Courted by the Cowboy

by Sasha Summers

  But if Cutter wanted them out, it wasn’t like she had a right to argue with him. She just needed to know. Her tone was cool as she asked, “Do you want us out of the apartment?”

  “Did I say that?” Cutter scowled at her. “What the Sam Hill is that about?”

  She twisted the towel in her hands. “I know you could get more rent than I can afford to pay you.”

  Cutter snorted loudly. “Don’t give a rat’s ass ’bout that. Never said you should leave. Or that you needed to find other work, either.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Givin’ you options. Pointin’ out a single fellow and a more respectable job doesn’t mean I’m kicking you two out, ya hear?”

  She relaxed, a little. “Oh.” She glanced at Fisher, who happened to be looking at her, and frowned. “I... I appreciate you looking out for me.” As far as she was concerned, her job was perfectly respectable. If Cutter knew what she’d done for Jesse... She shuddered.

  Her hours at the bar weren’t the best, but Shawn didn’t mind staying in the break room watching TV and sketching after he’d finished the workbook pages she made him do. And Fisher? How could she explain that the last thing she wanted was a man to screw things up? Cutter might not get it, but as far as she was concerned, life was good. She smiled at the old man. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve given me and Shawn—”

  Cutter cut her off with a grunt. “You work hard, Kylee. I’m not giving you nothin’. Life shouldn’t be so hard.”

  She gave Cutter an awkward one-armed hug. “Well...thanks. I’ll get back to work.”

  * * *

  “YOU’RE UP.” JARVIS leaned closer to whisper, “Try staring a little harder.”

  Fisher was a good foot taller than Jarvis so he made a point of looking down at him before quipping, “Watch out. I don’t want to step on you.” He wasn’t staring at Kylee. He’d just been looking that way.

  “Harsh, man,” Jarvis sighed, stepping back. “You’re the Sasquatch.”

  Fisher leaned across the table, lined up the cue ball and sent the green six ball into the upper-right corner pocket. Mario laughed, Jarvis groaned and Fisher searched out the next best shot. He adjusted his aim, leaned forward and set his cue.

  But Jarvis’s muttered, “Looks like Fisher isn’t the only one interested in the new bartender,” threw him off. He missed pocketing the yellow one. When he straightened, Jarvis was laughing.

  Fisher scanned the bar, but all he saw was Cutter talking to Kylee. “You’re cheating now?” he asked Jarvis.

  Jarvis shrugged. “Didn’t think it would work.”

  Fisher finished off his beer and glanced back toward Kylee. She was looking at him, frowning. He smiled at her, saluting her with his beer bottle. Not that she seemed to care. She turned away, her scowl still in place.

  “Ouch,” Mario whispered.

  Fisher shrugged. “Can’t win ’em all, I guess.”

  “You didn’t even make it out of the starting gate with that one.” Jarvis sounded way too pleased about that. “Must chap your hide, being rejected by something so curvy and soft. That long black hair. Those big blue eyes.” Jarvis shook his head. “Maybe the lady’s not into sasquatches. Maybe she likes normal-size guys.” He elbowed Mario, who laughed—albeit reluctantly.

  “You’re just pissed I’ve been kicking your butt all night,” Fisher said, laughing off their teasing. The three of them had been working together for years, but they’d been friends even longer. The kidding was part of it. So was his beating them at pool. But it wasn’t about the winning, it was about the chance to relax after a long day.

  Relaxation didn’t exist once he got home—not since Archer had moved in. His brother needed a place to stay while the water pipes in his place were repaired. Since the family’s Lodge was booked solid and his other two brothers had a families of their own, Fisher felt obliged to take him in. Problem was that Archer had only one setting: intense. If Fisher was spending more time at Shots, it was because he needed a break from his brother.

  The new bartender didn’t hurt, either. He was sure Kylee was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. Even if she didn’t like the looks of him.

  They played a few hours, then moved on to darts. Fisher was one of the last to leave the bar. He lingered, slowly enjoying his beer. There were times he wished he had his younger brother Ryder’s finesse with the ladies. Most of them thought Fisher was cute and flirted with him easily enough, but he’d never been all that interested in pursuing something more.

  Jarvis’s teasing had chapped his hide because few women caught his attention the way Kylee had. And she had. So much so that he found it hard not to openly stare at her as she swept the floor, mesmerized by her long black hair swaying as she worked. If she’d just look at him with the slightest flicker of interest he’d figure out some way to start up a conversation. Instead, she seemed oblivious to him. Once his beer was gone and the bar was empty, he had no reason to stay.

  He put his empty bottle on the counter. “Night,” he called out, making a last effort.

  Kylee nodded but didn’t look up, her black hair blocking her face from view. He walked out of the bar, glancing back at Kylee through the glass front of the door. She was still sweeping.

  He stared up at the perfect circle of a moon hanging low in the deep black sky. A million stars broke up the canvas of dark. July in Texas was a scorcher, not that August and September were much better. And, from the feel of it, it was going to be a long, hot summer. But after the damn near arctic winter they’d had, he didn’t mind so much. If anything, the chirp of the cicadas and crickets, and the thick, humid air was a pleasant change.

  “Fisher Boone.”

  Fisher didn’t recognize the slurred and angry voice until he turned around. “Carson.” He nodded at George Carson, one of Archer’s employees. He didn’t know Carson but Archer didn’t think too highly of him. “Everything all right?”

  “Been better,” Carson bit out, a hard smile on his face. “I need you to give your brother a message for me.”

  He nodded, realizing just how worked up George Carson was when the man’s fist slammed into his right eye. Fisher was still recovering when the next hit came, catching him in the gut and knocking the air out of him. He shook his head, instinct taking over. He tried to rein himself in, to keep control. But with one punch, Carson was on the ground. Fisher groaned, “Dammit.”

  Suddenly Kylee stood there, staring down at Carson, a beer bottle in her hand.

  Fisher wiped away the blood running into his eye, made sure Carson was breathing, then turned to Kylee. She held the neck of the bottle with a white-knuckle grip, her body shaking. “Got my back?” Fisher asked, still processing.

  Kylee blinked, tossing the bottle into a garbage bin in the alley between the buildings. “Doesn’t look like you needed it,” she murmured. She looked at him and crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “So, you’re not a fighter, huh?”

  His eye was throbbing. His fist...it hurt to flex his thumb, and from the way the muscles in his palm pulsed and burned, he suspected he’d dislocated it—again. “I didn’t say I couldn’t fight. I said I don’t fight. My size gives me an unfair advantage.” He’d learned that the hard way.

  She nodded, her eyes searching his face. He wished he knew what was going on inside that head of hers. Even standing here bleeding, all he could do was grin at her. She stared at him, then shook her head. She stepped over the unconscious Carson and reached up to tilt his head back. “You’re bleeding pretty bad.” Her fingers settled on his temple, her eyes narrowing. “The light’s better inside.”

  His hand encircled her wrist, brushing over her soft skin. She drew away immediately, stepping back and almost tripping over the man on the ground. Fisher caught her but released her instantly. Even with that slight contact, his hands tingled.<
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  He cleared his throat. “He probably needs looking after more than I do.” He nodded at George Carson, but he was too startled by how blue her gaze was to look away. Clear blue. Like a perfect summer sky. Or the surface of the lake.

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re going to patch him up?”

  Better than standing around bleeding, thinking about how damn pretty she was. He nodded. “Have my bag in my truck.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Why do I have my bag in my truck?” He wiped his eye, smiling at her. “I like to be prepared.”

  She put her hands on her hips, clearly not amused.

  He glanced at Carson. “Can’t just leave him here.”

  She stood there, confusion lining her face, while he collected his medical bag from his truck. He handed it to her and pulled George Carson inside the bar.

  “Dumb ass,” Cutter murmured as Fisher propped Carson in a chair. “You called it, Kylee. I’ll call his brother to come get him. Got his number in the back.” He wandered off, leaving Fisher to inspect Carson.

  As far as Fisher could tell, Carson would wake up with a massive jaw ache and an impressive knot on the back of his thick skull. But that was about it. “He’s going to feel that in the morning.” Fisher glanced at Kylee. Her blue eyes were fixed on him, puzzling things out. She masked her expression when his gaze met hers, but he could sense the tension thrumming in her veins. “You okay?”

  Her brow furrowed. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her gaze bored into his, raw and intense.

  He straightened, crossing to her. “Kylee?”

  She stared up at him, her hands rubbing up and down her arms again. He reached for her, but she stepped back. He stopped, his hands falling to his sides. He’d no intention of scaring her, even though it was plain to see he did.

  “Serves him right,” Cutter barked, reappearing. Fisher watched Kylee march behind the bar, her movements jerky and tense. “His brother will be here in a shake or two,” Cutter continued.

  Fisher shook his head, placing his left hand on the counter. He stared at the bulging thumb, willing it to move. It didn’t. It was an old injury. It didn’t take much to pop it out—like it was now. There was no hope for it, he grabbed the metacarpal and, with one quick jerk, popped his thumb back into place. He winced.

  “Damn boy,” Cutter cursed loudly, slapping Fisher on his shoulder. “Could use some stitching, too, from the looks of it.”

  Kylee placed a bag of ice and a towel on the counter, a hint of sympathy in her eyes as she glanced his way.

  Fisher nodded at her, wrapping the ice in the towel. “I have some glue that should take care of it. Be back.” He took his bag and headed to the restroom, washing his hands and cleaning the cut. No avoiding a black eye tomorrow. He leaned forward, applied a small amount of glue along the split in the skin and pressed the cut edges together. He counted to ten before blinking. When he did, the glue held.

  He packed up his bag and threw away his trash, replaying the evening. He had no idea why Carson had punched him—other than being drunk. And Kylee’s reaction? What had set her off? Carson’s attack? Or Fisher’s one-hit knockout?

  He paused, shaking his head. Maybe Jarvis was right. He had to be more than a little interested in Kylee if he was worrying about her while he was supergluing his eyelid back together. He shook his head, double-checked the cut was sealed and washed up before heading back into the bar.

  Kylee was opening the Staff Only door at the end of the hallway. She glanced at him, but didn’t stop to say good-night.

  “Thanks for the help,” he said.

  The door closed without her making a peep.

  He shook his head, too tired and sore to worry about anything other than getting home and into bed.

  Chapter Two

  “I know your brother Ryder’s given up his wild ways, but that doesn’t mean you need to take his place,” Teddy Boone said, grinning at Fisher.

  Fisher reined in his horse, Waylon, tipped his cowboy hat back and shot his father a look. “Yep, set out lookin’ for trouble last night—”

  “Well, it looks like you found some.” Teddy chuckled. “At least your face did.” He shook his head. “Bet it hurts like hell.”

  Fisher nodded. “I’ll survive. Even if I am up two hours before my shift to track down strays with you.”

  “A swollen eye won’t get in the way of riding,” his father argued.

  “Seeing, maybe,” Fisher answered, not minding the early-morning excursion in the least but knowing his dad expected some sass from him.

  “Both my eyes are working just fine. You just follow my lead, son.” Fisher saw his father give him one final assessing gaze before nudging his horse into a trot. “Herd was in the south pasture so I figure that’s where they are.”

  “Expecting some calves?” Fisher asked. It was common enough for the heifers close to delivering to wander off until the calf was steady on his feet.

  “Expect so,” his father answered. “What, exactly, happened last night?”

  Fisher drew Waylon alongside his father’s horse, Chip, wincing when his thumb brushed the saddle horn. “George Carson.”

  “George Carson?” His father raised an eyebrow. “His daddy John Carson?”

  Fisher shrugged.

  “John Carson was a mean drunk.”

  “Then chances are the two of them are related,” Fisher answered.

  “What did you do?” his father asked.

  “Knocked him out,” Fisher answered, his jaw rigid.

  Teddy chuckled. “I imagine you did. But I was asking why he felt the need to use your face for a punching bag.”

  Fisher didn’t know what had transpired between Archer and George Carson. But he did know Archer and their father had a strained relationship. Teddy Boone thought Archer was an odd duck—worrying more over the care of his horse refuge than the people in his life. While Fisher agreed Archer marched to the beat of his own drum, he suspected Archer would do anything for his family. No point in adding fuel to the conflict between father and son when the ruckus with George Carson was over and done with.

  “Not sure,” Fisher said, which was mostly true.

  “That right there is why I don’t drink,” Teddy said. “A man shouldn’t put himself in a position to lose control. Damn fool thing to do.” His father clicked his tongue and Chip’s pace picked up, turning into a full-blown gallop.

  Fisher didn’t argue. But he knew firsthand a man could lose control without drinking. He lived with that knowledge every damn day. Dwelling on unpleasant memories didn’t make much sense, so he concentrated on keeping up with his father for the next hour. There was no denying his father’s disappointment when their search was unsuccessful.

  “They’ll turn up when they’re ready, I guess,” Teddy said before they parted ways.

  “I’ll check again tonight,” Fisher volunteered. “If they haven’t turned up by then.”

  Fisher turned Waylon out to pasture, took a quick shower and pulled himself together, cleaning the cut on his eye before heading into the vet hospital. Once he’d deposited his things in his office, he slipped on his lab coat and headed into the lounge for coffee.

  “What happened to your face?” Archer glanced over the rim of his reading glasses.

  “George Carson,” Fisher mumbled, pouring a cup of coffee. He nodded at one of the vet techs walking through the hospital lounge, grinning at her startled expression. His eye looked worse than it felt—but it hurt pretty damn bad.

  “Carson?” Archer frowned. “I fired him yesterday.”

  Fisher sat his cup down, taking care not to jostle his thumb. “That makes sense.” He’d have to get Mario to splint it, to support the ligament. “He wanted me to deliver a message to you.”

 
Archer’s eyebrows rose.

  Fisher pointed to his face. “Message.”

  Archer nodded, turning his attention back to the medical journal he was reading. “He’s a jerk.”

  Fisher chuckled, wincing from the bruise on his stomach. Archer wasn’t emotional, he knew that. But a “sorry” or “that sucks” or something that resembled sympathy would have been nice. Calling Carson a jerk was an understatement. He waited for more but Archer was silently reading again so he asked, “What did he do?”

  “Drinking on the job,” Archer answered. “He doesn’t want the job, I’ll find someone who will. Can’t risk anyone’s safety, animals or employees.”

  Fisher couldn’t argue with his brother. There was no excuse for that sort of thing. He glanced at the clock. Almost time for morning rounds. “Anything exciting today?” he asked his brother. Archer only worked in the hospital a couple of days a week, spending most of his time at the animal refuge and rehabilitation center he operated on his part of Boone Ranch.

  Archer shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  “I’ll let you know if something rolls in,” Fisher offered. “Have a good one.”

  Archer nodded, flipping the page on his journal.

  He headed straight for the operating room, hoping to catch Mario or Jarvis before any procedures got underway.

  “I knew she wasn’t interested, but I never thought she’d beat you up,” Jarvis teased, staring at his face.

  “Got time to tape this?” Fisher held up his hand and shook his head. “Or are you too busy thinking of smart-ass comebacks?”

  Jarvis took in the violently colored bruising along Fisher’s thumb. “What did you do, man?”