Rough Road Home (The Circle D series) (9 page)

Nick stared after her. Her, in his dreams? Not a chance. And at the first opportunity, he’d tell Mitch Cauldwell to mind his own business next time, Nick could find his own rides. He shifted the box and caught up with her, grabbing her arm and stopping her before she disappeared too deeply into the thick trees. “So you think I want glamour, eh? Well, the next time you decide to do what’s best for me, keep Jake and all his hunting buddies in mind. glamour is as glamour does.” He didn’t need to see her face to feel the furious emotion emanating from her. “And as far as my dreams go, you’re a nightmare.”

A gust of wind blew around them as she stood rooted to her spot. A suspicious sniff caught his attention. All at once, his righteous anger dissolved. He hadn’t meant to make her cry, he’d only sought to even the playing field. Long ago arguments of two unhappy people fired through his memory, their hurt and anguish a burr in life’s saddle - the one that broke the bronc’s back, so to speak.

Nick loosened his grip on Rachel’s arm. Life wasn’t fair. Women used tears to dissolve men to nothing more than cow piles. His conscience ate away at him each day for his past sins. This time, he had a chance to make one right. The sleeve of her jacket slipped from her grasp.

“I’m sorry, Rachel. You didn’t deserve that.” She sniffed once as the wind blew her hair wildly about her face. In the pale light cast from the stars overhead, she looked small and vulnerable. Nick scanned the thicket of trees for some measure of guidance. He’d never get this man/woman interaction thing right. Why did he even try?

“You’re forgiven.” The words came to him on the tail of the storm gust. He looked at her, the dangerous sheen gone from her eyes, her chin angled. Rachel had recovered and he mumbled every promise possible that he wouldn’t hurt her. As she turned to walk away, he reached out and caught her again.

“Let go of me.”

“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.