Читать книгу Accidental Hero - Loralee Lillibridge - Страница 10

Abby’s pulse raced much too fast as she sped down the farm-to-market road with Shorty in the passenger side of her car. Her entire nervous system had been scrambled ever since Bo showed up at the café. Had it really been only a little over an hour since she’d seen him? Felt his presence? Nearly let her heart be bruised again? She took deep breaths and tried to concentrate on driving, even though the way to the Packer ranch was so familiar she didn’t need to watch the road. Some things you never forgot. Even when you tried.

Her damp palms were slick on the steering wheel and she swiped them across the front of her cotton shirt, one at a time. She had to swallow hard to keep the uneasy churning in the pit of her stomach from bringing her lunch back for reruns. The stifling afternoon heat kept her on the edge of nervous nausea. One of these days, she’d have enough money saved to repair the car’s broken air conditioner. Even with the windows lowered, the interior of the six-year-old Taurus was frying-pan hot. Right now, she had other things to think about.

When they’d left the Blue Moon twenty minutes earlier, Abby had made up her mind to stop when they reached the ranch, let Shorty out of the car and head right on home. She didn’t need to get out. Didn’t need to see Bo or anyone else that might be around. No need at all. Oh, right. Like that was going to keep her mind from slipping back to times and places best left undisturbed.

But undisturbed memories are like treasures stored away in dusty attics—often uncovered by accident and brought out to linger over. To cherish once again. So Abby blew the dust off her memories and drifted back to the time when Bo was the center of her universe—her reason for being.

Glorious. That’s what the time with him had been. He’d made her feel cherished. Special in a way she’d never felt before. She’d been swept off her feet and had fallen hopelessly in love. She’d believed he felt the same. Then he’d left without saying goodbye, and her world suddenly had become a black hole.

When she finally emerged from the darkness of heartbreak, anger took its place with an intensity that had almost destroyed her. Desperate to forget, but with a stubborn Texas pride too strong to let her give up, she’d focused on survival, facing the sympathetic looks of the community with her head held high. She’d believed her heartache had faded. Until now.

Her foot mashed harder on the gas pedal and the ribbon of highway blurred beneath tires she should’ve replaced last month.

“You tryin’ to get a speeding ticket or what?” Shorty snapped, his bushy eyebrows knit together in a gray scowl.

Abby checked the numbers on the speedometer and jerked her foot from its rigid position. “Sorry, guess I wasn’t watching.”

The old rancher stuck his toothpick back in his shirt pocket and drummed his fingers on his knee. He crossed and uncrossed his stubby legs, squirming around in the seat like a toddler with a bladder problem.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, guess you’ve got reason enough to have a wandering mind, seein’ Bo again and all.”

“Ramsey’s return is no concern of mine.” Abby shot him a sideways glance just in time to catch the flicker of distress in the older man’s eyes. “Shorty, is something wrong?”

“Uh, no.” He hesitated, then exhaled loudly. “That is…I reckon this might not be the right time to bring it up, Abby, but I was thinkin’…uh, just wonderin’ if you could use some extra help at that riding school of yours? You know, something a cowboy with a bum leg could do.”

Abby hit the brakes. The car lurched, swerved and with a cough, chugged to a halt on the side of the road.

Shorty peeled the safety belt away from his throat and pushed back in the seat, his eyes wide.

“Gawdamighty, woman! Didja’ forget how to drive?”

Ignoring his colorful roar, Abby slammed the heel of her hand on the steering wheel, counted to ten under her breath, then whipped around in the seat to stare at him in disbelief.

“Did I hear you right? You want me to let Bo Ramsey work with my students? With my horses? Not in this lifetime, Shorty.” She shook her head so vigorously, the scrunchy holding her thick ponytail flipped off and landed on Shorty’s knee. She didn’t even bother to retrieve it.

When he blanched visibly, Abby was pretty sure he got the message. A fleeting stab of remorse snagged her conscience. Verbal attacks were not her usual style, but Shorty’s ludicrous suggestion was anything but usual.

For heaven’s sake, she didn’t need any more problems to deal with, especially one as provoking and personal as Bo Ramsey. So why was she even considering Shorty’s request? She wasn’t, was she? No, of course not.

“I ain’t said nothin’ to him about your riding program yet, Abby.” Shorty gingerly retrieved the ponytail holder with two fingers and deposited it on the dashboard. “He’s powerful depressed, though, and I just thought…maybe…”

He scratched his chin, ducked his head in that sheepish way of his that made Abby grind her teeth.

She leaned her head against the back of the seat. Why, oh why had Bo come back now, just when she was getting her life in order? Finally learning to live without him. She didn’t want to feel sympathy toward him. She didn’t want to feel anything at all. She owed him absolutely nothing. She would not feel guilty.

Shorty kept right on talking. “You know, Buck mentioned that you were sorta’ hard up for helpers since you got a few more kids this spring. Bo’d be mighty helpful with the horses, even if he can’t ride right now. Just seeing the spunk those youngsters have and how they deal with their handicaps might show Bo a thing or two. There’s lots of things…”

Abby bristled. “They’re not handicapped, they’re physically and emotionally challenged, but they work hard for every goal they reach. And for the record, we’re doing just fine, thanks. Some of the volunteers have already offered to work two classes. We can’t afford salaried helpers yet.”

She turned the key in the ignition, revved the behind-schedule-for-a-tune-up engine and eased the vehicle back onto the blacktop. Shorty was right. Her students had spunk to spare and she was so proud of them. There was no denying the inspiration they gave to anyone who observed them in the arena.

“The program isn’t all that large, anyway,” she added, trying to soften her sharp refusal. “There’s only a dozen students so far. I don’t need any extra help.”

Shorty leaned back in his seat and released such a mournful, Oscar-worthy sigh, Abby was tempted to applaud. She would have, if the situation had involved anyone but Bo Ramsey.

“Well, that may be,” he drawled, giving her a beseeching look, “but Bo’s sure needing your help now.”

He needs me? Oh, that is so unfair. Abby could barely see the road for the sudden tears blurring her eyes.

In all his thirty years, Bo Ramsey had never expected to return to Sweet River, especially like this, but with a body busted up from the wear-and-tear of riding rodeo bulls, and less than five dollars in the pocket of his jeans, he’d hit the bottom of the barrel with a loud thud. Shoot, he’d been down there so long, he had a personal relationship with every damned slat in it. And now, his pride had to take a backseat to being practical. Talk about bitter pills. The feeling of failure still stuck in his craw. He wondered if he’d ever be able to swallow around it.

He shifted his position in the vintage porch chair for the hundredth time, easing his left leg around to find a more comfortable angle. One that wouldn’t send those knifelike pains shooting clear to his eyeballs. He refused to give in and swallow any more of those damned pain pills. He reached for a longneck instead, knowing that wasn’t the answer either, but not really caring.

He’d been sitting there long enough to indulge in more beer and self-pity than was probably good for him, his only excuse being that the unexpected sight of Abby at the Blue Moon had blindsided him. Temporarily robbed him of his good sense. And, just like last time, he’d taken the coward’s way out.

Old memories he’d buried a long time ago crept out from their hiding place in the dark recesses of his heart. Persistent cusses, those memories, poking at him like cactus needles, paining him almost as much as the physical injuries to his body. Maybe more. He rubbed his hand over the scarred side of his face. Maybe not.

This wealth of land and cattle that made up Shorty’s ranch had been Bo’s home longer than any place he’d ever lived. Taking in the familiar view, Bo acknowledged that everything was pretty much the same as when he’d left. Everything but his own life. That was a mess of his own making.

His chest ached with deep regret for all he’d left behind. All he could never have. Bitterness crawled down inside his soul and lodged—a familiar, yet unwelcome tenant.

Bo shifted his leg again, his groan harmonizing off-key with a mournful groan coming from the far side of the porch. Shorty’s old yellow dog slowly made his way to Bo’s side and gave his hand a slobbery greeting.

With sad eyes nearly hidden in the folds of its loose-skinned face, and long ears drooping past bony shoulders, the mongrel looked like somebody’d smacked him with an ugly stick. Twice.

“Hey, Ditch.” Bo scratched the old dog behind the ears.

Ditch dog. That’s what Shorty’d called him, ever since he’d found the injured pup lying on the side of the road years ago. The pooch had to be as old as Shorty’s truck by now, because Bo had heard the rescue story at least a hundred times in the past.

Ditch dog. Bo felt like something of a ditch dog himself ever since Shorty’d fetched him back home from the hospital. Patched him up, too. Just like ol’ Ditch. Only difference was, the dog had become Shorty’s best friend. Bo wasn’t sure he could even lay claim to that anymore.

He tipped the longneck back, drank deep, then set the empty bottle aside. He left the porch to seek the solitude of his room. Hell, could life get any worse?

He’d gotten as far as the front room when he heard the car come up the gravel road. Bo knew in his gut who Shorty had persuaded to give him a lift home. Crossing the room, he stood by the window and moved the curtain aside just enough to sneak a look without revealing himself.

He watched as Shorty climbed out of the car. Ditch loped off the porch to greet his banty rooster-sized friend, wet nose nudging hopefully against the rancher’s hand for a pat on the head.

They make quite a pair, Bo mused, as a twinge of envy snuck past his good sense. The dog had gotten older, but the man hadn’t changed much. The Willie Nelson-style braid that dangled down his back was the same, except the gray hairs were beginning to outnumber the black ones. A few wrinkles creased Shorty’s leathery face, but the denim work shirt and faded jeans looked like the same ones he’d been wearing the day Bo had said goodbye.

On the backside of fifty, Shorty Packer had always cottoned to the belief that unless something was broken, you kept your hands off of it. Still, he’d give you his last biscuit and tell you he’d just eaten, if he thought you were hungrier than he was. He was generous to a fault if you were his friend, and meaner than a rattlesnake if you were his enemy. But he was fair. Bo respected him for that, and was shamed to the point of disgust, thinking maybe he’d lost the respect of this man who’d done so much for him.

Deep in thought, Bo didn’t notice the driver get out of the car until the door slammed shut. She stood by the car and looked toward the house. The instant thudding of his heart startled him. Damn. Sweat beaded his upper lip. He swiped at it, his fingers brushing across the raised seam of scars crisscrossing his face.

Cursing the clumsiness that prevented him from hurrying, he was almost within the safety of his bedroom when the front door opened and Shorty shouted.

“Bo, you in here?”

Where else would I be? He kept silent, listening. No other voice accompanied Shorty’s. Was that disappointment he felt? Hell, no. He was glad she hadn’t come inside.

“I’m here,” he answered.

When the other man’s footsteps echoed on the planked floor, Bo slowly, carefully, retraced his own. Guilt for taking off with the truck pricked at him unmercifully. Might as well apologize now and get it over with. He was halfway down the hall when he saw her.

Abby stood behind Shorty, taller only by a few inches, just enough to be visible. Shorty moved farther into the room, giving Bo an unobstructed view of her. His insides dipped on a wild roller-coaster ride.

There she was, standing in the doorway holding a big yellow bowl. She was totally unaware that the early afternoon brightness illuminated her with a halo of sunshine. Bo half expected a heavenly choir to break into song at any moment.

Instead, vivid memories flashed before him in living color. The softness of her sun-gilded skin pressed against his and the way it went all hot and damp when they made love; the curve of her rosy smile, the sweetness of her lips and the way her mouth melted beneath his when they kissed; the scent of honeysuckle that always clung to her and the way she glowed, all dewy and golden after he’d thoroughly loved her. Those memories were so intense, the pain of leaving her still crowded his chest. Restricted his breathing.

“Hello, Bo.” Her husky whisper trailed an erotic path across his skin as if she had physically touched him.

As soon as she spoke, the familiar tightening in his groin made his head swim. He ought to leave the room before he made a total ass of himself. He turned his head, ducking it slightly to avoid giving her a full view of his face. Damn, he’d gone and left his hat on the porch. He needed to get the hell out of here.

“Your hearin’ gone bad as well as your manners, boy?” Shorty scowled like an irritated parent. “Abby’s brought you some of IdaJoy’s mighty good chili. Least you could do is say thanks.”

Bo stared at the plastic-covered container clutched in Abby’s hands. She never gave him a chance to back away. Just marched up to him before he could turn his face. His heart flipped upside down when her unflinching gaze raked him up and down.

Dark blue eyes flashed undeniable disgust. Her summer-blond hair whipped around her face when she shook her head in apparent disapproval of what—or was it, who—she saw. He didn’t blame her for despising him.

“You smell like a brewery, Ramsey. Maybe this chili will burn off the excess alcohol. Enjoy.” With one swift move, she shoved the dish into his stomach so hard he had to grab it or end up wearing the contents.

She ran from the room and out to her car without another word. Bo heard the crunch of gravel as she drove away.

He turned to Shorty. “What the hell was that all about?”

Shorty gave him a look sour enough to curdle milk. “You ought to know, boy.”

Bo carried the dish to the table, wishing he’d never made that phone call asking Shorty for help. He hated being a damn charity case.

“You shouldn’t have brought her here,” he grumbled. He uncovered the yellow bowl and inhaled deeply. His mouth watered at the tantalizing aroma of fiery spices. He’d always been a sucker for IdaJoy’s chili.

“Brought her here?” Shorty’s voice rose and two shaggy eyebrows peaked over dead-serious eyes that bored straight through Bo. “The way I see it, she brought me here. You took my truck and left me stranded, remember? And that’s a whole ’nother matter. Who said you were fit to drive yet?”

“I got back here okay, didn’t I?”

“Maybe,” Shorty conceded, “but don’t try it again.”

“Hhmmph.” Bo hated being treated like a ten-year-old. He pulled out the chair to sit down. Before he could blink, Shorty was right there, spoon in one hand and a glass of water in the other. His explanation was typically Shorty—gruff and to the point.

“Get used to it, boy. From now on, water or milk’s the drink around here. The choice is yours.”

The older man’s no-nonsense tone drew a tight smile from Bo. It had been a helluva long time since he’d been handed an ultimatum like that. A long time since anyone even cared. Well, he’d deal with Shorty and his rules just as soon as he finished eating. Right now, all he wanted was the chili. He picked up the spoon and dug in.

A volcano erupted inside his mouth the instant the first bite hit his tongue, lava-hot and scalding a path clear through to his unsuspecting stomach.

Bo let loose with a bellow and a string of colorful cuss words, sending Ditch scurrying out of the room. His chair toppled backward and his water glass went flying in his haste to reach the kitchen sink. Angling his head under the faucet, mouth wide open and swallowing frantically, he almost cried with relief as the gush of cold water tumbled down his scorched throat.

When the fire in his gut finally subsided, Bo shook his wet head, spit, sputtered and glared at Shorty through watery eyes. He was helpless to form his question into words. His tongue—shoot, his whole damn mouth—was numb.

“Oh, yeah,” Shorty said, poker-faced, as he bent to retrieve Bo’s water glass from the floor. “I think Abby might’ve added a few extra chili peppers.”

Twilight pulled the sun below the horizon, leaving behind a rosy haze that promised another hot night. The air hung like a wet curtain, heavy and unmoving. Mosquitos, buzzing lazily alongside an occasional lightning bug, flitted past the two men sitting on the long, covered porch. The tension between them was as thick as the air.

Bo slumped back in his chair, a glass of milk, compliments of guess-who, in one hand. Some nightcap. At least, it wasn’t flavored with chili peppers. Granted, he’d never been much of a drinker until the accident.

For the past two weeks, the two men had done nothing but argue about his newly acquired habit. Shorty nagged and Bo ignored. He wasn’t even sure why. It wasn’t like he thought the beer tasted good. He stretched out his legs and got ready for the argument he knew was sure to come. He wasn’t disappointed.

“I just cain’t figure you out, boy,” the old rancher began. “Ain’t like you to look to a bottle for answers. That never solved a problem yet.”

Bo grunted. “Save your sermons for the Sunday congregation, okay?” The sarcastic words spilling out of his mouth of their own accord tasted sour on his tongue, but he couldn’t pull them back for the life of him. Didn’t try. What the hell difference did it make anymore?

He hated being so damned dependent, but who would hire the likes of him now? He was about as useless as a bucket of warm spit. Until he could manage to walk without tottering like an old man, there wasn’t much he could do but sit on his backside and complain. He was getting to be an expert at that.

But Shorty wasn’t about to cut him any slack, it seemed.

“You’ve been back here nigh on two weeks now and so far, the only thing getting better is your leg, ’cause your attitude sure ain’t improving. It’s time you stopped wallowing in self-pity. I don’t aim to be wet-nursin’ you no more. Time for you to play the hand you been dealt, and get on with the game. Plain and simple.”

Bo muttered under his breath. Shorty was right, as usual. He knew his attitude sucked. He knew why, too. He just wasn’t ready to tell his friend the whole story. Not yet. There’d been a lot of things he’d meant to say the day Shorty picked him up from the therapy clinic, but the words had stuck in his throat. Hell, what do you say to the man who has just bailed you out of the hospital, chased the bill collectors from your door, and offered you a home without asking a single thing in return? “Thanks” just didn’t seem to cut it. And Shorty hadn’t even asked about Marla yet.

Marla. Shorty’s niece and the reason Bo had left Sweet River. The reason he’d left Abby Houston with a broken heart. Not to mention the damage he’d done to his own.

Ditch snored softly, his big head resting on Shorty’s boots, seemingly oblivious to any danger as his long tail darted back and forth underneath the chair’s wooden rocker. Every time Shorty rocked forward, the dog’s tail swished under and back, under and back, like a metronome with a mysterious timing device, never missing a beat.

Bo had been watching the dog’s laid-back attitude for the last half hour. “You ever catch his tail with that rocker?” he finally asked, pointing to Ditch.

“Nope.” Shorty kept on rocking. “Dog’s got more sense than most of us humans. Knows how to stay out of trouble, don’t back talk, and is a heap more grateful for small favors than most folks.”

Bo pushed out of his chair and shoved his hat back without giving a thought to the way it bared his face.

“Dammit, Shorty, I am grateful,” he said, plunking his glass so hard on the nearby wobbly metal table that Ditch thought it best to slink off to the other end of the porch. “There’s not a minute goes by that I don’t remember I’m in debt up to my eyeballs to you. Don’t you think I’m ashamed of the mess I made of things? You can’t begin to know how it really was.”

Shorty raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Then maybe it’s time you told me, son.”

The word son sucker punched him right in the gut. He couldn’t avoid the truth any longer. Especially not with the only man who had ever called him son.