by Max Monroe
I only vaguely note that Dr. Leah has followed me inside, somewhat cautiously, and is now standing at the entrance to the living room. Joey bounds out of the kitchen and across the hall to stand in front of her again, her petite hips swinging back and forth in delight. It’s on the tip of my tongue to snap at them both, but the sound of ringing in my ear reminds me to save my anger for the man who deserves it.
My father.
“That’s my daddy,” I hear Joey tell the doctor, hooking one of her tiny thumbs across her chest toward me. “He’s a real-life cowboy, with some of the fastest reflexes in the world! He used to be in rodeos, but now he just stays here with me. We’ve got all sorts o’ stuff ’round here on the ranch, though. Chickens and bulls and horses, and we used’ta have a pig named Pete, but now he’s bacon,” she recites with a snort, the goddamn phone still ringing in my ear.
I’m beginning to think that if I want to have it out with my father, it’s going to have to be in person. Tex Jameson knows what he’s done, and now he’s hiding.
I slam the phone back down on its base, and Leah jumps, her eyes widening again as she glances between my sweet girl and me.
One clearly enamored of her, one just as transparently annoyed.
“Daddy, can Miss Leah stay and go feedin’ with us later?” Joey asks sweetly, running across the room to tug on the belt loop of my jeans. “I wanna show her Charles Chickens and Moby Chick.”
She turns around like a whip to look at Leah again, and I grind my jaw to keep myself from spouting off in a rage in front of her.
“Those’re my favorite chickens, Miss Leah. I named ’em and everything.”
“You named them?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in wonder. “I didn’t think you were old enough to know about Charles Dickens and Moby Dick.”
Joey snorts. “I’m almost six,” she says with the emphasis clearly stating she interprets it different than we do. To my Joey, six is almost full-grown.
“Oh, well,” Leah says with a smile, playing along. “That definitely changes things.”
It’s sweet of her not to belittle Joey like a lot of people do. My girl’s smart, quick, clever—and to her, age is just a number.
But fuck, it’s not enough to cool all the anger I’m feeling about my father trying to saddle me with some ritzy city doctor without my permission. It’s no wonder she thought I was fourteen, really. Because that’s sure as shit the way my old man still treats me.
I shake my head and tug gently on one of Joey’s pigtails. “No, baby. Miss Leah’s got to be going,” I say, the directive meant for more than just my girl.
Leah gets the message too, slowly nodding to signify she understands. “I’m super tired right now anyway,” she says to soften the blow to Joey. “I still need to get settled in my cabin and get some rest. I appreciate you inviting me, though.”
Joey runs over and hits Leah full speed in the legs, hugging her tight and turning her cheek to lean it into Leah’s warmth.
Leah’s hand moves slowly, almost like she can’t believe the tenderness my daughter is showing her, and gently, ever so reverently, she strokes at the top of my baby girl’s head.
I clear my throat, and she pushes Joey back gently before tapping just the tip of one finger to the apple of her cheek. “It’s been so nice to meet you, Joey.”
Joey giggles. “Next time, you can do my hair!”
Leah smiles, but it’s vaguely sad. I think she’s at least smart enough to realize that as far as I’m concerned, Joey and I aren’t going to see her again.
“Next time.”
With a deep breath, Leah straightens to her full height and fixes her fancy, so-bright-it’s-practically-blinding dress. It wasn’t out of place, but I think for some reason it makes her nerves feel better to pretend like it was.
And fuck, I hate that I notice how goddamn curvaceous and tempting her body is when she turns and heads down the hall toward the door. It’s like her ass is purposely swaying back and forth to throw my focus off-kilter.
Don’t even go there, you bastard.
With a roll of my eyes, I hobble along to follow her, ordering again, “Joey, stay here.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
I get to the front door as she’s opening the door of my dad’s old Jeep and preparing to climb inside, and I push through the screen to catch her attention. When she looks back up at the house, I do my best to be a decent human being. As far as I can tell, she’s been swindled just as hard as I have.
“I’m sorry you went to all the trouble and that you got dragged into the middle of this shit. But this is a whole lot bigger than you realize.”
She shields her eyes from the sun with a hand atop her forehead and nods. “I’m just here to help with your knee.”
“Darlin’, come on now. You’re smarter than that. My dad’s been tryin’ like hell to turn me into a puppet, and you’re just decoration on the strings. Besides,” I continue with a shrug. “My knee’s fine. Healin’ by the day. And I can assure you, I’ve been through a lot worse. Just part of the cowboy way of life.”
She opens her mouth to speak again but then, seemingly, thinks better of it.
With a final wave, she climbs up into the Jeep and turns over the key with a crank. It whines and sputters, but it’ll be damned if it’s going to start.
Why on earth would he have given her that old piece of shit to drive around? It’s like he’s asking for fucking trouble. Lord knows this ranch has more than a few trucks and SUVs that he could’ve loaned, but ole Tex gave the fancy doctor the one vehicle I wouldn’t trust on a seventy-degree sunny day.
I sigh heavily as she tries again and again and again, almost definitely flooding the engine by pumping her foot on the gas pedal.
“Stop, stop!” I yell when she cranks it over again and holds it while it whines. “Goddammit,” I mutter to myself, shuffling to the edge of the porch and leaning into the railing so I can hop down the steps on one foot. Each jump jars my knee enough to make me grit my teeth, but I seal my lips and bear it until I make it to the bottom and go back to waddling.
Leah hops down out of the Jeep and jogs toward me, holding out a hand toward my leg. “You really shouldn’t do that,” she says with a fine sheen of panic in her eyes. “You’re only four weeks out from surgery. You should still be using crutches at this point.”
The irony of the situation damn near makes me laugh.
“Darlin’, I was just about to tell you the same thing. Are you tryin’ to kill this old junker on purpose, or is it just a happy accident?”
“What?”
“The Jeep, Leah. You can’t just keep crankin’ and floodin’ the engine like that. You’re only makin’ it worse.”
“Funny. Because with the way you’re moving around, I could say the same about your knee.”
I narrow my eyes. “My knee is fine. And I’ll grab some tools to get it runnin’ again.”
“How about you tell me where the tools are, and I’ll go get them.” She scowls toward me, her eyes openly challenging, and suddenly, I’m not feeling so sorry for roping her into my anger anymore.
“Sure.” I smirk. “I need a can of starter fluid, a flathead screwdriver, and a socket wrench with a five-eighths and thirteen-sixteenths head.”
“Right.” She nods five times like that’s somehow going to make her know what the hell I’m talking about. “Of course. Anything else?”
I already know she doesn’t have a clue what any of those things is, but the fact that she’s trying to act like she does is pretty fucking amusing.
And call me evil, but I’m more than willing to sit back and watch her fail at her own game.
“Just a rag.” I nod toward the side of the house. “Garage should be open. Everything’ll be in there.”
She nods again and takes off in the direction of the garage, and my fucking eyes don’t ignore how good her hips look swaying back and forth as she moves on them ridiculous, don’t-fucking-belong-out-here shoes.
I wait until she rounds the corner and then let loose with a smile.
Well, for as frustrating as this day has been, at least this should be entertaining.
Leah
How in the heck have I gone from trying to introduce myself to my new patient to stomping toward a garage to find tools to fix a broken-down car?
I run a hand down my face as I continue to walk toward the back of the house.
To be honest, I don’t know why I care so much to go to these lengths, but there is just something about the stupid smug smile on Rhett Jameson’s face that makes me want to find every darn item he mentioned.
Sadly, I don’t even think this is about protecting his injured leg from unneeded activity.
Ha. Probably because it’s definitely not…
Fine. It’s not. The bastard triggered me. He wrote me off as some woman from the city who doesn’t know shit about cars or ranches or whatever the hell else he’s assumed I’m a moron in.
Well, you don’t know anything about cars or ranches…
Ugh. It doesn’t matter that he’s sort of correct; it’s the fact that he just presumed.
After stepping through the side door of the garage and pulling it shut behind me, I flip on the light switch next to the door and dig my phone out of my bra. It’s a strange place to keep a cell phone, I admit, but when I wear a dress without pockets, it’s the most convenient of all locations.
“Google, google, google,” I mutter to myself, willing the processing system on my iPhone to work faster. I click my bookmark in Safari with the hopes of getting there quickly, but the little blue line at the top of the screen barely makes it out of the gate.
Come on, you stupid phone! Get some freaking service!
“Please,” I whisper-yell, banging on the side of my hot-pink case. “Do not let me down in my time of need!”
Sure, I don’t have a clue what any of the things he said are, but I do have a good memory. I figured I’d be able to come in here, Google what they looked like by typing in their names, find them all, and shove his arrogant assumptions right back down his heavily corded throat.
I glance at the bars of service in the top right-hand corner of the screen, and the one fleeting bar I thought I had disappears like a puff of dust in the wind.
No Service, it says then, taunting me with a proverbial flatline.
What is it with this place and freaking cell service?
So far, everywhere I’ve been since I left the lodge—my cabin, the drive here, Rhett Jameson’s house—I’ve had exactly zero luck with reaching the outside world.
It’s like the land repels any form of digital contact.
“Dammit!” I huff with a stomp of my heel, tucking my lifeline back into the cup of my bra and scanning the walls of the garage. Statistically, there’s a pretty low chance I’m going to pick the right thing since there are tools everywhere, but I’m just stubborn enough to try anyway.
Going back there with my tail tucked between my legs isn’t an option. He quite obviously thinks I’m an incapable idiot. I may not be rural-savvy, but I was at the top of my class in medical school, and I’m not going to let a stubborn, self-righteous cowboy defeat me that easily.
I spot a shelving unit full of cans, bottles, and containers and decide to head there first. Of all the things on his list of items, starter fluid seems like it has the highest probability of being labeled.
I thumb through cans on the first two shelves quickly, and finally, when I get to the third, a can stating “Engine Starting Fluid” is right in the front of the mix.
“Aha!” I shout victoriously, tucking it into the crook of my arm and moving to another item he rattled off. A rag is pretty easy, and after looking long enough, I find out he has a stack of them on top of one of the cabinets, covered in old grease stains and dark marks. I grab one of those too, but I hold it away from my dress just in case some of these stains aren’t quite as old as I think they are.
Pucci isn’t cheap, for goodness’ sake, and even though I bought this secondhand, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let grease soak into the silk fabric.
Next, I move to the rolling toolbox in the corner and start riffling through the drawers as fast as I can. I know, at this point, I’ve been gone for quite a while, and I’m not entirely sure how he’ll react to that.
Anger. Worry. Humor. He seems to have all three in varying degrees of intensity at any given time, and honestly, I’m not used to the kind of men that wear their emotions so plainly on their sleeve, even when they’re conveniently shirtless like Mr. Rhett Jameson.
Most of the men I’ve met, dated, been in a short-term relationship with, like trying to be mysterious. They belittle when they’re mad, shift blame for the sole purpose of their convenience, and all in all, try to make it seem like I’m the one who can’t keep a steady read on the situation.
But Rhett reacts completely different than I’ve grown accustomed to with the opposite sex. He seems like the kind of guy that tells you like it is, for better or worse, and never tries to sugarcoat something just for the sake of appearance.
It’s shocking when it’s not what you’re used to, but I have to admit, a small part of me seems to find it exhilarating too.
I find a screwdriver with a flat head, though I really have no clue if it’s even close to the right size, and that only leaves the socket wrench with two heads. Whatever it is that means.
I sigh with frustration and continue digging through the drawers as quickly as I can. The problem is, now that I’ve gathered all the easy items and moved on to this one, I literally have no clue what I’m looking for.
I do not know what a socket wrench is. But I have a feeling it’s important.
“Dammit,” I blow out in a puff of frustration. I’m going to have to go back out there and, at the very least, ask him what it looks like.
It’s the last fucking thing I want to do, but fuck, I have no choice.
I carefully gather the things I’ve managed in my hands and turn to head for the door, only to jerk to a stop with a squeal. Standing in the doorway to the garage, leaning against the jamb, is Rhett Jameson with an undeniably sexy but arrogant smile on his face.
I take a deep breath to gather the shake in my throat so it won’t translate to my voice and walk toward him confidently.
“I’ve got the starter fluid, the rag, and the screwdriver. I was looking for the socket wrench.”
Rhett starts to move toward me, and I hold out a hand to indicate he should stop. “Just tell me what drawer it’s in, and I’ll get it.”
He smirks. “The one you were just in, darlin’.”
Ah, fuck. Of course it is.
“Right. I’ll just grab it, then.”
I go back to the drawer and grab the only kind of tool in there, looking through the strips of what must be the “heads” that are magnetically attached to the sides. Luckily, they’re labeled, so it doesn’t take me too long to find the sizes he needs.
When I walk back over and hold it out for him to take, he laughs. “I’ll admit, you did better than I thought you would.”
I lift my chin higher, the corners of my mouth curving up slightly.
I’m ready to bask in my victory, but he gives me no time. A swift feeling of disappointment takes up residence in my belly when he limps around me back over to the other side of the garage and replaces half of what I’ve gotten with slightly different versions.
“Don’t take it too hard,” he says as he passes me on his way out of the garage. “You were close.”
Yeah, I think, but not close enough.
Instead of being impressed and asking me about the kind of help I can offer him for his knee that he appears persistent in hobbling around on without crutches, he’s on his way back to the Jeep to send me on my way.
Well, Tex definitely told you one truth about his son…
Yeah. Rhett Jameson is a stubborn jackass.
I glance in the rearview mirror at the grumpy cowboy getting smaller by the
second as I drive away from his house.
The Jeep’s up and running thanks to Rhett’s quick check and cleaning of the spark plugs and I don’t even know what else he fiddled with under the hood, and I’m officially exhausted.
My emotions feel like they’ve been put in a salad spinner and flung to all holy hell.
Excitement, panic, frustration, arousal—I’ve felt a little bit of all of it in the last twenty-four hours, and while, this morning, I thought I knew what the next two months of my life were going to look like, now I’m not too sure.
If Rhett doesn’t let me stay and help him, will Frank Kaminsky even want me back?
I mean, he practically elbow-wrestled me into doing this favor for him by implying what a “good impression” it would make on him if I could come out here and manage this. “This is the kind of on-the-job training you’re going to need heading into the season,” he’d said. Honestly, I hadn’t had a clue what he’d meant, but I’d nodded anyway, not wanting to seem like a dimwit—a painfully ironic tidbit now, considering I’ve never felt more in the dark.
I just can’t figure out why someone like Rhett Jameson wouldn’t want my help.
I mean, the bastard isn’t even using crutches right now. He’s just hobbling around on that leg without any real concern for the damage he might be doing to the unhealed tendons and bones that just underwent surgery a month ago.
It’s like he wants to barrel through his recovery like a fucking race car driver, and I know with certainty, that kind of recklessness won’t have him speeding across the finish line with a black-and-white checkered flag waving him on to victory. If anything, he’ll be lucky if he gets an opportunity to make a pit stop and regroup before his damn race car explodes.
Why can’t he understand that a well-thought-out care plan for his rehabilitation would make a truly substantial difference in getting him back to the kind of physical abilities he must be used to?