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A Family for the Rancher
by Allison B. Collins
Chapter One
Nash Sullivan leaned his head on Thunder’s solid shoulder, the muscles flexing beneath his cheek. The scent of hay, sun and saddle soap brought back a tidal wave of memories. Their first rodeo together, long days of riding the fences, riding bareback out to his sanctuary at the pond. He ached to get back in the saddle again after his long stint in the Army riding in nothing but military trucks and tanks the last ten years.
Now he couldn’t even climb into the saddle. He stepped away, but Thunder shifted, nudged Nash back against his shoulder.
His gut clenched, and while he wouldn’t, couldn’t, admit it to anyone, he loved this damn horse, and for the first time, it felt right being home again.
“Need a mounting block, son?”
The words stung, but he couldn’t let his dad know. Thunder shifted and snorted, stomping the hard-packed Montana dirt in front of him.
He pulled the reins tighter and whispered to the brown gelding. Once Thunder had quieted, he lifted his left leg and guided his foot into the stirrup. Thunder shifted, and Nash tightened his thigh muscles, or what was left of them, to get up. Instead he had to haul his foot out as the horse snorted again and stepped away.
“I told you it was too soon. You’ve only been out of the hospital a few months.” His dad walked up to Thunder and patted his neck. “I want you to take charge of the horses.”
“Now? Why?” He squinted in the sunlight, noticing just how gray his dad’s hair had gotten over the years. Even his beard was gray. But the old man was still fit, with ramrod straight posture and a swagger that showed one and all he owned their guest ranch and was proud of it.
“Curly’s making retirement noises again, and this time I think he’s serious. You still want the job, right?”
“You know I do.”
“Just checking. Last time you said you wanted it, you left for ten years.”
“I was doing my duty.”
“And I’m proud of you for it. But you were seriously injured and aren’t back to normal yet.”
Nash held very still, anger and fear forming a cannonball in his gut.
“Curly and his wife want to move to Arizona by autumn, and I want you ready to step in as soon as he leaves. I’ve hired a physical therapist to come out here and get you in shape.”
“I don’t need a therapist. I’ll be fine,” he said over his shoulder, and handed the reins to a ranch hand. Limping, every step agony, he headed to his truck, yanked the door open and clumsily climbed in. Shoving the key in the ignition, he cranked the engine and stomped on the gas pedal, leaving a spray of dirt and grass in his wake.
Angus Sullivan hadn’t been such an SOB when their mother had been alive. Dammit. Why’d he go and hire a therapist? Images of the last old biddy he’d had to go through physical therapy with at the hospital in Germany popped into his mind. She was another drill sergeant, humorless, cantankerous, dry—same age as his dad.
Slamming to a halt in front of his cabin, he climbed out of the truck and hobbled inside. He locked the door and yanked the curtains closed, covering the wall of glass that overlooked the sparkling blue lake.
The bar on the other side of the big open living room yielded a bottle of whiskey—glass not needed. He’d picked this cabin to settle into because of the bar, and he’d made sure it was fully stocked his second day home.
Turning to head toward the couch, a knife-sharp pain stabbed through his thigh. Gritting his teeth, he stopped and breathed through the throbbing like the old bat had taught him. Once it was under control, he grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer and sat down, hoisting his leg onto the beat-up trunk he used as a coffee table.
He set the ice pack over his thigh, then drank deeply from the whiskey bottle, relishing the heat as it went down.
Tipping the bottle again, his eye caught the sports trophies and silver buckles gleaming on the shelves, mocking him.
Grabbing the remote, he turned the TV on. Bombs exploded as the screen lit up, and he flinched, hitting the mute button as fast as he could. He jabbed at the channel button, but it seemed as if every other station was showing either an old war movie or a sappy chick flick.
“Where the hell are the baseball games?”
A knock sounded at the door. He gulped another swallow of whiskey, decided to ignore it. Probably one of his brothers come to tell him to apologize to their dad. Well, screw that. I ain’t in the mood.
Another knock and he swigged more whiskey.
This time someone pounded on the door. He stood and had to catch his balance on the arm of the couch, then limped to the front door, every step burning his thigh. He yanked the door open, saw his youngest brother standing on the stoop.
“What the hell do you want, Hunter? I’m not apologizing to him. Now leave me alone.” He started to slam the door when Hunter moved aside, revealing a petite woman standing on the porch.
Her black hair was braided, the tail curving over her shoulder and down almost to her waist, but a few strands had escaped and blew in the breeze, teasing her sculpted cheekbones. Startling blue eyes stared at him long enough to make him almost ashamed of his snarls.
“Ma’am,” he said, the manners his momma ingrained in him bursting forth.
“This is Kelsey Summers,” Hunter said, putting a hand on her back to guide her past him, shoving Nash back a few steps. “She’s your therapist.”
His temper peaked again, hitting the boiling point. “I told him I don’t need a therapist. You can go now.” Tilting the bottle again, he drained the last of it. He wavered, tempted to leave them there so he could grab a full bottle, or shove them out first. Another pain slashed through his leg, and the question was settled—whiskey first.
But he turned too quickly, and his leg couldn’t keep up. He went down hard on his good knee, and his thigh went from simmering to burning hot.
Hunter rushed over and grabbed his arm, but Nash shoved him away, cursing a blue streak.
Hunter backed away, hands held up. “Hey, bro. Just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help, or Dad’s help, or this woman’s help.” He blew out a breath and braced his arm on the side table to stand up. Wincing, he gently put weight on his bad leg.
“Why don’t I be the judge of that? Come on and sit down.” Kelsey gestured toward the couch.
Her voice was quiet, just a little throaty, and held a twang of the South in it.
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
She crossed her arms in front of her and cocked a hip. “Sure you are. Feels like fire racing through your quads, right? Have to be careful when you put weight on it?”
He looked away, hating that she was right.
“Let me just look at it, then you can kick me out if you really think you
don’t need me.”
He glanced at his brother, wanting to knock the smirk off his face. “Get out. Little lady here wants to check me out. Might get a bit personal here.” He grinned, but without any humor. Maybe if he made her uncomfortable enough she’d leave on her own. Sliding his arm around her shoulders, he started to lead her to the bedroom.
Kelsey raised her hand up to his and grabbed his thumb, pulling it down, then stepped around to wrench his arm behind his back.
His arm hurt like hell, and he made sure not to move and antagonize her any further.
Hunter burst out laughing. “Well I guess I don’t have to worry about Kelsey out here by herself.” He opened the door and slapped his Stetson on his head. “Call me if you need a rescue, bro.” He slammed the door behind him, and his laughter echoed on the breeze outside.
She let go of Nash’s thumb, then stepped away from him.
He rubbed the offended thumb and stared at her. “Sorry. Just want to be alone.”
Picking up the empty whiskey bottle, she said, “Why? So you can drown your sorrows in this stuff?” She plunked it down on the table. “I’m just here to help you, okay?”
Memories assaulted him of the friends who couldn’t get back to their wives and kids—their lives—because of that last mission.
“Why don’t you take your jeans off and I’ll assess your leg, okay? Do you want to do it in here, or in the bedroom?”
Her throaty voice saying bedroom made him twitch, the first sign of life down there in a long time. Bedroom probably wasn’t a good idea, nor was taking off any article of clothing.
He raised an eyebrow at her.
Red crept into her creamy cheeks, but she stood up straight and picked up her medical bag. “Get a move on, Mr. Sullivan. I don’t have all day to stand around here while you put the moves on me.”
Pretty and gutsy.
He clomped into the bedroom and slammed the door. Grabbing an old pair of gym shorts from the dresser, he stripped out of his jeans. He hauled himself back out to the living room and almost fell onto the couch as a wave of exhaustion hit him.
“Um...”
Dreading to look up and see the pity, he finally raised his eyes to see Kelsey staring at his leg.
“Your dad didn’t tell me you have a prosthetic leg.”
“Souvenir of the Taliban.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Doesn’t know.”
The silence drew out so long he finally glanced up at her again.
“He doesn’t know?”
“And don’t you tell him, or any of my brothers—got it?”
“How many brothers?”
“Four.”
“And no one knows.”
“Yep. Can we get this over with? Got things to do.”
“Like drinking more whiskey and watching TV?”
He frowned. “None of your business.”
Kelsey sat down on the old trunk and unwrapped the bandage from his left leg. “Oh my God. How long has your thigh been this red?”
He looked down and saw slashes of red interspersed with the white scars. “I don’t know. It’s been hurting more the last few days.”
“Don’t you unwrap it at night and take off your prosthesis?”
Shutting his eyes, he blocked out the image of her removing the hated brace, leaving just the stump of his leg. “No,” he said, his voice strangled in his throat.
“Mr. Sullivan, you need to take better care of yourself. That means taking your prosthesis off and giving your body a rest.”
A cool hand smoothed over his thigh, and he jerked. He stared down at her small hand as she touched the sore spots gently. “I don’t think you have any infection,” she murmured, her hand going a little too close for comfort. “But the fit may be a bit off on this.”
He grabbed a throw pillow from behind him and set it on his groin, folding his hands over it. Glancing at her, he thought he caught a slight smile as she turned her head away, examining the top of the prosthesis.
The persistent ache started to ease off. Maybe he should listen to the docs and follow their regimen. A stab of guilt made him jerk. His men were beyond pain, so this was all he deserved.
She set the leg down on the floor, out of sight. Pulling a bottle of lotion out of her bag, she poured some in her hand and rubbed them together. “This may be a little cool, but it should help ease the aches.” Beginning right above where his knee should have been, she started rubbing slowly.
“I’m not gonna smell girlie, am I?” he asked, embarrassed at having her examine the ugliness he hated day in and day out.
She smiled, and he noticed a freckle above the corner of her lip. He stared at it, fascinated for some reason.
“No, this is the non-girlie type of lotion.”
Why hadn’t he noticed before how pretty she was? Her upper lip hinted at a slight overbite that was strangely arresting. Her small, graceful hands were definitely working some kind of magic.
The front door opened and Kade walked in. “Hey, here’s the DVD you—”
Nash grabbed the old woven blanket off the back of the couch and threw it over his legs. “Don’t you know how to knock?” he snapped.
Kade, his younger brother by a year, glanced at Kelsey as she removed her hands from beneath the blanket. His cheeks reddened, and Nash had to grin—it wasn’t easy to throw Kade off his game.
“This is Kelsey. Dad hired her for me. My brother Kade.”
Kade’s eyebrows lifted, and he looked from one to the other, obviously still at a loss for words.
She stood up, soothing the remaining lotion into her arms. “Hi. Just to clear up whatever thoughts you have running through your dirty little mind, I’m a physical and occupational therapist. Your dad hired me to come out here and work with Nash.”
Kade’s cheeks were on fire, and for some reason Nash took perverse pleasure in the fact that he was embarrassed.
* * *
“NICE TO MEET you, Kelsey.” Kade looked back at Nash. “Why do you still need a therapist? I thought your leg was better.”
A growl erupted from the couch, startling her. She glanced at Nash, alarmed at how red his face had gotten.
“Get out. Now.”
Kade took a step back. “Geez, what’s wrong with you?”
She cleared her throat. “Kade, do you mind leaving? I still need to go over some things with Nash, and have to leave here shortly to pick up my daughter.”
“Sure thing. Nice meeting you.” Kade walked out the door, slamming it behind him.
Sitting back down on the trunk next to the couch, she pulled the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope out of her bag. “Arm, please.” She glanced at his narrowed eyes. “You know, my five-year-old gets that expression on her face when I tell her it’s nap time.”
A look of surprise crossed his rugged face, and he finally chuckled. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot today.”
He glared at her, and she could have sworn steam billowed out of his ears.
“Too soon?”
“Yeah. Let’s just get this over with. I need a drink.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, then through his militarily short brown hair.
“Sorry.” She steeled herself, strapping the cuff to his upper arm. His muscular upper arm. No doubt he’d be a difficult patient, and she’d have to call on all her patience in order to deal with this cowboy. This tall, strong, tough, knock-her-down gorgeous cowboy.
“Hey, ease up, okay?”
Crap. “As red as your face is, I figured your BP would be high.” She turned the knob and air started escaping as she listened for the beats. “It’s somewhat high, but that could be the alcohol.”
“Doubt it. And I’d rather drink than get hooked on painkillers.”
“You won’t get hooked on booze?”
“Nah.”
“So why did you get upset when Kade walked in?”
He looked away. “I never get any privacy now. Someone’s always checking on me. I just want them to leave me alone.”
“They love you, Nash. They’re your family.”
“They’re nosy. I don’t want them around all the time. I spent ten years in the Army, from regular tour of duty on base, then deployed to Afghanistan and stationed in the desert, practically living nose to ass with people.”
“And they might walk in and discover your secret.”
“Maybe.”
“I see. May I ask why?”
“My business. And don’t you say anything. They just think I was wounded, not that I lost the whole bottom half of my damned leg. In fact, I don’t need you to come out anymore. Thanks for stopping by.”
“So you’re ready to resume your life here on the ranch. Ride horses, pitch hay, rope poor baby cows, or whatever you do on a ranch.”
The glare returned to his face, his eyebrows lowering in a scowl over steely gray-blue eyes. He muttered under his breath.
“Sure you weren’t in the Navy?”
“What?” he asked, confusion on his face.
“You swear like a sailor.”
His mouth twitched, and a laugh rumbled out of his chest. “Okay, sorry.” He blew out a breath. “Maybe I do need help, but I don’t know if you’re the right person for it.”
“Why? I’m licensed as both phys—”
“I couldn’t get on my damned horse earlier today. I need someone who can help me do that.”
“Actually, I can. I grew up around horses, so in school I studied equine therapy. It’ll take some time, but we can probably get you back in the saddle. Anything else you want my help with?”
“I haven’t gotten la—”
“Uh-uh, mister. Your dad will have to hire someone else for that.”
He cracked a half grin, and darned if her heart didn’t go pitter-patter. Nash Sullivan was a handful, and she’d have to stay on her toes around him. She’d had love once, and lost it. No use looking for it again.
Rodeo Sheriff Page 20
