He looked perfectly fine—plus or minus a few scars she'd figured came with the territory. And the medical records indicated he was perfectly fine. But she knew from experience that, physically or emotionally, fine-on-the-outside didn't say anything about the inside.
It took a little digging around—as prolific as he'd been on the circuit, there were a lot of videos on the Internet of Nate Montgomery riding bulls. She could only remember that the accident had been sometime around her third trimester, so she tried a few different dates before she finally typed in 'Nate Montgomery Bull Riding Wreck'. There were a few results in the list, but she scrolled down to the one titled, in capital letters, 'NATE MONTGOMERY CAREER ENDING WRECK'.
She held her breath and pressed play, watching the coverage in the chute as Nate straddled the bull, wrapping the bull rope around his gloved hand. At least he had the good sense to wear a helmet with a faceguard and what she guessed was a Kevlar vest. All she knew about rodeo could probably fit in a thimble; her only experience had been locally, but as the camera panned back to get a wide angle of the arena into which they would release Nate on the back of this bull, named 'Night Train', according to the info banner along the bottom of the screen, the size and breadth of the grandstand told her this was nothing like the local stuff she'd seen. Ten times the population of Three Rivers filled the stands, and the noise was deafening.
A horn pierced through the chanting of the crowd—she could have sworn they were saying 'Nate! Nate! Nate!'—the gate flew open, and fifteen hundred pounds of pure, flea-bitten bovine fury erupted from the chute. Layla bit her lip, her eyes darting between the timer in the bottom corner of the screen and the bull and rider. She knew he needed eight seconds, but that timer seemed to move at an agonizing pace. 4…The giant animal's head rooted and his rear hooves flew into the air over and over and Nate stayed with him, tipping back when the bull vaulted his haunches upward and forward enough to stay with him when his head came up…7…Layla held her breath and watched the bull change direction, while Nate's body stayed perfectly centered over his tied-down hand, the other in the air. Finally, the buzzer sounded and the clock in the corner stopped and she let out a long breath, her stomach feeling like a bag of jelly. Until she focused again on Nate. He jerked his rope hand a couple of times, but it didn't come loose, and he seemed to be so focused on that that when the bull's head rose again, his body didn't rock back enough to avoid being struck, hard, by one of the bull's sawed-off horns. Hard enough that his body crumpled forward. As four mounted cowboys tried to close in on the pair, it was obvious something wasn't right.
All that wiggly feeling in Layla's stomach rose up into her throat and she thought she should turn the video off before it went any further, but she hesitated just long enough to see Nate's big body come unseated, dragging beside the bull by his caught-up hand. Two, three, four big bucks and close to the edge of the sand arena, the offside weight of his rider's lifeless body pulled the bull so far off balance that when he came down out of the air, he landed on his side, on top of Nate. The bull struggled for a moment, but was back up quickly, jerking away from the scene and leaving Nate Montgomery—a man she'd always known to be just a little larger than life—in a crumpled heap near the rail.
Layla sat back suddenly, slamming the laptop lid closed just a little too quickly. Okay, she said to herself, breathing through her nose to keep her stomach at bay. Okay, he's still alive.
She slid off her stool and looked around the kitchen, a little shell-shocked, but overwhelmed with the need to busy herself with something besides the image of Nate's body—which, today, appeared big, strong, and healthy—being crushed under the bull. She'd become a lot more emotional in the last few years, especially since Mason had come along, and tears pricked at the backs of her eyelids as she started filling the sink to wash the dinner dishes—something she might have normally left until tomorrow since they were so minimal.
It was times like these, alone in her house with tears in her eyes, she wished she had someone to consider a friend. Kerri was about as close as she came, but the Baylors and Montgomerys were so close, she was hesitant to really spill her guts. Her whole adult life felt like an intricate series of secrets woven together, and she barely kept the cover on everything, but only because she didn't have a large circle of friends who might accidentally leak something or be overheard talking about those bits of her life that she kept to herself, out of necessity.
Beside the laptop, her phone dinged with a text message. She dried her hands and crossed the floor. Wary of the closed laptop that had shown her so much gut-wrenching scariness, she picked up the phone, then turned her back to the counter and the computer on it, unlocking the screen.
Busy?
Despite herself, she smiled, because he should have known by now it wouldn't matter what she was doing, she'd drop it, because his visits were the best part of her day besides coming home to Mason.
Very. And important.
A couple seconds later, the phone buzzed in her hand.
Sounds terrible. I'll be there in five.
Which meant he wasn't coming from Nan's. When she heard his diesel engine rumbling in after about three minutes, she knew he'd been at the Baylors. She was still stationed at the island when she heard his boots on the porch steps. She'd told him early on he could—often, she'd be in the nursery with Mason and not hear the door, or not be able to get there quickly enough, so he let himself in.
It was silly, because she already knew he was fine—he'd been in this very kitchen a half dozen times—but she still felt her scalp tingle with relief when he opened the screen door and stepped inside. She held herself back from rushing to greet him, to take him in for just one second, and in that beat, his face twisted, a crease between his brows.
*
Layla looked like she'd just seen a ghost. Or been to a funeral. Or something. Awareness pricked at the edges of his consciousness as he took in the scene—her, with her back to the kitchen island, and her laptop closed on the countertop. Sadness written all over her face.
The house was quiet—Mason would have gone to bed a couple hours ago, and while he enjoyed spending time with the child, he just as much enjoyed the stillness and peace in her home when everything had wound down for the day and the only thing left to do was hold her on the porch and watch the stars. He'd tried to get away earlier to see Mason before bedtime, but the Baylor boys had been so excited about the funding they'd put together for the rodeo school—a sponsor, on top of the money they were fronting— he hadn't been able to get away until Emma and Lily were edging their respective husbands back toward their homes, with talk of morning chores. He couldn't help but feel like if he had managed to get here earlier, he could have helped Layla avoid the trouble that was furrowing a line across her forehead as she looked at him.
"What?" he asked. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes, yes, of course."
He watched her unsuccessfully try to smooth out the tells on her features—the lines around her mouth, her drawn brow. Crossing the floor in a couple of easy strides, he slipped one arm around her waist, and that was when a real smile touched at her eyes. Not a whole lot, but enough. He slid his free hand along her jaw, touching the corner of her mouth with the pad of his thumb.
"Tell me," he said quietly, the calm and serenity of the good day he'd had wrenched right out of him to see Layla so upset.
She pressed her lips together and let out a short breath through her nose, like she was making up her mind.
"I watched a video of…" she trailed off, but he didn't have to hear the rest to know. He'd taken for granted half of his circle in Denver had been there to see the wreck in person; the other half had caught it on the finals highlights. He didn't have to have this conversation with most of them. The rumor mill had taken care of most of Three Rivers, but the way Layla made her best attempt to skirt the edges of that small-town staple should have told him she hadn't seen the video.
He could barely stand the way she
looked at him now, like he was some broken, fragile thing she needed to feel sorry for and handle with care. He'd seen that look before—it had been one of the reasons he wasn't that upset about leaving Denver, aside from the part where he lost his little spread and everything else he owned. At least here, people knew him as something besides 'superstar bull rider', but every buckle bunny who sashayed by after the accident gave him this very same look. It made him feel like less of a man.
And Layla had never looked at him like that yet. It was one of the things he liked about being with her. For a couple hours a day, he wasn't that guy in the video who lost everything; he was just the guy who felt like a million bucks when he was with her.
"I wish you hadn't," he said quietly, still cupping her jaw, his eyes fixed on hers. She was so pretty, and soft, and she did things to his insides he could barely admit to himself. And his body—well, his body appreciated her just fine.
"Why?" Her tone matched his, her voice low. He hadn't backed off, and still held her to him as a light flush began to creep up her cheeks.
"Because now you're looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm still that guy lying in the dirt in Denver." Putting words to it made him more vulnerable than he'd been when he woke up in the hospital after the wreck. "Like I'm half a man. Like I'll break."
She got a little closer then, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Her fingers lifted to touch his jaw lightly. She'd touched him like this a dozen times since they'd started spending time together, but it felt different now, more charged.
"Are you?"
"What?"
"Are you still that guy lying in the dirt in Denver?"
In so many ways he was, but he'd never admit it. But in other ways, ways that had been cultivated over the last couple of weeks, being able to provide something for her, even if it was just hanging the kitchen cupboard door that had fallen off, he was shedding that man.
And the man who was emerging was one who wanted her so bad his knees were weak at this proximity. He'd respected her declaration from the first date. He'd spent the time and energy to show her just how valuable and worth it she was. But the desire to prove he was still all man pressed at the back of his mind, like a ringing phone that needed to be answered.
"No," he responded, shifting half a step forward, his hands sliding down her sides to grasp her hips and hike her up onto the counter behind her. She squealed, reaching behind herself to push the laptop aside. He settled into the spot her open legs made like it was designed specifically for him. "And I'm not the guy I was two years ago, either. But the one I am now, the one I am with you…well, he's a hell of a lot better."
"Yeah, I like him all right." A wicked grin bent her lips, and she tugged him closer, the mood lifting almost instantly as her fingertips slid along his scalp, her forehead pressed against his. She was so close, but not close enough. Her admission had been silly and playful, but it made his heart swell. He filled his hands with the swell of her ass and tugged her forward against him. When she sat back and raised an eyebrow at him, her light eyes clouded with desire, he knew she felt the same.
*
If she'd doubted for a second Nate didn't want her now like he had wanted her two years ago, he erased all of it when she sat back and he followed her, chasing her lips and covering them with his in a kiss that made her bare toes curl and her knees tighten against his hips. The weeks following their first date had been filled with so much intimacy but so little actual physical touch, she'd been almost sure they were devolving into something platonic. Comfortable, like a worn sweater—she couldn't say she didn't like that, but not headed back in the direction they'd come from. She was wrong. She'd never been so happy to be wrong in her life.
A shiver of delight ran up her spine when Nate's rough knuckles grazed against her collarbone as he drew back from the kiss and started to unbutton her shirt. His fingers moved sure, but slow, his dark eyes trained on the skin he was exposing, inch by inch. He'd even seen her—held her—naked in the last few weeks, but this felt different. Everything about this night felt different.
Wanted. That's how it felt. It tasted just like the weekend they'd spent together two years ago but with something just a bit sharper, just a bit heavier, with a little more meaning.
When he'd finally finished with the buttons, he slid her shirt carefully off her shoulders with a reverence she'd never been touched with before. For the first time, she didn't feel like covering herself up or hiding herself from his eyes. No, it almost felt like an honor to offer herself up for his viewing pleasure. He took her in, all soft midsection and stretch marks around her belly button she hated, then his eyes lifted and met hers, and it was beyond clear he didn't hate them. His hands pressed to the back pockets of her blue jeans and he lifted her off the counter.
"Nate," she tried to reason. She was too heavy. He was a big man, as strong and robust as any she knew, but she'd seen the video, the crumpled heap. Nan had talked about the time spent in the hospital. Again, tears pricked behind her eyelids, but this time she was embarrassed. He'd drop her, or hurt himself. But he wasn't hearing any of it. He shook his head, shushing her, and she tightened her grip with her legs around his waist, her fingers twisted behind his neck.
"I told you I'm not that guy in the dirt," he murmured, laying kisses on the curve between her jaw and the strap of her bra as he crossed the floor into the back part of the house, heading toward the bedroom. "I can't stand for you to treat me like I am."
His voice was low and rough, laden with emotion, and she threaded her fingers through his hair and nodded, her heart pinching. All this time, he'd asked nothing of her—this was the least she could do.
"I won't."
"Besides," he said, lowering her onto her bed, and breaking their clinch just long enough to pull his t-shirt over his head. "Your doctor cleared me for 'all reasonable activity'. And I say making love to you right now is reasonable. Beyond reasonable, actually. And well overdue."
His words made her laugh, but they also tugged at something deep in her belly. Something that had been dormant far too long. Her eyes traced over the curves and lines of the muscles in his shoulders, across the little curls of dark hair on his pecs, down his midsection, right to the waistband of those jeans he still wore. Those needed to come off, too.
Before she had a chance to make that happen, he slid a hand behind her shoulders, and in one movement, she'd moved up the bed about a foot, and his belt buckle was out of reach. Damn. But then his mouth started at her collarbone, his teeth nipping, his tongue soothing with gentle flicks as he moved down, and all thoughts of his jeans disappeared as she focused on the top of his head moving lower. She felt his fingers at the button of her jeans. Soon, he'd come face to face with stretch marks—the ones she'd had since she was a teenager and grew too tall and too big too fast, and then new ones on top of those, from when her belly had swollen and grown with Mason inside. It felt silly now, but for a time, she'd thought of Nate anytime her fingers passed over those shallow marks on her body. Now it was his fingers touching them, and the urge to shrink away from his touch, to shield her body from his focused attentions, warred with the urge to push up into his touch, to beg for more. The latter won out as he slid a hand down to her hip, pressing his fingers into her flesh, and she turned her aching, needing body toward him.
With practiced agility, he undid the fly of her jeans, exposing the frumpy cotton panties she'd put on this morning because she'd never imagined this with the snail's pace they'd gone at for the last few weeks. For a second, she was self-conscious about that, until he reached between them, sliding his palm down over her belly until his fingers tucked into the waistband of the plain underwear. He moved slow enough, the callouses on his fingertips raising goosebumps on her sides, that her thoughts narrowed down to just where he was headed; how that would feel, arousing her to the point where she tipped her pelvis toward them. She felt his smile against her shoulder. Just one touch. So many time
s she'd nearly combusted just sitting next to him on the porch with those fingers playing over the skin of her upper arm, feather light and teasing, or stroking her hair—things that weren't meant to arouse her—now he was using them with that sort of intent, she wasn't sure how long much longer she could wait.
His fingers disappeared into her underwear, coming to rest just inches from the destination she needed most, and Nate lifted his head.
"What do you want, Layla?"
She held her breath, embarrassed to put words to the feelings inside her that moved her body toward him even when her brain told her it was a bad idea. She hadn't stopped reminding herself since Nate had come back on the scene how dangerous wanting something was. But right now, all she could think about was the press of his fingers and just how good it would feel if he just moved a bit lower. But she'd never been asked what she wanted, never felt like she'd deserved to have an opinion about it.
"Tell me," he insisted, his voice rasping when she didn't reply. She met his eyes, desperately trying to convey how uncomfortable voicing it would make her, but she didn't find sympathy. Instead, his intense gaze made it abundantly clear he would stop—would take away all the goodness—if she didn't give him what he wanted. Her words. He wanted her desire; he wanted to know she wanted him. That would remind him he wasn't still that man in the dirt in Denver. But it would cost her, and she wasn't sure just how much yet. Still, he had given and given in the last few weeks, with almost nothing in return.
"You," she finally whispered, closing her eyes tight against the hotness of tears she couldn't explain.
He nipped at her cheek lightly, his voice close to her ear. He'd shifted back up the bed.
"Me to what?"
She let out a whoosh of breath, her heart burning.
"I want…I want you to touch me, Nate."
Secret Heart Page 14
