Cowboy Courage: Includes a bonus novella

by Carolyn Brown

  “You can wait right here.” Derrick motioned toward the seating area.

  Shiloh gave him a dirty look and went right on through the double doors with him and the other guy. They did one of those one, two, three, counts and shifted Waylon onto a bed. He grimaced when they removed his cowboy boots.

  “Foot hurts,” he said.

  “We’ll get it seen about real soon,” Shiloh told him.

  A nurse with a no-nonsense expression pulled the curtain to the cubicle back and motioned for Shiloh to leave. “We’ve got to get him out of that suit so we can examine him. You need to leave.”

  Shiloh narrowed her eyes. “I’ll step outside the curtain, but as soon as you have him changed, I’m coming back in.”

  “Are you related?” The nurse eased his black jacket off and was unbuckling his belt.

  “No, I’m his girlfriend,” Shiloh lied.

  “Then I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished,” the nurse said.

  * * *

  Waylon chuckled, and Shiloh shot a look his way that said he had better not tattle as she slipped around the curtain. Things were a little foggy in his mind. He remembered something about a song about Red Dirt Road—no, that wasn’t right. He lived on a road like that growing up over in—it took him a while to remember that had been over near Kiomatia, right on the Red River.

  A doctor in a white coat pushed the curtain back, and said, “Well, son, what hurts?”

  “My head and my ankle,” Waylon answered.

  “Let’s get some tests run to see about both of those.” He flashed a small penlight in Waylon’s eyes, then gently felt his ankle. “I think you have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle, but the tests I’m ordering will let us know for certain. I want to be sure that you don’t have any cracked or broken ribs from the seat belt. Good thing you were wearing one, or you might’ve been thrown through the windshield. While we’re waiting, let’s get that head wound taken care of. I think we can use some glue and Steri-Strips instead of stitches. The nurse will clean it up, and then I’ll do my magic.”

  Waylon barely nodded.

  “Keep the neck brace on until we get those pictures,” the doctor told the nurse.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Shiloh pushed around the curtain and came back to stand beside him. She took his hand in hers as they took care of the gash on his forehead. He tried not to squeeze her hand, but dammit! It hurt like a bitch when the nurse cleaned the wound. He kept his eyes glued to Shiloh’s face. Her beautiful dark hair had been pinned up for the wedding, but now it had fallen down over her shoulders. The red roses that had been scattered through the curls were wilted. Her pretty dress was stained and dirty, and her black rubber boots were muddy.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “For what?” she asked.

  “Your dress,” he muttered.

  “Honey, this is just a dress. It can be cleaned or thrown in the trash. What matters is that you aren’t dead.” She squeezed his hand.

  She had called him honey. He was sure of that, but he couldn’t be her sweetheart. That much he was sure of. He was Waylon Stephens, of the moonshiners over in Red River County, Texas. Shiloh Malloy was way out of his league.

  He closed his eyes, but she leaned down and said, “Don’t you close your eyes. You can’t sleep until the doctor gets done with you, and if you’ve got a concussion, I’ll be waking you up every hour until twenty-four have passed, so get ready for it.”

  “Sleepy,” he said.

  “Me too, but we can sleep later,” she told him.

  Dawn was pushing night out of the way when the nurse finally came into the cubicle with a whole raft of papers in her hands. “Doc says his preliminary exam was right on the money. Sprained ankle and a slight concussion. He will need someone with him for about a week. No heavy lifting, no hard work, crutches for at least a week. I’m sending him home with a list of things he can’t do, and those that he can.”

  “I’ll stay with him, and see to it that he behaves,” Shiloh said.

  “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself,” Waylon protested.

  “Yep, you can, in a week,” Shiloh told him.

  “You can have someone with you, or we can keep you here,” the nurse said. “It’s your choice, Mr. Stephens.”

  “I’ll go home,” he grumbled.

  “And you’ll be good?” the nurse asked.

  “Yes, he will, because I give you my word,” Shiloh told her.

  “I’ve got cattle and chickens and—”

  Shiloh put a finger on his lips. “I can take care of all that. It’s only for a week, and if I need help, I’ll call Rusty and Bonnie.”

  “How’re we getting home?” He didn’t want to tell either of them that the only thing he could picture in his mind was a little frame house set back in a grove of pecan trees. Back behind the house was acres and acres of corn that granddad used to make shine.

  “Rusty and Bonnie brought my SUV up here. It’s waiting in the parking lot, so let’s go home and get the morning feeding chores done,” she said.

  Even the nod he gave made his head throb worse. “All right, but you don’t have to…”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “That’s what friends and neighbors are for. I’ll go bring the van up to the doors.”

  The nurse helped him get dressed and rolled him outside in a wheelchair in time to see a beautiful sunrise out there at the end of the horizon. His suit would never come clean again, but thank God, they didn’t have to cut his boot off, since they were the ones that he saved for Sunday and special occasions.

  When he stood up, the sunrise blurred, and he had to grab the door handle of the van to keep from dropping. The nurse told him to sit down in the passenger seat and then she pulled his bum leg up and put it inside.

  “The doctor will see you on Friday. Your appointment and his address are in this file,” she said.

  “We’ll be there,” Shiloh assured her.

  The nurse shook her finger at Waylon. “No driving until after he sees you.”

  “You got to be kiddin’ me,” he moaned.

  “I’ll see to it.” Shiloh nodded.

  Waylon waited until they were past Claude before he said, “All right, we escaped that place. You can drop me off at my ranch, and go on home. I’ll get in touch with someone to tow my truck…”

  “What we’re going to do is go to your ranch, get a shower, and make breakfast. Then I’ll let you sleep an hour while I take care of the morning chores. That’s as much as you need to worry about right now. Your truck is already at the body shop. Rusty and Bonnie took care of that last night, and called the insurance company listed on the papers in your glove compartment.”

  “You don’t have to do this.” He used the lever on the side to lean the seat back a little.

  “I’m not arguing with you anymore,” she said.

  Good God Almighty! It was going to be a long week.

  Chapter Three

  Shiloh felt like she’d just closed her eyes when the alarm went off right by her ear at three o’clock in the afternoon. She glanced over at the recliner where Waylon was sleeping, saw that he was awake, and reset the alarm.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Waylon Stephens, and I live in Palo Duro Canyon on a ranch.” He smiled.

  “How old are you?” She covered a yawn with her hand.

  “Thirty on my last birthday,” he answered. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

  She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t sleep. Was he telling the truth about his age, or did he just make up something so that she’d leave him alone? She’d promised the doctor that for the first twenty-four hours she’d wake him every single hour and ask him something to be sure he was all right. Next time she’d have to remember to ask something she was absolutely sure about.

  When her alarm went off the second time, she expected to see him in his recliner, but he wasn’t there. She threw back the quilt that she’d used to cove
r herself and followed the sounds of his crutches on the wooden kitchen floor.

  “Just exactly”—she popped her hands on her hips—“what do you think you’re doin’?”

  “I’m bored,” he said. “So I’m making each of us an omelet for supper. We’ll eat, and then we’ll go do the evening chores.”

  “Not we.” She crossed the floor and poked him in the chest with her forefinger. “I will do the chores. If you promise to be good, I might let you ride in the truck, but no driving.”

  “You’re worse than my mother.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a Harrison Ford grin.

  “You’re a horrible patient,” she said.

  “I hate being in the house,” he told her. “Always have. That’s why I went to work on a ranch right out of high school. The idea of sitting through four years of classes in college gave me the hives.” He leaned his crutches against the cabinet and worked with his bad leg cocked back.

  “You look like a flamingo standing like that,” she told him. “Go sit down and let me finish the omelets.”

  “If I sit any longer, I will die of pure boredom. I can handle this. If I need help, I’ll ask.” He added ham, peppers, and cheese to the omelet and deftly flipped one side over to make a pocket.

  That was more than she’d ever heard Waylon say at one time, so she decided to press her luck. “So just how bad was your mama? I’m askin’ to see how much of that derogatory remark you made is true.”

  “Actually, my mama is a saint. She has had to live on the next farm over from my grandmother, who’s always cankerous and always complains about everything. My folks and most of my family still live way back in the sticks next to the Red River on Red Dirt Road in East Texas,” he said. “Is that enough to convince you that I don’t have amnesia?”

  “Maybe.”

  He scooted the first omelet off onto a plate and handed it to her, then added two pieces of toast and a small bowl of mixed fruit. “I poured the fruit from a bag of frozen so don’t fuss at me for using a knife.”

  “And I suppose you just blinked and the peppers magically diced themselves too?”

  “No, I keep bowls full in the fridge all ready to use for omelets or fajitas or whatever else I might need to use them for when I’m cooking on the fly,” he informed her. “What about your mama? She would have been Ezra’s second wife, right?”

  “Her name is Polly,” Shiloh answered. “And, yes, she was number two of the three wives. His dogs are named after his wives—there’s Martha, Polly, and Vivien. Our mothers in that order. Never knew any of my grandparents. Didn’t know Ezra or his kinfolk, and Mama’s folks died before I was born.” She carried the plate and small bowl to the table, and came back to stand beside him.

  “Did I forget something?” he asked.

  “Just that you can’t carry a plate and work those crutches at the same time, and if you start hopping on one leg, there’s a chance you’ll fall,” she reminded him. “So maybe you should quit bein’ so macho and let me help.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There was that sexy little grin again.

  Shiloh would have bet that anytime he went to the Sugar Shack, all he had to do was flash that shy smile, and all the women in the canyon would have trouble keeping their underbritches from sliding down around their ankles.

  * * *

  Waylon fought the chemistry between him and Shiloh with all his might and power, but the attraction did nothing but grow. Everyone in the canyon knew the terms of Ezra’s will—his daughters had to live on the ranch together for one year. At the end of that time, whoever was still on the place would share the land.

  Waylon’s dad had always told him that if he dragged his feet, he might get left behind. He wanted to throw the crutches over in a corner, hold his leg up like one of those big-butted birds, and take Shiloh in his arms for a long, hot kiss, but that wouldn’t be right. Why start something that he couldn’t finish? Especially if it led to something more, and then she hated him for cheating her out of her half of a ranch that was twice or three times the size of his little spread.

  He slipped his crutches under his arms and hobbled over to the table where she’d set his plate. When he had sat down, she gave him a long, quizzical look.

  “What?” he asked. He couldn’t have egg on his face or shirt, since he hadn’t even taken the first bite.

  “You sayin’ grace over this food or am I?” she asked.

  He bowed his head and said a simple prayer.

  “You’re not used to praying for your food, are you?” she asked.

  She’d picked up on that in a hurry. His grandmother was super religious—one of those people who thought the earth would open up and the devil would drag a person right down to hell if they didn’t say grace before they ate. But then she was so hateful and mean-spirited that no one really wanted to spend much time with her. It was a case of attitude versus actions. His granddad didn’t always bless his sandwich at noontime when he and his crew were out in the field hauling hay in the summertime, but he had a heart of gold and never said a hateful word to anyone. Waylon had always wanted to be more like his granddad than his grandmother.

  “Did I stutter all that bad?”

  “No, but you were uncomfortable.” She took her first bite of the omelet. “This is really good. Who taught you to cook?”

  “My mother,” he replied, glad that she’d changed the subject. “I have three sisters, all older than me, and two younger brothers. She said if the girls had to learn to drive tractors, haul hay, and build fences, then us boys had to learn to cook and clean. She was a wise woman. All of us can run a ranch, but we also know how to take care of a house.”

  “Your mama did good, but right now your ankle is sprained, and you have a concussion,” she reminded him. “Everyone needs help at some time in their life.”

  “You got that right.” He nodded.

  “How in the devil are you running this place without hired hands or help of any kind?” she asked.

  “I just bought it last fall and it was in pretty decent shape. I’m hoping to hire a couple of high school boys to help out in the summer. Kids around these parts are always looking for work,” he told her.

  Dammit!

  He didn’t want to feel comfortable talking to her. He wanted for things to be awkward between them, so the temptation to ask her out on a date wouldn’t keep rising up to pester him.

  “You got any half siblings back in Arkansas?” he asked.

  “Nope, I’m an only child. All three of us—Abby Joy, Bonnie, and me—are only children. I guess our mothers all felt the same when Ezra threw them out because we weren’t boys,” she said. “Crappy way to treat a woman right after she’s carried a baby for nine months and then went through delivery, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a wonder one of those women didn’t shoot him, but then—” He hesitated.

  “But then,” she butted in, “they’d have gone to prison, and left a child with no parent.”

  “Why do you even want something that belonged to him?” Waylon asked.

  “My biggest dream has been to live on a ranch. Mama used to say it was in my blood. Now I have the chance, and I can always change the name to something other than Malloy Ranch.”

  “Ezra will always be buried there,” Waylon reminded her.

  “Yep, and he can see that I’m doing a fantastic job of running the place and be sorry that he shoved me and Mama out the door,” she said.

  * * *

  Shiloh remembered well the first time she’d seen Waylon Stephens. She hadn’t known his name back then, but he’d sure stood out at her father’s funeral. With those steely-blue eyes set in a chiseled face, he’d been the sexiest cowboy at the graveside services. She had never met Ezra, so she couldn’t bring herself to cry for him, and she hadn’t paid much attention to what was being said. She had, however, snuck in a few long sideways looks at her two sisters and several at Waylon, who had stood off to one side.

  Her sisters had teased her about h
im ever since they saw her staring at him in church that first Sunday, but looking was all she intended to do. Abby Joy had done more than look at Cooper, and it had cost her a third of a pretty nice-size ranch. Now it was down to Shiloh and Bonnie, and it was still nine months until the first of the year. Maybe Bonnie should be the one taking care of Waylon, since she’d caught the bouquet and the garter had landed on his cowboy hat.

  That thought sent a streak of jealousy through Shiloh’s heart. Bonnie could fall for someone else, preferably in the summertime, and that would give her time to get married long before the January first deadline. When it was all said and done, Shiloh intended to have her cake and eat it too. She’d own Malloy Ranch, and then she’d act on the strong vibes between her and Waylon.

  “You got awful quiet all of a sudden,” Waylon said, breaking the silence between them.

  “Just thinkin’,” she said. “How long have you lived in the canyon?”

  “Little more than a year. I came over here with my cousin Travis, who’s married to Nona, the daughter of the folks that own the biggest spread around these parts. My youngest brother, Cash, came with us, but he went back home after a few weeks. Got to missin’ the girl he left behind,” Waylon said.

  “Did you leave a girl behind?” Shiloh asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Leave dozens behind?” Shiloh pressed.

  “Maybe a few, but nothing serious. Had my mind set on buyin’ my own place, so I had to work long hours. That didn’t leave much time for gettin’ any more serious than a few dances on Saturday night at the local honky-tonk,” he answered. “How about you? You got a feller waiting to move in with you when you inherit Ezra’s ranch?”

  “Nope,” she replied. “Any of the guys I dated wouldn’t ever want to live in this place.”

  “It takes a special kind of person to appreciate the beauty of the canyon, don’t it?” he asked as he reached for his crutches.

  “Yes, it does, and I’ve got to admit that it took a while to grow on me. When I first drove down into the canyon, I thought I’d dropped off the edge of the world.” She cleared the table and headed for the back door. “We’d best get the chores done before dark. You need help with your coat?”