She nodded curtly. “Me, too.”
Chapter Eleven
Whump.
Hank’s back slammed into the dirt. He struggled to draw breath into his shell-shocked lungs as Jackhammer bucked and kicked his way on down the arena.
“Hot dang, folks! Wasn’t that a beaut of a bronc ride? It was close, but the judges say this cowboy made eight seconds before ol’ Jack hammered him off! We’ll get a score in just a minute!”
Hank’s lungs sucked in air a split second before three ugly faces cut off his vision of the dark Texas sky.
“You okay, son?” asked an old codger.
Another squatted beside him. “We gonna need the stretcher?”
The rodeo clown leaned over him. “See if he knows what his name is.”
Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but Hank sat up to satisfy them. “Hell.”
“He says his name is Hell!” the clown called back to the cowboys lining the deck of the chutes.
The crowd caught the joke, and a relieved laugh traveled around the arena. Applause and cheers followed as Hank stood and shrugged off the support the old codger offered him.
“Credit Hank Eden with a score of eighty-two!” the announcer proclaimed. “First place!”
Hank staggered over to the fence and leaned against it. First place. Hell.
The crowd renewed their cheers, but Hank barely heard them. After two months of riding and roping from Montana to Texas, he couldn’t tell a hoot from a holler, and could care less.
Had he gotten old, or had he just forgotten how hard life on the rodeo circuit was? The life of a rodeo hand was hell. Pure and simple. The only part he didn’t hate was being on the back of a bronc or a roping horse, chasing a steer or calf down the arena. But that lasted only a few seconds a day.
Every joint in his body ached, especially his old knee injury. Every muscle screamed in protest every time he lifted himself onto his roping horse. The few brain cells he had left cried “Go home!” every time he dropped onto the bare back of a bronc.
Hank’s gaze fell on the gate. The call of home was so strong tonight he could taste it on the wind. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d taken several steps toward the exit.
He forced himself to stop. How could he go home? Though her body was in California, a piece of Alex would remain in every corner of the Garden. He’d hear the echo of her laugh every time he passed Maisy’s stall. He’d walk in the back door at night and expect to smell her cooking. He’d sit on the porch swing and want to draw her warmth against him. And he’d remember the pain of her words stabbing through him.
It’s not you that I love. It’s the Garden.
Pain stabbed Hank anew, like a pitchfork driving into his chest.
So why not go home? Would he hurt any more at the Garden than he did now? He didn’t see how that was possible, not and go on living. At the Garden he’d have the comfort of home surrounding him. At least she’d given him that. He’d have his family and his work and that would be enough...until the pain went away.
Hank pulled open the exit gate. To hell with rodeo. To hell with gold buckles. He was going home to stay.
Travis and Claire would probably give him grief, but he didn’t care. He’d just sit on the swing and ignore them until they gave up.
He stopped in mid-stride.
Hell no, he wouldn’t ignore them. He’d sit his brother and sister down on that swing and tell them exactly what he thought about them forcing him to leave.
Smiling in anticipation, Hank hitched the horse trailer and loaded his two roping horses. Then he climbed in the truck and cranked up the engine. Nine-thirty. If he drove straight through, he would make it home by morning.
“Travis? Claire? Anybody home?” Hank called as he shed his hat and boots in the mud room.
No answer, but he didn’t expect there to be. Claire was probably at her summer job and Travis out with the cattle. He could get a few hours sleep before he had to face them.
But first a bite to eat. He wrinkled his nose as he stepped into the kitchen. The odor of Claire’s cooking lingered heavy in the air.
The memory of Alex standing by the stove, greeting him with a smile and the heavenly scent of pot roast, stopped him dead in his tracks. But he pushed through the pain and walked over to the cabinet by the phone where the peanut butter was kept. Why hadn’t Travis hired a decent cook?
A red light blinking on the counter caught his eye. So that was the damned answering machine he’d gotten every other time he’d called home.
Hank studied it a minute, then pushed a button labeled Playback and after a loud tone, a male voice said, “This is Matt Duvall from Henryetta, Oklahoma. Got a check on a heelin’ mare your brother Hank lent me down in Fort Smith and wondered could I buy her. On the road most days. You know how it is. I check my messages, though.” Matt left his number.
Hank pulled the peanut butter from the cabinet. He remembered Matt. The Oklahoma cowboy had a good ride that night. He’d call him later.
After another loud beep, Keith Pascall down at the feed store told Travis the vaccine he ordered was in.
Hank reached for the bread and began spreading the peanut butter. This machine was mighty convenient. Maybe he should’ve listened to Travis years ago when he wanted Hank to buy one. He had to admit it had been nice to leave messages when he called with some instruction about the ranch he’d forgotten to give Travis, instead of having to call back until his brother was home. It had been nice to hear Claire’s voice tell him to leave a message, even if he couldn’t talk to her. He’d ended up calling several times a week, and now he knew why. He wanted to come home.
After another loud beep Mallory Hughes told Claire to call when she got home. Hank smiled at a tidbit Mallory added about the boy she was dating. He lifted his sandwich as the next message began.
“Travis? Claire? You there?”
Hank froze. It was Alex. He’d recognize that sweet Southern drawl the rest of his life.
“I guess I missed you again. I can’t get used to Pacific time.”
Again? She’d called before? Why the hell—?
“Just calling to get my semi-weekly report on how Hank’s doing. Gosh, I miss you guys. Well, I’ll call later when I know you’re home. ’Bye.”
Hank’s heart hammered in his chest.
The machine beeped again, then whirred, clicked and finally stopped.
Hank stared at it as if he could see through the phone wires. Then he dropped his sandwich and pressed Playback again. Did she say what he thought she said? She’d been calling several times a week to see how he was doing in the rodeo?
Uncertain how to fast forward, he had to listen through the first three messages before he came to hers. Yep, that was exactly what she said. Why would she do that unless she cared more than she’d let on? A helluva lot more.
The back door opened, and Travis appeared in the kitchen doorway. “What are you doing home? I thought you were headed to New Mexico this week.”
Hank glared across the room. “How long has she been calling?”
To his credit, Travis didn’t pretend not to know who he was talking about. His gaze fell to the answering machine. “Didn’t think you’d know how to work the damn thing.”
“Wasn’t hard to figure out,” Hank growled. “How long?”
Travis met his gaze squarely. “She called as soon as she arrived in San Francisco. She’s been calling a couple of times a week. I think Claire calls her some, too.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “To check up on us.”
“When she left, she made it clear she didn’t give a damn about us. She said she just loved the Garden.”
A muscle twitched in his brother’s left cheek. “She said she didn’t give a damn about you, not us.”
Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Then why is she so interested in my scores?”
Travis cussed and threw a dirty look at the answering machine. He searched Hank’s eyes a long moment, then pu
lled a hand along his jaw. He spun about and strode to the sink to fill a glass with water. “Why are you home?”
“I came home for good. Now answer my question.”
Travis looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean for good?”
“I mean I’m sick of rodeo so I came home. Now why is Alex calling?”
“What about the National Finals? What about the gold buckle you’ve always—”
“To hell with gold buckles!” Hank slammed both fists on the kitchen table. “You can be the Edens’ Gold Buckle Cowboy. I’m too old for the rodeo circuit, or too smart. Either way, I’m staying home and taking care of the Garden. Now if you don’t tell me why Alex has been calling, I’m going to—”
“Do you mean it? You’re home to stay?”
“Of course I mean it. I always mean—”
“‘What I say,’” Travis finished for him. He took a long swallow of water. “I remember.”
“Travis, I swear—”
“She loves you.”
The words stopped Hank like a brick wall. Breathing, pulse, brain activity—all bodily functions shut down until the meaning penetrated. Then everything went into overdrive. Hope swept through him like a brush fire, but he quickly stamped it out. “She told me she didn’t.”
“She lied.”
Hank stared at his brother, unable to comprehend. “Why the hell would she do that?”
“To make you leave. To send you back to the rodeo.”
Hank leaned forward on the table, afraid his knees were going to give out. “And you let her.”
“Hell, I helped her. So did Claire.”
The only reason Hank didn’t rush across the kitchen and put a dent in Travis’s square jaw was because he wanted information from him. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. You’d done enough sacrificing for us, Hank. We wanted to give something back.”
“So you kick me out of my home and send away the only woman I’ve ever loved. How can I ever thank you?”
Travis looked away at Hank’s sarcasm. He set his glass on the counter. “Sounds downright mean when you put it like that. But we meant it as a kindness.”
Hank plowed a hand back through his hair. “Maybe. But your kindness nearly killed me.”
“It nearly killed Alex, too, but she loved you enough to let you go. She knew you’d never be happy until you got what you’ve wanted all your life.”
“I wanted her,” Hank growled. “And I’m going to have her.”
Travis grinned in obvious relief. “You going to go get her? Good. She hates working for that uppity Frenchman.”
“Jackson Airport into its summer schedule?”
His brother nodded.
“Then there’s a flight to Boise in a couple of hours. If I time it just right I can make it to that restaurant before it closes. Do you have the address?”
“Yep. Want me to drive you to Jackson?”
Hank shook his head as he started upstairs to take a quick shower. “I think you’ve done enough, little brother.”
“Non! Non! Non!” Etienne Buchaude threw his hands into the air. “You do not julienne carrots with a paring knife.”
The master chef jerked the small knife from Alex’s hand and gave her one with a long, thin blade. “Voici.”
Alex forced herself to smile at the pompous little Frenchman. “Merci, Monsieur Buchaude.”
He smiled haughtily, like a king with a scullery maid. “You’re learning, Alexandra.”
Afraid if she smiled at him another second she’d use the knife to julienne more than carrots, Alex returned her attention to the vegetables. She hated the way he used her full name. She hated the way he blew into the kitchen, criticized everything everyone was doing, then stormed out, muttering in French. Like he was doing now.
She wished she’d never heard of Etienne Buchaude or his restaurant. She wanted to be back in Wyoming, where the people appreciated her cooking. And didn’t give a damn which knife she used to cut carrots.
Misery rushed in, like it always did when she thought about the Garden, which was at least a hundred times a day. Would the pain ever go away?
She took a deep breath and pushed the memories to the back of her mind.
Here no one appreciated her cooking. She never even saw the customers. She was stuck in the back of the kitchen from four until eleven every evening except Mondays.
Alex sighed, glanced at her boss’s retreating back, then put down the long, thin knife and picked up the paring knife. It gave her more control. She wasn’t going to slice her fingers for anybody, much less an egomaniac like—
A commotion at the swinging doors scattered her thoughts. Was a customer trying to get into the kitchen? She craned her neck to see around the other chefs wearing white aprons and tall hats. Whoever it was picked a bad time to try it. Monsieur Buchaude forbade anybody but staff in his kitchen. Even now he was rushing over to—
Was that a cowboy hat?
The brief glimpse was snatched away as the master chef thrust himself into the crowd of waiters, busboys and chefs trying to push the intruder out.
Alex shook her head. She was hallucinating. It was just wishful thinking. Even if it were a cowboy hat, millions of people wore—
“Alex, where the hell are you?”
The shout penetrated every cell in her body. Hank. She’d recognize his bellow anywhere.
The group surrounding him stopped struggling and turned as one to stare at her. But their curiosity barely registered.
Hank was here. How?... Why?...
Her heart performed somersaults in her chest.
Monsieur Buchaude glowered at her. “This is your fault, Alexandra?”
“Let me pass.” Hank shoved through the restaurant workers. He stopped as soon as he saw her. His blue eyes bored into hers. “Alex.”
“Hank,” she whispered. Then she gathered her wits. “What are you doing here?”
Hank strode forward, put an arm behind her knees and swept her into his arms. “I came to take you home.”
Alex’s arms flew around his neck. Home. The word burned through her like strong liquor—warm, sweet, comforting. Oh, how she’d missed him.
He turned to leave, but the doors were blocked by Monsieur Buchaude.
“What is the meaning of this, Alexandra?”
“I don’t know, Monsieur Buchaude. I—”
“She quits,” Hank said, then strode forward. “Out of my way, little man.”
The chef scooted out of the way shouting curses in his native tongue.
As Hank shouldered the swinging doors open, Alex kicked her feet hard. “What do you think you’re doing, Hank Eden? Let me down this instant.”
“Hell, no.” He threaded his way through tables of richly dressed, gaping patrons.
Alex only stopped kicking when her foot sent a woman’s rhinestone and feather hat flying off her carefully coifed hair. Her face flaming, Alex buried her face against his neck. “Damn you, Hank Eden. You’ll pay for this!”
He placed his mouth against her ear and murmured, “Promise?”
His warm breath made Alex’s head suddenly light. As the restaurant receded from her mind, she closed her eyes and tightened her hold. She felt his heart pounding against her cheek and inhaled his familiar scent. Her own heart hammered in reply. These strong arms felt like home. She took a deep breath, savoring the moments wrapped in his warmth.
Reality intruded when he set her on her feet. They were in the parking lot of the exclusive restaurant, beside a rented black sport vehicle.
Hank reached into his pocket for keys.
Alex yanked the tall, poufy chefs hat from her head and backed away. “Are you out of your mind? I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Oh, yes, you are. I told you, I’m taking you home.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “What makes you think you can waltz in here and carry me out like a sack of feed?”
He gave up trying to find the right key and sp
un to face her. “Because you love me.”
Her breath caught, and she froze to the pavement. “How do...why do you think that? I told you—”
He took a step toward her. “Why else would you call the Garden several times a week to check on my progress in the rodeo?”
“Claire told you,” she said accusingly. “I knew she couldn’t keep her—”
“You told me. On the answering machine.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Admit it, Alex. You missed me.”
She stared into his sexy blue eyes. She shouldn’t tell him how miserable she’d been for the past two months. Shouldn’t let him know how each day was more painful than the last. Shouldn’t even hint that she couldn’t eat or sleep for worrying about him, that she didn’t give a damn about which sauce went with salmon and which with pork tenderloin. But God help her, she didn’t have the strength to drive him away again. “Yes, you sorry son of a cross-eyed snake. I missed you. There, I said it. Are you happy—”
Her words were cut off by his lips. Surprise held her stiff for an instant, then she wrapped her arms around him and poured all her love into the kiss.
Hank leaned her against the car and ground his hips into hers.
Alex felt his arousal and nearly wept with frustration. She wanted him so badly she ached. She tore her mouth away.
“Stop. Please!”
His head rose a bare inch from hers. He stared down at her, his breathing as labored as her own. “You’re right. We can’t make love here.”
“We can’t make love at all.” She tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Damn it, Alex, don’t go cold on me now,” he growled. “I’ve been living through hell the past two months, wanting you. And after that kiss, you can’t tell me you haven’t wanted me, too.”
Alex searched the face that had been haunting her dreams. That’s exactly what she should tell him. But she couldn’t summon the desire or the strength. “No, I can’t tell you that. It would be the biggest lie I ever told.”
“Then why are you pushing me away?”
Home Is Where Hank Is (Cowboys To The Rescue 1) Page 18