"Got it."
With a gentle tug, the cord came loose, and the hoof shifted into his palm. He brought it forward, past the foal's nose to its rightful place with the second hoof.
As another contraction bore down on the mare, he gave a gentle tug of both the hooves, and there was movement!
Within minutes, a healthy foal had been delivered onto its straw bed.
Chest heaving, relief rolling through him in a wave, he backed away, letting the mama, who moved with renewed energy, edge around to lick her foal clean.
Lila watched him from the opposite side of the stall where she'd backed against the wooden side, her eyes bright.
They'd done it. Together.
She picked up her phone and picking her way through the dirty hay around the mama and baby to join him.
He was covered in blood and other fluids and needed to make a run to the washroom.
"I'll be right back."
* * *
Lila froze as Ben turned to make for the washroom and she got a good look at his back.
The way he'd lain on his stomach, from where she'd been on the opposite side of the horse, she hadn't gotten a good look until now.
His back was scarred. A huge, ugly scar spiderwebbed across his otherwise unmarked skin.
The wound was low on his back, maybe just below his ribs.
And the past overlaid her present as she saw the teenage boy he would've been flying through the air after the bull had gored him.
No.
It couldn't have been Ben who'd saved her. She'd wiped memories of that day, stuffed them down, and never examined them, even through spates of talking with grief counselors.
It wasn't him. She must be mistaken.
She was still standing frozen, just outside the stall, when he returned.
He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, like a little kid might. The joy of what they'd just accomplished shone through every pore, but she'd lost it.
She reached for that joy, tried to find it again, but it proved elusive.
"What's wrong?" He came even with her, reached for her hand, but she pulled back.
"Your—" She swallowed against the break in her voice. "Your scar. How did you get it?"
One of his hands came up to touch a spot on his stomach, just beneath his ribs.
Where his eyes had been open and warm just moments ago, now they were wary .
"You know where, Lila."
She shook her head, but there was no denying the truth.
"But, you—"
He reached for her again, and again she evaded him. He frowned. "My dad started here when I was fifteen. We'd only been on the place a week and a half, but I thought for sure you'd remember it was me."
She hadn't put the two together. She'd never known who the boy was who'd saved her, and she'd been shipped off so quickly that she'd had to leave that grief behind.
But Ben had lived with this pain too.
"How long did it take?" she asked. "For you to recover?"
He shrugged. "Awhile. What does it matter? It's ancient history."
The wound might be a decade and a half in the past, but it didn't change the fact that she'd caused it.
Just like Andrea.
10
Lila stood in the barn for the second time on Christmas Eve. Almost Christmas day now.
She'd come back to the ranch to tell Ben she'd decided to sell. She'd handle the realtor from a distance. Find someone experienced in selling the whole property, cattle and all.
But all the yard lights had been on, and there'd been a commotion in the barn, and she'd never made it to the house.
The vet was there, and Lila's heart pounded painfully. Was it the mare? The new colt?
But Ben and one of his ranch hands were conversing outside the stall where he'd put the gelding they'd rescued—stolen—together.
"What's going on?"
Ben's head came up and the other man wandered away. When he caught site of her, he frowned, a muscle in his jaw ticking away. "Lila—"
He moved to intercept her.
Too late.
She caught sight of the vet bent over the gelding. The animal's mouth was covered in foam as it fought for what were obviously its last breaths. The vet was giving it an injection.
"No!"
Ben caught her as she lunged toward the stall door. He hauled her away from the scene and several yards down the corridor.
She beat his chest and shoulders with her fists, but he didn't let go, only held her tightly against him.
"Lila. Lila. He'd had pneumonia. He was too weak to fight it off."
She stopped struggling and rested her forehead between her clenched fists on his chest. "How long?"
"The vet diagnosed him that first morning."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because we were treating him. There wasn't anything else you could do."
His grip on her had gentled. His hands clasped her shoulders.
Grief sliced through her so profoundly she was sure she was bleeding all over him.
She never should have come back to Redbud Trails.
"Listen to me." He shook her shoulders slightly, the way he had the night he'd rescued her from the storm. "This is not your fault."
She shoved against his chest.
He let her go.
"How can you say that?" she railed at him. "If I'd done something sooner, it could have made a difference. I drove off and left that animal in a bad situation."
"So did I. So did every other person who drives down this road. If anyone's to blame, it's the man who owned him. Who neglected him."
She knew that. Logically, she knew it. But knowing did nothing to assuage the pain of losing an animal that didn't have to die.
"We can't save everyone, Lila."
His words dropped into her consciousness like a pin dropping. It was as if the whole world hushed.
All she could hear were her own breaths.
* * *
Ben knew he'd said the wrong thing when Lila's eyes shadowed.
"Lila—"
He reached for her, but she pulled away.
How many times had that happened since they'd met? He made an overture, and she turned him away.
How many rejections could he take? Maybe it was a game to her, he didn't know.
She still didn't say anything.
"Honey, sometimes you just have to let go. Move on."
She nodded. "I think you're right. I actually came tonight to tell you I've decided to sell."
Her chin wobbled slightly on the words, but she jerked it up stubbornly.
He wanted to argue with her, but something held him back. His intuition was screaming at him that there was more to it than this horse.
Maybe more to it than when she'd seen his scars and run off like a scared rabbit.
But he couldn't resist asking, "You sure you're not going to regret that later?"
She shrugged. Swiped at a fallen tear with the back of one hand. Her arms crossed over her chest like she was holding herself together. "I need to do that. Move on. It's been fifteen years. I can't live with this place pulling me down anymore."
He shook his head. "If it's about the incident with the bull..."
"That's only part of it," she snapped.
He shrugged off her defensive anger. "Maybe if you tell me the rest of it, it'll stop haunting you."
"I've had several therapists tell me the same thing." Her words were taunting, almost daring him to try.
But he saw behind the snappish anger to the wounded woman behind.
He sat with his back against a closed, empty stall. Patted the ground beside him.
He couldn't believe it when she actually joined him.
"My best friend was Andrea Patterson. We did everything together. Back then...she was the daredevil, not me."
He could see that. For all Lila's bluster and impetuousness, she was awfully OCD and logical.
"Her parents had a small spr
ead. We both rode. Loved to race. That spring had been particularly rainy, and she wanted to cross the creek, but I saw how swollen it was, and I didn't want to."
She took a breath, and he heard how close the tears were. He wanted to reach for her hand but suspected she would only shake him off.
"She dared me and called me a chicken baby, and we fought. I begged her not to, but she did it anyway. Her horse got swept up in the current, and so did she."
He turned to face her, his bent knee nudging her thigh. "That wasn't your fault. Kids do stupid things."
"I should have stopped her." She said the words woodenly, staring straight ahead.
"If she was anything as stubborn as you, I doubt you could've."
She shrugged. "Then I should have gone for help. Been the tattle tale she accused me of being."
He shook his head. He wasn't getting through to her. Maybe her pain was too old. Too deep.
"So you've spent fifteen years reinventing yourself as an impulsive danger-seeker. Even though you prefer not to let your hair down. And you line up your dishes when you eat."
Now her gaze cut to him. She glared hard enough, he wanted to check and see if the ends of his hair had singed.
"How'd you really get in that pen with the bull?"
She looked away, her chin raising.
"You didn't know it was in there," he surmised. "It was an accident."
"It wasn't."
A tear trickled down her cheek and dripped off of her jaw onto the packed floor.
She inhaled noisily. "My dad didn't want to hear me crying. He sent me to my room. Told me to cut it out. That it didn't change anything."
He could believe it. Tom had been tough as nails. Good with animals but not with people. Nothing tender about him. Likely he hadn't known how to deal with a twelve-year-old girl's grief. He was probably even grieving himself.
"I wanted to die, too," she whispered, dragging him out of his memories of Tom.
What?
"I knew that evil old bull was in the pen, and I hopped the fence. Walked out into the pen, yelling at him to come get me."
He would never forget seeing her standing in the middle of the corral, arms spread wide. That stitch in time was blistered to his memory.
"But then you rescued me." She bowed her head, wiped at the tears that were falling in earnest now. "You tossed me over the fence like I was a sack of feed. I hadn't even seen you—didn't even know what was happening."
And he'd gotten gored by the long-horn for his trouble.
"And you were hurt...and that was my fault too."
He'd spent weeks in the hospital, months recovering from the internal damage that one horn had caused him. But he'd never regretted it.
"I'm glad I did it," he said firmly. "Proud to wear this scar if it means the world still gets to have you in it."
He hated thinking of her lost and alone back then. No one to turn to. Her father would rather she shut up than express the grief that must've eaten her alive.
"I'm sorry your Pop didn't know how to help you get through that grief, and I'm sorry he sent you away from a place you loved, but I'm not sorry about jumping in that pen. I'd do it all over again."
Her lips parted, and the disbelief in her eyes spoke volumes.
Because I love you.
The words stuck just behind his sternum. It was a heck of a time to realize it, when she was vulnerable, when something new had happened to hack at her grief.
Why would she believe him anyway? When she made it a habit to push him away and keep him at arms' length.
Instead, because he wasn't quite that brave, he said, "What happened back then doesn't change the way I feel about you. I'd like you to stay."
11
Christmas morning dawned bright and sunny.
Maybe some folks wished for a white Christmas, but Ben would take what he got.
He'd gone to bed frustrated, depressed. Lila hadn't responded to his admission that he wanted her to stay. She'd been quiet and reserved and bade him goodbye, leaving without another glance at the horse they'd put down. He'd watched her leave and wondered how he'd survive when she left for good. Then slept fitfully.
But this morning he woke with a sense of hope and determination.
She wasn't gone yet.
He had one more day to convince her to stay. And not just any day. Christmas.
Miracles happened on Christmas.
And maybe he'd stopped believing that when Mia died, but that was his own fault. It didn't mean miracles stopped happening. Just that he'd been unable to see him.
Lila needed a miracle.
And he was just the cowboy to give it to her.
So he got on the phone and started making calls.
* * *
She hadn't been at the apartment. He'd pounded on her door, even though her Chevelle hadn't been in its assigned parking spot. He'd waited in the cold for a half hour before deciding to take another tack.
When he returned to the ranch an hour later, he found her car half-hidden behind the barn, but she wasn't in the big house or the barn.
Which meant she was on the property somewhere on foot.
He saddled up two horses and set out to find her. She'd mentioned the creek when she'd talked about losing her friend, so that's where he headed.
He reached the stream and searched for her. He was about to turn away when he spotted her. She was sitting with legs crossed on top of a bluff overlooking the creek at its deepest point. Her brown jacket blended with the dry winter grasses, and her hair blew free in the wind.
Her hair was down.
He ground-tied the horses and approached on foot, his boots crunching in the dry grasses.
She didn't look up when he sat next to her, just stared out at the ice-encrusted water, sparkling in the late-morning sun.
He took her hand. Her skin was chilled. How long had she been out here? It couldn't have been that long, because he'd had folks coming and going all morning, even though it was a holiday. For his special project.
"I like your hair down."
It curled around her face and down her back, though not as wild as it had been when Velma had taken out her braid.
"You were right yesterday," she said softly, a catch in her voice. "It's time to stop pretending I'm someone I'm not."
He threaded their fingers together, a little surprised when she allowed it. "I like who you are."
She breathed out a huff through her nose, turning her face a little away from him. "I'm not as selfless as your wife was."
"It's not a competition. You're as different as night and day, but that doesn't mean I can't"—he stumbled—"have feelings for both of you."
He could feel her pulling away even as he hung on to her hand.
It was time to lay it all on the line. She deserved nothing less.
"I brought you a gift."
Now she jerked away from him, looking wildly around, though he was glad she didn't move any closer to the hill. He'd hate to see her tumble into that freezing water below.
He swallowed his fear and blurted, "It's my heart. It's yours. Whether you want it or not, you've got it."
She went still, her chin pointed away from him. She was like a greenbroke colt that had sensed danger, ready to run at the slightest provocation.
So of course he provoked her. "I love you, Lila."
Slowly, so slowly, she turned to face him. Her eyes searched his and gave him the courage to say the rest.
"I said it wrong yesterday. I said I wanted you to stay, but what I meant was..." He swallowed hard, but his voice still held a catch when he spoke. "Please don't leave."
She inhaled a trembling breath, and he stepped closer, reaching out one hand to her.
She stepped into the circle of his arms, and the cinch around his chest loosened slightly. He tucked her in close, brushed a kiss against her forehead. "Don't leave me," he whispered against the crown of her head.
He hadn't won her yet. He could tell by the te
nse way she held herself.
"It's time to come home," he whispered.
"I don't know if I can," she whispered back.
He hugged her closer, dropped his head so his chin was near her ear. "It's okay to be scared. If you need to grieve, I'll be here to hold you."
He felt her hands flex against his back. Like a colt that wanted to give in, wanted to stop fighting the bridle.
"Trust me," he whispered, squeezing his eyes closed and praying for all he was worth for his Christmas miracle.
* * *
Lila was in a daze as she allowed Ben to tug her toward the two saddled horses he'd left several yard from where she'd been sitting.
She recognized the two geldings. She'd admired them when she'd been in the big barn.
She followed Ben, trusting him, all the way up to the palomino paint, where she balked.
Ben didn't let go of her hand. Her protector.
The man who'd taken care of her. Rescued her.
Loved her.
She didn't know if she could trust in his love. Did she dare?
"You haven't ridden since it happened," he said, and it wasn't a question.
She'd been bucked off of the horse of life and had never had the guts to get back on.
She wasn't like him. He'd lost his wife and their unborn baby, but he hadn't curled up in a ball and let life pass him by.
Neither had he stuffed his grief down and pretended to live.
He'd just lived. Allowed himself to grieve and then, to fall in love again.
How could she refuse to get on the horse?
She let go of Ben. Felt his deep inhale from feet away. He expected her to pull away, to run, because that's what she'd shown him.
Could she give him something different now?
She raised both hands and stepped closer to the palomino, allowing him to accept her scent, then touched the sides of his face.
He was a gentle soul, this horse. She could see it in his eyes.
She let her hands roam up his neck and down his back.
The motion was familiar as she tucked her boot in the stirrup and swung her opposite leg over the saddle. She settled in the seat. It felt so right.
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