Dream a Little Dream (10 page)

“You bet we do. And we will do whatever we need to do to help make it happen.”

That was what Molly was worried about. But at this point she needed so much to make up to Bob, she didn't really care what was going on in her friends' heads.

Yes, it was to assuage her guilt, she admitted.

And yes, she felt terrible about that. But it was the right thing to do.

She nodded her head to finalize the deal with herself and then she stood up straight again. She could do this. She might have gotten Bob into this mess, but there was no way she was going to leave him to suffer alone.

“How mad do you think he's going to get?”

Norma laughed and clapped her on the back. “Men, they get mad, but they straighten up pretty fast. Besides, I haven't met one yet that doesn't need a little prodding from the female population. He's going to come around. Especially if you take real good care of that puppy.”

Looking from Norma Sue to Lacy, Molly knew she'd walked straight into a setup. But what was she to do? Well, this was one setup she was going to be in control of from the beginning. The matchmaking ladies of Mule Hollow could just rewind their ideas about her and Bob Jacobs being another happily-ever-after. Even if they couldn't see it, Molly had eyes, and if there were ever two people who were night and day to each other it was them.

And besides, she was so in hopes that she was about to get the call she'd been waiting on all of her life. She was glad she'd decided to take the plunge and send those résumés out while she was a hot commodity. A girl had to ride the wave while the tide was rolling, and the way she was feeling about things right now, the sooner something opened up for her the better. Well, at least, she meant as soon as was possible after she made up to Bob the wrong that she'd done to him. Just remembering the look in his eyes before he'd passed out was enough to make her do whatever it took to make him…to make him what? Like her? Respect her again? What was she wanting from him? Forgiveness? Or was it more?

She shook off the questions. This had nothing to do
with what she wanted from him. It had to do simply with helping him through a tough time.

That she'd instigated.

 

Clint hit a bump in the road and Bob felt every muscle in his body protest.

“Sorry, buddy,” Clint said, glancing over at him.

“I'll live,” Bob said, bracing his ribs with his arm. He was glad to be out of the hospital. It was strange, only a week ago he'd been saving Molly from Sylvester. It seemed like forever. “So y'all got Sylvester fixed up?”

“We loaded him up and put him way out in the back section of my ranch where the big monster can cool off. Like you said, he's so agitated right now we don't need to take any more chances of him getting at anyone else. He won't be seeing anyone way out there.”

“Thanks. It's a wonder he didn't kill someone. He developed a real burr in his bonnet when it came to the sound of that motorcycle. I should have moved him after I noticed how irritated he acted whenever that woman stopped down at the gate.”

“Bob, the bull was on your property. She had no right to cross that cattle guard.”

Clint spoke the truth. Still, that didn't stop the guilt he felt at knowing two people had almost been harmed because of his bull. Sylvester had always been high-strung. But he'd never acted this wild before. Then again Bob had never seen so much madness in all of his life.

“You were pretty hard on Molly yesterday,” Clint said, his voice more inquiring than censuring.

Bob would have raked his hand through his hair in
frustration if he'd been able to lift his arm, but his shoulder was banged up pretty bad and it was impossible. At least for today. He knew from experience that it would take a few days for his body to get over the beating it had taken. It might take a little longer to get over what was going on inside his head when it came to thinking about Molly.

Reporters, they spun their stories without a second thought about whom they were hurting in the process. “She got what she deserved.” He hated the way saying that made him feel. Yeah, he was angry. Angrier than he'd been since the day his dad had walked away and left him at the boarding school, without a backward glance. “Look, Clint. This was insane. I know I'm supposed to forgive Molly for the trouble she's caused me. But right now, I'm just not up to it. I'm dry.”

He needed some time alone. He wanted to get home, close the door and listen to the silence of his home. He was mad, frustrated and guilt ridden—which he was a little confused about. Why should he be guilty?

Immediately his thoughts went to Molly's expression when he'd told her in no uncertain terms to get out of the emergency room. He'd hurt her.

And just why should that bother him?

She'd almost gotten him killed.

“Brace yourself,” Clint warned as he turned into Bob's driveway and started over the cattle guard.

Bob gritted his teeth, which was about the only part of his body he could move well enough to brace. The sharp, ruthless pain that jackknifed through his ribs
stole his breath, forcing him to fight off a groan. His body wasn't what it used to be, that was for certain.

“Glad I don't have any more of those to go over.” Clint gave him an apologetic grin after they crossed the second cattle guard, separating Bob's yard from the pasture.

Bob was able to grit out, “Yeah,” feeling every bounce of the truck as it eased up the driveway toward his house.

He was more than ready to exit the truck and enter the solitude and peace of his home.

Molly's newly repainted yellow VW Bug sitting behind his truck at the back of his house wasn't the call to relaxation he was hoping for.

B
e calm, Molly.
It was easier said than done, Molly thought, stepping out onto Bob's back porch. She watched Clint's black truck pull to a halt behind her Bug and wondered what had possessed her to even think she should do this!

She closed her eyes and lifted her hand from her rolling stomach to pet the puppy she cradled in her other arm. If the good Lord had any pity on her at all, He'd call her home to glory right then and there and spare her the trauma of what was about to happen.

You can do this, Molly.
She sucked in a calming breath, and almost choked on the air because there was no moisture in her throat. And even if there had been, as she stepped forward and glimpsed the shell-shocked expression on Bob's face when he spotted her, there was no way a measly little breath of air was going to stop the pounding of her heart or the sweat that started dripping from her armpits.

If she'd ever thought she was one of those dainty little women who didn't sweat, well, she wasn't. She was a dripping mess. Inside and out.

This wasn't about her, though. That thought was the only thing that made her step forward. She knew from the get-go that Bob wasn't going to welcome her with open arms—even if the poor guy could open his arms. No matter how uncomfortable she might be, or how rude he might get, she wasn't throwing in the towel, because she deserved every bit of his hostility.

After all, the angry man staring at her was one she had created. This man was not the Bob she'd watched month after month and had come to admire.

No, that wasn't right, either. Nice guys could get angry. She hadn't put him up on a pedestal. No, she'd hit a nerve in Bob that she'd not realized was there. Something she had to fix. And no matter what it took, she was going to fix it.

Lifting her chin and holding the now-squirming puppy with both hands, she walked forward and opened the truck door.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

She'd read an article on writing once that said people didn't growl. She begged to differ. This was growling, and it was so out of place on Bob that it cut right to her heart.

The harsh words had her stepping back despite having prepared herself for his anger. “I'm here to take care of you. And your puppy.” And she could. She really could. She would find a way to put the sparkle back into Bob's beautiful eyes.

“I can take care of myself.” He continued, “Believe me. I don't need your kind of help.”

His navy eyes raked her up and down, as if he hoped to freeze her with their icy coldness. For a moment Molly couldn't speak. What had she done? This wasn't the sweet Bob she'd known. This cowboy was as hard as they came. The only softness she glimpsed was when his eyes rested on the puppy that was obviously glad to see him by the way he was squirming to get out of her arms and get to his master. Blinking away the need to cry, Molly held on to the puppy, and reached inside herself to drag up some frost of her own.

She was staying.

She owed it to him whether he wanted it or not. If tough love was what he needed, tough love was what he would get. “I got you into this mess and I'm going to get you out of it. And there isn't anything you can do to stop me, so forget about it.”

“Clint, tell this woman I don't need a nursemaid.”

Clint shook his head, his eyes light with humor. “Well, Bob, as a matter of fact, the doctor said you did. At least for a week minimum. ‘Seven days' were his exact words, when the stitches come out. He said that living out here in the boondocks all by yourself could pose a problem. That he at least wants someone with you during the day.”

“I don't care what the doc said. She's not looking after me. Or John Boy.”

Molly slammed her free fist to her hip and glared at him. “I am. Someone needs to change the dressings on all those lacerations and someone needs to feed you and John Boy.”

Clint strode around to Bob's side and helped him maneuver out of the truck. Molly was horrified at how slowly he had to move. The way he sagged slightly against Clint's side was a good indicator of the extent of his pain. She had pulled up articles on the Internet about bullfighters and injuries. One of them said getting run over by a bull was like being run over by a car going twenty miles an hour. Watching the excruciatingly slow movements as Bob held on to Clint as they negotiated the steps brought back the sting of tears.

Focus, Molly. Focus. Remember why you're here. You are here to earn his forgiveness. You are here to make amends. You are not here to cry all over his manly feelings. Men do not like sympathy!

Walking up the steps behind them, she wiped her eyes with her fingertips, tightened her gut muscles and dared herself to cry again. She could do this. With God's help, she could do anything.

“I fixed some potato soup,” she said brightly, placing John Boy in the pen beside the steps. “Esther Mae gave me the recipe and said it's really good for sick people. So I gave it a whirl.” She tried to make her voice light but didn't do a passable job. John Boy whined and yapped his displeasure at being left outside. Molly wanted to go back out and join him but held fast to her determination.

“I'm not sick and I don't need you cooking for me. Go home, Molly.”

Again she pushed away the need to run.
I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
Yes she could.

“Stop your growling, cowboy. You need me.”

“Clint, don't—and I mean
do not
—let this woman stay. Escort her out as you leave.”

Clint chuckled as he carefully helped Bob sit down on the large sofa, undoubtedly not the easiest transition for someone with cracked ribs. The poor guy was sweating bullets, even grunting despite his attempt to pretend he had everything under control. And he didn't think he needed her. Ha!

“Sorry, buddy,” Clint said, cutting off his chuckles. “I'm stayin' out of this one. Lacy gave me strict orders.”

Molly noticed he made sure he was out of swinging range when he made that statement. Not that Bob could have swung anything. He opted instead to ram the couch with his elbow. A movement he immediately regretted, if the expression on his face was any meter to read.

Clint backed up. “It'll be okay, Bob. Call me if you need me.” Then he spun on his boot heel and headed for the door.

“Clint! Don't you leave.”

If eyes could throw daggers, Clint's back would have been covered in them as he made for the door, chuckling all the way.

Molly covered her mouth with her hand to cover her quivering lips. She'd learned from her time in Mule Hollow that cowboys would be boys, despite any discomfort they might be feeling or inflicting.

The door closed and suddenly she was alone with Bob. And she got the distinct feeling that even Sylvester wouldn't want to tango with him at this moment.

That being the case, she chose the safety of the kitchen. Figuring food might be the way to a calmer
man, she poured him a glass of tea and dished him up a bowl of soup. She could see the back of his head from the kitchen stove and was not surprised that he didn't move an inch. He sat as rigid and unyielding as a statue. Her nerves poked a head out of hiding and she prayed for the right things to do. To say.

Then she picked up the tray. “Okay, Molly, here we go. Doc gave you a week to make things right,” she whispered out loud. Tightening her gut again and hardening her resolve, she blew out a breath to stabilize her nerves.

It didn't work.

 

“What are you doing, Molly?” Through slit eyes, Bob watched Molly set a tray on the table in front of him. He tried to ignore the dark circles under her eyes and the vulnerable wavering that flickered through them.

“Look, Bob.” She let go of the tray, then placed her hands on her lean hips. “Admit it, you know you need help. You can't even get off the couch by yourself. And remember someone needs to look after John Boy.”

She was right about that, but he kept his mouth shut. The woman had done enough to mess things up for him. All he had to do was sniff the air to know what was in his dining room.

He studied her—the graceful line of her jaw, the tension that was starkly out of place there as she reached for the necklace around her neck. He'd come to know the action meant she was nervous or unsure.

There was at least some satisfaction that he was making her nervous.

“I brought you some soup and some tea. I know you're hurting. You're going to need to take a pain pill. And the doctor sent some antibiotics too. Those cuts on your shoulder are deep.”

“How do you know what I'm supposed to be taking?”

“Well, I spoke to a nurse about it. I am taking care of you.”

He shook his head and stared at the floor. The toe of her shoe was in his peripheral vision and he watched as she ground it on the rug before plopping to her knees in front of him. Placing her hands on her thighs, she looked up at him.

“Come on, Bob. I know I messed up. I know I goofed your life up.” She swallowed hard and blinked back tears.
Tears.
“I know you hate me, but I'm not running out on you. Yes, I understand everyone would come over here and take care of you if I left. But they're giving me a chance to prove that I'm sorry. And even if you don't want me here, you have to admit that I'm the one who should be. S-since this is my fault.”

He hated tears. And he hated feeling like a jerk. And he knew he was acting like one despite all the reasons he could use as an excuse to get away with it.

He looked away from her, fighting the sudden need to pull her close and tell her everything was okay. Not that he could do that. He only had half a good arm at the moment and its range of motion wasn't that great since it was bandaged to the hilt and stitched even further.

There was no denying that she was right about him not being able to get off the couch. And there was John Boy to think about.

Still, tears or no tears, he didn't need to be entertaining any thoughts about comforting Molly. Looking at her bright eyes, he suddenly felt like a doomed man.

“All right, you can stay. But don't baby me,” he said gruffly. Her smile told him she'd completely ignored the gruff part.

“No babying. Honest.”

His stomach growled and he had to give in and nod toward the soup. “So how does it taste?” Anything had to be better than what little he'd eaten at the hospital.

“I'll let you tell me,” she chirped a little too brightly. Grabbing the bowl, she held it out to him.

Bob ignored the initial pain that shot from his elbow up to his shoulder as he reached for the bowl. He grimaced despite himself. The stiffness and the pain were going to make lifting a spoon and holding a bowl difficult. In the hospital a nurse had tried to feed him and he'd refused to eat that way, so consequently he was starving now. He reached for the bowl again only to have Molly snatch it back. The look in her eyes sent dread rushing through him.

“How could I have been so thoughtless? You can't maneuver a spoon, not with your shoulder like it is.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I'll figure something out. Give me the bowl.” He wiggled his fingers for the bowl, not certain what he would do once she gave it to him. She shook her head. “Come on, Molly, give me the bowl.” He didn't like the look in her eyes as she glanced from him to the bowl.

He didn't like it one bit.

 

Molly eyed Bob. What in the world had she been thinking?

News flash—she hadn't been! As a matter of fact, the soup had been Esther Mae and Norma Sue's idea, now that Molly was thinking about it. Why of all the sneaky shenanigans! They didn't miss a beat. They were excellent at what they did. Molly had to give it to them, those dedicated women of the Mule Hollow Matchmaking Brigade. They just picked a pair of poor suckers and went after them, even knowing there was no way in the world this would work. Of course, she realized her being here probably took a lot of the heat off of them going after Sam and Adela.

Holding in a sigh of stupidity, she moved to perch on the arm of the couch. Bob looked at her doubtfully as she dipped the spoon into the soup. “I know you're in pain. But the movement of lifting this spoon up and down is just going to aggravate the injuries. And that's even if you could figure out a way to do it.”

He didn't say anything, only looked from the spoon to her face. She made slow circles in the air with the spoon, hoping to show that it was not the evil his expression implied. In the end his hunger won the battle and he opened his mouth.

“When the swelling goes down some and the stitches come out it'll be easier to move. The doctor said you were lucky not to have two broken collarbones and broken arms to go along with the ribs. That's one reason you're so sore in the upper area of your shoulders. He said—”

“I know what he said, Molly. I was there, remember.”

She felt the heat of a blush as it rose from her toes and hit her hairline. The room was suddenly uncomfortably quiet as she concentrated on loading up the spoon and willed her hand not to shake. She swallowed the uncertainty that threatened to take away her determination. What had made her think this would work? If he didn't want her here—

“This isn't half bad.”

Molly lifted her eyes and met his. Clearly he was offering her an olive branch. She smiled. It wasn't compliance, but it was something. It was a glimpse of the easygoing, charming guy. The one she could be at ease with. Well, at least she could pretend better with the mild-mannered guy versus the intense guy.

She smiled and willed the flutters in her chest to go away. “We'll see what you say later. There's bacon grease in it and cheese galore. I can't exactly figure out why Norma Sue said it was healthy when it's full of all kinds of no-no's.”

His stomach growled as if it was on steroids and he lifted his chin toward the hovering spoon. “I'll take my chances.”