Loving A Cowboy (11 page)

“The McShanes are good people. And Billy is a good kid. Works hard, is disciplined. He seems to have a real knack for saddle bronc riding.”

Libby opened the microwave door and tested the dish for heat before picking it up and bringing it to her tray table.

“Don’t you think he’s too young to be taking up such a dangerous sport? What is he, twelve?”

“Thirteen, I think. Saddle bronc riding technique is the hardest to learn of all the stock events. And the stock they use for his age group is among the tamest. I make sure he rides with a vest and helmet while he’s learning. Rodeo is part of life out here. The fun part.”

Libby bit her lip as she dished out the pot roast with the accompanying potatoes and carrots onto his plate. The aroma almost made him forget the stabbing hurt he was in.

“Aren’t you going to have any?” Chance asked.

“I feel obligated not to let the steak go to waste.”

“Don’t be foolish.” He took a piece of meat off of his plate and held it up. “Don’t make me move to give it to you.”

Quickly, she placed her plate so he could give her a slice.

Chance started eating, hoping the pain would give way under the onslaught of some tasty beef. Instead, it got sharper, angrier. With his last gulp of the flavorful pot roast, he finally gave in.

“Libby, I think I need one of those pills in the nightstand drawer.”

Libby rose and opened the drawer of the nightstand. She managed to find the pill bottle among the loose change and myriad papers stuffed inside and tapped a tablet into her palm and handed it to him. He downed it with the remainder of his milk. He’d have to teach her to make coffee.

When he looked up, she was leaning over him, looking into his eyes as if she was searching for something. Unfortunately, her chest was now stuck in his line of vision, and he couldn’t help but stare at the two firm, tanned mounds of bountiful flesh that hovered around the opening of her camisole. Damn.

“I’ll do my best to help you get better, Chance.”

“Honey, you keep leaning in like that, showing me your cleavage, you’ll have me feeling a whole lot better.”

She straightened up and threw her shoulders back, which only served to push the girls out more. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She scooped up the dishes. “I’ll get you a piece of pie,” she said over her shoulder and walked out. Only it was more of a hip-swinging show of sex in motion. His nether regions stirred, reminding him that pain could only do so much to keep things under control.

Slowly the pill was taking over, taking the edge off the ache in his foot and ribs. No wonder people got addicted to this stuff. Now if it would just take the edge off his lust.

Chapter 9

Libby woke to the sun streaming in her room. She rolled over once, burying her face in the pillow, and waited for sleep to claim her again.

Time?

She bolted upright, her head swimming as she glanced at the clock. The digital readout said 9:10.

How had this happened? She’d been so tired after cleaning up Chance’s room, much to his annoyance, and scrubbing the blackened grates of the grill, and answering her brother’s copious text messages about how angry her father was, she’d sunk into bed without even checking on Chance.

Not that she hadn’t wanted to check on him. But having spent most of the day with him as he lounged in bed half naked, she’d had a hard time keeping her thoughts about him PG rated. At one point last night, she’d all but frozen and stared at him while she struggled against an overwhelming need to kiss him and run her fingers through his hair. It didn’t take much to convince her she was better off forgoing the pleasure of tucking him in.

Attacking a man who was laid up and therefore defenseless, a man you’d once been married to and had sex with, and one who’d told you in no uncertain terms that you weren’t welcome in his life much less his bed, was a recipe for deep, deep humiliating rejection. Especially after you’d charbroiled his steaks—emphasis on the char.

Things would be a lot less complicated if she had been having those thoughts about Ben instead of the injured saddle bronc rider in the room next to hers.

Ben had been her only serious relationship since Chance. In college she’d hung around in groups and had steered clear of hooking up, convinced she couldn’t handle anything more than friendship. When she’d met Ben, it had taken a full six months of dating before they had done anything, his quiet persistence winning her over.

And now…now her emotions were all screwed up.

This would be her first full day tending to Chance, and she’d already missed making him breakfast. Or maybe he was just sitting there starving. What kind of friend was she?

She threw back the covers and jumped to her feet, flinching from the cold wood beneath them. She’d have to beg for forgiveness and a second chance. Humiliation, it seemed, would be on the menu today, regardless.

Padding to his room, her feet slapping on the hallway floor, she stopped abruptly at the sight revealed through the wide-open bedroom door. Chance laid on his back on a fabric-covered board on the bed, just an ivory cotton sheet covering his hips and legs, while a buff man in a T-shirt and striped running shorts loomed over him, holding an elastic band that had been wrapped around Chance’s good foot. It looked like a picture out of one of those male muscle magazines that everyone said were really meant for gay guys.

The black-haired stranger lifted his head, his dark eyes curious. “Come on in.”

“Well, the sleepyhead’s up,” Chance chuckled, turning his face toward her.

God, he looked good in the morning.

“So this is the woman taking care of you. Seems you neglected to mention a few details.” The stranger winked as if she should get his reference.

“That’s an interesting outfit, Libby,” Chance said with raised eyebrows. One side of his mouth lifted in a smirk.

She glanced down and heat suffused her cheeks as she realized she was standing in nothing but red bikini underpants and a white T-shirt emblazoned with the words Bite Me.

“Don’t change on my account. I like the view,” the stranger said. His eyes positively twinkled with mischief.

Okay, clearly not gay.

“That’s a private view,” Chance retorted. This time his voice was a little gruffer. “Tom Whitefeather, this is Libby. My former wife.”

Whitefeather’s eyes went wider than an inflated hot air balloon, and the man’s mouth dropped open.

“I guess that’s as good a description as any,” she said. There was no
simple
way to explain their past relationship. “It’s complicated, Tom.”

“I bet.” Tom snapped his mouth closed.

Time to leave, not the least reason being she was hardly dressed for a chat.

“Have you two eaten yet?”

“Over an hour ago.”

“I am sorry.” How many times in twenty-four hours would she screw up trying to do a good deed?

“Cereal was perfectly done,” Chance added.

“Yes, well, it seems despite my best efforts, stocking cereal was a good idea.” She pivoted on her heel to go. Humiliation was definitely the special today.

“Libby.”

“Yes,” she said, trying not to sound defensive as she strode toward the door.

“I’m just funning.”

“Yes, well…”

“Before you go…” It was Tom Whitefeather’s voice.

Libby turned back around, her hands anchoring her hips as she wondered what else she was in for.

“Since you’re here and I’m on my way out, there are some things I’d like to show you if you’re going to help Chance.”

Chance had turned his attention to Tom, obviously curious too.

“Can I change first?” And she could really use some caffeine if she was to be functional.

“This will just take a second. I’ve written down most everything, and I’m heading out in a few minutes.” Tom had pasted on a goodwill smile.

Well, she’d caused enough problems with her late rising, she wasn’t about to inconvenience the man further.

“Sure,” she said and headed back.

Tom flashed a sheaf of papers. “His exercise routine is here. See these elastic straps.” He pointed to a pile of red and yellow strips of plastic-like fabric puddled on the floor. “You can wrap one around his leg and hold for tension. With the boot the doctor gave him, he should be able to walk with a cane in a few days. But if it starts to throb, he needs to rest it. I’d say exercise for no more than twenty minutes before he puts it up again. He’s got to go slow with the hand weights. Just arms, no ab work.”

“And it’s all written down?” Libby asked as she glanced at the typed paper with neat handwritten notes on the margins.

Tom nodded. “Including the maximum number of reps. But Chance here is the type to overdo, thinking it will make rehab go faster. It won’t. You’ll need to police him, make sure he doesn’t try too much.” Tom swung his gaze to Chance’s upturned face. “You’ll heal faster if you allow your body the opportunity to knit those bones.”

“Whatever will get me on a horse the quickest.”

“And if you can, a massage can help get the blood flowing and promote healing. Just avoid his ribs and the bruised area around his ankle.” Tom’s expression remained all business, but Libby felt the heat rise at the suggestion of a massage. If she had lustful thoughts looking at Chance, what would happen if she massaged him? And lustful thoughts were all they could be. She had to remember that. There was no happily-ever-after possibility with Chance. Her mind knew that, even if her heart and other regions of her body were in denial.

“I really need to change,” she said and headed for the hallway after what had to be a noticeable pause in the conversation. “If I don’t see you before you go, it was nice meeting you, Tom.” She closed the door behind her.

* * *

“So you going to tell me what’s with you two, or leave me hanging?”

“Leave you hanging,” Chance growled.

Tom Whitefeather was not only a good trainer, he had become a good friend. A licensed physical therapist, he had devoted himself to working with rodeo riders since so many of his friends were in that line of work. Chance had met him through Lonnie, who had used Tom in the off-season to improve his balance when he was on a crazy bull. Chance had started using him two years ago to improve his staying power on a horse. It was Tom who had suggested meditation to help with Chance’s focus. Now he was hoping the guy could perform a miracle and heal his foot sooner rather than later.

“I can always ask her, because this sounds like it’s going to be some story.”

Chance rolled his eyes as he slowly propped up on his elbows and waited for the rib pain. None came. Well, at least something wasn’t aching.

“We were married for two days when we were younger. Her father found out. Next thing I know, she’s leaving with him, and I get a divorce decree in the mail. End of story.”

“And is this the beginning of another?”

“Hell no.” It couldn’t be. He couldn’t let it be. “She’s getting engaged to someone else.” Something he needed to remember.

“Why is she here then?”

“Beats me.”

“Guilt?”

Chance shrugged. He didn’t want her to be here because of guilt. Petty as it might seem, part of him wanted her to be here because she still had feelings for him. Even if he didn’t return those feelings—which he didn’t.

“You’re a personal trainer, not a shrink, Whitefeather.”

“Sometimes I’m a friend, too.” Tom crossed his arms over his chest.

Chance closed his eyes for a long second. “Then be a friend and lay off this subject. And her.”

“She’s one fine-looking woman, Chance. Nicely curved and angled, and you know I like blondes. But even given all that, she’s not my type.”

“Good thing.”

“She’s the marrying kind. And that makes alarms go off all over the place. Should for you, too.”

Chance snorted. Marrying maybe, but not committing. “Don’t worry—she taught me a lesson I’ve never forgotten and never will.”

“What’s the lesson?”

“Never count on a woman.” Chance lay silent for a moment, watching Tom pack up. “Actually, my mother taught me that one.”

* * *

Libby had fixed some BLT sandwiches for lunch. She’d actually made coffee, too, following instructions Chance had written down. Too bad he hadn’t had one of those single-serve coffeemakers. She’d thought about buying him one, but given she had no job as of yet, she’d tabled the idea until she was actually making some money.

Carrying the tray of sandwiches and coffee, she toed opened his bedroom door. A surprise visitor greeted her. Billy McShane was sitting next to Chance on the bed, Cowboy stretched between them, as they faced a TV screen where a bronc rider had just taken a tumble.

“If he had marked out, he would have been in rhythm with the horse, and he wouldn’t have lost his balance in the saddle,” Chance was explaining. “What else did he do wrong?”

Something about the way he talked to the boy, something about the idea of Chance handing down wisdom, something about having children and raising them together made her heart swell.

But Billy’s attention had turned to Libby. “I like your cat, Libby.”

“Well, he seems to have taken to you too, Billy,” she noted. “Cowboy usually isn’t so relaxed around strangers.”

“We have a lot of barn cats, but Mom won’t let them in the house with us. Only our dog, Sadie, gets that privilege.”

“I imagine there is a lot to keep those cats busy enough in the barn. Cowboy used to live outside, but he seems happy to be a house cat now.” Libby set the tray on the table. “I’ve brought some sandwiches for Chance, and there’s enough for you too, if you’d like.” Libby would just make another one for herself.

“Thank you, ma’am. I never turn down food.”

She guessed that was true of most thirteen-year-old boys.

“Me neither.” Chance’s grin was so wide she almost felt welcomed. “Much obliged, only I expect Billy here might need more than one sandwich.”

Billy’s face reddened, but he didn’t disagree.

“No trouble at all.” And it wasn’t. She’d made these because they were simple. “Would you like me to get you some milk, Billy?”