Love Somebody Like You (6 page)

Sally checked her schedule. The chicken coop could use cleaning. Did she have time now? Yes, the next riders wouldn't be here for an hour and a half. The four women, all moms who worked part-time, came for a ride at least a couple of times a week. They had nice lives, balancing work, recreation, and family.

Or at least so it seemed from the outside, from their easy smiles and the bits of conversation she heard. But Sally well knew that no one could judge the happiness of a marriage from the outer facade. Like an overly made-up face, you had no idea what lay beneath.

That reminder, that return of common sense, had her leaning on the open stall door and telling Ben, “Much as I appreciate the help, your top priority should be seeing a physiotherapist. You have one you see in Alberta, don't you?”

“Sure do. How about Caribou Crossing? Is it big enough to have a physio or two?”

Absentmindedly, she said, “One of my students goes to Monique Labelle, who's doing a great job with the girl.” If Ben drove home, taking it slow, he could make an appointment for a couple of days from now. “Once you see the physio, you'll heal more quickly.” And healing, getting back to the rodeo, was what mattered to him, after all.

He used the back of his right hand to shove his shaggy hair from his brow. She saw the calluses on his palm. Rodeo calluses. She used to have them, too. Now hers came from pitchforks and shovels.

“You're right,” he said. “I need to make an appointment.”

“Okay.” He'd agreed so easily.... “I mean, that's good.” Of course it was good. Having him here might lighten her workload, but it wreaked havoc with her peace of mind.

 

 

Ben went looking for Sally, who had disappeared after their chat. Despite what she seemed to think, he did know how to look after himself. Rodeo was his livelihood, supplemented in the off season by working for a horse trainer. Rodeo had also been his passion since he was a little kid. He and Chaunce would be back on the circuit the moment his shoulder was healed enough for roping, though bronc riding might have to wait a while longer.

In the meantime, he and Chaunce needed to keep in shape. He was glad Sally had finally accepted his help, but her next booking was a ways off, so he figured she'd have time to handle the preparation herself. This seemed like a good opportunity to take Chaunce out.

As Ben went around the barn, he heard Sally's voice coming from inside the chicken coop. Outside in the run, a few chickens pecked, scratched, and clucked. He eased the gate open and slipped inside, careful not to let any of them escape, then stood in the doorway of the neat little coop.

Sally had her back to him as, rubber-gloved, she cleaned roosts and nest boxes and chatted to another four or five chickens who seemed to be answering. He didn't alert her to his presence, just enjoyed watching her, all cheerful and relaxed the same as with the kids she taught. Treating these hens like children, too.

She had a nice-looking flock, not that he was an expert on chickens. Half of hers were a blond color and the others had charcoal and white alternating bands.

Sally turned and saw him. Her hand flew to her chest. “I didn't know you were there.”

“You name your hens?”

A flush colored her cheeks, making her look young and flustered. “They lay better when they have names,” she said defensively.

He suppressed a grin. It was probably true. Maybe not about the names, but that well cared for hens were contented and good producers. “They're pretty. What kinds are they?”

“The black-and-white stripy ones are Barred Rocks and the apricot ones are Buff Orpingtons.”

“Buff what?”

“Orpington for the town in England where they originated. Buff for the color.”

“Learn something every day. Their eggs sure looked good.”

Sally folded her arms across her chest. “Are you heading off now?”

“Unless you need me to groom those horses in the barn, I thought I'd take Chaunce for a ride. He could use some exercise.”

“Oh. Um, sure, that makes sense.”

Her surprised expression made him think twice. “I can do it later. Want me to help with the next horses?”

“No. No, I was planning to do it. Go ahead.”

Before taking that ride, Ben went to his trailer, yanking off his grubby work boots before entering. He opened his phone and got on the Internet to look up the physiotherapist Sally had mentioned. Monique Labelle's bio said that, among other things, she did rehab for sports injuries. He called her office, explained his situation, and the sympathetic receptionist said she'd squeeze him in this afternoon.

Whistling, he put on riding boots and went to get his horse. A quarter of an hour later, Chaunce strode eagerly down the road with Ben riding bareback.

“I'm seeing a physio,” he told his horse. “Maybe she'll clear me to get back to roping practice, and Sally'll let us use her spare ring.”

Chaunce bobbed his head like he couldn't wait.

“Sorry, pal, but for now you'll have to settle for a trail ride.” It was easy on Ben's body and he did enjoy exploring the countryside. On an inside wall of Sally's barn, she had a map showing a network of farm roads and riding trails. Yesterday, a rider he crossed paths with had told him that a number of the trails were on private property, but the owners allowed public access through portions of their spreads.

Setting Chaunce into a comfortable lope, Ben took a dirt farm road for ten minutes or so. He stopped at a gate in a fence, bent down to unlatch it, and guided his horse through. Latching it again, he noted the sign reminding passers-through to do exactly that. No farmer or rancher wanted livestock going astray. The new trail led through a grove of aspens, slim and lovely with their white bark and gently rustling leaves. At a walk, Chaunce negotiated the twists and turns until they came out at the shore of a small lake. A beaver dam cut off part of the stream that fed into the lake. There was no beach, and probably no swimming due to submerged logs the beavers had cut.

Ben swung off Chaunce's back, dropped the reins knowing his well-trained horse would neither step on them nor stray, and walked closer to the bank. His boots sank into the boggy ground as he admired white water lilies floating among heart-shaped green pads. Dragonflies stirred the air with shimmery wings and ducks bobbed their heads beneath the surface of the water, hunting for food. It would be a nice spot for a picnic.

Did Sally ever take time off and go riding for pure pleasure? Did she picnic by a lake, maybe nap under the shade of an aspen? Or how about getting together with friends for a meal, or going to a bar to listen to some music, shoot a game of pool, dance the two-step the way she used to on the rodeo circuit?

She'd said she didn't have time to go to town. Now that he was here to assist her, she ought to be able to enjoy some R&R. Preferably with him. He wanted time with the Sally who smiled at little kids, who whipped her buckskin mare around the barrels, who named her chickens and carried on conversations with them.

Why did that Sally go into hiding so often? Was it fear, because of something some jerk had done? Or might some of it be grief over Pete's death? He'd seen how beaten-down his grandma was after she was widowed. But she'd adjusted over a period of a couple of years and rediscovered her joy in life. She'd even started dating.

Sally'd been crazy in love with Pete, but she had been widowed for three years. Maybe she wasn't ready for sex with another guy—though Ben could always hope—but that was no reason she shouldn't lighten up and have some fun. With someone other than her chickens. With a guy she could trust, who would never do anything to hurt her.

“That's me,” he told Chaunce as he bent to gather the reins. “Now how can I make her believe it?” He mounted, using a stump as a mounting block and hating the awkwardness of his banged-up shoulder. Yeah, he could mount bareback from the ground, one-armed, but it would jar his shoulder. Much as it pissed him off, he had to be sensible.

“Sensible,” he said. “A sensible rodeo rider. Isn't that what they call an oxymoron?”

Chaunce snorted and tossed his head.

It was nearing noon, so Ben headed back to Ryland Riding. It wasn't a surprise to see Sally in the ring with a student. He remembered the schedule saying: “Amanda: lesson.” The girl looked to be about twelve. He raised a hand in greeting to Sally, who stood in the middle of the ring as her student trotted a little bay mare in a circle. The mom sat in the bleachers, body slanted forward, all her attention on her daughter.

Halting Chaunce, Ben watched for a few minutes and realized that Amanda had a prosthetic leg. He read signs of pain and frustration in her squinched-up brow and tight mouth. Her body language made him think she'd lost the leg fairly recently and was still figuring out how to deal with her new reality. He'd seen rodeo competitors go through the same process after a major injury. Most cowboyed up, handling it with the same guts they'd shown when competing, but a few let catastrophe defeat them. This kid was a gutsy one, it was clear to see.

Giving the girl some privacy, he dismounted and led Chaunce away.

Working at half his normal speed, he took off his horse's bridle and groomed him, then let him out in the paddock. When Ben returned to the barnyard, Sally was saying good-bye to her student and the mom. Rather than help her with the horse, a task she could do faster than he, he decided to make lunch for both of them.

In the tiny kitchen of his trailer, he clumsily chopped onions and mushrooms and got them sautéeing, then he grated cheddar and jack cheeses. He whipped up those pretty eggs of hers, along with a splash of milk and some seasonings, and pretty soon he had an omelet cooking.

A glance out the window showed him that Sally stood outside the barn door, staring toward his trailer, looking puzzled. Probably wondering where her helper had gone.

Chapter Five

Sally stared at Ben's trailer. He'd put Chauncey's Pride in the paddock, rather than loading him into the trailer. Shouldn't he get on the road? If he interspersed driving with rest stops for himself and his horse, he could cover a fair number of miles today.

She walked toward the trailer, intending to inquire about his plans and say a final good-bye. And if the thought of saying farewell gave her a pang of sorrow, that was only because it had been fun catching up with an old rodeo friend, not to mention having a helping hand.
Hand
, singular. But Ben was right that he, even single-handed, was pretty darned impressive. Remembering his flirtatious comment yesterday, she imagined that callused palm caressing her shoulder as surely, as softly, as he stroked his horse.

But big, strong hands weren't always gentle. Men who seemed sweet, even romantic and loving, could turn mean with the slightest provocation.

Ben appeared in the open door of the trailer and, as if in answer to her unspoken question, said, “Lunchtime.”

All right, he planned to eat before leaving. She needed to grab a snack, too. Her grocery delivery had come and her fridge was stocked up, so she'd have cheese and fresh fruit to add to carrots from the garden and her usual couple of hard-boiled eggs.

Ben gestured her to come closer, saying, “I need to—” The rest of his words were lost as he turned and disappeared inside.

Grumbling under her breath, she walked to the trailer door. She didn't have time for this. She needed to eat before her first afternoon booking, which was one she always enjoyed. Wenda Strom homeschooled her adolescent boy and girl and brought them out almost every week of the year for a guided trail ride. That basically meant that Sally got to go for a scenic ride with a woman who loved nature and a couple of kids who were excited about being on horseback. The clients also handled the grooming and tack themselves.

“Ben?” she said from outside the open door. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Hang on a sec.”

She rolled her eyes and shifted from foot to foot. He was in the tiny kitchen, his back to her. The delicious aroma of onions and cheese cooking made her stomach growl. His lunch smelled better than what she had in mind for hers.

Curiously, she glanced around his living space. The trailer was an older model, and about half again as big as the one she used to tow. The compact interior wasn't fancy and it had seen lots of use, but it was neat. The front overhang had a bed, and the couch would flip out to make another one. A scratched dinette provided cramped seating, and there was a flat-screen TV. A tablet was propped up on the dinette table, with resistance exercise tubing beside it.

“I could pull out my folding chairs and set them up,” he said over his shoulder, “but your deck has a much nicer view.”

“What are you—” She broke off as he turned and came toward her, holding out a plate filled with a steaming serving of melted cheese-covered omelet, a fork laid beside it. Her mouth stayed open as he handed the plate down to her and turned away. “You cooked lunch for me?”

He came back carrying a second plate, and walked down the steps. “Least I could do, when you supplied the eggs. Hold this for a sec?” He handed her that plate as well, pulled on his work boots, then took the plate back. Confidently, he headed across the yard toward her house.

“Well . . . thank you.” She trailed behind him. Even the rare times she'd been sick—or so beaten up she couldn't drag herself out of bed—the most Pete had done was heat a tin of soup. He didn't think cooking was a man's job, and he didn't believe in malingering in bed. Now, for no reason at all, Ben had cooked her lunch.

They walked up to the deck. Ben put his plate on the table and sank into the same chair he'd used last night. No place mats, no napkins. Pete had said there was no excuse for not laying a proper table. Sally had gathered that his ideas of male and female roles had come from his parents, who'd died when he was in his late teens. Once, frustrated but trying to joke, she'd told Pete that he wanted the two of them to live in a fifties TV rerun. Once . . .

“What's wrong? Did I mess up? Don't you like onions?” Ben's voice. Not Pete's.

Sally realized she was staring down at the plate in her hand. Ben's words sank in. He was worried that she might not like the meal he'd prepared for her? “I do. Sorry, I just, uh, thought of something I'd forgotten to do. Lunch looks great and I really appreciate your making it.” She put her plate on the table. “What would you like to drink? Water or milk? Or, uh, beer?”

“A glass of milk would be great. Thanks.”

She went inside to pour milk for him and water for herself. Out of habit, she started to gather up place mats and napkins. And then, deliberately, she put them back in the drawer.

When she returned, she noted that Ben had waited for her rather than started eating. Quickly, she sat down and picked up her fork. After the first mouthful, she said, “Delicious. Thank you.”

He swallowed a bite. “Ever get sick of eggs?”

“Not really. There are lots of things you can do with them.” Though mostly all she had time for was boiling, frying, or scrambling. The meal he'd prepared was a treat.

“D'you eat chicken?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.” Automatically, she lowered her voice. “I used to. I used to love fried chicken. I suppose it seems foolish to you, raising hens and not eating chicken.”

“More like softhearted.” He grinned over a heaping forkful of omelet. “Have to confess, I can't imagine life without fried chicken.”

“Sshh,” she teased. “Don't say that so loud. My ladies might hear.”

He laughed, and she smiled in response. Ben had a way about him. Somehow he got her to loosen up the way she hadn't done since she got married. Probably because he was an old acquaintance, and there was no personal baggage between the two of them—like there was with the family and friends she'd left behind years ago.

Penny had told Ben that the family missed Sally, and that maybe enough time had gone by. Her sister had made a first move, asking Ben to look Sally up. Did Sally dare make the next one, and get in touch? It had been so long....

“What's the story on Amanda?” Ben asked, his tone sympathetic and curious.

“You noticed her leg?” When he nodded, she went on. “Amanda used to be in one of my after-school classes. Then she was in a car accident and they had to amputate her leg below the knee. She's learning how to use a prosthesis. Her parents kept her out of school, homeschooling her so she could attend all her rehab and therapy appointments and start adjusting, physically and mentally. She wanted to keep riding, so I did a bunch of online research and worked with her physiotherapist—that woman Monique Labelle who I mentioned earlier—to figure out the best way to help her.”

“Poor kid.” He shook his head. “That sure sucks. I could see she's frustrated and in pain, but she seems like one gutsy girl.”

“She is. She won't settle for anything less than living life the way she did before. In September she'll go back to school, and she wants to re-join her riding class.” She gazed across at him. “She wants to learn barrel racing.”

He grinned. “Good for her. I like this kid.”

“Me, too. If I'd had—” She broke off. When she was with this man, things came out of her mouth that she never intended to say.

“If you'd had what? Kids?” Ben asked quietly.

She and Pete hadn't discussed the subject of children until after they were married. She'd just assumed he wanted them as badly as she did. Instead, he said the two of them were a unit; they didn't need anyone else intruding. How could he see their own child as an intrusion? “Yes,” she told Ben. “But I didn't. So that's that.” She hadn't intended to open that conversational door and now she was shutting it firmly.

“I was surprised you didn't have kids. I always figured you would.”

Closed door. Hadn't he got the memo, or was he deliberately ignoring it? Even her closest—okay, her only—friends Dave and Cassidy respected her boundaries and didn't pry into her personal life.

There were so many things she would never tell anyone. But right now she felt a strong need to share one small secret with an old friend, a man who would soon be gone from her life again. “I figured I would, too,” she said quietly. “But it just didn't happen.”

“That's too bad.” Ben had finished his omelet and gazed sympathetically at her.

Pete never wanted her to see a doctor, so they'd relied on condoms. She'd wanted children so badly and hoped he'd eventually change his mind. When their birth control failed and she became pregnant, she was ecstatic. Knowing that Pete was likely to be less enthusiastic, she'd kept her pregnancy a secret for as long as she could. Morning sickness gave her away. When she'd admitted the truth, he'd gone into a rage. He'd slapped her, punched her, kicked her. Kicked her repeatedly—in the belly. When she miscarried, alone in the bathroom sobbing her heart out, he wouldn't take her to the hospital.

Sally swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Yeah. It is too bad.”

Pete had followed his normal pattern afterward: flowers, tears, a plea for forgiveness, and an apology couched in “you shouldn't have made me do it” terms. As always, he'd told her he needed her and she needed him, and they didn't need anyone else.

Her body had healed, but her soul never did. She'd realized how crazy it was to think of bringing an innocent child into Pete's world.

Why had she stayed with him? What was wrong with her?

“You're only what, thirty-two?” Ben said. “There's plenty of time to have kids.”

She shook her head. “Not going to happen.”

“Sally, you're young and healthy. I'm sorry about Pete, but you can't mourn forever.”

Or at all. What she could do, and would likely do for the rest of her life, was mistrust men. Or, perhaps more accurately, mistrust her ability to choose a man who would be a good husband and a good father.

Take right now, for example. The expression in Ben's dark-fringed chestnut eyes seemed so honest, so sympathetic. Affectionate, almost. A woman could get drawn in, could believe that this man really did care for her. And maybe he even did. But in what way? The way that Dave felt for Cassidy, where he loved her to pieces and also respected her strength and independence? Or the way Pete had loved Sally, where she and their marriage became an obsession? Where he saw something in her, some flaw that told him he could take a champion barrel racer, deconstruct her, and turn her into his idea of—

“Shit,” Ben said. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” He reached over to rest his hand on the back of hers.

She flinched, then tried to conceal the movement by quickly rising and freeing her hand to pick up her empty plate. “I'm not upset.”

But her heart raced erratically. And not, she realized, just because strong hands could be dangerous but because, for a moment, that warm male flesh, the roughness of his calluses, had felt good. Because that long-forgotten sensual, feminine side of her wanted more.

She grabbed up his plate. “I'll wash these and leave them on the doorstep of your rig. Then I have to bring in some horses.”

He stood and rotated his neck inside the confining collar of the sling. “I'd help, but I need to get going.”

Finally. She should have been relieved, but instead felt a twinge of disappointment. Though he'd thrown her off balance, she would actually miss him. “Sure. Of course.” Dishes in hand, she took a step away from the table. She was all set to wish him a safe trip, and good luck healing and making the Finals, when he spoke.

“Need anything in town? Groceries? I have a physio appointment in half an hour and—”

The plates almost slipped from her hands. “You what? You made an appointment with a physiotherapist in Caribou Crossing?”

“Monique Labelle.”

“But what's the point, when you're going back to Alberta?”

“What?” He gave a puzzled frown. “I'm staying here.”

“You can't do that.”

“I don't have time to discuss it. They squeezed me in and I don't want to be late.” He turned on booted heel and strode away, leaving her scowling after him.

As she washed the dishes, she wondered why he was doing this. Was he trying to manipulate her? If so, what did he want from her? Or was it possible that Ben Traynor was the rare type of man like Dave Cousins who was simply kindhearted? Even if that were true, she couldn't accept any more of his help.