An Accidental Hero (2 page)

She liked the way he walked…like a man who knew who he was and where he was going in life. He leaned over the counter and grabbed two plastic-coated menus and exchanged a few words with Georgia. The good-natured tone of their banter told Cammi they knew one another well. Funny that Cammi didn’t know him, too; she’d only been away from Amarillo two years, after all.

Only.
A silent, bitter laugh echoed in her head. The
past twenty-four months seemed like a lifetime now….

When he returned, Reid slid into the booth, handed her one menu, flattened the other on the table in front of him. “So, what can I order you?”

Georgia made the best burgers in Texas and Cammi had been craving one of her specialties for weeks. “I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger and fries, on one condition.”

He met her gaze. “Condition?”

There was no mistaking the suspicion and mistrust written on his handsome face. Cammi wondered what—or
who
—had caused it. “I’m buying,” she announced, holding up a hand to forestall his argument. “You’d be home now, safe and sound and chowing down something home-cooked, no doubt, if I hadn’t plowed through that red light. Buying your supper is the least I can do, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

That teasing look on his face made Cammi’s stomach lurch. Was he
flirting
with her? Under normal circumstances, she might have been flattered. But these were hardly normal circumstances.

“There isn’t a nickel’s worth of fight left in me. So okay, you’ll buy, this time.”

This time?

Cammi got to her feet. What better way to hide from her reaction than to put on her “efficient waitress” face? “A lifetime ago,” she explained, “I worked here at Georgia’s. Maybe I can pull a few strings, get you some extra fries or a free slice of pie.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Georgia bakes it herself, you know.”

Laughing, Reid said, “Yeah, I know.” Then he added, “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Cammi hurried to the counter, and came back carrying silverware in one hand and a pitcher of ice water in the other. She was about to leave again, to get glasses and straws, when he grabbed her wrist.

“Thanks,” he said, giving it a little squeeze. “This is right nice of you, especially after the way I behaved out there.”

The bright fluorescent light had turned his eyes greener still. “You behaved like any normal person would under those conditions.” She eased free of his grasp. “This is the least I can do.”

She puttered behind the counter and caught up with Georgia as the diner owner slapped burgers onto the grill and dumped frozen fries into the deep fryer. She couldn’t help wondering as she watched her former boss poke the meat patties with a corner of a metal spatula, why she hadn’t experienced any of these heart-stopping, stomach lurching “first meeting” feelings with Rusty. Cammi shook her head.

But honestly! What business did she have feeling
anything!
Cammi blamed the long drive, the accident, the reasons she’d been forced to leave L.A. for her strong reaction to Reid. Finding out she was going to be a mother on the very day she’d become a widow would make any woman behave strangely, right?

When Cammi finally slid the food-laden tray onto their table, Reid gave an admiring nod. “It’s like riding a bike,” she said, dismissing his unspoken compliment, “you never forget how to balance.”
If only balancing my
life
were as easy as balancing this tray,
she thought.

He waited until she was seated to say, “I owe you more than an apology, I owe you an explanation. All that bellowing and…” He shook his head. “Well, it was just plain uncalled for. This is a flimsy excuse, I know, but I had a similar experience some years back, and
that
accident…” He took a deep breath, exhaled. “Let’s just say I’m downright sorry for behaving like a mule-headed fool.”

His admission conjured a memory, one so strong Cammi didn’t trust her voice. The boy who’d been driving the truck the night her mother died…
his
name had been Reid. One and the same? Or a queer coincidence?

She didn’t realize how intently she’d been staring until he shifted uncomfortably in the seat. If he was
that
Reid….

“Did you know that cold fries cause indigestion?” she asked.

His expression said,
Huh?

Using a French fry as a pointer, Cammi explained: “It has something to do with the way cooking oils mix with stomach acids. I think. Something like that.” She was rambling and knew it, but better to have him think she was a babbling idiot than to press him for details…and find out she might be sitting face to face with the guy who’d killed her mother.

She’d been horrified to learn how her danger-hungry stuntman husband had died, but his death only served to underscore what she’d realized on their wedding night—they hadn’t married for love. The cold hard fact was, they’d been friends with one thing in common: a tendency to act on impulse.

So jumping to conclusions about Reid didn’t seem
the smartest thing to do at the moment. Besides, she recognized Reid’s far-off expression as an attempt to hide from the miseries of his past. She recognized it because she felt exactly the same way. Cammi wanted to comfort him, if only for this brief moment in time, and gave in to the urge to blanket his fidgeting hands with hers.

Then, suddenly, for a reason she couldn’t explain, Cammi found herself biting back tears, found herself feeling guilty for harboring so much anger toward Rusty. It would be hard, very hard, getting past the
way
her husband had died…and with whom. Still, on the day he’d been buried, Cammi had promised herself that Rusty’s child would never know those awful details.

Reid eased his hands from beneath hers and broke the uneasy silence. “So, you live ’round these parts?”

She hadn’t realized until that moment exactly how much she’d missed hearing a good old-fashioned Texas drawl, how much she’d missed Amarillo, how good it felt to be on familiar turf. “Actually,” she said, shrugging, “my dad lives not too far from here.” She sipped her soda. “And you?”

It seemed as if a shadow crossed his face, darkening his features.

Reid cleared his throat. “Once, I was a…” He took a deep breath and started over. “Well, I’m a ranch hand now.”

He said “now” as if it were “the end,” and she wondered for a moment why. But Cammi wouldn’t ask that question, either, because crashing into his life had already caused enough damage, without rousing
bad memories as well. From now on, she’d keep the conversation light, carefree, noncommittal.

Cammi looked out the window, gestured toward the bustling street. “I grew up in Amarillo, but I’ve been away a few years.”

He smiled. “Lemme guess…you’re married with kids, and your husband’s job took you away from home.”

“No.” She stared into her mug, saw the overhead lights glimmering on the surface of the glossy black coffee. She could tell him about Rusty, about the rush wedding, but then she’d have to admit what an addle-brained twit she’d been, running off without a thought or a prayer to marry a man for no reason other than that he’d asked her to. “No husband, no kids.” She pressed a palm to her stomach.
At least, no kids yet,
she thought. “I’ve been in California, trying to become an actress,” she finished in a singsong voice.

Usually when she said that, people chuckled at her admission, rolled their eyes, smiled condescendingly. Cammi waited for one of the typical responses. It surprised her when instead, Reid said in a soft, raspy drawl, “Well, you’re sure pretty enough to be a movie star.”

Everything, from his smile to his tone to the sparkle in his eyes told her Reid was interested in her. If they’d met him at another time, under different circumstances…

But even if Cammi trusted her judgment—and considering the gravity and multitude of her mistakes, she most definitely did not—what man in his right mind would consciously get involved with a pregnant widow?

“So, what happened?” Reid asked.

“Happened?”

“To your acting career.”

Thankfully, he hadn’t asked about the
rest
of her life.

While she’d inherited her mother’s dark eyes and hair, the acting-talent gene hadn’t been passed down. Cammi had given it her all out there in L.A., but she’d had less luck pleasing directors than she’d had pleasing her dad. “Guess I just wasn’t cut out for Hollywood,” she said.

It was true, after all, in more ways than one. And when this pleasant little meal and friendly conversation ended, she’d have to go home and admit that fact—and a few more—to her father and sisters.

Home.

She glanced at her watch. “I’d better see about getting a taxi. My dad was expecting me over an hour ago. Don’t want to worry him.”

“I’d drive you, but…” He extended his hands in helpless supplication.

Cammi took no offense at the reference to his destroyed pickup because there hadn’t been a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “You oughta smile more often.” One brow lifted in response to her compliment, making him look even more handsome. Cammi felt the heat of a blush color her cheeks. “I like your smile, is all,” she said, and started digging in her purse.

Reid leaned forward. “What’re you looking for?”

The rummaging had been a good excuse to avert her gaze. “Change, for the pay phone.” A half-truth was better than an outright lie, right? “My cell
phone’s dead.” Cammi glanced toward the booth on the far wall and made a move to get up, but Reid held up a hand to stop her.

“Here,” he said, passing her his cell phone. “I never use up all the minutes on my plan, anyway.”

He sent her a lopsided grin that made her heart beat double time. She had no business reacting to this man. For one thing, he might well be partly responsible for her mother’s death. For another, she was newly widowed…and with child.

“While you’re at it, ask the dispatcher to send two cabs.”

She flipped the phone open. “You wouldn’t happen to have the number of the taxi company programmed into this thing, would you?”

“Never had any use for cabs, myself.” On his feet, he added, “But I can duck into the phone booth over there and look one up.” He grabbed the cell phone. “Might as well call ’em myself, long as I’m in there, anyway.”

She watched him walk away. Reid was different from just about every man she’d met in California. Oh, he was good-looking enough to join the parade of those pounding the pavement in search of leading man roles—more than attractive enough to land a few, too. Which is why it seemed so strange that everything about him, from the leather of his cowboy boots to the top of his dark-haired head screamed “genuine.”

Careful, Cammi,
she warned.
The man doesn’t need any more trouble in his life.

And neither did she, for that matter.

I
f he’d had the sense God gave a goose, Reid would have ordered Georgia’s pie for dessert, or another cup of strong, diner coffee. He would have pretended that a ravenous appetite required yet another burger. Something,
any
thing to keep Cammi with him a little while longer. But once he’d called for the taxis, there was no stopping time, and Reid had to satisfy himself with hanging around as they waited for their drivers. For several minutes after hers drove off, he found himself staring as the taillights turned into glowing red pinpricks before disappearing into the rainy black night.

“Where’s your truck?” Billy asked half an hour later, nodding toward the taxi that had delivered Reid to the Rockin’ C Ranch.

He flung his jacket onto the hall tree. “Had a crack-up in town.”

His friend’s face crinkled with concern. “You okay?” he asked, one hand on Reid’s shoulder.

“Yeah.” Physically, he was fine. But something had happened to his head, to his heart, sitting with Cammi at Georgia’s. She looked awfully familiar, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where, or if, they’d ever met. Something he’d have to think about long and hard before he saw her again.

“Whose fault was it?”

Reid heard the caution in Billy’s question; his friend didn’t want to wake any sleeping ghosts, and Reid appreciated that. “Hers.”

Nodding, Billy headed down the hall toward the kitchen. “Put on a pot of decaf couple minutes ago. Martina made apple pie for dessert tonight. Join me?”

Though he’d wolfed down his burger and fries before downing two cups of coffee at Georgia’s Diner, Reid said, “Hard to say no to anything Martina whips up.”

While Billy sliced pie, Reid filled a mug for each of them. “Li’l gal ran a red light,” he explained, grabbing two forks from the silverware drawer, “and I broadsided her.”

Wincing, Billy whistled. He didn’t say more. Didn’t have to. He’d been there
that
night, too.

“Really, son, you okay?”

Reid nodded. “Yeah.” Okay as the likes of him deserved to be, anyway.

“Just remember, this one wasn’t your fault, either.”

Billy had talked “fault” after meeting then fourteen-year-old Reid at the E.R. “I talked to the cops,” he’d said on the drive back to the Rockin’ C, “and they told me three eyewitnesses stated for the record that Rose London ran the red light.” Then he’d
reached across the front seat and grabbed Reid’s sleeve. “Quit fiddlin’ with the bandage, son, or you’ll wear a scar on your forehead the rest of your days.”

Reid half smiled at the memory, because ironically, the scar he wore now, in almost exactly the same spot, had been inflicted by a raging Brahma bull, not a car accident.

“Stop lookin’ so glum,” Billy was saying. “Just remember, the accident wasn’t your fault.”

He’d said pretty much the same thing all those years ago:
“You’re not to blame for what happened to the London woman.”

True enough—Mrs. Lamont London had run a red light, same as Cammi Carlisle, and he’d plowed into the side of
her
car, too. However, assigning fault did nothing to ease Reid’s guilt. Not then, not now. And Billy had bigger problems to worry about than traffic accidents, present or past, since his doctor’s prognosis.

“Georgia says ‘hey,”’ Reid said, changing the subject. “Said she misses seeing you and Martina.”

The fork hung loose in Billy’s big hand. Absent-mindedly, he shoved an apple slice around on his plate. “Gettin’ harder and harder to drag my weary bones into town,” he said on a heavy sigh. “Gettin’ hard to drag ’em anywhere.”

Reid knew Billy had never been one to wallow in self-pity, so it didn’t surprise him when his longtime friend sat up straighter, as if regretting the admission, and cleared his throat.

“That list I gave you this morning was longer’n my forearm,” Billy said. “When did you have time to stop at Georgia’s?”

So much for changing the subject, Reid thought. “Accident happened in front of her diner.” Cammi’s pretty, smiling face flashed in Reid’s mind. “We, uh, the other driver and I got all the particulars out of the way over burgers and fries.”

Billy chuckled. “Ain’t that just like you, to buy the kid a meal after she cracks up your only means of transportation.”

Kid? He nearly laughed out loud, because Cammi Carlisle was more woman than any he’d seen since returning to Amarillo. More woman, in fact, than the dozens who routinely followed him around the rodeo circuit. Right now, she was the one sunny spot in his otherwise gloomy life. He was about to admit
she’d
insisted on paying for the food when Billy spoke.

“Amanda called.” Using his chin as a pointer, he added, “I wrote her number over there, on the pad beside the phone.”

Reid groaned inwardly at being forced to recall his last day with the tall willowy blonde who, despite his arm’s-length interest in her, seemed determined to change his mind about “the two of them.”

He thought of the afternoon, more than six months ago, when the surgeon gave Reid permission to leave the Albuquerque hospital. Amanda had been there…
again.
He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, so he blamed his sour mood on the months of physical therapy that lay ahead of him. “Isn’t fair to string you along while I recuperate,” he’d said. “I need time, to make some hard choices about the future.”

He realized now that his evasiveness had given her hope that, at the end of his “alone time,” she’d be part of that future.

Reid strode across the room, saw from the area code that Amanda had been near Amarillo when she’d called. Shaking his head, he groaned again, this time aloud. First thing in the morning, he’d call her, invite her to breakfast, and set things straight.

“Well,” Billy interrupted, getting to his feet with obvious difficulty. “Guess I’ll drag my ol’ bones up to bed.” He started clearing the table.

“I’ll take care of these.”

Chuckling, Billy winked. “I was hopin’ you’d say that.” He limped toward the door, stopping in the hallway. “Don’t be up all night, now, frettin’ about that accident, y’hear? I know it roused some ugly memories, but thinkin’ it to death won’t change anything.”

True enough. Still… “I’ll turn in soon.”

The look on Billy’s face said he knew a fib when he heard one. “Don’t forget, the new ranch hands start at first light.”

Reid only nodded.

“G’night, son.”

Billy had been the closest thing to a father Reid would ever know. Watching him suffer, watching him die, as he was now doing, was about the hardest thing Reid had ever done in his life. A tight knot of regret formed in Reid’s throat, all but choking off his gruff “’Night.”

He listened as Billy shuffled slowly up the steps. If he could trade his own robust health to get Billy’s back, he’d do it in a heartbeat, because what did
he
have to live for, to look forward to? Sadly, life wasn’t like that. Reid would have to be satisfied with doing
everything humanly possible to make Billy as comfortable as possible during the time he had left.

Standing woodenly, Reid gathered up the dishes and added them to the already full dishwasher. The fact that Martina hadn’t turned it on told him that she’d known her husband and “adopted” son would share a late-night snack. The thought made him smile a bit, despite the dark thoughts pricking at his memory.

The drone of the dishwasher’s motor harmonized with the ticking clock and the pinging of water in the baseboard heaters. It wasn’t really furnace weather just yet, but because of Billy’s steadily declining condition, Martina had set the thermostat at seventy degrees and left it there. The mere thought made Reid wince. When his hot-tempered stepfather was diagnosed with cancer, it hadn’t hurt like this—hearing the news about Billy’s condition had been painful and terrifying. It didn’t take a membership in Mensa to figure out why; almost from the moment Reid set foot on Rockin’ C soil, Billy had scolded him for not doing his all-out best on chores, helped with homework, convinced Reid he
was
good enough to ask the prettiest girl on the cheerleading squad to the homecoming dance.

One palm resting on either side of the sink, Reid stared out the kitchen window, watching raindrops snake down the glass as wind buffeted Martina’s butterfly bushes. She often stood here, overlooking the wildlife that visited her gardens. She’d probably been standing on this spot when she’d called him a couple months back to tell him about Billy’s prognosis.

After they hung up, Reid threw everything he
owned into his duffle bag and drove straight through, arriving in Amarillo the very next day. He’d moved into the same room he’d occupied when his mom was the Rockin’ C housekeeper and his stepdad the foreman.

Hanging his head, Reid wondered if he would’ve been so quick to come back and help out if his injuries hadn’t already ended his rodeo career.

Just one more thing to feel guilty about.

Well, he was here now. Determined to do everything in his power to help Billy and Martina, in any way he could, for as long as they needed him.

The grandfather clock in the hall struck one, reminding him that Billy was right: The rooster crowed mighty early at the Rockin’ C. If Reid knew what was good for him, he’d try to catch some shut-eye, starting now. He flicked off the kitchen’s overhead light and quietly climbed the wide, wooden stairs, skipping the third and the tenth so the predictable
squeak
wouldn’t wake Billy or Martina.

Two hours later, he lay on his back, fingers linked beneath his head, still staring at the darkened ceiling. The rain had stopped, but the wind blew harder than ever, rattling the panes in his French doors.

He wondered if Cammi had made it home safely, if her homecoming had been warm and welcoming. She hadn’t seemed at all that enthused about being back in Amarillo. Brokenhearted because she hadn’t “made it” in Hollywood? Reid didn’t think so. Cammi seemed too down-to-earth, too levelheaded for pie-in-the-sky dreams of stardom. No, her reluctance, he believed, was more likely due to a falling-
out with some wanna-be actor in L.A. Or maybe she’d come home for the same reason he had…to help an ailing sibling or parent.

It got Reid to thinking about his own father, who’d taken off for parts unknown the moment his mom said “We’re going to have a baby.” And his mother? Well, for all her good intentions, she had a talent for choosing no-account men. The promise of a leak-proof roof and a steady supply of whiskey was enough for her. In exchange, she promised forty hours’ worth of work each week…from her young son.

She had already put four ex-husbands behind her when she said “I do” to Boots Randolph. Grudgingly, Reid had to admit that Boots had taught him plenty about ranching. And while he’d been the best provider, he also had a hair-trigger temper, and Reid still bore the scars to prove it.

Had Cammi run off to California to escape a father like Boots?

The very thought made Reid clench his jaw so hard that his teeth ached, because it wouldn’t take much of a blow to break someone that fragile.

No, not fragile. Cammi’s demeanor—right down to that model-runway walk of hers—made it clear she was anything but delicate. He liked her “tell it like it is” way of talking, admired how she looked him dead in the eye and admitted the accident had been her fault—no excuses, no explanations.

She was agile, as evidenced by the way she’d balanced that tray of diner food on one tiny palm. Quick-witted, too, so he couldn’t imagine what had distracted her enough to run that red light.

Picturing their vehicles again, gnarled and bent, made Reid cringe. It could have been worse. So much worse, as he knew all too well. Miraculously, they’d both walked away from the wreck without so much as a hangnail. “Thank God,” he whispered, though even as he said it, he knew God had nothing to do with their good fortune. If the so-called Almighty had any control over things like that, Rose London wouldn’t be dead, her husband wouldn’t be a widower and her four daughters wouldn’t have grown up without a mama.

He forced his mind away from that night. Far easier to picture Cammi, smiling, laughing, gesturing with dainty hands. Once she’d locked onto him with those mesmerizing eyes of hers, he’d been a goner. She’d looked so familiar that he’d thought at first he’d met her somewhere before. But Reid quickly dismissed the idea, because he’d never seen bigger, browner eyes. If he met a girl who looked like that, it wasn’t likely he’d forget!

Reid sensed Cammi was nothing like the women who’d dogged his heels from rodeo town to rodeo town. How he could be so sure of that after spending forty-five minutes in her presence, Reid didn’t know. Still, it was a good thing, in and of itself, because it had been a long time since he’d felt anything but guilt.

Guilt at being born out of wedlock. Guilt that taking care of him had made life a constant struggle for his mother. Guilt that though he’d turned himself inside-out to please his parade of stepdads, he’d never measured up. Guilt that, while rodeoing was by its nature a business for the wreckless, his devil-may-
care attitude had cost him his career. And the biggest, naggin’est guilt of all…that one rainy night a decade and a half ago, he’d been behind the wheel of the pickup that killed a young wife and mother.

He tossed the covers aside, threw his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned forward, elbows balanced on knees. Head down, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, Reid stared through the French doors, deep into the quiet night. Self-pity, he believed, was one of the ugliest of human emotions. He had no business feeling sorry for himself; he’d been given a lot more than some he could name. He had his health back, for starters, a good home and a steady job, thanks to Martina and Billy. If not for this confounded disease of Billy’s, he’d have the pair of them, too, for decades to come.

He’d taught himself to dwell on the positives at times like this, to get a handle on his feelings—remorse, shame, regret, whatever—because to do otherwise was like a slow, painful death. Billy and Martina needed him, and he owed it to them to get a grip.

A well-worn Bible sat on the top shelf of the bookcase across the room. Martina had put it there, years ago, when he’d come back to Amarillo for his mother’s funeral. “Whether you realize it or not,” she’d said, “Boots did you a favor, beating you until you’d memorized it, cover to cover.”