Loving Necessity: The Complete Necessity, Texas Collection

by Margo Bond Collins

And it has a lock on the inside of the door, the practical city-dweller within her noted. Not that the safety-conscious city version of Leta had been around much since she stopped her car to speak to the cowboy fixing the fence.

  Still, once Tor had finished showing her where everything was, she locked herself inside the room. Just to be safe.

  Even if it was a little late to be thinking of that kind of thing.

  THE NEXT MORNING, LETA woke to sunlight shining through the window and the kind of stillness that came only with an empty house.

  The night before, she had locked the door to her room, then carefully folded her skirt and shirt, sleeping in only her bra and panties. Later today, she would have to retrieve her car, if only so she would have her suitcase with her.

  Swinging her legs over the edge of the twin bed, she grimaced at the sight of her swollen, purple ankle.

  It looks worse than it feels.

  Maybe if she convinced herself to believe that, she'd heal faster.

  Yeah, right.

  It took longer than she would have liked, but she dressed, and then gingerly made her way down the hall, balancing against the walls when necessary.

  In the kitchen, she found coffee already made, and a note next to the pot: I've gone out to run some errands. I'll be back mid-morning.

  Well, that answered one question—whatever it was blocking his speech wasn't actually affecting all of his language. He could still write.

  For that matter, he could still talk. At least, he could when he was leaping tall fences in a single bound to save injured women.

  Leta snickered a little at the thought as she poured herself a cup of coffee, took another ibuprofen, and pulled the bag of peas back out of the freezer.

  Glad Tor thought to put these back last night.

  Limping to the living room couch took the remainder of her energy, and Leta settled in to wait for the pain reliever to kick in.

  Maybe then I can at least explore the house a little more.

  For now, though, the only thing she had to explore was her cell phone. She checked the battery. Luckily it had been charging in the car for most of the drive out from Dallas yesterday; she still had half the battery remaining.

  Pulling up the browser, she began searching. She hadn't gotten any further than typing in the words Tor, Stuart ranch, and Necessity, Texas, when she heard the front door open and shut.

  Hastily, she closed out the search engine and glanced at her watch. 8:45? Since when was that "mid-morning"?

  Since you started-keeping ranch hand hours, dummy. She shook her head at her own ideas. She was still grinning when Tor appeared in the doorway, carrying a plastic grocery bag in one hand and a pair of slightly dusty aluminum crutches in the other.

  "Oh my god," Leta said. "Where did you find those? They weren't here in the house, were they? Were they on the ranch?"

  Realizing that Tor couldn't possibly answer all her rapid-fire questions, she forced herself to be quiet for a moment to give him a moment to respond. All she really wanted to do, though, was tell him that it was the kindest thing anyone had done for her in a long time.

  His eyes flickered from side to side, as if he were trying to find the right words—or maybe just decide which question to answer. It took a few moments, but eventually, he simply shrugged and said, "Ranch."

  This time, though, the single word slipped out easily, and he grinned as he said it.

  Leta started to push herself off the sofa as he stepped toward her, but Tor waved her back into her seat. "Wait," he said.

  Kneeling beside her, he carefully lifted her ankle off the cushion. He examined the sore joint carefully, then reached into the plastic sack beside him and pulled out a roll of some kind of medical wrapping tape in a new package.

  "Where did you get that?" she asked.

  He glanced at it, then at her, once again shrugging. "Horses."

  A laugh burst out of Leta. "You're going to wrap me in horse tape? Lovely."

  His dimple deepened, and Leta found herself wishing she could make him laugh. Whatever was wrong with him that made speaking difficult for him didn't seem to have any effect on his sense of humor, though it was fairly tightly restrained. And his speech impediment clearly had nothing to do with being a slow thinker.

  Despite his gentle touch, wrapping her ankle hurt a little. Afterward, however, she found it easier to hobble across the room, and his careful adjustments of the newly cleaned crutches meant that at the end of half an hour, Leta was more or less mobile again.

  Standing right inside the hallway, Tor nodded approvingly as she swung across the living room again.

  When she saw him working to say something, she paused.

  He's been amazingly kind. The least I can do is listen to everything he has to say.

  "See the Tyler place?" Tor asked.

  "Yes, please." She paused. "Can we get my suitcase from my car, too?"

  The cowboy nodded. "After the cabin?" he asked, and tilted his head toward the door.

  "Sure." Leta grabbed her purse from the kitchen table, waited for him to pass her on his way out, then swung in behind him. He held the door open before helping her navigate the steps leading down from the wide, wrap-around porch that surrounded the bunkhouse. Once she was on the uneven ground, he stayed close to her as she made her way to the pickup he indicated with a wave, finally boosting her into the truck without ever touching her at all inappropriately.

  As they pulled out onto the caliche driveway leading to the dirt road where they had met the day before, Leta found the words "perfect gentleman" wandering through her mind.

  Who was he?

  Glancing at Tor out of the corner of her eye, she wondered how she could get more of his story.

  Strong, silent type is an understatement for this guy—except when there's an injured woman around.

  She bit back a giggle. As much as she wanted to learn more about him, she wasn't willing to get hurt again in order to shock the ability to speak out of him.

  There must be some other way to get him to speak to me, though.

  Maybe she could distract herself from her own issues by considering those possibilities.

  SHE'S STARING AT ME.

  Tor should have been used to that. Before the accident, women had stared at him all the time. Since he'd been hurt, too, though now they were a little more likely to avert their eyes when he caught them looking more often than they had been before. Guess not all chicks dig scars.

  This woman didn't seem bothered by the scar, though. When he met her gaze, a bright smile flashed across her face, so easy and real that something tight in his chest flared hot for a moment, burning with sadness.

  What the hell was that?

  An answer echoed back to him from somewhere deep in his subconscious: Regret.

  But regret for what?

  He considered it as he pulled the truck out onto the highway long enough to reach the bumpy, unpaved service road that ran between his property and the Tylers'.

  When he'd come out of the hospital all those months ago, the doctors had been certain that Tor would regain his speech. The incident when she sprained her ankle had finally convinced him that it was possible. Regret seemed the least likely emotion to feel when Leta's sunshine smile lit up the world around him.

  Unless that kind of smile is something I can never hold onto again.

  "Your boss's ranch is gorgeous." As Tor drove past her Kia parked in the middle of the rarely used road, Leta's words broke into his self-reflection, pulling his attention back to what was happening right now rather than what might be.

  Better that way—if the time since his accident should have shown Tor anything, it was that the last thing he needed to do was spend even more time alone up in his own head.

  He glanced past Leta, out the window and over the fence forming the Stuart Ranch boundary. It was beautiful, stretching away from the fence in the rolling golden and green shades of early fall in Texas, small stands of mesquite and other trees
offering some shade to the grazing cattle in the hotter summer months. Now, the animals had spread out, away from the shelter of the trees and into the fields available to them. In other fields, recently harvested hay sat rolled into giant bales, waiting to be used, sold, or stored.

  If Leta ends up staying, I'll need to send a message to the ranch foreman to make sure she isn't disturbed.

  Was he seriously still considering having her as his guest in the bunkhouse of his ranch?

  Apparently so.

  At least, he would re-issue the invitation if the Tylers' house was as bad as he remembered it.

  As they rounded a curve that circled a mesquite stand, the cabin in question came into view.

  "Oh, dear," Leta murmured.

  Tor twisted his mouth up in sympathy. "Bad," he said, nodding.

  She had the door open and was maneuvering herself and her crutches out of the truck as soon as he parked it. She turned around and opened her purse long enough to draw a key out of it. Carrying it between two fingers, she used the others to hold the crutch as she swung her way up to the dilapidated building.

  For an instant, as she examined the tiny structure, her shoulders drooped in such defeat that Tor felt it echo through him, too. Then she straightened, took a deep breath, and slipped the key into the lock—the only obviously new element of the house.

  The door swung open into a shadowy space.

  Leta poked her head into the room, turning it to the left and then to the right, leaning forward enough to see down the hall Tor knew ran to the back of the house. He and Chet had played in the old shack often enough as kids.

  Tilting her head back, Leta shifted her gaze to the ceiling.

  She stood up straight, the toes of her hurt leg barely resting against the stripped, weathered wood on the porch. She didn't move for a full thirty seconds. Then she carefully and deliberately closed the door, turned the key in the lock, and spun on her good foot to face Tor.

  "Can I stay in the bunkhouse for a couple more days?" she asked.

  Chapter 4

  That had been easier than Tor had expected—he hadn't even had to ask her to stay.

  Leta hadn't blinked when he stumbled over saying "Of course." She merely nodded once after he'd finished speaking, and pulled herself into the truck.

  They were halfway back to her car before she spoke again. "I'm going to have to see if I can get my money back from him." A muscle in the side of her face jumped as she clenched and unclenched her jaw before visibly forcing herself to relax. She blinked rapidly, holding tears back.

  It took Tor a minute to push the words out. "I will."

  "Will what?"

  "Get money." His own jaw was tight now, both with anger at Chet and with frustration at his inability to say everything he wanted to—that he'd known Chet Tyler since they were kids and that although the other man was often a bully, never once had Chet been able to stand up to Tor. That he was sure he could get the money returned.

  That there was no way in hell Tor would let Chet cheat Leta out of anything.

  "You would do that for me?" The quiet wonder in Leta's voice only made Tor angrier. Had no one ever stepped in to help her before?

  He didn't bother to answer in words, but his derisive snort, combined with a nod as he turned his hand out and up in a one-sided shrug worked just as well.

  "Thank you," she breathed, and again had to blink back tears.

  Her reaction increased his determination to learn why she was in Necessity, and what—or who—she was hiding from.

  THE MEMORY OF THE OUTRAGED expression on Tor's face when he confirmed that he would get Leta's money back from Chet Tyler brought a smile to her face as she drove her own car back to the bunkhouse.

  It had been a long time since anyone had offered to be her champion.

  But that's what Tor had been all along, she realized. From the moment he had leaped over the fence to rescue her from her own stupid clumsiness, he had been taking care of her—offering a place to stay, wrapping her ankle, driving her over to show her how bad the cabin she had rented sight-unseen really was.

  And it had been bad. Under more normal circumstances, she would have marched straight to the owner and demanded he at least send in a cleaning crew—though no cleaning crew would be able to fix the leaky roof causing that dark stain spreading across the ceiling. But she was tired, injured, and emotionally drained.

  Probably something Chet Tyler had counted on when he rented it out—that whoever was willing to send the money wouldn't be in any position to go elsewhere.

  Or maybe that was what Leta got for renting a place advertised as a "hunting cabin."

  No. That can't be it.

  She might be willing to chalk it up to gender differences when it came to expectations of cleanliness, but Tor had been obviously horrified when she told him where she was planning to stay.

  Then again, the bunkhouse was immaculate. Not just tidy, but obviously cleaned thoroughly on a regular basis.

  A cowboy who takes care of everything around him, she mused.

  When they'd pulled up to her car, Tor had gotten out with her, ready to load her suitcases into his truck.

  "I'd feel better if I took my car back to the bunkhouse," she said, clicking the button to unlock the driver's side door.

  Tor cast an uncertain glance at her ankle. "It's an automatic transmission," she said. "I only need one foot to drive. And it's not far."

  Obviously torn between keeping her physically unharmed and a clear understanding of her reluctance to leave her car, Tor finally tugged his phone out of his jacket pocket and waggled it at her.

  With a laugh, she gave him her number and he tapped it into the memory. Seconds later, a text popped up on her screen.

  Let me know if you need to stop. Otherwise, follow me.

  "Sounds good," she said.

  Now, she winced as yet another bump in the dirt road jarred her ankle, almost painfully enough to make her wish she'd left the car behind.

  No. It's nice to have someone be kind to me, she decided. But I have to be able to leave quickly if necessary.

  That was her new criterion for being around any man—the ability to get away from him at a moment's notice.

  She'd given up easy escape once before, and it had been a disaster.

  As she parked her car in front of the bunkhouse, though, she had to admit that it was nice to have someone who was concerned about her well-being.

  That he's absolutely gorgeous doesn't hurt, she admitted, watching his muscular form drop easily down from the cabin of his truck. His easy stroll over to open her door for her reminded her of cowboys in the old western movies her father had loved to watch before he had passed away several years ago.

  Like those film cowboys—like Clint Eastwood, really, she thought—he had lines around his eyes from squinting into the sun. And though he wore jeans and a dark green shirt, she could easily imagine him in a long, leather duster coat, a gun-belt slung around his hips.

  With a start, she realized she'd been staring dreamily at her host—a man who had been perfectly kind to her, but had given her no indication whatsoever that he was romantically interested in her.

  Don't be an idiot, she chided herself, looking away from Tor as he opened the car door for her and offered his hand to help her out of the car and up the porch steps.

  "Ankle?" he asked, giving her injured joint a pointed look as he opened the door and ushered her through.

  "A little sore," she admitted.

  He nodded as if he had expected as much, and pointed to the couch. "Rest," he ordered, and went to the kitchen to begin to assembling the ingredients to make sandwiches for their lunch while Leta watched him across the counter separating the two rooms.

  "Don't you have work to do today?" she asked, after she had once again settled her ankle onto its elevated position on a stack of cushions.

  He turned around and grinned, pointing at the plate he was using to pile together their food. "Eat first."
r />   Not that she wanted him to leave.

  I had no idea how sexy it could be to have a cowboy working in the kitchen.

  She could definitely get used to this.

  I'M GLAD I THOUGHT to bring food down from the main house before she woke up this morning.

  More than that, Tor was glad his mother had insisted he learn to fend for himself, even though they'd had the money to hire people.

  "Money is no excuse for laziness," she'd say, prodding him to get up and help, either around the house or out on the ranch.

  It was a habit he had kept into adulthood, even when surrounded by men of his social set—the other billionaires he met at charity dinners and events—who had bragged about their unwillingness to cook, or clean, change babies' diapers, or take care of their own children.

  Not that Tor had any kids of his own.

  But he'd changed plenty of diapers back when most of the hands and their families had still lived on the ranch, before Tor's grandfather had shifted most of the family's income into self-sustaining trust funds.

  The bunkhouse wasn't the only building on the ranch that was empty, he reflected. The married hands' houses had been slowly been converted to storage through the years, as their inhabitants moved on, or passed away.

  Now, only one house was still occupied by an elderly ranch hand Tor had known all his life.

  I need to go see Jimmy later this week.

  "Are you okay?" Leta asked, her voice soft with concern, and Tor started, realizing that he had been staring into the distance for several minutes.

  He shook off his reverie and smiled at his guest as he pulled a wooden tray stand out from the pantry to set up beside her on the couch.

  "I can sit at the table," she protested, laughing, but with a grin, he shook his head and wagged a negating finger in her direction.

  With a flourish, he shook out the fabric napkin he had found in the china cabinet of the main house, turning the TV tray into a makeshift table.

  Then he set a paper plate with a ham sandwich and chips on it, and a mason jar full of iced tea.