Rough Road Home (The Circle D series)

by Harders, Audra

  “I can’t,” he countered, brushing aside the feeling that there might be more truth there than he cared to admit. She’d become his anchor of sorts for a few hundred miles. He wanted to make the most of the feeling while he had a chance. “The back of the lodge is this way.”

  Rachel looked around, disoriented in the dark until she honed in on the faint glow of porch light. From there, she glanced around but he could tell she found no direction. “I can’t find it.”

  Feeling renewed, Nick slipped his hand over hers and guided it to his arm. “Hang on, I’ll get us there.”

  * * *

  Rachel stared at the denim clad arm equating the offer for safety to the sea siren’s song. She didn’t want to touch him, she didn’t want to be lured in by his kindness. He was right, she had made decisions for him she had no right to make, and in retaliation, he’d gone for blood. She fingered the power of his biceps beneath the stout cloth. Cowboys dreamed and they always dreamed big. How many times had she heard her Dad talk about his dreams before he drove off to another rodeo? Her Mom talked about hers too, but Dad never listened.

  Just as Nick would never listen to her.

  They stepped along the line of trees toward the lodge. Strong and warm, his riding arm, a treasure more precious than gold, held her tightly to his side. No woman could compete with the thrill that came when a bull rider climbed on the back of a bull and wrapped the rope around his hand, pounding his gloved fingers into a tight fist. The yells of encouragement from the crowd, the slaps and well wishes from his fellow riders. Her fingers dug deeper into the fabric of his jacket as she thought of ride after ride her father had won. Cowboy and bull became one when the gate flew open and only by sheer strength and rhythm did the cowboy emerge the eight-second winner. A flesh and blood woman couldn’t compete with that kind of mistress.

  A bull rider’s dreams didn’t mesh with anyone else’s. Maybe that was the way life needed to be. A sense of release seemed to bless her deduction.

  “Nick?” She cleared her throat as she tilted her head and struggled to see his shadowed profile.

  “Yeah?”

  “I hope all your dreams come true.”

  He glanced down at her with a frown as they poked their way along the path. “Yours, too.”

  “Thanks.” The wind whipped through the trees with a smell of moisture in the air. Rachel hugged Nick’s arm and turned her face to the wind. A silly smile tugged at her lips and Rachel knew peace.

  * * *

  Nick shuffled the box of food into the crook of his left arm as he opened the door for Rachel to enter the apartment. The wood stove had done its duty and warmth welcomed them. Rachel milled around the stove, removing her jacket, tugging her sleeves into place and combing her hair with her fingers. Nick itched to run his own fingers through the auburn mass if, for nothing else, just to confirm the strands were as silky as he remembered. He set the box on the table and curled his fingers into loose fists. Touching any part of Rachel was off limits, but unfortunately, similar thoughts seemed to cloud his mind more and more. He needed to eat something and get to bed. Maybe in the morning this ridiculous curiosity over Rachel would be gone along with all the other spooks of the night.

  One could only hope.

  “Let’s see what we have here.” Nick shrugged out of his jacket and rummaged around in the box. “Hot stew and coffee. Sounds like a feast to me.”

  Rachel wrinkled her nose as she peered over his shoulder. “Dottie knows how to feed hungry hunters. Meat and potatoes, that’ll do it every time. Jon and Dottie are closing up shop, they’ll be over as soon as the kitchen gets cleaned up.”

  “Never mess with staples, I always say.” He set out the heavy paper plates and plastic cutlery. “See, we even have flowers on our tableware. Can you beat that?”

  Rachel laughed as she pulled out napkins. “Flowers on napkins, too.”

  “Tonight we feast!” Nick pulled out Rachel’s chair and offered her a seat. Immediately he regretted his move dreading another dressing down about chivalry, then thought twice. He wasn’t a barbarian, no matter how Rachel wanted to paint him. His mother would tan his hide if she heard he’d been anything less than a gentleman.

  His worries went unfounded. Rachel accepted his offer with grace and uncovered bowls as he took a seat across from her. With fluid moves, she made short work of the plastic wrap. No polish distracted from her long slender fingers and short clipped nails. He liked the practical side to Rachel which made this whole attraction thing unnerving. In a few seconds, a bowl of steaming stew came his way.

  “You first, cowboy. I know how those hungry-man appetites go.” She opened a foil package and removed a loaf of bread. “I would have preferred French bread torn by hand, but I suppose packaged white slices will do, too.”

  A smile he would’ve paid a fortune to see more often radiated across her face. The many sides of Rachel Hill posed an interesting puzzle to piece together. One minute no-nonsense and bossy; the next all sunshine and sass. He filled his plate and lifted his fork. Even if he were a hundred percent healthy, she’d keep him on his toes. “Thanks for the grits, Rachel.”

  “Thank Jon.” Her even white teeth flashed as she bowed her head.

  Years had passed since Nick had said grace before a meal. Before he could think about whether to join her or not, she reached over and covered his hand with her palm. “Father, thank you for this hot meal and warm home. Thank you for good roads and new friends. Thank you for Your love. Amen.” She offered him a shy smile, positioned her fork and took a bite. Nick shrugged the unsettling feeling aside.

  Dinner evaporated before they knew it leaving little time for conversation. Rachel gathered the dishes to throw away while Nick sorted through the box and lifted a battered thermos.

  “Coffee?” His heart pounded in anticipation. The hospital had limited his caffeine intake. He’d been dying for a cup of strong brew - probably why he couldn’t get rid of his headache.

  “I can’t guarantee how fresh, but yes, that’s what Jon called it. Do you want some?”

  “Bless Jon and his thoughtfulness.” Nick stepped over to the couch where he’d dropped his duffel and dug out the bag of pills they’d given him at the hospital. He shook out and swallowed the appropriate array of pain medication and popped open a bottle of water. As he swallowed the pills, he turned toward the kitchen where Rachel picked through the box. Simple blue jeans and a green flannel shirt never looked so good.

  Rachel grinned in triumph as she pulled out a pair of mugs. Wagging her perfectly shaped eyebrows, she waved her prize at him. “Walleye or Bass?”

  Only a true sportsman could appreciate the graphics on the mugs. He tilted his water bottle at the one on the left. “Bass. Never had any luck with Walleye.”

  “Ha! Where I come from, I could reel in a ten pound Walleye in nothing flat.”

  “Oh, really? Not in Denver.” He tucked the pills back in the duffel and returned to the table. “Where do you come from, Rachel Hill?”

  Her grin faltered. She turned back to the box as if she’d left something important behind. The play of emotion on her face warned him he’d touched a nerve. She brushed her hair behind her ear before fingering a delicate chain just inside her collar.

  “I grew up in Oklahoma.”

  “Oklahoma’s a big state,” he coaxed.

  Examining the mug in her hand, she ran her finger over the handle until coming to terms with the direction of the conversation. She wrapped her fingers around the handle and thumped the bottom of the mug against her palm. “Outside of Enid. Nice place, but I spent my summers at Uncle Mitch’s ranch.”

  “Ah, Oklahoma oil country.” It was time he did a little fishing himself. “I take it the sight of derricks didn’t appeal to you as much as herding cattle. Is that where you learned to hate bull riders?”

  “I don’t hate bull riders.” A muscle twitched along the delicate line of her throat. “They’re just a difficult breed to like.”

 
Not good enough. She’d grown up around cowboys and her uncle raised rodeo stock. Her attitude didn’t add up. “I take exception to that comment.”

  “I don’t see why,” she countered flatly. “You don’t like me either.”

  Not a fair assessment, but he didn’t want to get into anything too personal. You never knew when fact finding could backfire on you. “You’re growing on me.”

  “Like a wart, right?”

  He rubbed his chin as if think about it. “Close.”

  Rachel relaxed and laughed. “Okay, your turn. What do you have against stockbrokers–-the Wall Street kind.”

  So much for dodging personal. “Nothing.”

  “Well, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder over something I am, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because I’m a woman.”

  No mistaking that woman part. She offered sense, smarts and tenacity all in one beautiful package. An old country tune came to mind about cowgirls breaking hearts, phone booths, and hijacked pickups. He needed to tread lightly or find himself thumbing for a ride the rest of the way to Casper.

  He gave a quick nod. “Fair enough; you first. Why do you hate bull riders?”

  “I don’t hate them.” Her expression grew soft. “I grew up around cowboys, rodeo cowboys. The kind that worked hard all day then spent every moment practicing their ride or driving off to some weekend rodeo. Men that never looked past their own ambitions to consider the dreams of the women who waited for them. Rodeo mystique is powerful stuff and earns a cowboy forgiveness for a variety of faults. I’d be crazy to fall in love with a rodeo ranchero.”

  She paused a second as if considering other fuel for her fire. “Now, you. What do you have against me?”

  His mouth dried to dust. Rachel lined her cans on the fence and proved quite capable of plinking them off one by one. “Nothing in particular.” His words formed with care. “You and I just come from different points of view.”

  “How do you know my point of view?” She shifted in her chair and set both elbows on the table. “You barely know who I am.”

  “I know enough to safely say you love the lure of the city and don’t have a thing in common with a country boy like me.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Not bad at all.” Nick laced his fingers to keep from forming fists. “You know who you are and what you want. You’re not passing yourself off as anything else.”

  “Passing myself off?” She frowned, then lifted a single brow in inquisition. “Why would I do that?”

  “Women have their reasons.”

  “Ha! Sounds like you hang out with the wrong crowd,” she said in triumph. “So, big city girls aren’t your style?”

  His jaw burned with tension. The memories he’d locked away rush around his brain like hail in a hurricane. “I was married to one once.”

  “You’re kidding?” Rachel leaned over the table like a cat cornering a mouse. “Was married?” She shook her head. “Just because a cowboy has mush for brains is not grounds for divorce.”

  “Not divorce.” Without missing a beat, Nick stared her down. “She died in a car wreck, and I caused it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rachel punched her pillow for the hundredth time. Pulling the covers up tight beneath her chin, she snuggled down into the uneven cushions of the living room couch and listened for any telltale signs from the other room indicating Nick might need her. Frustration growled in her deep sigh. He had sleep medication to help him enjoy his rest for the night; Rachel looked forward to hours in the dark replaying their dramatic conversation.

  Fool, fool, fool.

  Pushing him hard for details on his life helped her build her case against anyone marrying a rodeo cowboy. His confession trumped her reasoning in spades. He’d refused to offer a word on his behalf no matter how she tried to lure the details out of him. Instead, he’d suggested they turn in early and stalked into the back room. Moments later, Dottie and Jon Miller arrived home and Rachel had shared small talk with them until the cookies were gone and the teapot empty.

  Now, as the wind rattled the gutter above the window and watery shadows from the distant yard light flittered on the wall across from the couch, anger and compassion warred for equal billing in her heart. How could he say he caused his wife’s death and not elaborate? The anguish on his face told the whole story. Still, Rachel had a difficult time merging her impression of Nick as a hard-headed cowboy, and one of a husband thoughtless enough to cause a death. Nick Davidson, for all his gruff and arrogance, was a nice guy.

  Her eyes drifted closed. She fumbled with the collar of her shirt until her fingers wrapped around the tiny cross on the chain at her throat. My Lord God, I offer Nick up to you in prayer. I don’t know the truth about his pain, but I do know he’s hurting terribly. Heal his heart and soul, Lord. Bring him to Your light and help him find his way.

  Rolling over onto her back, Rachel opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. God listened; God cared. She’d laid her problem at the foot of His cross. What more could she do?

  As Rachel listened to the wind blowing through the trees, she acknowledged the uncomfortable truth. With a groan, she squeezed her knees together. This was fast becoming the most ridiculous adventure she’d ever been part of compounded by no nightlight to direct her toward the bathroom.

  She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the couch. An unexpected insight dawned regarding her Good Samaritan trip as she squinted out the darkened window. When was the last time she’d simply let go and taken off? Her responsibilities at home kept her tethered to her office, a mere beck and call for her clients, the guys with the big bucks that fueled her lifestyle. Her life and her career were, of course, important to her, but experiencing the freedom of the road stirred old memories into thoughts of her demanding routine.

  On the other hand, this vagabond lifestyle also opened up wounds she’d successfully kept buried for years. Rachel frowned as she crossed her legs and sat up straighter. The freedom of the open road had lured her father from her in exchange for the roar of the crowds, the challenge of proving he was best. All her young life, Rachel had longed to travel with her Dad, but he never took her. Instead, she’d spent her summers at Uncle Mitch’s ranch and drove the circuit with him. In sharp contrast to Bud Hill, Mitch Cauldwell loved having his family travel with him. Rachel and her cousin Polly rode shotgun and exchanged rodeo stories all up and down the Western Region. Uncle Mitch made Rachel feel needed and wanted, a part of the family.

  He still did.

  A groan from across the next room snapped her back to the apartment, the warm living room and Nick. Nick Davidson. A cowboy with more trouble on his plate than she ever cared to undertake. She knew as a Christian, she should listen to his rants and raves, and respond with love and grace. That would certainly be the answer, maybe from a strong Christian like Uncle Mitch. Her thoughts perked. Maybe Uncle Mitch had already made a redemption project out of Nick. Hope renewed in her heart. Of course. Uncle Mitch spent lots of time with Nick. Rachel grinned in the dark. Nick didn’t stand a chance against Uncle Mitch’s evangelical ways.

  As a gust of wind whipped the side of the lodge, Rachel frowned into the dark, her grin fading. Nick carried a tremendous load of guilt that flashed into anger. One moment he seemed to appreciate her company, then -wham!- he’d snap at her like a bulldog with a bone. Did grief do that to people? When Aunt Doreen died, Uncle Mitch hadn’t gone all surly. No, he’d wept with relief that the vicious cancer no longer raged through his beloved wife’s body and that she had gone to glory to wait for him.

  A familiar scowl settled into place as Rachel folded her arms across her chest. Uncle Mitch had thrown himself into his work after Aunt Doreen died and Polly returned to school. He’d been there for his family while his family was still around.

  Guilt flashed through her as she compared father to uncle. Two different people; two different lives. Her father had made choices best for him and she’d survived, even thrived, without him. I
n her heart, she’d forgiven him, but the whole forgetting thing would take time.

  Her palm brushed over the soft blanket draped over the couch cushions. Dwelling on the past never did anything but depress her. She needed to change focus before she really worked herself down a hole.

  Another soft moan filtered from the back room. Rachel slid off the couch and straightened her shirt and jeans. Someday, she’d find a place to pigeon hole her relationship with her father, but in the meantime, she’d made her uncle a promise. Nick Davidson was precious cargo to Uncle Mitch. She’d not let her favorite uncle down.

  Nick’s groans echoed in the darkness, his restless movements becoming apparent. Crossing the living room, careful not to bump into furniture along the way, she stopped at the open door of the back room. A few incoherent words blended with the noise of the sweeping gusts outside. She couldn’t make out his features as she only saw shadows in the dark, but she didn’t need her sight to sense the tension that coiled Nick tight as a spring in the middle of a dream. Did he always sleep fitfully, or was the medication having some ill effect she wasn’t aware of?

  “No!”

  Rachel jerked back as Nick shouted as clearly as if he’d been awake. “You can’t go...no...I’ll go....” The phrases poured in scattered waves as Nick wrestled with some unseen demon.

  Light spilled through the doorway behind her illuminating Jon Miller tucking his shirt into his jeans. Dottie followed, her fingers tangled in the edges of her bathrobe.

  “We heard the commotion. Are you okay?” Dottie whispered loudly, her lips mere inches from Rachel’s ear.

  “I don’t know, he just started moaning.”

  “Jon, go see if Nick’s alright.” Dottie shifted and waved toward the cot.

  Jon hesitated. “I’ve heard stories, you know. Stuff about not waking a sleepwalker and the such.”

  “He’s not walking, he’s moaning.”

  “Could be the same thing. What do I know about nightmares?”

  Rachel glanced from husband to wife. This wasn’t their issue to deal with. Armed with instructions from the nurse on Nick’s care, Rachel leaned for a better look. “It’s okay, I’ll check on him.”