“So, have they put you on a torture rack yet?”
He heard amusement in her voice. “They have me riding in a rocking chair.”
Despite his anger at being all but bullied by his new therapist, Trent’s spirits lifted. He didn’t like being on bad terms with Saedra. They’d been through too much. After the car wreck that’d taken his rodeo partner’s life, Saedra had been a rock, always by his side, urging him on. She’d taken time away from her own thriving business to help nurse him back to health. There was no way he could repay her for that, and if he were honest with himself, it was part of the reason why he’d come to California despite his reservations. Saedra had put the guilt screws into him but good, telling him that after everything she’d done for him, after all the time she’d spent trying to get him well, he owed it to her to at least try one last thing. So here he was.
“What?” He could hear Saedra’s laughter. “What do you mean a rocking chair?”
“It’s the damn saddle they have me riding in. It’s like a rocking chair. It even has a back.”
“You rode today?”
Her words brought him back to the moment, back to the point in time when he’d first climbed on his horse and nearly broken into tears.
“I’ve actually ridden a few times.”
“Oh, Trent.”
Okay, fine. He would admit that it always felt good to get back in the saddle. The only thing he didn’t like was the harridan in charge of rehabilitating him.
“Don’t sound so thrilled. It’s not like I’m running barrels.”
She was silent for a moment. He wondered where she was. Probably still packing up the last of her things from the business she’d sold. His accident had changed more than him. Saedra had watched her best friend struggle to survive, the whole ordeal making her realize life was too short to put a dream on hold—or so she’d told him. So she’d sold Buckaroo Barbecues, her successful catering business in Denver, bought a trailer to live in, and plotted her strategy on the best way to get to the National Finals Rodeo herself.
At least some good had come out of this whole mess.
“No. I don’t expect you did.” She sounded sad. It annoyed Trent to no end.
“I’ll leave the barrel racing to you.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I can’t believe you rode.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for the drill sergeant of a therapist they have here at the ranch.”
“Keeping you on your toes, huh?”
“I’m surprised she doesn’t carry a bullwhip.”
“Your therapist is a she?”
Why did he feel as if he shouldn’t have revealed that little bit of information? There was nothing between him and Saedra...never had been. They were childhood friends. Yeah, sure, once upon a time they’d tried dating. Their first kiss had been such a disaster, they’d decided to never do it again, and they hadn’t.
“She’s no lady,” Trent grumbled.
He heard soft laughter on the other end of the line. “I can only imagine what she’s like if she’s already brought the devil out in you. Does she know what she’s in for?”
He moved back from the window, rolling his wheelchair toward the kitchen one-handed. He didn’t want to think about Alana and the way she made him feel. He’d wanted to jump off his horse and run, except he couldn’t, and she knew that, and it made him want to scream in frustration.
Because she’s the best-looking woman you’ve seen since your days on the rodeo circuit.
Back when he’d been a whole man, not half of one.
“She reminds me of you,” Trent said, although he had no idea where the words had come from. He didn’t want to think about Alana. He really didn’t.
“Me, huh? That can’t be a good thing. Do you butt heads with her like you do me?”
“Oh, yeah.”
On the bottom shelf of the fridge was a package of ham. He pulled it out, placing it on his lap. He did the same thing with some sliced cheese he found, and the mustard and mayonnaise, turning around and heading for the kitchen counter that had been built considerably lower than normal to accommodate people with special needs.
Special needs.
He hated the term. Hated it with a passion.
“I should get going.” He placed the meat and condiments on the countertop.
“Yeah, I should, too. I have to finish loading the trailer, but it’s so good to hear your voice.”
She was at home, getting ready to hit the road, something he’d never do again. Suddenly, he lost his appetite.
“Trent, promise me something, will you?”
His whole body stilled. The last time she’d asked to promise her something, he’d found himself on a plane to California a week later.
“Stick it out,” she said when he didn’t answer.
He closed his eyes. Unfortunately, when he did that, he could perfectly picture Saedra with her blond hair and blue eyes. She would be giving him the look. The one that made her eyes glisten with suppressed emotion: concern, sadness, determination.
A look a lot like the one Alana had given him yesterday, and then this morning when he’d trotted on Baylor.
“I’ll try.”
He hung up before she made him promise anything else, like trying to walk again...it would take a miracle for that to happen.
Chapter Seven
Go on. Knock.
Alana felt the breath she held begin to whistle past her lips.
So what if he makes you feel anxious and self-conscious? She’d worked with good-looking men before. Hell, that downhill skier they’d had last year had actually graced the covers of magazines.
Hadn’t fazed her one bit.
So why Trent?
Taking another deep breath, she headed up the ramp, the tiny porch still in shadows, Alana thinking it was just about time to hang the flower baskets along the front. She smiled inwardly. As if a man like Trent would appreciate flower baskets.
Leaning forward, she listened for a few seconds. He might still be asleep. She leaned back, her hair falling over one shoulder. Oh, well. He would soon learn that it was “game on.” From here on out it’d be an 8:00 a.m. start. She lifted her hand to knock.
The door opened.
Alana rocked back in surprise, her gaze dropping to the handsome son of a cuss sitting in a wheelchair.
Thank God he wore a shirt today.
Why do you always think that?
“You going to stand out there all day, or what?”
“Or what,” she instantly quipped as, for about the tenth time since she’d met him, her skin turned various shades of red, her cheeks filling with warmth.
He wore a maroon button-down shirt this morning, his off-white cowboy hat back in place, denim jeans hugging a waistline that was still trim despite his injury.
“Did you need something?” he asked.
This wasn’t going to work if she kept getting flustered whenever he was near. So she took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her face and said, “Time to get to work,” in as happy a tone she could muster.
“Don’t you believe in weekends off?”
Was it the weekend? She hadn’t noticed.
“Not around here. I like to do my therapy all the time.”
He didn’t look pleased. She wondered if she’d have to goad him into complying.
“Thought I’d give you a ride.” She pointed behind her shoulder to the Mule parked out behind her.
“I told you yesterday, no amount of therapy is going to help me get better.”
“And I told you that I don’t think that’s true.” Her smile slipped a notch. She jerked it back into place. “Do you need to grab anything before we go?”
“A pair of head
phones so I don’t have to listen to you.”
Sarcasm. She’d expected that. “I was thinking more along the lines of something to eat. You’re going to need your energy.”
Gray eyes swept her up and down in a way that made her instantly uncomfortable. What would he see? A woman in her mid-twenties with windswept hair and dirt under her fingernails? And damn it all to hell, that pissed her off, because she shouldn’t care what he saw. The man was a former rodeo star with enough baggage to fill a Mack truck. That was what she needed to focus on. Getting him better. Not how his dark blond good looks made her feel.
“I’ve already eaten.” He wheeled himself backward.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to grab my jacket.” He rotated his chair.
She slunk outside, grateful for the pine-scented air that cooled her cheeks. Or maybe it was his aroma that was so delicious.
Stop it.
She had to quit doing this. She had to start thinking of him as a client, not as one of the most handsome men she’d ever met.
“Let’s go.”
The wheels of his chair clattered down the ramp’s wooden slats. She knew he was behind her, hated how self-conscious that made her feel. Was he staring at her butt? Did he think the jeans were too tight? They had rhinestones on the pockets. Cabe had given them the once-over when he’d spotted her earlier in the barn. And, sure, yeah, she hardly ever wore pretty clothes. She’d just felt like dressing up a little today. She’d donned a dark blue shirt with silver threads sewn into the fabric because she hardly ever wore them—she’d told Cabe that very thing.
“You don’t need to give me a ride.” He eyed the Mule as if there were snakes on the floorboard.
“It’s faster if we take this.”
She motioned for him to get inside.
“I need the exercise.”
“You’ll get plenty of that today.”
Clearly, he didn’t want to comply with her wishes. His mouth had compressed into a thin line, a muscle near his jaw ticking in frustration, his hands clenching, too, something she was beginning to realize signaled massive frustration on his part.
“Get in, Trent.”
His eyes spouted flames. “Fine.” He leaned forward, and the way he slashed at his wheels with his hands had to hurt. He didn’t seem to notice. Clearly, he wasn’t going to make this easy. Just as clearly, he wanted to save face. She would use that to her advantage.
He wheeled his chair up next to the Mule. His hands reached toward the seat, and he expertly shifted from the chair to the all-terrain vehicle. She took his chair away, folding it closed then storing it in the back. When she slipped into the driver’s seat, the jaw muscle was still ticking, his hands still clenching.
“Look.” She swiveled in her seat. “I realize you’re pissed off at the world.”
His gaze lashed toward her.
“And you have a right to be angry. Nobody likes going from the top cowboy in the nation to an invalid in a wheelchair, but get over it.”
He wasn’t used to such plain speaking. Or maybe he was. Either way he shot her a look of outrage.
“You’re here to heal, and with any luck, to walk again, but as I’ve said before, that’s not going to happen if you resist me at every turn.”
“But that’s the problem,” he said softly. “I’ve already been down this road. Don’t you get it? Nothing’s going to change.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
His face turned to stone, but at least he wasn’t clenching his fists anymore. He had scars, deep ones, and she needed to probe them, if his inability to walk had anything to do with his mental state.
As gently as she could, she said, “It’s not your fault Dustin didn’t survive.”
If she hadn’t been staring closely at him, she would have missed the way his jaw flexed, wouldn’t have noticed his shoulders jerking...as if she’d hit him. He didn’t face her, but he didn’t need to in order for her to see what was going through his mind.
“Accidents happen.”
He said the words by rote, as if he’d been coached to say them.
“Yes, but survivor’s guilt is a terrible thing.”
Pain lined his face, causing his lips to tip down and the space between his eyes to wrinkle. He was lost in his memories for a moment, anguish briefly surfacing on his face before he shoved it away.
“Let’s go.”
Two little words, but it was clear he would brook no argument. She thought about pressing the matter, but only for a moment. In the end, her own sense of self-preservation won out.
“Hang on.” She leaned forward and started the Mule’s motor.
* * *
SHE TOOK HIM to the arena.
“I figure we’ll do things a little differently than what you’re used to.” She slipped out of the Mule, unhooking his wheelchair from the back. “Since you did so well yesterday when trotting, we’re going to try that again.”
“I’m not riding.” He was well aware he sounded like a petulant child, told himself he didn’t care.
“Well, that’s too bad. You’re going to help me tack up the horses, too.” She pointed with her thumb to the barn behind them.
“I’m not.”
She pushed his chair up next to the Mule, patting the back of it. “Come on.” She smiled. “Off we go.”
He wasn’t going to do it. It could be dangerous. A horse might do something unexpected, like twist around over the top of him.
“Come on.” She patted the chair again.
Stick it out.
Damn Saedra. And damn his mother for sending him here.
He scowled, although it didn’t appear to scare her, his hands pressing against the seat. He’d become an expert on swinging himself from the bed to his wheelchair, then his wheelchair to the couch, and on and on and on, the muscles in his arms more sculpted than they’d ever been. This was no different. He made quick work of moving from the chair to the Mule.
Wheelchair.
He closed his eyes against the sickness that welled up inside of him.
He was in a frickin’ wheelchair.
It wasn’t fair. He’d survived the wreck while Dustin had been flung—
Quickly, he shut down the thought. He hadn’t lost consciousness. Not for one single second—and the smell of fuel and burned plastic was something he would never forget. Some days he could still smell the acrid stench, or so it seemed.
The breath he took shook with the effort to contain his emotions. He rested his arms on his wheelchair. His damned cage. A thing he hated more than anything in the world.
“Good job.”
He was surprised she didn’t pat him on the head as if he was a kid or something. He wasn’t that. He’d spent the past six months learning how to be self-sufficient. He could dress himself. Bend down without falling out of his chair to tie his laces. He could even slip in and out of a bathtub. And he’d learned how to do all that because he didn’t like feeling like a child—even if he might sound like one sometimes.
“I’m not helping with the horses.” He drew the line at that.
“Too bad.” She stepped away from his chair. At least she didn’t try to push him. He hated when people felt as if they had to “help” him. “It’s part of your therapy.”
“I’d rather do traditional therapy.”
Except, suddenly, he didn’t. Traditional therapy meant someone touching him. He didn’t want anyone doing that. Not anymore.
Especially not a good-looking someone.
“That’s not an option today.” She punctuated her words with a bright smile, one that set her blue eyes aglow and emphasized the height of her cheekbones. She could model, this woman.
She headed toward the stable, leaving him behind. H
e faced the same decision he’d faced the other day. Either he went along with this craziness, or he turned around, packed up his bags and left California far behind.
Anderson men don’t shy away from anything.
Damn her. Damn Saedra. Damn his mother.
“Slow down,” he called out to her, figuring he was here, so he might as well see what happened. With any luck, a horse would run him down and he’d get injured and sent home.
He should only be so lucky.
Chapter Eight
She had to give him credit. He was sticking it out.
“Here.” She tossed him Baylor’s lead rope. Trent snatched it from the air, but not before shooting her a deer-in-the-headlights look. “Tie him up outside.”
“I can’t lead a horse from my wheelchair.”
She turned around in the middle of the barn aisle, walking backward. “One thing you should learn. We don’t like the word can’t around here.”
She headed toward Radical’s stall, the dark bay gelding nickering to her. “Ready to work, Mr. R.?” she asked the horse, glancing back and noting that Trent hadn’t moved. Baylor stood near him, head held low, ears tipping backward and forward, the animal clearly puzzled about what he was supposed to do.
“Turn around and lead the horse out, Trent.”
She grabbed her own horse’s halter, slipping inside the stall before he could complain again or think of another reason why he shouldn’t be asked to do such a menial task.
She thought she heard him say, “If I get killed...”
She smiled. The man was full of complaints. At this rate, it’d be dinnertime before they rode.
He appeared proud of himself when she led Radical outside. Trent had rolled away from the hitching post, and Baylor stood quietly nearby.
“Well, look at that,” she drawled. “Looks like you could do it after all.”
“Bite me.”
She whirled to face him. “Excuse me?”
“I said bite me.”
She bit back a smile. This was more like it. She’d rather him be snarky and snarly than full of self-pity and self-loathing. Anything was better than that.
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