The Cowboy Next Door (The Cash Brothers)

by Thomas, Marin

  September through November had been busy months on the farm. He and his brothers would pitch in doing odd jobs for their grandfather while migrant workers harvested the nuts. After his grandfather died, they’d leased the orchards to big companies who brought in huge machines that eliminated the need for laborers to gather the nuts from the ground and clean up the dead branches and debris. A process that used to take a month and a half now took a week from start to finish.

  Shoving aside his nostalgic feelings he shut the tailgate and drove back to the ranch house to help Clive with Odyssey—the horse was making progress but not fast enough for the boss’s liking.

  When he pulled up to the barn, he noticed a familiar blue Toyota Prius parked in the driveway—Shannon’s physical therapist had been working with her every day.

  “Clive, you in here?” Johnny called when he entered the barn. No answer. He returned his tools to the equipment room and had almost made it to the foreman’s cabin when the front door of the main house flew open. Clive raced down the porch steps and made a beeline for the barn.

  “Clive!” The boss kept walking.

  Johnny hurried after him. “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Take what?”

  Clive’s hand shook when he ran his fingers through his hair. “My daughter,” he said, then disappeared into the barn.

  Even though a voice in his head said it wasn’t any of his business, he went up to the main house. When he stepped inside, he noticed Hank’s scruffy tail sticking out from under the sofa in the parlor.

  “What are you hiding from?” The dog’s tail swished then disappeared from sight when a shrill scream rent the air.

  Johnny leaped forward, taking the stairs two at a time. He raced to Shannon’s bedroom, raised his hand to knock, then cursed his stupidity and barged inside.

  At first his mind had trouble processing the scene before him. Shannon lay on her back in the middle of the bed and a short, stocky man with bulging biceps crouched over her, his meaty hands holding her left leg against his chest while he pressed the ball of Shannon’s foot toward her.

  “Harder,” the goon grunted.

  Eyes squeezed closed Shannon clutched the comforter and screamed again. The hulk twisted her foot sideways and she cried out.

  “Stop!” Johnny pushed the man away from Shannon. “Ease up, buddy.” He glared at the therapist. “You’re hurting her!”

  “It’s not supposed to feel good.” The gorilla repositioned Shannon’s leg against his chest. “One more time. Push.”

  Shannon complied, grimacing.

  “Wimp.” The man hopped off the bed and held out his hand to Johnny. “Rory Davis. Make sure the next two hours she alternates between ice and heat on her Achilles tendon.”

  Johnny opened his mouth to protest but Rory talked over him.

  “She can take up to three anti-inflammatory pills at a time but no more than that.” Davis wrapped an ace bandage around Shannon’s puffy foot and ankle. “Make sure she keeps a pressure bandage on at all times except when she showers. And she’s got to keep the leg elevated when she’s lying down.”

  “Hey, I’m not a two-year-old.” Shannon scowled. “I can take care of myself.”

  The therapist slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. “See you next time.” Then he was gone, leaving Johnny dazed and wondering what the hell had just happened.

  Shannon swung her legs off the bed and sat up. Sweat dripped down her temples and pain lines marred her forehead. She limped over to the chair by the window and propped her leg up on the stool in front of it. “Can you hand me the ice pack in that cooler?” She pointed to the floor by the bed.

  Johnny retrieved the pack and she slid it beneath her calf.

  “Thanks.” Breathing hard, she wiped the perspiration from her face and that’s when he noticed the tear clinging to her lashes.

  “You’re crying.”

  She stared at him defiantly. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.” He held out a tissue from the box on the nightstand and said, “Why was that guy—”

  “Rory.”

  “—being so rough with you? For God’s sake, he could break your bone all over again.” The urge to hug her was strong so Johnny backed up several steps and stood in the middle of the room. “You should change therapists.”

  “Rory’s the only one who works with athletes and he’s covered by my insurance.” She grimaced. “I’m tired. Go away.”

  Johnny had always admired her toughness and determination, but after watching the torture she’d gone through a few minutes ago he feared she was her own worst enemy. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink before I head out?”

  “No, thanks.” She forced a shaky smile. “Johnny?”

  “What?”

  “Is my father outside?”

  “He’s in the barn.”

  Her gaze swung to the window. “The doctor said I have a buildup of scar tissue on my Achilles tendon and it’s going to take longer to break it down.”

  “Then go slow with your rehab. You could do more damage to your leg if you push yourself too hard.” He walked to the doorway and whistled. Hank’s nails clicked against the wood stairs, then the dog trotted into the room and went straight to Shannon’s chair and sat by her side.

  “Hey, boy.” She scratched the hound’s ears.

  “He was hiding under the couch.”

  “Did all that racket scare you?”

  The dog’s tail thudded against the floor.

  Without taking her eyes off Hank she said, “As soon as I’m finished icing my leg, I’ll talk to my dad.”

  “Good luck,” he said, and left the room. He didn’t want to be anywhere nearby when Shannon and her father went at it again over rodeo.

  * * *

  SHANNON ENTERED THE BARN and paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness. It was quiet and she wondered if her father had gone for a horseback ride. The expression on his face when she’d screamed was much like Johnny’s had been a short time later—pasty-white. She hated that her therapy was upsetting her father and wanted to reassure him that she was going to be okay.

  “Dad?”

  “Back here in the tack room.”

  She moved through the barn, consciously making an effort to conceal how bad her limp was. She found her father sitting on a stool, rubbing linseed oil into a bridle. “Can we talk?”

  He motioned to the chair in the corner and she sat down. “You okay?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “It sounded worse than it was.”

  He kept his eyes on the bridle. “Fathers shouldn’t have to listen to their daughters suffer that kind of pain.”

  “It’ll get better. The first couple of weeks of therapy are the worst.” She hoped so anyway, because she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting like this for months on end.

  “I don’t get it, Shannon.”

  “Get what?”

  “Why you’re putting yourself through this.”

  “I’ve got to get back to rodeo sooner rather than later or I’ll lose my edge and it’ll be no contest come January when C.J. and I compete in our final ride-off.”

  “Your leg might not ever be a hundred percent again.”

  She wished her father would have a little faith in her. “I’m not letting a broken leg end my rodeo career.”

  “It’s my fault, isn’t it?” He stared at her as if she were a stranger. “I made you decide you wanted to be as tough as a man.”

  “I don’t want to be as tough as a man. I want to be as tough as I can be.”

  “Don’t see much difference.” He cleared his throat. “Do you like women? Is that it?”

  Shannon groaned. “Ar
e you serious, Dad?”

  “You don’t bring any fellas home and you didn’t date in high school.”

  “I admit I’m a tomboy but that doesn’t mean I haven’t...” She was not going to discuss her sex life with her father. “I like boys, okay?”

  “Then what’s driving you, daughter? You were lucky you walked away from that crash in Yuma with only a broken leg and a concussion.”

  “I’m so close to winning a title. I might never get this close again.”

  “Then it’s Arlene’s fault.”

  “Arlene? You mean Mom?”

  “If your mother hadn’t skipped out on the family, maybe you’d have grown up wanting to be a girl instead of a boy.”

  “I don’t want to be a boy. I’m very happy being a girl.” Who knew what would have happened if her mother had decided to remain with the family? But what was done was done.

  “Maybe I should have married again, but I kept thinking Arlene would come back.”

  This was the first time she’d heard her father say such a thing about her mother. “Did you love her?”

  “Any love I felt for her died when she walked out on you as a baby.” He frowned. “What mother leaves her children and never has contact with them again?”

  “I don’t know, but Matt, Luke and I had you, Dad.”

  “I wasn’t enough.” His chest shuddered as he expelled a deep sigh. “I had no idea what to do with a girl.” He waved a hand before his face. “When you fell into step with Matt and Luke, I just treated you all the same.”

  “Stop beating yourself up over how you raised me. You did the best you could.” Fearing he’d only become more upset, she didn’t dare tell him how much it bothered her that she’d grown up without a mother.

  “You raised me to be a competitor just like you and my brothers. You were all good at rodeo and won titles.” She smiled. “I want one, too. It’s as simple as that.”

  “What happens if you don’t win a title?” he asked.

  “Then I keep at it. I’m a Douglas and Douglases aren’t quitters, right?” Shannon didn’t give her father a chance to answer. She got up from the stool and gave him a hug. “Everything’s going to be fine. Don’t worry.”

  Eyes stinging, she left the barn and returned to the house to take a nap and forget that she and her father had more in common than rodeo talent—neither had gotten over Arlene’s abandonment.

  * * *

  FEAR.

  Shannon could smell it in the dust that swirled in the air when Heat Miser pawed the dirt in the chute.

  Warmth.

  A burning sensation singed the inside of her thighs when she settled on the bull’s back.

  Pain. As if someone stabbed the tip of a hot poker into her leg, each jab caused the calf muscle to tighten and twist.

  The din from the rodeo fans chanting Heat Miser’s name pressed in on her from all sides and she could barely hear herself think. Why were they cheering for the bull? They were supposed to be cheering for her.

  She gazed across the arena at the scorers’ table. The three men pointed at her and laughed as if they knew how the ride would end before the gate even opened.

  Her gaze locked onto the trophy in the center of the table—a tall, gold-plated cowgirl riding a bull, her right arm high above her head, her long ponytail flying out behind her. That trophy belonged to her.

  She dropped the end of the bull rope over Heat Miser’s shoulder, and a cowboy reached under the bull’s belly with a hook and snagged the end, then handed it back to her. Sweat dampened her armpits. The air in the arena began to evaporate and each time she sucked in a breath, less and less oxygen filled her lungs until she felt dizzy and the cowboys leaning over the chute wavered before her eyes.

  She shook her head to clear her vision and realized her mistake. The rodeo worker opened the gate and Heat Miser vaulted into the arena before Shannon had a secure grip. She managed to hang on through the first buck but began sliding when the bull spun. She tried to release the rope, but her glove got caught in the rigging and she hung by her arm alongside the bull. The tips of her boots dragged across the ground as she tried to free her fingers.

  A cowboy on horseback approached and cut the rope. Shannon dropped to the dirt but quickly got to her knees. She took one step then froze. Heat Miser had stopped bucking and stared her down. Sitting on the ground between them was the Cowgirl of the Year trophy.

  Heat Miser pawed the dirt.

  Back off, big guy. She glanced sideways—where were the bullfighters? Where were the fans? The bleachers were empty.

  It was just her and Heat Miser. The bull bellowed and began to charge. Shannon raced toward the trophy intent on getting to it first, but her leg buckled and she went down. Heat Miser kept coming—he lowered his head and tossed the trophy into the air, then he kept coming...straight for her.

  Shannon’s eyes popped open and she sat up in bed, gasping for air. The nightmare was growing worse. It had begun when she’d come home from the hospital—blurry scenes of past bull rides. Not until she’d gotten the cast off her leg had the nightmare become more vivid.

  She had to get a handle on her fear before it robbed her of a national title. Maybe it was time she got on the mechanical bull. Once her body went through the motions of a bull ride, her subconscious would accept that she knew what she was doing and that knowledge would keep the demons at bay when she slept. She’d ask for Johnny’s help in moving the machine out of the storage shed, but first she needed a shower to rinse off the fear that clung to her skin.

  * * *

  JOHNNY DROPPED A LOAD of dirty jeans into the washer, added detergent and closed the lid. There were lots of perks to living alone—he didn’t have to fight six siblings for the washing machine. After numerous brawls over the appliance, he’d assigned his brothers and sister a day during the week to do their wash. Now that he lived alone, he had to remind himself that he could clean his clothes any day of the week—not just Sunday nights.

  When he stepped from the small room Shannon stood in the kitchen. Startled, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I knocked twice but you didn’t answer the door, and—” she pulled a chair out from the table and sat “—I needed to get off my leg.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.” She smiled and Johnny’s pulse raced. From across the kitchen he caught the scent of her perfume and suddenly the cabin, which he’d believed had been plenty big enough, felt cramped. He admitted that Shannon had bruised his ego when they’d discussed their one-night stand in Gila Bend and she hadn’t protested much when he’d insisted that night had been a mistake. The least she could do was mope around the ranch, instead of focusing on rodeo and acting as if she didn’t give him or what they’d shared a passing thought.

  He removed a frying pan from the cupboard next to the stove then two plastic food containers from the fridge. “I’m reheating leftover spaghetti for supper. You want some?”

  She shook her head. “It’s seven-thirty. Why are you eating so late?”

  “Took me longer than I’d expected to muck the stalls this afternoon.” At the last minute, Clive had backed out of helping Johnny, claiming he needed to run an errand in town. Ever since his boss had heard his daughter scream during her physical therapy session, he didn’t stick around when Rory showed up.

  Johnny dumped the spaghetti into the frying pan, lowered the heat and leaned a hip against the counter, studying Shannon. Sooner or later she’d get to the reason she’d stopped by. In the meantime he’d ask a question that had been burning in the back of his mind since she’d begun therapy two weeks ago. “I didn’t know physical therapists made house calls on weekends.”

  “My insurance covers twenty sessions. It’s up to me how far apart to space them and since Dynasty Boots has me com
peting in Chula Vista at the end of November, Rory’s agreed to work with me every day until I hit my limit.”

  “How swell of Rory.” Johnny ignored the sudden hardening of his stomach muscles. Shannon was an attractive woman—it wasn’t any surprise that Rory was willing to make time for her every day.

  “I need your help,” she said.

  “What kind of help?” He stirred the noodles.

  “I’d be grateful if you’d pull the mechanical bull out of the storage shed and put it behind the barn.”

  “Are you crazy?” He whirled so fast sauce flew off the spoon and splattered the floor. Hank got up from his bed and licked the spots clean.

  “No, I’m not crazy. I need to practice,” she said.

  “You haven’t finished your physical therapy.”

  “My Achilles tendon doesn’t need to be a hundred percent to practice.”

  “What if you fall and reinjure the tendon? Then what?”

  “That’s not going to happen.” She got up from the table. “If you don’t want to help, I’ll ask someone else.”

  Probably Rory. “I’ll take care of it.” He’d get one of his brothers to come over and help him.

  “Thanks.” She limped to the door. “By the way, Dynasty Boots wants you and me and C.J. to attend the Douglas Rodeo the first weekend in November.”

  “That’s next Saturday.” Relief mixed with dread filled Johnny. Relief that he’d earn another twenty-five hundred dollars, and dread that he had to put up with Rodriguez and his ego again.

  “They want us there by noon,” she said.

  “Shannon.”

  “What?”

  “How’d the talk with your dad go?”

  “Same as always.” She opened the door.

  “You’re his daughter. He’s going to be overprotective.”

  “What about you?” she asked. “How do you feel about me rodeoing?”