An Accidental Hero (16 page)

Reid had lived by his self-imposed “flyin’ solo” code for years, because it protected everyone involved from the pain and humiliation of a broken heart.

So why had he allowed himself to be vulnerable this time?

The answer was surprisingly simple: Cammi was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman, everything he’d ever dreamed of in a life partner.

Reid would never have admitted it to his cowboy cronies, but when he had trouble sleeping in one of the generic, rubber-stamped hotel rooms of the tours, he’d think of men who’d left the rodeo to spend more time with their wives and kids. On those dark and lonely nights, Reid pictured himself with a family to go home to: a tidy little bungalow with a bright red door that would bang open when he pulled into the driveway; a couple of giggling, rosy-cheeked kids who would thunder onto the porch yelling, “Look, Mama, Daddy’s home!” He’d added a scene to the dream in the last few days: In the doorway, hands buried in the pockets of a ruffled apron, wearing a “for his eyes only” smile, stood their mother, his wife…Cammi.

He’d already told her how he felt he’d known her all his life, how he’d been dreaming of her for…for
ever.
Would it do more harm than good to repeat it now?

Big, silvery tears squeezed from her eyes, telling Reid she knew exactly how he felt—and that maybe she couldn’t bring herself to tell him she didn’t feel the same way.

It wasn’t a suspicion, this knowledge that Cammi wanted to protect him from harm, from hurt; he knew it with whole-souled certainty.

Which only made him want her all the more.

With the back of her hand, Cammi dried her cheeks. “You said you had something to tell me…”

Yes, and he’d already told her.

“…and something to ask me.”

He hadn’t been afraid when settling onto the back of raving-mad wild stallions, had braved the wrath of enormous snorting, stomping bulls. But here he sat, adrenaline pumping and heart knocking against his ribs, too scared to ask this five-foot-two-inch slip of a thing, who couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet, to be his girl!

Clenching first one fist, then the other, Reid said, “You oughta lie back down, get some rest.” He cleared his throat. “It’s been a hectic couple of days.”

She surprised him, getting up off the couch and settling on his lap, so much so that he nearly lost the tight control he’d been holding on his emotions. Relief coursed through him, pulsing in every fingertip, as she put her small, smooth hand into his, leaned her head on his shoulder. His arms slid automatically around her as his lips were drawn to her temple as if he’d been programmed.

“I feel like a crazy woman,” she began, the fingers of her free hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, “for so much as considering a relationship with you.” One dainty shoulder lifted in a ladylike shrug. “God help me, I am.”

If a heart could sing, as the poets claimed, his was belting out a ballad now!

“But you’ve suffered enough,” she continued, “blaming yourself for an accident that wasn’t your
fault. I don’t want to put you through anything more.”

His singing heart went silent. All his life he’d heard the adage “what goes around, comes around.” Something told him he was about to be on the receiving end of the speech he’d made to women so many times. If he could trust his voice, he would tell her to spare him the gory details.

“Since I found out about…” She shrugged again. “Every time I see you now, I think about that night.” She closed her eyes so tightly, the lids all but swallowed up her lashes. “And I get these pictures.” A tremor passed through her, shaking her from chin to ankles. Cammi stood and walked a few steps away from him, hunching her shoulders and cupping her elbows.

Didn’t take a genius to figure out what she’d meant: The very sight of him made Cammi envision the accident, and because she didn’t like looking at the ugly images, she didn’t like looking at
him.

Reid glanced toward the door, gave a thought or two to leaving. No,
escaping
was more like it. Because out there, he wouldn’t have to look into those big, innocent eyes—eyes that saw him as the guy who killed her mother.

“No one’s to blame,” she said, finally.

But lost in his own misery, Reid had tuned her out. Much as he wanted to hit the road and never look back, he’d promised to look after her until Lily finished feeding her calf.

He glanced at the phone. If he punched the number five two times, he’d be free.

No, he’d only spend the rest of the night worrying,
because while Lily knew plenty about critters, she didn’t know diddly about concussions. He’d stay and keep an eye on Cammi until he had proof that she’d be okay.

“Cammi, do me a favor.”

She looked over her shoulder and sent him a small, sad smile. “Sure. Anything.”

She’d agreed without hesitation, he noted, and without having a clue what he might ask of her. Heart aching, and wanting her for his own even more, Reid pulled back the afghan and patted the sofa cushion. “Lie down before you fall down, will ya?”

For just a moment, she paused, then she crossed the room and stretched out on the couch. Reid helped her settle the afghan over herself, and flopped onto the nearest chair. He waited until she closed her eyes before leaning his head against the pillowy backrest.

Then he closed his own eyes and did something he hadn’t done in years.

He prayed.

C
ammi woke with a start.

It took a minute to get her bearings, but a quick look around the room calmed her, for there sat Reid, fast asleep and slumped in her father’s big chair, one long muscular leg outstretched, the other bent at the knee.

Cammi eased up off the couch. Gently, she draped her afghan over Reid, then sat on the edge of the sofa cushion and simply looked at him. At boots whose brown leather soles had walked the floor of many a barn and slid into hundreds of stirrups; at faded jeans that hugged calves and thighs made thick and hard by hours of heavy work. His biceps strained against the blue flannel of his snap-front western shirt, and his hands—one partially shading his eyes, the other, fingers splayed across his flat stomach—were further proof he’d given his all to every task. And those shoulders, nearly as wide as the backrest of her father’s enormous chair…

Martina had said he’d injured the right one, hurt it so badly, in fact, that he’d been forced to give up rodeoing for good. If leaving L.A. had been hard on her, when she hadn’t come close to “making it” out there, how much more devastating must it have been for Reid to give up a profession that had earned him awards?

Still, it seemed he’d taken it in stride. All part of his uncomplaining, take-it-on-the-chin demeanor, she acknowledged, now studying his face. Black-lashed eyes closed and a lock of raven hair falling over his forehead, he looked like an innocent boy. But Reid was more man than any she’d known, even with his angular chin resting on that damaged shoulder. It was good to see him this way—quiet and at peace, his big chest rising and falling with every soft, steady breath.

From the moment he’d stepped out of the pickup that cold rainy night, Cammi had thought he was as good-looking as any movie star. Not even his stern, no-nonsense expression could camouflage the high cheekbones, the square jaw, the strong nose and full, kissable lips.

Unconsciously, Cammi put her fingers to her own lips, remembering the way it felt when he’d pressed that very manly mouth to hers.
Swoon
wasn’t a much-used word these days, but it explained perfectly how his kisses had made her feel.

She slouched, feeling more than a little defeated. In every way possible, Reid Alexander seemed perfect.
Make that perfect for me,
she thought. Because he was more than raw masculinity cloaked in plaid flannel and worn denim; somewhere deep in that barrel chest beat the heart of a good and decent man,
one who’d overcome adversity and challenges and heartaches, all without turning bitter or spiteful.

Proof he was a Christian?

Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have made a move without first consulting the Almighty. She’d prayed about everything, from which courses to take in school, to boyfriends, to whether or not to move to California. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, Cammi admitted; she hadn’t asked God’s opinion about Rusty.

But shouldn’t her past good behavior have counted for something? Yes, she’d messed up, stumbled, taken the wrong path a time or two. Still, didn’t she have a right to think the Lord would stick by her, guide her, despite—or maybe because of—her missteps? Didn’t the Good Book promise the Father would love and protect His children,
no matter what?

“Guess not,” she muttered.

“Wha-a-a?”

She crossed one leg over the other and clapped a hand over her mouth, sorry as she could be that her thoughtlessness had awakened him.

Reid stirred, wincing as he worked the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. The moment those sea-green eyes opened, they locked on her. Cammi shivered a bit under his penetrating stare. He couldn’t have been asleep more than ten minutes. And she ought to know, because every fifteen minutes since Lily headed for the barn, he’d shaken her awake.

“Nice nap?” she asked, hoping the tremor that shot through her wasn’t evident in her voice.

He sat up, rubbed the back of his neck, then yawned and allowed himself a full-fledged stretch.
“Not bad,” he said when he finished. “How ’bout you?”

She couldn’t help but grin. “Not bad,” she echoed, “considering
some
one woke me every couple of minutes to shine a flashlight in my eyes.”

“Sorry, but it’s the only way to know for sure if—”

“I know, I know.” Grinning, she waved the apology away. “You explained it every time you roused me: ‘If your pupils don’t dilate properly, it’s a sign you might have a concussion,”’ she said in the deepest voice she could muster. “I read someplace you’re to check every hour, not every—”

“I read someplace that you can’t be too careful,” he interrupted, knuckling his eyes. When his stomach growled, he tucked in one corner of his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Hungry?”

He glanced at the clock. “I shouldn’t be. Hasn’t been that long since I wolfed down two heaping plates of Martina’s spaghetti and meatballs.”

Cammi got to her feet. “How ’bout I fry us up a couple of eggs?”

He stood in front of her and, hands on her shoulders, said, “I know it’ll take longer for you to show me where things are than to do it yourself, but you’ve
got
to start taking things easy.” Reid gave her a gentle shake. “You’re never gonna get back on your feet if you keep pushing yourself this way.”

She liked being this close to him, liked inhaling the manly scent of fresh hay and bath soap clinging to every inch of him, liked his tough-yet-tender take-charge attitude, too. “You make me sound like a
twenty-pound weakling. She reached out, played with a pearlized snap on the front of his shirt. “I’m no award-winning rodeo cowboy, but I can take care of myself pretty well, y’know.”

Chuckling, he tucked her hair behind her ears. “Humor me,” he said again. “How ’bout letting me take care of you—for tonight, anyway?” His stomach growled again, as if to punctuate his question.

She tidied his collar, then stepped away from him. “We’d better do
something
about that noise before my dad mistakes it for a grizzly and comes down here brandishing his trusty shotgun.”

“That picture,” he said, feigning a shiver, “is a nightmare in the making.” He led the way to the kitchen. “Maybe you can talk him into bringing the old .12-gauge over to the Rockin’ C and clearing out that nest of rattlers one of the boys found out behind the barn.”

“Rattlesnakes at this time of year?”

“They love this weather we’ve been having.”

“The rattlers aren’t the only ones.”

“Well, you’ve got an ‘in’ with You-Know-Who. See about getting me some protection—from snakes
and
your daddy, will ya?”

He’d asked for that favor before, in much the same way. What made him think
she
had God’s ear? “Ask Him yourself,” Cammi said, putting a frying pan on a front burner.

Reid opened the fridge and stuck his head inside. When he came out, an egg carton, a package of link sausages, butter and a loaf of bread were balanced in his big palms. “I’ve never been on very good terms
with The Big Guy,” he said, depositing the food beside the stove.

Cammi turned on the flame under the frying pan. “And what makes you think I have?”

Reid shrugged. “I dunno. You just seem the peaceful, contented type.”

She rolled her eyes. “You make me sound like a cow out to pasture!”

“Hardly!” he said, laughing. “But seriously, you have a solid grip on reality, a way of handling the tough stuff life dishes out. I figured your faith made you that way.”

“What made
you
that way, if not faith?”

“Me?”

He laughed again, and she took it to mean he didn’t feel he’d handled hardship well at all. “You’ve survived a few setbacks in your life, and didn’t come out too much the worse for wear. How’d you cope?”

Reid took her hand and led her to the table, pulled out a chair and gently shoved her into it. “We had a deal, remember? You’ll take it easy and I’ll do what it takes to keep my gut quiet.” He grabbed a napkin from the holder on the table, flapped it open and tucked it under her chin. “You’re in for a treat, m’lady,” he said, bowing with a flourish, “because few people have ever experienced a four-star Reid Alexander omelette.”

He found a smaller frying pan in a low cabinet, arranged the link sausages in it and turned up the heat. Then, opening and closing cabinet doors until he found a deep-bottomed bowl, Reid added, “I learned a few tricks under the tutelage of my second stepfather, who claimed to have been a cook in the army.”
After cracking four eggs like a master chef, he let their contents ooze into the bowl and tossed the shells into the trash can. He rooted through every drawer until he found the one holding silverware, and, holding the bowl against his chest, he beat the eggs with a fork. “For all his other faults, old Henry wasn’t a half-bad teacher.”

“Real good egg, eh?” she teased as he whipped the yolks and whites into a thick froth.

“Rotten egg is more like it.”

There was no mistaking the ire in his voice.

“So what’s your specialty—or is breakfast the only meal you can cook?”

“You haven’t lived till you’ve eaten one of my grilled-cheese sandwiches. And I make the best boiled hot dogs on the planet.”

“I see your stepfather was a practical man.”

“Yeah. Practical.”

“How many stepfathers did you have?”

“Four. Each one meaner and more cantankerous than the other. Thank God for Billy is all I can say.” He grabbed a knife from the silverware drawer, sliced off a pat of butter and dropped it into the skillet. As it sizzled and bubbled, he tipped the pan this way and that to coat its bottom. “Your dad might not be the cuddliest codger in town, but he’s rock-solid and dependable in the father department.”

She heard the admiration and respect in his voice. “True. We London girls have been luckier than most.”

He poured the egg mixture into the frying pan, then looked over his shoulder to say, “It’s good you know
it.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “I expect Lamont knows it, too.”

As he dug around in the refrigerator’s cheese drawer, she said, “We make sure he knows it, every chance we get.”

Slicing off a few chunks of sharp cheddar, he nodded approvingly. “Guess he’s the reason you girls are such devout Christians.”

Were
devout, she corrected mentally. “I can’t speak for my sisters.”

Reid dropped bread into the toaster and pushed the button until all four slices disappeared. He grabbed two small glasses from the drain board beside the sink and filled each with orange juice. “So you’re saying you’re not devout anymore?”

She didn’t know what she was saying. Didn’t know what difference the state of her soul made to him. “Let’s just say I’m not quite as easily fooled these days as I used to be.”

Once he’d set out butter knives, forks, napkins and the juice tumblers, he stirred the omelette. “That explains it, then.”

She turned in the chair to see him better. “Explains what?”

“The fact that you’re not as happy as you used to be.”

“And this coming from a guy who’s known me—what?—three days?” she said under her breath.

“Four, but who’s counting,” he answered, buttering the toast. He shrugged. “The night we met, there was a…” He stared off into space, the tip of his knife drawing tiny circles in the air as he searched for the right phrase. “There was a certain glow about you.
A light in your eyes. An attitude that said ‘Gimme all you got, World, ’cause I can take it!”’ Reid took plates from the cabinet, put two slices of toast onto each.

“Let’s see you bury a husband and lose a baby in a four-month time span and come out of it grinning like a hyena.” Cammi vowed never to mention either again, ever!

“Don’t know if ‘grinned like a hyena’ describes how I took it,” he said, adding eggs and sausage to each plate, “but I’ve seen a few loved ones planted six feet under in my day. Never even knew my daddy.”

He might have been saying “pass the salt” or “what time is it?” for all the emotion in his admission.

“Ketchup?” he asked, handing her a food-laden plate.

She shook her head. “No ketchup, thanks.”

“Eat up,” he instructed, sitting across from her, “before it gets cold.” He downed his juice in one swallow. “Nothin’ worse than cold eggs.”

“Funny,” Cammi said, peppering her food, “but I never would’ve pegged
you
as a believer.”

He stopped chewing and gawked at her, green eyes flashing. “I look that much like a heathen, do I?”

“Well, no. No, of course not.” She felt her cheeks going hot. “It’s just…well, everyone knows that rodeo cowboys have terrible reputations.”

“Oh, do they, now?” He raised his eyebrows. “What kind of reputations?”

“As girl-hungry skirt-chasers. As ladies’ men, as—”

He chuckled and, using his fork as a pointer, said, “Y’know what they say.”

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“‘Never judge a book by its cover.”’ Using the side of his fork, he sliced a sausage, then speared it.

“So you’re saying you’re a Bible-thumping, Sunday-go-to-meetin’, card-carrying Christian?”

His smile diminished, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “No. I’m not saying that. I honestly can’t remember the last time I saw the inside of a church.” He paused. “No, that’s a lie. I remember it exactly: It was the day of my mother’s funeral.”

Cammi took a bite of toast, washed it down with a sip of juice. “How long ago did you lose her?”

He tucked in one side of his mouth and stared into his plate. “Long time ago” was his quiet reply.

“How’d you lose her?”

“Cancer.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Well, looks like we have one more thing in common.”

He met her eyes again. “One more thing?”

She didn’t want to get into a discussion about their mutual grief. At least, not now. Maybe in a month, or in several months, after she’d had a chance to put some distance between her and Rusty, between her and the miscarriage. Maybe then she’d be able to bare her soul and revisit the subject of “us” as it related to Reid and herself.

“Better eat up,” she quoted him. “Nothin’ worse than cold eggs.”