Opening his eyes and sitting up, Slade saw a white single-story ranch house with dark brown trim. The lawn was small and rectangular. The bushes were trimmed, and flowers were on either side of the concrete walk leading up to the front door. “Nice place,” he said, meaning it. Jordana pressed the garage-door opener. Easing the truck up and into it, Jordana turned off the engine. She gave him a gentle look. Slade looked exhausted. “I’ll bet you’re ready for a nap.”
“How did you know?”
“Your eyes are dark-looking, Slade. And you can barely keep them open,” she said with a full smile. “What you need is a bed and some good, uninterrupted sleep. Come on, let’s get you inside….”
SLADE GROANED as he lay down on top of the queen-size bed in Jordana’s guest bedroom. If he hadn’t been so exhausted, he’d have appreciated all her efforts to make the room look as if it came straight out of the nineteenth century. Instead, as she guided him to lie down, all he could do was slur, “I need to sleep….” and that was the last thing Slade remembered.
Jordana saw Slade’s pale face relax. His beard needed to be shaved and it gave him a dangerous look. The house was cooled by central air conditioning, and she took a blanket from the closet and put it over him. He was too tired to get undressed and slip beneath the covers. Tucking him in, she saw for the first time the real Slade as he sank into a deep, untroubled sleep. Standing there, Jordana felt guilty for looking upon him without his knowledge.
Slade’s face was utterly free of strain. She saw the fullness of his mouth for the first time. The wrinkles that were always on his brow had dissolved. The slash marks on either side of his mouth lessened. As she stood there, Jordana tried to imagine what Slade would be like without the awful weight of his ranch balancing on the edge of foreclosure. Or the fact he couldn’t take part in the Tetons endurance ride to save his ranch from the bank. Jordana knew from personal experience that financial woes were the most stressful of all.
Moving quietly, Jordana pulled the dark burgundy curtains closed. Slade would probably sleep for six to eight hours. She knew what the stress of surgery did to people. Forcing herself to leave, Jordana quietly shut the door. Slade felt safe enough to sleep, and that made her feel good. Looking at her watch, she saw it was nearly five o’clock in the evening. Her stomach growled. She had taken a few hours off from her shift to help Slade. Luckily, another doctor had agreed to come in and take her place so she could take Slade home.
Humming softly, Jordana walked into the kitchen. It was painted a soft yellow with white curtains on either side of the long rectangular windows across the twin sinks. From where she lived, she couldn’t see the Tetons. Instead, large hills loomed out of the valley floor. Tinkering with the coffeepot, she was grateful to have the next twelve hours off. That meant she could stay with Slade and be here as a nurse of sorts. The phone on the wall rang.
“Hello?”
“Jordana, this is Shorty, out at the ranch.”
“Hi, Shorty.”
“Is the Boss okay? His brother, Griff, came back here and was lookin’ worried.
“He’s fine,” Jordana soothed, hearing the anxiety in the wrangler’s tone. “Right now, he’s in the guest bedroom sleeping off the stress of the surgery and the anesthesia.”
“And his leg? I tried to ask Griff about it, but he didn’t know nothing.”
“Slade refused to see him, that’s why,” Jordana explained.
“Oh, there’s plenty of bad blood between those two,” Shorty agreed heavily. “But what about the Boss? Is he gonna be okay?”
Jordana gave Shorty all the information.
“When can he come back to the ranch?”
“Probably in two or three days,” she told him. “Right now, he needs no distractions, Shorty. That artery has to heal up so when he puts weight on that leg, it doesn’t tear it open again.”
“I see, I see,” he murmured. “Well, you tell the Boss to get well. Tell him he has no worries. I can manage here by myself.”
“What about Griff?” she wondered. “Can’t he pitch in?”
Shorty laughed a little. “Him? Oh, Dr. Lawton, he don’t know the right end from the sharp end of a pitchfork. You know how they are?”
“Indeed, I do. But it looked like Griff wanted to be of help. Maybe if you could assign him some easy jobs around the ranch?” She was hoping Shorty wouldn’t be as hard on Griff as Slade was. All he needed, she thought, was a chance. And he’d looked as if he’d wanted to be of help to Slade but really hadn’t known how.
“That’s an idea,” Shorty said. “He’s following me around like a lost calf. I think I’ll hand him the tools to go start cleaning out the box stalls. That should keep him outta my hair.”
Laughing softly, Jordana said, “Don’t be too hard on him, Shorty. He loves Slade and he wants to help. Griff may not know how, exactly, but my bet is you’ll come up with chores he can do around the ranch.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know I can. Are you coming out here tomorrow morning to ride Stormy thirty miles? Tomorrow is your day to ride. Or are you staying there with the Boss?”
“I’ll be out,” she promised. Jordana didn’t want to say anything right now, but she thought they might have a chance to try for the big money of the Tetons endurance ride. Oh, it was true she was a greenhorn when it came to the top level of competition, but she wanted to win the money for Slade and his ranch. But that was her secret. She wasn’t sure she could pull it off, but she was going to give it one heck of a try.
“See you at 7:00 a.m., then,” Shorty said, his voice lighter and sounding almost happy.
“See you then,” Jordana promised. Hanging up the phone, she stood there for a moment digesting her newly hatched plan. There was no doubt in her mind that her sturdy, small mustang mare could win that race. The only real question was her. She lacked the competitive knowledge of a ride like this. And she recalled that Slade was very worried about Curt Downing. Shrugging, Jordana compartmentalized the daunting idea and put it aside. What she would do was cook Slade dinner. She was sure when he awakened, he’d be a starving cow brute.
SLADE HAD JUST sat up, leaning against the head-board, when the bedroom door opened. He wiped the sleep from his eyes. Jordana looked beautiful wearing a red-checked apron around her waist. He saw a smudge of white flour on her left cheek. “What time is it?” he asked in a sleep-thickened voice. He didn’t have his watch back, and he missed it.
“8:00 p.m. You slept three hours,” Jordana murmured, walking over to the bed and peering down at him. Only the light from the hall was spilling into the room. Jordana thought he looked stronger. “How are you feeling?” she asked, picking up his thick, hairy wrist to take his pulse.
“Like I’ll live,” he told her. Her touch was electrifying to him. Slade almost lifted his other arm to pull her down beside him. Jordana no longer looked like a doctor. She had changed out of her scrubs and white lab coat into a soft orange T-shirt with three-quarter sleeves and a set of figure-revealing jeans. Her fingers were cool and soft. Another ache began in him, and this time it wasn’t at his injury site. He wanted to reach up and thread his fingers through her mussed hair. Jordana looked vulnerable.
“Good, your pulse is normal,” she said with a smile. Reluctantly, Jordana released his wrist. “And you look less pale. Ready for a light on in the room?”
“I’m ready to get up,” Slade said. He threw off the blue blanket.
“Not so fast,” she cautioned, going to the wall and flipping on the overhead light. “You need to move around with that wheelchair for at least forty-eight hours.”
Groaning, Slade said, “I hate that thing.”
Laughing, Jordana brought the wheelchair beside his bed. “I know you do, but it can help you heal faster.”
Slade was strong enough to bring his legs over the bed and sit up. It felt good to simply move. “I don’t want anyone seeing me in that contraption.”
“Cowboy pride,” she laughed softly, leaning down to put the brakes
on the wheels so it wouldn’t move when he stood up.
“I guess so,” Slade admitted, frowning. Jordana stood back and allowed him to stand on his own.
“Dizzy?”
Shaking his head, Slade moved carefully into the wheelchair. “Not so far.”
“Good, your body is adjusting. Bathroom?”
“Yes,” he said. In moments, Jordana was pushing him down the pine-floored hall to a huge bathroom that had plenty of room for his wheelchair.
“I’ll leave you here,” she said lightly. “When you’re ready to come out, just open the door.”
Slade nodded. “I’ll be out in a bit.”
A few minutes later, Slade sat at a large, rectangular pine table in the dining room, the home filled with delicious odors. He wasn’t prepared for the meal that Jordana had made for him. It struck him that she’d gone to a lot of trouble. There were fresh rolls, and now he understood where that bit of flour on her cheek had come from. A small beef roast surrounded with potatoes, carrots and celery sat in front of him. And best of all, thick, dark brown gravy was in a bowl next to it. Homemade gravy. How long had it been since he’d tasted good gravy? Slade could remember his mother making the best gravy in the world.
“Are you hungry?” she teased, smiling as she untied the apron and placed it on the counter.
“I am,” Slade admitted. As she sat down near his left elbow, he added, “This is a mighty fine-looking meal, Jordana. You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.” Slade didn’t want to add that at his ranch, he ate a lot of frozen dinners, pizza or canned goods. This meal was a feast, and his mouth watered in anticipation.
“It’s nothing,” she assured him, placing a dark blue linen napkin across her lap. She picked up a large spoon and said, “Give me your plate. I’ll put what you want on it.”
Slade was starving. By the time Jordana handed the plate to him, it was piled high with food. He saw a slight, sparkling smile in her eyes, but she said nothing about the amount of food.
“I feel like an interloper,” Slade confided, spooning the gravy over his beef and potatoes.
“Oh?” Jordana took the gravy boat from him. When their fingers touched, she inwardly sighed. Any reason to touch Slade was a good one. Did he know how much she loved these moments? Jordana didn’t think so.
“Yeah,” Slade said, digging hungrily into the food. “My mother used to make the best gravy in the world. And yours tastes just as good.”
It hurt Jordana to see him wolfing down the food as if he’d never had a home-cooked meal in his life. As she sat there eating with Slade, she realized that he probably cooked for himself. “You don’t make gravy?” she wondered.
Embarrassed, Slade murmured, “No. I don’t know how.”
Grieving for Slade, for the loss of his mother at such an early age, she saw how much he appreciated the gravy she’d made. “It’s something that’s easy to make,” she assured him. “If you’re interested, I can show you how some time.”
“I’d like that,” Slade said, meaning it. How beautiful Jordana looked in that moment. Her cheeks were pink, her blue eyes sparkling with joy. As Slade’s gaze slid down to her mouth he felt his lower body suddenly go hot with longing. For her. There was such grace in every movement she made, whether it was spooning out gravy on his potatoes or the simple act of eating her food.
Uncomfortable with his neediness of her, Slade found himself helpless in the wake of his epiphany. Her shoulder-length hair had been tamed into a pony tail at the nape of her neck. A few long, black strands of hair dipped across her unmarred brow. Slade fought the need to slide his fingers across those strands and tame them back into place behind her delicate ear. Why hadn’t he seen her beauty before this? Had the surgery and anesthesia done it? Shaking himself internally, Slade felt confused. His whole world had been upended with Diablo goring his thigh.
“How soon can I get back to the ranch?”
“Probably in two or three days.”
“Not any earlier?”
“No. That artery has to heal up to a certain point.”
Slade scowled. He continued to eat as if he were starved. Really, he hadn’t realized how he’d hungered for a good home-cooked meal. “Are you going out tomorrow to ride Stormy?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thirty miles. Why?”
“I was just thinking I could hitch a ride back with you, was all.”
Giving him a merry look, Jordana said, “Bed rest means exactly that, Slade. You don’t get to go home right now. You need complete rest.”
The look he gave her melted her heart. Despite his condition, Slade was a powerful, masculine cowboy. Jordana thought that he was the perfect iconic cowboy of the nineteenth century. Strong, silent and enduring. The last cowboy. She saw the worry in his gray eyes, the anxiety about his ranch on the brink of foreclosure. It was easy to read Slade’s face right now. Jordana was grateful that his armored mask wasn’t in place. It probably had to do with his surgery. Trauma and surgery were a powerful combination to strip anyone of their normal personality traits.
“Well,” he murmured, a catch in his deep voice, “this feels like home to me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HOME! THE WORD HELD such power for Jordana. After dinner Slade had reluctantly agreed to sit in his hated wheelchair and watch some TV in the living room. She placed the dishes in the dishwasher. Afterward, she went to her office at the other end of her home and answered calls from her patients. She was never without her pager, and although her clinic was involved only in a Functional Medicine specialty, her patients had questions that needed to be answered. That took an hour of her time.
Slade heard Jordana’s phone ring just as she walked through the living room and into the kitchen. She was a model of efficiency, and he reminded himself she was a physician. In some ways, her life wasn’t her own; it belonged to her patients. And he was intensely jealous of them right now. Inwardly, he wanted that time with her. Watching television was something Slade rarely did. He was simply too busy out at the ranch with things that were far more important and that needed to be handled on a daily, ongoing basis.
Trying not to eavesdrop on the phone call, he realized it was something serious. Jordana hung up.
She popped into the living room. “Slade, I’ve got to go to the hospital.”
“Okay,” he said, frowning. “Do you ever get any time off?”
Jordana smiled a little and picked up her purse from a table in the corner. “I’m out riding Stormy every time you said I needed to, don’t I?” She saw he was looking weary. “Do you want to go back to bed? I could wheel you in there before I leave.”
Shaking his head, Slade said, “No, I’ll stay up. Will you be back soon?”
“I don’t know,” she said, lifting her hand to tell him goodbye as she headed for the front door.
The door closed with finality. Slade felt suddenly and inexplicably abandoned. He knew it was silly to feel that way. For so long he’d wanted quality time with Jordana. And now, this. Running his fingers through his short hair, Slade realized he was emotionally raw from the surgery. Jordana had warned him about that. Looking around the warm apricot-colored living room that had several living plants sitting here and there, he realized just how much he missed having a woman in his life.
It wasn’t a pretty picture, Slade decided. This injury had set him back in uncounted ways. And being here in Jordana’s home simply reminded him of something else he didn’t have. Unwillingly, he continued to absorb the room from where he sat. There were dark green drapes at the huge picture window. The evening sunlight was making the sky a paler blue. The overstuffed velveteen green and brown chairs made the golden pine floor prominent. There wasn’t a bit of dirt or dust anywhere. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he was in a nineteenth-century home.
The furniture was made of blond oak, and it was old and stained from probably a hundred years of use or more, Slade guessed. The stained-glass floor lamp and table lamps reminded him
of Tiffany’s work. On one wall was a series of photos, and he pushed his wheelchair in that direction to get a better look at them. They were all family photos. He saw a baby photo and thought it might be Jordana. Next to that, she was six years old, her parents on either side of her as she sat on a black-and-white pinto Shetland pony. At six, Jordana had a cute little red cowboy hat, a leather vest and red bandanna around her neck. A smile cracked his tense veneer.
For the next fifteen minutes, Slade hungrily absorbed Jordana’s life. He saw photos of her riding in dressage classes, in another, holding a trophy and smiling with relief that she’d won. There was always a horse in her life, Slade realized. He’d taken her for little more than a greenhorn who rode English and did a little bit of dressage. But these photos told a whole different story. An impressive one.
As he moved down a few feet and observed her college years, she was still riding in dressage and endurance contests. And he saw her in a white lab coat during her residency years. Another photo showed her holding up her stethoscope and smiling triumphantly. Slade guessed that’s when her seven-year residency was over and she was now free to be an E.R. physician. Moving his wheelchair back to the center of the room, his mind spun. The television was on, but he didn’t hear it.
By the time Jordana arrived home, it was dark. Slade had had plenty of time to digest her life and how badly he’d erred regarding it and her. When the door opened, his heart leaped. As Jordana walked into the living room, she smiled a little tiredly over at him.
“How are you doing? Bored to death?” she teased. Slade looked thoughtful, not tense as before. His mouth softened and was no longer a thinned line. “The pain meds must be working. You look relaxed.”
Slade watched her progress to the table and said, “Do you ever take care of yourself?”
Startled, Jordana suddenly laughed. “Of course I do, Slade.” She came up to him and peered down at his recently washed jeans. Barely touching the area where the dressing over the wound was, she murmured, “This looks good. I don’t see any seepage.” Looking up, mere inches from his face, she asked, “No pain?” Jordana was sorely tempted to lean just a little bit forward and kiss that masculine mouth of his! Shaken by that need, she straightened and removed her hand from his thigh.
The Last Cowboy Page 12