Cowboy for Keeps

by Cathy McDavid

  “Señor Conner, está bien?” Javier called through the darkness.

  “I’m fine.” Conner would have to deal with the cholla after he got the colt. It would be ugly and hurt like hell. “Come on, boy. Make this easy for both of us.”

  He crept forward, but the colt did no more than swish his stubby tail. After all his antics, he chose now to stand still? Conner hesitated briefly before placing his hand on the animal’s rump. This would surely get him moving.

  It did, only not in the direction of his mother.

  The colt hopped twice on his hind legs like a sprinter revving up for the start of a race. Without warning, he kicked out, planting both back hooves square in the center of Conner’s chest. With an angry squeal, he charged out of the cholla patch.

  The colt was small, but packed a punch. Conner stumbled, struggling to gather his legs under him. For a second, he thought he’d succeeded, but didn’t count on the gopher hole his right heel plunged into.

  He toppled backward, landing on a particularly large cholla and crying out as hundreds of stickers pierced his flesh. He vaguely heard Javier call out his name.

  Conner didn’t move. Not so much as a finger. He didn’t dare. He was in serious trouble and the slightest movement would only intensify the pain.

  Where was Javier? He must be trying to figure out what to do with the horses.

  No tree, no bushes.

  Conner was royally screwed.

  He gritted his teeth. Seconds dragged by, turning into minutes. He didn’t speak. Simply breathing caused enough agony.

  Javier’s face suddenly appeared above him, floating in the darkness like a helium-filled balloon.

  “Help me up,” Conner choked out.

  “Esto afectará.”

  “I know it will hurt. Just do it.”

  Javier grabbed Conner’s hands, the only part of his upper body free of cholla stickers. “Uno, dos, tres, quatro.”

  Quatro? How high was he going to count?

  “Cinco.” Javier pulled.

  Conner didn’t scream. But the stars twinkling in the night sky were nothing compared to the ones exploding behind his closed eyelids.

  Chapter Ten

  “Conner! Are you all right?” Dallas hurried toward him as he awkwardly climbed down from his horse, barely beating Gavin.

  “Don’t come near me,” Conner barked through clenched teeth.

  She halted in her tracks. What was wrong with her? Of course he didn’t want anyone near him. Not with what appeared to be a thousand cholla stickers imbedded in his jacket.

  “What can I do to help? Should I call Caitlin?”

  Gavin’s sister-in-law would know the right treatment. Maybe she’d come over, even though it was well past dinnertime and she and Ethan had an infant at home.

  “I don’t need a nurse,” Conner grumbled. “I can handle this myself.”

  “Seriously?” She took a tentative step toward him, wincing when she saw the remaining cholla clusters still clinging to him. “And how exactly will that work? You wave a magic wand?”

  Javier came over, made a sweeping motion with his hand. “I try to...I use a stick.”

  Dallas understood that to mean he’d brushed off as many of the clusters as he could. Unfortunately, the cacti’s built-in defense was to leave stickers behind. Lots and lots and lots of them.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded when Conner started leading his horse away.

  “Putting this fellow up for the night and seeing to the mare and colt.”

  Men! Honestly. Why did they feel it was necessary to always act tough?

  “There are plenty of people to do that.” She glanced around. In addition to Javier, another wrangler and three late-staying customers had gathered to watch.

  “She’s right.” Gavin relieved Conner of his horse’s reins. He already had hold of the injured mare. “You need to look after yourself.”

  Finally! Someone making sense.

  “Go easy with her,” Conner warned.

  For the first time since he’d ridden into the ranch, Dallas’s attention was drawn away from him to the mare and colt.

  Though it was too dark to see much, they looked unchanged. No, wait. The faint outline of ribs could be seen on the mare’s flanks. And her head drooped, from fatigue and loss of strength. The colt, though active and alert, was also underweight.

  Dallas’s heart ached.

  How fortunate that the pair had been found before winter set in and their odds of survival plummeted.

  There had been a cost to the rescue, however. Poor Conner. He had to be suffering.

  “Will you call the vet out?” she asked Gavin.

  “I already did. He’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

  “Not tonight?”

  “He had an emergency.”

  “This is an emergency, too. Call another vet.”

  “The mare’s survived this long with the arrows,” Gavin said reassuringly. “She’ll last another twelve hours.”

  Dallas consoled herself with the knowledge that the mare and colt would be spending the night in a clean, roomy stall with all the fresh water and food they could consume.

  She watched Gavin lead them to the barn, wondering again what kind of cruel individual would intentionally hurt an innocent animal. It was a question she asked repeatedly while volunteering at the animal shelters. Sadly, this wasn’t the only, or even the worst, case of abuse she’d seen.

  Javier and the other wrangler followed with the remaining horses, including Conner’s.

  She turned and discovered him walking stiffly in the direction of his apartment. She broke into a run.

  “I’m fine, Dallas,” he muttered when she reached him.

  “You need help. No reason to suffer alone.”

  To her surprise, he offered no additional protests. Maybe he wasn’t so tough, after all.

  “Your secret will be safe with me,” she said.

  “What secret?”

  “I won’t tell anyone you broke down and cried when the stickers came out.”

  He stared at her. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I’ll bite on a wooden spoon.”

  “Now you’re joking.”

  Inside the apartment he flipped on a light switch. The sitting area contained well-worn, hand-me-down furniture from at least three decades ago. In the kitchen, he turned on another light. Someone—Conner?—had added a few homey touches. Pictures near the door. A colorful afghan on the couch. Painted ceramic canisters lined up in a row on the counter.

  Dallas could do a lot with the empty white wall behind the TV.

  Despite the age and condition of the furnishings, the place was cozy and comfortable and perfectly adequate. It was also small. A third the size of her town house and possibly a sixth the size of Conner’s house.

  “I know it’s not much.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, careful not to come in contact with anything.

  “I like it,” she announced. And she did. It suited this Conner, the one who made his living as a ranch hand.

  Carefully, he began to peel off his jacket, one inch at a time. His face contorted in agony, though he didn’t utter a sound.

  “You need that wooden spoon?”

  He tried to chuckle but wound up coughing.

  “Let me help.” She reached for his jacket collar.

  “Go slow,” he said. “Really slow.”


  “Maybe we should try fast. Like ripping off a bandage.”

  She felt him tense beneath her hands. “Do it.”

  “Okay.” She readied herself. “Say when.”

  He drew in a breath and nodded.

  She pulled the jacket off his shoulders and down his back. At his wrists, it bunched and refused to budge.

  Conner swore ripely.

  She half expected him to jump out of his chair. Or faint. That was what she’d have done.

  Removing the jacket the rest of the way wasn’t nearly as difficult. Thank goodness for small favors. Setting it on the counter to deal with later, she examined his back.

  “How bad is it?” he asked, his breathing fast and shallow.

  She waited for her voice to return to normal. “Not very.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “A little.”

  Every square inch of his back had stickers. His arms and shoulders weren’t much better.

  He started unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Are you ready for this?” she asked doubtfully. The second round would surely hurt as much as the first. “We can wait a little bit.”

  “I want to get it over with.”

  That made two of them. Just looking at him was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  They removed his shirt the same way they had his jacket, swiftly and with one tug. Conner didn’t swear this time, although his face turned three shades paler.

  Dallas examined his bare back. It resembled a bed of nails. “You have to go to the emergency clinic.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t walk around with all these stickers in you.” How would he sleep? Train horses? Dress?

  “I won’t have to. You’re going to pull them out.”

  “Uh-uh. No way!”

  Dallas had stepped on cholla before. She knew the barbed tips could penetrate half an inch and be excruciating to remove. Two or three were bad enough. Conner had hundreds.

  “I know a trick.”

  “It had better be good.”

  He explained the process, which involved snipping the ends of the stickers until only a tiny bit protruded. Then they’d soak his skin with hot towels. When the spines were sufficiently softened, they’d slip right out.

  Dallas had her doubts, but fetched scissors from the kitchen drawer. They were old and, in her opinion, unsanitary. “It’s not too late to change your mind about the clinic.”

  He shook his head. “Gavin’s dad taught us this when we were in Boy Scouts.”

  “You must have a long history of getting into trouble.”

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  “Hmm.” She’d leave that discussion for another day. “Do you have any tweezers?”

  “Bathroom medicine cabinet. Clean towels are on the shelf to the right of the sink.”

  After snipping the stickers, which was quite an operation, she soaked and then heated the hand towels in the microwave. Exercising tremendous care, she laid the first towel on his arm.

  “Too hot?”

  “Perfect.”

  Conner flinched but said nothing when she inadvertently pulled on a sticker.

  “Sorry.”

  “Just keep going.”

  After she was done arranging the towels, she studied her handiwork. Poor, poor guy.

  They chatted while the towels cooled. He told her about capturing the mare and his subsequent run-in with the cactus.

  “And that damn colt didn’t get a single sticker in him,” he finished with a laugh.

  She was glad to see Conner’s spirits rising.

  After repeating the process several times, his shoulders and back were a bright scarlet.

  “Try removing one of the stickers.”

  “Are you positive?” Her hands threatened to tremble at the prospect. “The clinic’s open till ten.”

  “Quit being such a whiner.”

  “I don’t whine. Not a lot.”

  She took the tweezers and ever so gently tested one sticker. Before she even realized it, the thorn had come out. She went giddy with relief. “It worked!”

  “Don’t stop.”

  She kept going, but not every barb cooperated. She left the stubborn ones for later. About three dozen remained when she finished. Much better than hundreds.

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Heat more towels.”

  “How ’bout we take a break?” she suggested. “No offense, but you look like you could use one.”

  The lines around his mouth had deepened, and his knuckles were still white from clutching the tabletop.

  “I want this over with.”

  Arguing with him was useless.

  “You know, you saved that mare and her colt. They wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

  He hissed as she worked on a particularly deep sticker. “I’d like to think someone else would have found them if we didn’t.”

  “Any ideas where she came from?”

  “No. She has a brand on her left hindquarter. I don’t recognize it, but maybe Gavin will.”

  “Are brands registered? Is there any way to research it?”

  “They are registered. With the Arizona Department of Agriculture. Of course the horse could be from another state.”

  Dallas used the tweezers to drop another sticker into the saucer she’d been using to collect them. The amount was staggering.

  “What if I take a picture of the brand? Send it to the media as a follow-up.”

  “It’d probably be faster than contacting the Department of Agriculture.”

  Finally, the last sticker was out. Dallas wasn’t sure which of them breathed the larger sigh.

  “We should put some antiseptic on you.” She skimmed her fingertips ever so lightly over Conner’s inflamed and irritated skin.

  “There’s a bottle of peroxide in the medicine cabinet.”

  “That’s going to sting.”

  “Can’t be any worse than landing on a cholla.” He closed his eyes.

  Was it her imagination or did he enjoy her light caresses? As much pain as he had to be in, it couldn’t feel good.

  And yet he relaxed for the first time all evening, leaning into her fingers. Even his breathing slowed, and the rigid lines around his mouth softened.

  This was madness. She couldn’t continue stroking him. What was she thinking? What was he thinking?

  “Nice,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

  There was her answer.

  She moved away. “I’ll get the peroxide.”

  While she was in the bathroom, he retrieved a clean T-shirt from the dresser in the sleeping alcove. Not quite a room, the space was separated from the rest of the apartment by a half wall.

  An image of the spacious master bedroom at Conner’s house came to her. She’d seen it only once, from the doorway. His old girlfriend had taken a group of mostly female guests on a tour during a holiday party.

  Did he miss his house?

  Did he miss his model ex-girlfriend?

  What difference did it make to Dallas one way or the other? She dismissed all thoughts of Conner—for about five seconds. Until he returned to the kitchen, white T-shirt in hand.

  She’d never seen him shirtless. Not before tonight, now, without a million cholla spikes distracting her, she took in the defined muscles and trim physique she’d only guessed. She didn’t recover until he sat down, his back to her once again.

 
When she spoke, her voice was thready. “Do you, um, have any cotton balls? For the peroxide.”

  “Afraid you’re going to have to make do with tissues.”

  She snatched several from the box on the kitchen counter, then uncapped the peroxide.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” Conner jerked when she dabbed the antiseptic on his back. “Not so rough.”

  She snorted. “You let me pull a couple hundred stickers out of you and didn’t make a peep. Yet you complain about a little peroxide.”

  “I was in shock.”

  “And now?”

  He turned around in the chair, his gaze connecting with hers. “Now I’m not.”

  Careful, she thought. They were crossing the line again. And it wasn’t all Conner’s fault. Hadn’t she just spent several moments running her fingers over his back for no reason other than it felt nice?

  He started to rise, and lifted a hand toward her cheek.

  She waited for the electric thrill his touch always elicited, only he hesitated.

  They were at the edge. The point of no return. They either acted on their attraction or put a stop to it once and for all.

  “Conner, wait. We shouldn’t—”

  He fell into the chair and scrubbed his palm over his face. “You’re right. The timing stinks. For both of us.”

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  Was she? A part of her would have liked him to ignore her warning, haul her off her feet and into his arms.

  “Come on,” she said lightly, and twirled a finger, indicating for him to turn around. “I’m almost done. Oh, and here’s some ibuprofen I found in the cabinet.”

  “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  She was coming to the ranch, but would he see her? There was a difference. A big one.

  “I’ll be here. I want to check on the mare after the vet’s treated her, and take some pictures of her brand. I’m not sure when—I have an appointment first. At the doctor’s. For a checkup. Richard’s taking me.”

  The reminder of her circumstances had the desired effect. Conner didn’t make any more personal remarks. Neither did he walk her to her car, which had to be a first.