She did, intending to tell him to go screw himself, and he popped a tablet into her mouth. Even she wasn’t hard-headed enough to spit it out. He helped guide the glass to her mouth so she could wash the tablet down, set it aside, then pulled off her boots.
“Okay. Up we go.”
Once again he hoisted her up like an uncooperative toddler and half-dragged her out of the bathroom. Before she could lie and say she was perfectly capable of walking, he scooped her up, took three long strides, and dumped her on the couch.
She let her head flop back. “That would’ve been a lot more impressive if you hadn’t grunted.”
“Good thing you’re not the kind of girl I have to impress.”
That was probably an insult. She’d have to think about it later. For now, she just wanted everything to hold still, dammit, before it made her sick again. The trailer shook as Cole stomped around, sticking his big nose in the middle of her shit again. Half of her wanted to curl into a ball and scream at him to go away. The other wanted to whimper like a lost puppy and beg him not to leave her alone in the dark, even though brilliant sunlight streamed through the window and pressed against her eyelids.
“You’re soaked.” His hands grabbed the hem of her shirt and yanked it up to her neck.
“Whoa, now—”
“It’s nothing I haven’t already seen. Lift your arms.”
She did. He yanked the shirt off, then immediately pulled an oversized football jersey over her head and guided her arms into the sleeves.
“You’re pretty good at that,” she mumbled.
“Practice. And you aren’t half as squirmy as Beni.” He hauled her up onto her feet and turned her around so her back was braced against his chest, his hands firm on her shoulders. “Kick off your jeans.”
Again she considered protesting, but she reeked, and she was wet, so she stripped off the jeans. The jersey came to midthigh, so she didn’t even have to wonder what underwear she’d put on that day. Cole stuck a pair of gym shorts in her hands. When she’d fumbled into them, he planted her back on the couch.
“I called the hospital. Butthead is doing great. Now try to get some rest. I need you out there in the arena tonight.”
His arm scooped up her head and shoulders, then lowered her onto—whoa, not a pillow—a hard thigh. Then he was dabbing at her face, neck, and arms with that infernal washcloth. The man truly had an obsession. But it felt good, gentle and cool, and the slight roughness of the cloth gave her whirling brain an anchor. She focused all of her concentration on it as she felt the drugs kick in.
So tired. So, so tired…
Her heart slowed, and her mind drifted toward oblivion. She was aware of Cole moving, replacing his thigh with a pillow, but she couldn’t pull herself back. Didn’t want to. Cole rolled her onto her side, back against the couch cushions, then stretched out in the space he’d created, legs intertwined with hers, his big, warm body boxing her in. He cupped the back of her head, guiding her cheek to his shoulder. She was completely enclosed. Safe. Not even the whisper telling her this wasn’t a good idea could penetrate her cocoon.
She could just let go, secure in the knowledge that there was no way she could fall.
Chapter 20
Cole opened his eyes and looked directly in Shawnee’s, only inches away. Wide awake and sharply aware—of him. And of how very, very aware his body was of her. He half expected her to slam an elbow into his gut, but she was totally relaxed, contemplating his presence with no more concern than if Katie had snuck onto the couch while she was sleeping.
“Make yourself at home,” she said.
He grimaced and turned his head away, catching a glimpse of the clock. Whoa. He’d slept for two hours? He dug in the pocket of his jeans for the plastic box of breath mints he always carried. Popping the top with his thumb, he offered it to her.
“Well, that’s subtle,” she said, but held out her palm.
He shook a couple of mints onto it, then two more into his own mouth before he snapped the top shut and stuffed it back in his pocket, using the delay to mentally rehearse his lines. Despite what Shawnee and certain of his body parts might think, his intentions had been honorable. He’d done for her what his uncle used to do for him in the early years after the accident…but he couldn’t tell her that. He didn’t trust anyone with the knowledge that gruff, burly Steve Jacobs had sometimes crawled into Cole’s bed and wrapped his powerful arms around a devastated teenaged boy. God only knew what Cole might have done to escape the pain if Steve hadn’t been there to stop him.
But there would always be some asshole who chose to interpret it otherwise, if they knew.
He said the first thing that popped into his head. “Sorry. These jeans aren’t the cleanest.”
Her gaze did a lazy stroll down to his chest, then back. “You didn’t have to stay dressed on my account.”
The low purr under her words brought his entire body to attention—waking up more than what was nudging her hip. She felt good against him, soft but substantial, like she would hold up even if someone as big as Cole had to lean on her. He liked how she filled all the space inside his arms. Liked it a lot, which was becoming more painfully obvious the longer he held her.
“Sounds like the patient has made a full recovery,” he said, trying for casual and sounding like a bad soap opera actor.
“Courtesy of my magic potion.” Her voice was flippant, but she shifted onto her back so she didn’t have to look him in the eyes anymore, and he heard a breath mint crunch hard between her teeth. In profile, she wasn’t near as intimidating. Her nose was too small and delicate, and tipped up at the end.
As cute as her toes.
“You take a sedative,” he said, trying to ignore all that softness wiggling against him. “And it’s been so long since you refilled the prescription it’s almost outdated. You don’t have chronic anxiety.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” When he just kept staring at her, waiting, she hunched her shoulders. “My anxiety is not random.”
“The cancer?” he guessed, because it almost had to be either that or Ace. “You’ve been in remission for what, fifteen years? Don’t they consider that cured?”
“Yep. The chances of another bout of Hodgkin’s are pretty slim.”
“But?”
She drew a breath so deep he felt her rib cage expand. “My grandfather died of pancreatic cancer. My great-grandmother died of breast cancer, and my grandmother had a double mastectomy after finding a malignant lump when she was in her forties. And that’s just my immediate family. One uncle is currently in treatment for prostate cancer, another has had polyps removed from his colon, and I won’t even get started on my aunts and cousins. When you add in my personal history, the doctors give me a sixty to eighty percent chance of getting it again. Somewhere.”
Her voice was matter-of-fact, but with their bodies all but plastered together, she couldn’t hide the tension that rippled through her muscles. The light in the trailer seemed to dim, as if the damn disease had swooped in to hover over her. Suddenly, a lot of things about Shawnee made sense.
“I’m…” Sorry? Flabbergasted? Furious? All of those things, and more. “No wonder you hate Tough Enough to Wear Pink nights.”
Her head jerked around in surprise. “Is it that obvious?”
“Because even I noticed?” He shook his head. “I just realized…it’s gotta be hard enough not to obsess without having it shoved in your face.”
“You would know about obsessing.” She shifted toward him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder as she studied his expression, looking for…what? “It’s a piss-poor attitude on my part when these people are trying to save my life.”
“Maybe.” He pondered for a minute, trying to come up with a decent comparison. “It’s like going to the dentist, I guess. You know it’s for the best and you try not to be a whiner, but that doesn�
�t mean you’re gonna enjoy it.”
Her mouth curled down at the corners. “Make that a mammogram and you nailed it.”
Oh damn. Don’t look at her boobs. Definitely not a good time to look at her boobs.
“You get, um, tested a lot?” he asked, his gaze glued to a spot in the middle of her forehead.
“Every reliable screening on the market.” Her hand skimmed down his arm, where she paused and squeezed his biceps—a warning, not a caress. “I don’t talk about this much.”
As in never. He let his gaze drift down to meet hers. Huh. He’d always thought her eyes were brown, but close up they were lighter, almost gold, like that border collie he’d had before Katie. Probably not a good idea to make that comparison out loud.
“That’s okay. I’m not much for talking.” His body clenched, waiting for her to purr something about what he’d rather do instead. Geezus. All of the ways she’d ever tortured him were nothing compared to this. Especially when Shawnee kept wiggling, shifting, rubbing up against him in the close confines of the couch. Almost like she was doing it on purpose.
Then her eyes narrowed. “You are a much better liar than I thought.”
“Me? When did I ever…” Oh yeah. That thing he’d told the vet…
“Your insurance wouldn’t cover my horse unless he was injured in the line of duty.” She shook her head in disgust. “I can’t believe I fell for it.”
“You were under a lot of stress.” He could feel it building again now, muscle by muscle, as the memories of the previous night played in her mind. What were the chances that he could run his hand over her hair and smooth it out of her face without losing any blood? “Jacobs Livestock is responsible, either way. He was eating our hay, in a pen that I assigned to him.”
“Oh, bullshit. The feed and the pen were fine. We both saw him tip his water bucket. He never drank as much as he should and you heard the vet—that kind of impaction can be caused by dehydration.”
Cole felt his face settling into stubborn lines. “It doesn’t matter. I lied. Therefore, Jacobs Livestock will take full responsibility for the bill.”
“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to hear that y’all are now the proud owners of a thousand-pound neurotic lab rat.” Shawnee curled her lip at him. “Have you called them yet? Because I would love to hear that explanation.”
“They won’t be surprised.”
But it surprised Shawnee. “You’ve done this before?”
Close enough. On three different occasions, he and his uncle had faced a veterinarian who’d asked the same question—how much are you willing to spend to save this animal, with no guarantees that it would ever buck again? He couldn’t deliver the death sentence then, so how could he stand back and force Shawnee to do it now?
Then he realized what she’d said. “What do you mean, we own him?”
She hitched a shoulder. “I can’t afford to pay you back. So you get the horse.”
“I don’t want that horse.”
“Too bad, so sad. Should’ve thought of that before you opened your trap.” Her words were snarky, but they lacked the usual edge, and the way she was looking at him—he might not be very good at reading people, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t anger. Did she realize that the thumb that had been clamped on his arm was now stroking his biceps, much like she’d stroked Butthead the night before? Except this small, delicious friction wasn’t calming Cole down at all.
“We’ll think of something else.” When he could think at all.
And there it was, the sharp smile, that devilish gleam in her eyes. “Such as?”
He had no idea. His mind was too full of Shawnee. Her heat, the fullness of her body, her scent—okay, that still wasn’t so great, with the smell of sick horse and veterinary antiseptic lingering in her hair. But her mouth. How could a woman so tough have such a soft, sexy mouth?
He didn’t have words for any of those thoughts. So he kissed her instead.
She stiffened, sucked in a breath, but didn’t pull away. Cole took that as a good sign and tilted his head, tracing the curve of her upper lip with his tongue, not brave enough to go any further. Her fingers dug into his arm, and for a second he thought she would pull him closer and take the kiss to another level.
She drew back, but he was gratified to hear that the breath she released wasn’t quite steady. “Well, that was…interesting.”
“I’ve been wanting to do it for a while.” He slid his fingers into the tangle of curls at the nape of her neck, ready to repeat the kiss—or hold her back if she decided to head-butt him. “I was worried you might bite.”
“I still could.”
His stomach sank. “You didn’t like it?”
“That’s not the point.”
That was the only point, as far as Cole was concerned, but Shawnee narrowed her eyes at him again. “We’re not done chatting. You found my horse down and bleeding, and you woke Hank up before me.”
Cole blinked, thrown by the change of subject. “He was closer.”
“Twenty steps, at the most. And then—” She jabbed him hard with one fingertip. “You gave him an injection without asking me first.”
Cole flattened his hand over his chest in self-defense. “Immediate administration of intravenous Banamine is the standard treatment protocol for suspected colic.”
“Which is the only reason I didn’t rip you a new one.” She tapped the scrape on his chin hard enough to make him wince. “You might not have that if I’d been there to handle him.”
Well, hell. She was right, on all counts. Cole tried to imagine what he would do if anyone touched one of his horses without his consent. Visions of the Incredible Hulk raging and roaring and busting out of his clothes came to mind.
“I didn’t think…I mean, I have—”
“A list,” she interrupted. “As always. You can’t help yourself. Yet another reason your arms, legs, and family jewels are all still intact.”
Cole tensed, aware that her knee was dangerously close to the jewels in question. “I’m sorry. We almost never travel with horses that don’t belong to us, so I just followed the usual routine.”
“I understand. But it better not happen again.” She moved abruptly, untangling herself from him and swinging her legs around to sit on the edge of the couch, pushing at the thick, tangled mass of her hair. Cole had always thought it would be a lot more practical if she cut it shorter. Now he wondered if it was one more act of rebellion against the cancer that stalked her.
He reluctantly let his hand fall away from where it still rested on her hip. He should just shut up now, while he was still in one piece. “What about the kiss?”
“I’m gonna have to think on that.” She scrubbed at her face. “Right now, I’m going to take a shower.”
Shawnee stood, took a beat to get her balance, then grabbed her phone off the table. There would be messages waiting from the equine hospital. They’d promised to provide hourly updates after he’d guaranteed them it was either that or have Shawnee banging on their door the minute she could get there after tonight’s rodeo, visiting hours be damned. A photo popped up on the phone and he saw her smile as she shuffled to the bathroom.
Cole pushed up onto one elbow. “What am I supposed to do while you’re making up your mind about the kissing?”
“If you’ve got any sense at all?” She paused to cock an eyebrow at him. “Run like hell.”
Chapter 21
By the end of the last performance on Saturday night, Shawnee figured she deserved a whole pack of gold stars for good behavior. A bottle of Pendleton whiskey at the very least—so she could take a long swig, then use the thick-bottomed bottle to coldcock the next well-meaning soul who said, “Sure is lucky that wasn’t your good horse.”
Those were the boneheads who’d pat your shoulder at a funeral and whisper, “At least he wasn’t your favori
te uncle, bless his heart.”
Of course she was glad she hadn’t nearly lost Roy instead. She wasn’t stupid. But she was getting tired of the smirks they thought she didn’t see. Can you believe she spent that much money on a head-fighting bastard that’ll never amount to anything?
But she’d managed to keep her lip zipped. And she’d also managed to keep her hands and, for the most part, her eyes off of Cole. Since resisting temptation wasn’t a life skill she practiced much, she should definitely get extra credit.
She’d settled for extra calories instead. When she wasn’t underfoot at the equine hospital—where Butthead was now settled in a regular stall and being eased back on to a regular diet—she’d resorted to stress baking in an attempt to bribe her body into shutting the hell up about how easy it would be to mosey over to Cole’s trailer for a little afternoon delight. If she kept it up, she was gonna have to spend her next paycheck on a new, larger-sized wardrobe, so she left bags of cookies on the table under her awning and told the crew to help themselves. The second day, Hank presented her with a book of crossword puzzles.
Shawnee scowled at it, flipping through the pages. “What’s this for?”
“Chili, rolls, oatmeal cookies—it’s starting to feel like the old days. But if you wanna be the next Miz Iris, you’ve gotta have all the props.”
She nailed him between the shoulder blades with the book, but only because he paused to grab a cookie before he ran, and even then she had to put her whole arm into it. The little bastard was really fast.
Now she stepped into her trailer, hung her cowboy hat on the rack, kicked off her boots, and shucked her sweaty shirt and jeans on the way to the shower. One more rodeo in the books. Traveling town to town with their little crew was like her childhood dream of running away to be a carny, minus the greasy, leather-skinned dude who always operated the Tilt-a-Whirl.
She caught herself wishing the season wouldn’t end—and that was not good.
This was supposed to be a lark. Another experience to add to the stockpile she held against her uncertain future. She wasn’t supposed to love it. But who knew it would be such a rush, or that a big part of the thrill would be the moments when she and Cole operated not only on the same wavelength, but as if they were inside each other’s heads? It was almost better than…
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