by Anne Carrole
Inside, the showroom was studded with gleaming new cars in vivid colors of red, blue, yellow, even purple. Who bought cars in such colors he couldn’t say, but they were sure eye catching, if nothing else.
A number of customers milled around the automobiles, poking their heads into the open windows and lifting up trunk lids. A few customers sat at desks across from people with name tags and eyes glued to computer screens. Libby wasn’t among them.
Maybe she wasn’t here today. Or maybe she was tucked away in some office in the back. She always said she wasn’t cut out to sell cars. He breathed in the new-car smell that permeated the showroom as he strode toward the back.
“Need help, buddy?” A tall, gray-haired man dressed in a dark sweater-vest, white shirt, and navy casual pants asked from behind the latest F-150 pickup.
“Yeah. Libby Brennan in?”
The older man gave Chance the once-over. Good to know someone was watching out for her.
“Miss Brennan is out today. I’m Ed Farley, acting manager. What can I help you with?” He held out his hand and Chance shook it.
“Is Libby sick? I’m…I’m an old friend.” Chance wanted to say he was much more, but until he saw Libby, he could barely claim friendship.
“Hadn’t you heard? Her father had a stroke.”
“You mean a heart attack, don’t you?”
“He had one of them too. But he also had a stroke a few days ago. He’s home now, recovering, but it’s anyone’s guess what that will entail. Libby being there for him has been a godsend.”
Chance felt the air leak out of him like a balloon deflating. Things were worse than he imagined. Nodding at the older man, he thanked Ed Farley and then strode out of the showroom, finding sanctuary in the confining cabin of his truck.
He’d come to Cheyenne to tell Libby he’d missed her more than he thought possible, that he’d come to his senses, that she was what he needed to be complete.
He’d finally accepted who he was and who he wasn’t. And he’d come to terms with her leaving him and coming back to him. It had taken a lot of thought, and probably longer than it should have, but love finally won the battle.
Now, with things so bad with her father and Chance having left her when she needed him most, it might be too late.
Chapter 23
Libby heard the doorbell ring as she worked with her father on his arm exercises. The stroke had, gratefully, been a mild one, and the doctors had credited the aspirin she had given him and her quick response in getting an ambulance to the house for his condition not being worse.
His motor skills on his left side had been affected, but neither his vision nor speech had been impaired. Despite being in a wheelchair at the moment, his prognosis was good, but it would take a lot of work and care. They had a therapist coming to the house three days a week, since the first weeks of recovery were critical, and a nurse’s aide coming every weekday morning. The plumber had put safety bars in the master bathroom so her father could have support when taking care of the necessities, but he still needed her help.
Libby should have gone into nursing. Who knew that it would come in so handy these last few months between Chance and her father?
Chance…she’d hardly had time to think of him, and yet he always occupied the edges of her thoughts, regardless. She missed him. There were moments when she longed to simply escape into his strong arms and, for a moment, forget what had been thrown her way. But he wasn’t there and wasn’t likely to ever be there. She had to accept that her life had taken a different turn.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe the fact her father needed her was why fate hadn’t allowed Chance to fall in love with her. But then why had fate allowed her to fall in love with him—or rather, to continue to love him, because she doubted she had ever fallen out of love.
The chimes rang again.
“You need to get that.” Her father’s voice was devoid of emotion or curiosity. He stated a flat fact. That had been indicative of his mood since he’d come home. Resigned, depressed, stoic.
“I’ll be right back,” Libby said, patting her father on the knee. Dressed in a new pair of sweats, something he would never have worn in the past, he sat, slumped in the wheelchair, a ghost of his former self.
He hadn’t given up as much as given in, and Libby was determined to change that mind-set.
Not wanting to leave her father too long, she scurried to the door and, without looking through the peephole, flung it open.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Chance stood before her dressed in a plaid western shirt, worn denim jeans, polished cowboy boots, and a familiar black Stetson covering his head, his face shadowed by its brim.
Libby took a deep breath and struggled to control the urge to fling herself in his arms and seek the strength she so desperately needed.
“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice low, his tone somber.
Momentarily unable to utter a sound, Libby moved aside and gestured for him to enter.
His spurs jangled with each step on the polished wood floor. He looked like he’d come straight from a rodeo, only his clothes weren’t covered in dust.
She closed the door, careful not to let it slam, as Cowboy came running toward them.
“Hey, little fella,” Chance said as he crouched on his haunches and rubbed the cat behind the ears. Cowboy purred loud enough for her to hear. “Miss me, did you?” Chance asked as he petted. Rising from his position, he turned to face her, his expression serious, too serious.
“Libby. Libby.” Her father’s voice was low and gravelly, having lost so much of its verve.
“I got it, Dad. I’ll be back in a minute,” she called, not wanting him to worry. She turned her attention to the heartbreaker cowboy who stood in her hallway beside the glass and metal console table.
“What are you doing here?” It came out more accusatory than she intended, but she was this side of exhausted—both physically and emotionally. She had no time for games and no desire to play them. She’d hung her heart out like a flashing Broadway sign, and he’d chosen not to see it. She wasn’t about to tiptoe around any issue.
Chance slipped off his hat and rested it on the console. Running a hand through his hair, he answered, “I came to see you.”
“What for?” Okay, she was being a little gruff, but really, she hadn’t a clue why he’d come calling now, when for weeks he’d ignored her texts, wouldn’t answer her phone calls, and hadn’t bothered to initiate either.
“How’s your father? I heard about the stroke.”
How could he have heard and from whom? “He’s still here. That’s all that matters to me.”
Chance nodded as if he understood, but she guessed he was just being polite, because he certainly had not understood what it meant to her when her father suffered a heart attack.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m hanging in.” Barely.
“Can I say howdy to your father?”
He looked sincere but uncomfortable. Probably just being polite again. “It’s not really a good time.”
He frowned as he scrutinized her. “Do you have time to talk?”
Not really. “A little.” She gestured for him to enter the formal living room off the hallway, the small one that no one ever entered. It was like a stage prop to be viewed but never used.
The room was done in all neutral colors, a beige traditional sofa, a taupe upholstered armchair, a white coffee table. A fireplace with a painted white wood surround served as a focal point in an otherwise bland space.
He sat down on the sofa, and Cowboy jumped up next to him and then snuggled close as Chance started petting him. Libby sat on the edge of the armchair’s cushion. Still stroking Cowboy, Chance stared at her without saying a word, making her self-conscious.
She wondered how she must look. Her hair hung straight and flat since she hadn’t bothered to style it, and as for makeup, she didn’t have any on. She wore an old, ratty sweatshirt from her alma
mater and a pair of yoga pants with a tear at one side seam that she hadn’t thought to repair. There hadn’t seemed much reason to fuss with her appearance, and she didn’t have the time anymore.
Well, he couldn’t be here for any romantic reasons, so what did it matter if he saw the real Libby, warts and all.
“Speak your piece, Chance.”
“I’ve come…” He stopped petting Cowboy. How could he ask her now, when her circumstances had changed so much? It was great that he’d finally come to his senses, but he feared it was too late. She had a greater burden than before. Knowing her father had suffered a heart attack, she still had wanted to make it work between them. But when she’d needed him, he’d walked away, afraid to risk a relationship with an increasingly uncertain outcome.
And now her father would be even more dependent on her, consume more of her time. How could he ask her to take him on as well?
“Spit it out. We should be beyond tiptoeing around each other by now.”
Fresh-faced and casually dressed, Libby looked like she was ready to take on the world. Take on him. He should be ready to take his lumps and keep on trying. Anything worth having was worth working for. Libby was worth having. She’d shown him that as she nursed him through his injury. He’d been too full of pride, and too scared, to see it. He’d been afraid to take a risk. Now he was afraid he’d lose her for good. He hoped what he offered would be enough—support, love, and willingness to share the burden.
“It was wrong of me to leave, especially after your father suffered a heart attack. And it was wrong of me to shut you out after you tried, with the best intentions, to have me confront probably my biggest fear—learning the truth about my mother’s leaving me.”
She seemed to relax her grip on the armchair, and leaning forward, she clasped her hands between her knees.
“I’m the one who’s sorry. I did have the best of intentions but…I should have realized—”
“What? That I’m a stubborn cuss, too pigheaded to see another’s side of things?”
He hadn’t noticed it before, but she looked exhausted, and her bottom lip quivered. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and hold her, but he knew he needed to earn that privilege back again.
“So you’re not angry about my bringing your mother to meet you?”
“I was. But I’ve had time to think, to investigate a few things. I went to see her.”
“Your mother? You went to see your mother?” Her eyes widened, her mouth gaped open.
He guessed it was pretty shocking. “I did. I needed to understand some things about who I was and who I wasn’t.”
“And what did you find?” She seemed genuinely interested, too engaged in the subject matter to think about what was still between them and what wasn’t.
“Well, I’m not Jess Cochran. That’s probably most important. I know I’ve got some of him in me, but I’ve finally convinced myself that I’m not going to be a duplicate of that man.”
“You’ve never been that man.”
“I’m glad you still believe that. Problem was, I didn’t until now.”
“Sounds like you’ve found yourself, Chance.” Her smile, though encouraging, didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I found more than that, Libby. I found out what I need. I found out who I love, and I realized, for probably the first time, who loved me for who I am. Not who I thought I was or wanted to be.”
She didn’t say anything. Just stared at him with those deep-blue eyes pooled with tears. This was harder than he imagined—and he had imagined it to be pretty hard. He still had to say it. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, like before he mounted one those broncs
“I love you, Libby.”
A small sob escaped her throat, and she shook her head in denial.
“I do,” he reiterated. “I just hope it’s not too late.” He had a sinking feeling it was.
“I’ve waited so long to hear you say that.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “But the timing…things have changed so much in just a short while. There’s my father. I can’t…I won’t leave him. He needs me. He needs me here, with him, twenty-four seven.”
Chance swallowed. He was signing on for much more than he’d bargained for, committing to something and someone who maybe needed him more than he needed her.
“And I’ll be here for you.”
She stared at him, tears streaming down her face as if she was struggling to come to grips with what he said, to believe it, to believe in him.
He reached for her hand. He took it as a good sign that she let him grasp it. Her skin was cool, yet her palms were moist.
“It’s a long road, Chance. He may never regain strength enough to be mobile and independent. He may be in a wheelchair all his life. He may have another stroke, more severe than this one. It’s a gamble, one with poor odds. And that means we would not have a normal life either. I can’t ask you to commit to that. It isn’t fair.”
He stroked his thumb along her soft palm. “As long as you still care for me, as long as you can love me like you have been, warts and all, I’m in, because that’s all that matters.”
She sniffled and shook her head. “Maybe it was a sign when things didn’t work out with us that they weren’t supposed to. Because everything that has happened with Daddy has just made things worse, impossible really.”
“Maybe things didn’t work out for us because one of us, me, had to figure out what really mattered in this world.”
“What about your ranch? You’d never see your horses?”
“I can board them down here. We can save the ranch for a getaway now and then.”
“Chance, you don’t understand what you’re signing on for. Daddy would be living with us. I would be caring for him. That’s no way for a couple to start out.”
Chance rose. “Seems I need to confirm some things.”
Libby watched, stunned, as Chance strode out of the room. She scrambled to follow, wondering if he was heading for the door after hearing the worst. She’d been honest with him. And got the reaction she expected—he was running. She tried not to let the crack in her heart widen, but it felt like it was about to break in half.
Except Chance didn’t head for the door. He turned in the opposite direction, toward the den. Toward her father.
Libby padded after him as Chance’s boots clanged and spurs jangled. “Where are you going?” she asked, but Chance didn’t answer, didn’t turn around, just kept going.
“Sir,” Chance said as he entered the large den and walked toward her father in the wheelchair. “I’m sorry to hear about the stroke.”
Her father lifted his head, and for the first time in a while, his face carried a smile. “Chance Cochran, where the hell have you been?” His tone was accusatory, but with that smile on his face, it sounded more like a meeting of two needling buddies than any sort of showdown.
“Riding. And asking myself some tough questions. Now that I’ve got some answers, I’ve come back to get an answer from Libby.”
“Is that right?” Her father chuckled and sat up straighter in the wheelchair, wiping away any sign of a defeated man. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”
“Me too. But here’s the thing.” Chance sat down on the couch next to her father’s wheelchair like they were settling in for a chat. Libby hung back, feeling uncertain as to what was going on—and how it would end.
“Libby hasn’t said yes. She’s afraid you and I won’t be able to live here together. But she doesn’t realize that I can help when I’m here, be here for her—and for you, if you need me. And I’m thinking we can get along, two stubborn mules that we are, for her sake. So I’m asking for your blessing.”
Sam looked at her, his smile widening, his eyes brighter than she’d seen them since the stroke. Libby felt completely at sea, in uncharted emotional waters. She had no idea what her father would say. They hadn’t talked about Chance since his stroke. There hadn’t been any reason to. And yet, she wanted his blessing.
Needed his blessing to give Chance the answer he wanted. Libby held her breath.
Sam turned his attention back to Chance. “I’m a burden to her, son. I never intended to be, but I know I won’t win this fight to regain my health without her. Do you understand how things may turn out? I may never—”
Chance held up a hand. “She’s been through the litany. Here’s what I know. I know that I would be getting the best, most devoted wife there is. One who is also a wonderful daughter. Someone who would be a spectacular mother when the time is right.” He shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. “And I’ll get one ornery father-in-law. I’ll take that deal. What she doesn’t realize, and what I know, is that you, Sam Brennan, have never lost a fight you wanted to win. And I’m going to be here to help you gain your strength back so you can walk her down the aisle.”
Her father positively beamed. “There’s nothing more I could wish for than to walk her down the aisle—and hand her over to you. If these attacks have made me realize nothing else, it is that I won’t be here forever to take care of her. She’s a strong woman. I’ve come to appreciate that fact. But knowing someone loves her and will take this journey with her would be the greatest gift anyone could give me.” He reached to shake Chance’s hand, and Libby could see his struggle to do it firmly. “You have my blessing.”
Chance rose and walked toward her. Gathering her up in his arms, she felt his strength, his determination, but most importantly, she felt his love. “You’d better give your father a reason to get better, Libby. You’d better say yes.”
Chapter 24
Five months later
“Are you ready, Daddy?”
At the back of the church vestibule, Libby set the festooned walker in front of her father’s wheelchair as the church organist began to play Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major.
“Let’s get her done.” Sam Brennan’s voice was strong and sure as he gripped the walker and, with a little help from Libby, hoisted himself up.