Loving A Cowboy (10 page)

“Enjoy your nap?” she asked as she set one of the tables by his bed. She would not look at his flat, naked stomach. She would ignore his six-pack and the muscles bulging in his arms.

His sleepy gaze landed on her chest and then slowly traveled down the front of her tank top and jean skirt, passed her bare legs to her flashy flip flops. “Your cat was squatting on me when I woke up. Guess he didn’t hear you when you told him this room was off limits.”

She shrugged, as much to shake off the feelings bubbling up inside as to show indifference, as she clicked the support in place and righted the table. “I told you he was an independent sort. It didn’t look like you minded.”

“You spied on us?”

“Yeah, and it didn’t look like either of you wanted to be disturbed.”

He lifted his gaze to her face. “Guess I can put up with things. For a while.”

Was he talking about the cat or her? Libby set the other table by the foot of the bed.

“You eating in here with me?”

“I thought you might like the company.”

“Maybe.” He leaned against the headboard and folded his arms over his chest.

“I’ll open your curtains so I can keep an eye on the grill,” she said, walking over to the French doors.

“Got it working without me, did you?”

She pushed back one side of the curtains.

“Holy hell!” he yelled.

Stunned, Libby watched thick yellow-and-gray plumes of fire shoot upward from the middle of the grill.

In a heartbeat, Chance was up, jumping on one foot. He flung open a French door and hobbled out. Pain etched deep lines in his face.

“Chance, what are you doing?” She sprinted out behind him.

The flames reached up to the open grill lid.

“Trying to save my house from a dang-blame blaze,” he barked.

“Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself. I’ll get some water.”

Ignoring her plea, he hobbled forward. Swiping an oven mitt she’d discarded on the nearby patio table, he covered his hand and, cursing the whole time, limped to the side of the grill and reached for the lid. With a slam, the lid banged closed. Smoke escaped along the edges. He turned the grill knobs. Smoke continued to swirl about but had already lightened from black to gray.

Chance took an awkward step and opened the grill cabinet doors.

“What are you doing?” she asked, feeling helpless.

“Turning off the propane.”

When he straightened, he stood, his hands on his hips, his head bent low, breathing small little breaths like a sprinter who had just finished a punishing race.

She ran to him. “You shouldn’t be on that foot.”

“Pain,” he choked out as he flung the oven mitt to the ground.

She placed her shoulder under his arm and instantly felt the pressure of his body as it sagged against her. His hair was hanging down over his eyes, covering his face so she couldn’t tell how much pain, but she knew it had to be a lot.

He didn’t make a sound until he came inside and sank onto the bed and against the pillows propped on the headboard. Then a deep, rib-rattling moan came out that made her heart ache. She’d done this to him. Good intentions aside, she’d done this.

“Pillows. Under my foot,” he croaked out as his eyes rolled back in his head.

She hurried to set the pillows in place. Then, as gently as she could, she lifted his foot. His face was rigid, his lips thin.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled, feeling to her very depths the inadequacy of her apology. “Are you all right?”

His mouth was strained into a flat line. “I will be. You didn’t get near the fire, though? You didn’t get burned, right?”

“Other than my pride going up in flames, so to speak, no problems here.”

His breathing was slow, shallow.

“Can I get you something for the pain, Chance? That Perco…something?”

He shook his head, his eyes jammed shut as if he couldn’t stand to look at her. “I’m liable to get real sloppy on those.”

“What can I do?” she asked, feeling helpless.

“Just need rest,” he ground out. “Check the steaks.”

“There’s probably not much left of them. They certainly aren’t going to be rare like you like ’em.”

He grimaced. “Don’t make me laugh, Libby. I already feel like a prizefighter’s punching bag.” A sheen of moisture covered his body, and his skin was pale. If she hadn’t been here, he’d have had a nice, quiet, painless dinner of cereal.

“Be careful when you open that lid,” he warned through gritted teeth. “Everything’s going to be plenty hot. Wear two oven mitts.”

She promised to be careful and went to check on dinner—or what was left of it.

Detouring by way of the kitchen to grab more oven mitts, she doubled up on them, as she promised, before opening the grill lid.

Smoke poured out, but it was thin and wispy smoke, not the billowing kind. Two blackened steaks sat on the grate, looking prune-like, having shrunk to about that size. It was going to take a lot of steak sauce to make them edible.

* * *

Chance looked at the withered slab of meat that had been set before him and wondered if she’d be insulted if he asked for corn flakes. Probably.

Besides, looking at those big blue eyes of hers, brimming as they were with hope, he couldn’t do it to her. At least there was a baked potato slathered in butter, a decent salad on his tray, and a few slices of bread. He wouldn’t starve. Not that he had much of an appetite with the pain pulsing in his ribs and throbbing in his foot. Good thing, because that meat was a whole other matter.

He reached for the bottle of steak sauce and tipped it so the brown liquid flowed over the beef, smothering it.

“I am sorry,” she said from her perch at the foot of his bed. “I guess I put the flame too high.”

“What did you put on the steak, lighter fluid?” He took a tentative bite…and chewed.

“Just some onion salt and olive oil.”

“Oil on steak with the flame up is a recipe for flare-ups.” He chewed some more. His ribs felt like they’d just been tenderized by a mallet, and his foot felt like it had been pummeled by a hammer. Hell.

“I’ll remember for next time.”

Next time. His house might not survive a next time. He kept chewing. The vinegar-enhanced sauce valiantly fought the dry charred taste. Too early to tell which would win.

Her cell phone rang, sending the first few notes of “Beat This Summer” through the air.

Chance leaned back to take a rest from wrestling with the steak and hoped the pulsing pain would diminish.

“Yes. I’ll be there. Monday at 10:00 a.m. Yes ma’am. I will,” Libby said haltingly into the phone. “Thank you. Good-bye.” With a tap, she closed the phone.

“Western Stock Show?” he asked. The pulses were calming down, thank God.

“Yes. It would be a dream job.”

“You know you’re talking about a rodeo, Libby.” Who would have thought Libby Brennan’s dream job was a rodeo gig.

She looked down at the bedcover and pulled at some imaginary thread. “I never hated rodeo. I hated the thought of you…getting hurt.” She raised her head and stared right at him with those blue eyes, moist now, and suddenly it was a different kind of pain he was feeling.

“I know a few people there. I can help you prep for it,” he offered, keeping the focus on the subject at hand.

“That would be great,” she said and took a sip of wine.

Maybe he should get shit faced so he wouldn’t feel any kind of pain.

“Do you want some wine? Can you have some?”

“I can have anything I want, Libby.”
Except you
. “I have a broken foot and banged-up ribs. They don’t put you on special diets for that. But, no thanks. I think I’m going to have to take some of those painkillers after all, so no wine tonight. Though we have any more situations like this last one, and I may just have to take up drinking.” He’d hoped to avoid the pills, but the pain was just too much.

She smiled. When she smiled like that, her eyes sparkled like sunlight was pouring out of them. “You’ve always drank.”

“I’ve always been careful with it.” He had to be. “So not tonight.”

Not when I have a beautiful woman named Libby in my house and on my bed. Inches from me. Not when I can’t stop thinking about the body hiding under those clothes. Not when you smile at me like that and I’m in so much goddamn pain, I can’t even enjoy the fantasy.

But maybe that was a good thing, the only good thing of all the pain. It was keeping his nether regions soft and his head hard.

“I’ll do better tomorrow, Chance,” she promised.

“You don’t have to take care of me, Libby, especially if you’re doing it just to ease your conscience or something.”

“I’m here because I care.”

“It’s a little late for caring, don’t you think?”

She sucked in a deep breath, and her eyes held sadness.

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Maybe he should give it a rest, not that he was the type of man to give a rest to someone who had hurt him as much as she had. But looking at her, all vulnerable, feeling bad, he figured he should try harder to put a lid on the feelings bombarding him. She was here. And while he wasn’t sure how he
should
feel about it, he couldn’t deny he was glad.

As if cued, there was a commotion at the French doors. The curtains fluttered and in walked Chance’s young neighbor, carrying a Corning Ware dish. The cavalry had arrived.

“Billy, you’re just in time,” Chance said, not venturing to look at Libby. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but dinner had been far from satisfying.

“Hi, Chance.” Billy’s voice was still somewhere in the upper range of adolescence.

“Everything okay with the horses?”

“Yes, sir.”

Billy stopped walking when his gaze lit on Libby, and his face flushed pink.

“I…I didn’t know you had company. Saw the car but thought it might be Lonnie or something,” Billy stammered out.

“Billy McShane, this is Libby Brennan, a friend from high school. She’s come to help me out.”

“Hi, Libby.” Billy was in that awkward phase when parts of the body were in different stages of development. His limbs seemed too long, his hands too large, and his feet too small. With his blond hair cropped short, he looked ready to enroll in the military, if he was of age.

“Hi, Billy. Pleased to meet you.” Libby sent the boy a smile that only intensified that pink color on his young face.

“Where should I put this?” Billy asked, referring to the dish in his hands. “Mom sent this over. She said it’s pot roast, and we’re having it for dinner too, and it’s a good thing, because I’ve been smelling it all the way over here.”

“You didn’t carry that riding one of the horses, did you?” Chance asked. It had been a blessing that the McShanes were such good neighbors, there when you needed them. He liked Billy, who had that buckle-down work ethic common in ranch kids.

“The ATV,” he said. “It rode in a basket. Mom said to put it in your microwave for a few minutes in case it cooled off some.” Billy looked at the charred pieces of meat on their plates. “Course, she didn’t know you had someone to cook for you. What’s that on the plate?”

“That was some steak before I burned it on the grill,” Libby admitted.

Billy frowned, but he obviously had good enough manners not to comment further.

“I’ll put it right in the microwave. Now I know why Chance has one sitting right on his dresser,” Libby said, rising to take the dish from the boy’s hands. “Should I fetch another plate for you, Billy, so you can join us?”

“No, ma’am. I’m to head right home to have dinner with the family,” he said as if reciting what his mom had told him. “I’ve still got chores to finish.”

“How’s the riding coming?” Chance asked as Libby slid the dish into the microwave and set it to heat for a few minutes.

“Coming okay. Still having trouble with the mark out, though.”

“Takes time and practice, but once you get it, you won’t lose it. Kind of like riding a bike.”

“Are you taking up saddle bronc riding, Billy?” There was concern in Libby’s voice.

“Yes, ma’am. Chance has been helping me. Well, he was helping me, before…before the foot.”

“I can still help you. Soon as my ribs quit aching so I can get around better on those crutches, I’ll be down at Forrester’s to see you.”

“Forrester’s?” Libby asked.

“Local ranch. They let you ride some of their broncs for practice.”

“Is that really a good idea, now?”

Chance wasn’t going to answer that question.

“I best be going,” Billy said with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “Mom said I just have fifteen minutes. She wasn’t too pleased from last time.”

“Last time?” Libby questioned.

“Billy came over with dinner, and, well, we started watching rodeo tapes, and before we knew it, the phone was ringing and it was Billy’s mom. It had been over an hour since he left, and she was getting concerned. My fault,” Chance said. “Tell your Mom thank you, Billy. She’s been great, and I’ll be over myself as soon as I am able to thank her in person. Good news is that with Libby here now, she can take me off her list of concerns.”

“Can I still stop by, though? I mean, when I don’t have chores.”

“Of course you can. You know you are always welcome. We can go through some more tapes.”

Billy’s smile beamed. “Thanks, Chance. Nice meeting you, Libby.”

“Would you like to take a piece of fresh-baked apple pie with you? I’ve some in the kitchen.”

Chance wondered if he heard correctly. “You baked an apple pie?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin up and stared him down like he’d underestimated her. Maybe he had, but he still had an urge to warn Billy. He quashed it.

Billy looked from the burnt steak to Libby. Clearly too well-mannered to refuse, Billy nodded yes.

“Great. Come with me to the kitchen, and I’ll get you some.”

“Be sure to thank your mom for me,” Chance said as Libby escorted Billy out of the bedroom.

He breathed in the meaty smell of the pot roast. Libby had made him an apple pie. The thought stirred up a strange longing. He wasn’t sure what it was or why it was there. He just wanted it to go away.

“Well, at least you’ll have a proper meal, thanks to Mrs. McShane,” Libby said as she entered the room. The microwave beeped.