of her resentment.

“Once you eat that, yeah. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He ate far more politely than she did, but then he probably wasn't as hungry. In the hospital, she'd eaten stuff like hot turkey sandwiches draped in gelatinous gravy and served on white bread that reminded her of memory foam. Peanut butter and jelly had never, ever tasted so good. She wasn't going to tell Brady, but as soon as he left, she was going to make herself another one.

He finished up and started cleaning up. Dang it, she should have done that so he couldn't.

“What time do you usually do your evening feed?” he asked.

She sighed. It was a cruel quirk of fate that had allowed him to take away her livelihood, her mobility, her everything, and then be so darned nice to her she couldn't even work up a good head of resentment.

“Around six.”

He gave her his famous grin, along with a sloppy salute. “I'll be here, boss. Consider it done.”

She opened the fridge and got out the milk jug, then realized the glasses were in a cabinet halfway down the counter. It was amazing how complicated life got when every move you made hurt. Pressing her hands on the countertop, she closed her eyes, willing herself not to break down.

“Thanks, Brady.” She squeezed the words from a tight, aching throat as she opened the cabinet above her, rummaged around as if she was looking for something else so she could hide her face.

“Don't thank me.” Brady gave her a carefree grin as he headed for the door. “I got you into this mess, and I'll help you through it as best I can.” He sounded a little choked up himself, and she resisted the urge to look at him. The last thing she needed right now was an emotional moment with Brady.

Not that it wasn't tempting. If she let the tears flow, he'd let her rest her head on his strong chest and cry into his shirt. It would feel warm, comforting, and sweet.

And who knew what it might lead to?

She pictured him carrying her upstairs, Rhett Butler–style. She imagined the feel of his strong arms surrounding her, supporting her, and she tilted her head ever so slightly to one side, imagining she was leaning against his powerful shoulders. When they got upstairs, he'd lower her gently to the bed, and then—then…

Then
nothing
.

She didn't stop staring at the contents of the cupboard until she heard the door close behind him.

Her nerve endings had apparently been waiting for him to leave too, because they immediately jumped to life, with stabbing pains, shooting pains, and every other kind of pain there was. Her ankle was throbbing with every beat of her heart, and her heart was pounding, struggling to pump out enough energy to overcome the urge to call Brady back so she could fall into his arms and cry.

No. That was wrong. She should want to scream at him until her throat was scraped raw.

Why hadn't he let go of the rope? Why had she let him into her trailer and her heart on that hot summer night? Why did he have to be so damned charming, so damned nice? And why did he have to be the only person who would help her?

It wasn't that she didn't have any friends. It's just that they were all barrel racers, and they were busy scooping up the prize money she was leaving on the table while she recovered. She couldn't blame them for going on with their lives.

And she'd never had time to make friends closer to home. When she was here, she was working. Perfecting her technique. Perfecting Speedo's training.

Being perfect took a lot of time. It didn't leave much room for anything else.

Maybe that wasn't the best way to live your life, but it was the only way Suze knew. She'd never questioned it until now. What if she lost her ability to ride? What would she do then? She had no marketable skills. No education beyond high school. And no desire to do anything but race horses around a cloverleaf pattern at top speed, just as her mother had.

If she couldn't ride, she couldn't live. It was the center of her universe.

Struggling to erase the dire thoughts that crowded her mind, she edged along the counter until she could reach the glasses. Why the heck were they so far from the fridge? It didn't make sense. She was going to fix that as soon as she could.

But who knew when that would be?

Once again pushing all thoughts of her recovery out of her head, she poured herself a glass of milk, drank half of it, then filled it again.

When she reached the foot of the stairs and confronted the task of climbing them one painful step at a time, she felt suddenly dizzy. Stumbling backward, she dropped the glass of milk onto the hardwood floor of the front hall. As the glass shattered, rage and sorrow slammed into hormones and adrenaline, creating a hot tsunami of emotion. Clutching the newel post, she let herself crumple to the floor in a heap and released the painful, wrenching sobs that had been building up for days.

She'd done her best not to cry after the accident. She'd tried to hold in the pain and the fear and the frustration. But now, she couldn't help herself. The sobs were coming from deep, deep inside.

She wondered if she'd ever be able to stop.