by Dahlia West
Visiting hours ended, and though Rowan could probably use her credentials and convince the duty nurse to let her stay, she wanted to check on Willow and actually tuck her in tonight.
She kissed her dad on the forehead and pulled up his blanket. “Get as much sleep as you can.”
He grunted, and that told her how likely he thought that was.
She smiled, though, grateful that he was still the tough-as-nails rancher that she’d known all her life. “Try anyway,” she said in her nurse’s voice.
That voice always made him smile for some reason.
She turned out the lights and slipped out the door making it all the way down the hall, to the elevator, and into her car before tears almost came. She fought them back, using every ounce of strength she had left and kept her eyes proudly dry as she got behind the wheel.
Outside the city, though, her mind wandered a bit, with memories of Mom in the hospital, of the first time she’d come back to the house knowing Mom was dead. Autopilot took Rowan, not to the highway but to Hardee Road instead, the back way to the Archer farm.
When she realized where she was, her foot came off the gas. She fought the urge to double back and get back on I-89. She’d lose so much time, though, and Willow might be asleep before she got back if she did that. She soldiered on, biting her lip all the way. Her foot—her damnable foot—slowed again once she came around Slayter’s Curve.
There it was, the high wooden arches that proclaimed it to be the entrance to the Snake River Ranch. She could just make out the Big House, the barn, and the bunkhouse down the long, winding drive through the valley.
She’d driven this way so many times in high school, visiting Court, making out in the barn, sometimes in the grassy field near the house. He’d taken her virginity in his beat-up Ford, on prom night, and she cried when the stain ruined her dress. It wasn’t really the stain, it was that there was no one to talk to about it, no one to ask questions about what she was supposed to do.
Emma was about a minute older than Rowan (two years actually) and barely knew anything about sex herself. Court and Rowan had bonded over the fact that they’d both lost their mothers to breast cancer. And he held her in his truck, awkwardly, that night when she pretended to be upset over some blood.
They’d stayed together through graduation, though he flirted some. She’d ignored it and told herself he’d settle down soon. Then he’d taken off, joined the rodeo circuit. She’d ignored it, telling herself he’d be back eventually. And besides, she had nursing school to get through.
But he’d been in Cheyenne for the Frontier Days, and she’d been on break from school. She’d driven there, alone, to surprise him, surprising them both when she found him in bed with two women in his travel trailer. She’d stormed off. He hadn’t bothered to follow her.
That had been the end…and a beginning…all rolled into one. Court had disappeared from her life just as Willow had, surprisingly, come into it.
She felt something different now, as her tires rolled past. Not longing but loathing. She never wanted to see Court Barlow again, that was for damn sure. She hit the gas, anger renewed, and nearly lost control of the front end as it slipped in the slush. She righted the wheel and rocketed past the ranch, steady on toward home, where it was safer.
*
Willow and Emma were baking cookies in the kitchen. It was a pleasant enough sight, but it did nothing to help Rowan’s dark mood. She excused herself and headed outside, where she walked the fence line with Kinka, plucking at the wire until she came to the gate and remembered that it was broken. She located the tool box in the shed, hauled it out, and rooted around inside for some wire cutters.
The last of the late-day sun’s warmth lingered, so she took off her gloves to work. The manual labor was supposed to be good for her nerves, but it was just giving her more time to think. About medical bills, the mortgage on the farm, and what they could get for the place if they sold it.
The very idea of it was like a punch in the gut, though. Her family had lived here since her great-grandfather had built the house. And assuming she could get Dad to sell—hell, assuming she’d even agree to sell—where would he live? In town? He’d hate it! Where would Rowan live, if he needed more care? How long could Emma chip in before her job required her back?
Nursing paid more than ranching, by far. Their apartment in Cheyenne wasn’t much, but that was the point. Rowan had been able to save a little each month, even while paying off nursing school. Her meager savings wasn’t enough to keep this place going, though.
As she looked up at the house, she couldn’t imagine it belonging to someone else.
Her hand slipped, and she felt a sharp pain on her palm. Blood welled in the cut. That was all she could take, it seemed. Tears dripped onto her hand, her sleeve, the ground. Her ground. Her land. Her family’s land. The sobs came in a burst and she pressed her uninjured hand to her mouth to hold them back.
It must not have worked, because Willow appeared beside her, bundled into her winter coat that was one size too small. “It’s okay, Mama,” she said, tugging at Rowan’s sleeve. “I’ll get you a Band-Aid. It’s okay.”
Emma put her arm around Rowan’s shoulders and pulled her into the warm house, where the wood stove was burning in the corner and the cookies were cooling. Rowan only cried harder.
At the kitchen table, Emma patted Rowan’s palm with a wet paper towel and tried to apply a bandage while the skin was still damp.
“You have to wait,” Rowan declared miserably.
Emma shot her a look. “Nurses make the worst patients.”
“That’s doctors,” Rowan replied.
Both women fell silent. That was another thing Rowan avoided, tried not to think about. She could have gone to med school. She’d had the grades for it. But there was no money. In the beginning, Rowan had told herself she’d pursue nursing first, then maybe go to night school when she could afford it. Then Willow came. And doctoring went. It was easier not to dwell on it, just like Dad with his heating bills, his throbbing left arm, or the lump in his wife’s breast.
But Rowan had never blamed Willow. Not once. Not ever. Willow was her world, and the little girl was happy, despite their financial situation. She had her Pop-Pop and her shaggy white dog-horse and acres upon acres of land to ride him on. Willow had a legacy that would be hers one day.
If the bank didn’t take it first.
Living in Cheyenne for so long, Rowan already felt like she’d lost the farm, years ago, at least for herself. But she’d be damned if Willow wouldn’t get it.
She’d be damned.
“We’re going to lose it, Emma,” Rowan said quietly.
Her sister looked up and gave her a stern gaze. “This is the part where I tell you to stop talking like that.”
Rowan threw up her hands, making the Band-Aid flapped uselessly. “How can we do this?” she hissed. “How? You have a full-time job. I live in Cheyenne. It’ll be months—months—before Dad’s able to work, and even then there’s no guarantee he’ll be able to handle days as long or as hard as he did before. In fact, it’s a damn near guarantee that he won’t!”
Rowan pushed her chair back and stalked to the counter, fisting the bills in her hand and waving them. “He’s juggling the heating bills with the other utilities.”
Emma’s face hardened, and Rowan realized that her sister knew Dad was in serious financial straits. “He said the lambing would be good this spring,” Emma replied. “And we didn’t lose any sheep in the blizzard. He said he’d make it all back with the shearing. And he would have.”
That much was true. The sheep were in fantastic shape with thick coats that would bring in a lot of money. They were also healthy and strong, so the lambing would be good, as well. But not “medical expenses” good. Not “extended stay in the hospital and emergency cardiac surgery” good.
“The cost of the aspirin alone in that place will eat him alive,” Rowan muttered. She was talking mostly to herself, but Em
ma nodded, clearly getting the drift. She set down the bills and turned toward the counter, propping up her elbows and putting her head in her hands.
She’d given up on a future with Court, because she’d had no other choice. She’d had to do what was right for Willow. Then, she’d given up medical school because the bills needed to be paid and she had a little girl to raise. She stood up, spine straightening, and once again she knew what she had to do.
“I’m coming back,” she declared, as much to herself as to Emma next to her.
“Rowan.”
Rowan turned and looked at Emma. “I can get shifts at Star Valley Medical. Maybe. If they’re hiring.”
“Rowan.”
“If not, there’s a clinic in Pinedale. And one in Jackson Hole.”
“Rowan, Pinedale is two hours away, in good weather!”
“Well, I can make it work for a little while!” Rowan insisted. “Just until Star Valley is hiring! Paul Renner is an anesthesiologist there. Maybe he could pull some strings. Maybe he needs an assistant.”
Emma’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling. “Are you serious, Rowan? Do you hear yourself?”
“I am not going to lose this place,” Rowan replied.
“Yeah, well, there might be a slight problem with that!”
Just then, Willow appeared at the head of the wooden stairs and peered down at them. “Mama?” she called out. “Are you fighting?”
Rowan sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, baby,” she called back lightly. “We were just talking too loud. Sorry!”
“’Kay.”
“A three-foot, fifty-pound problem with brown eyes,” Emma muttered.
Rowan took a step forward and jabbed her finger at her sister. “You listen to me,” she whispered fiercely. “Willow…is not the problem! Willow has never been the problem, and if I ever hear you talk like that again—”
Emma held up her hands. “I didn’t mean it like that! Of course she’s not the problem.”
Rowan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her shoulders ached. She was all screwed up from napping in the middle of the day. “I’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
And they would come to it. Sooner or later. She just needed time to figure out the best way to go about it.
“What are you going to do?” Emma asked, eyes wide.
“Well, nothing,” Rowan replied. “Nothing right now. I’ll wait until Dad’s home, until things are…more settled. Then I’ll figure out something.”
“He lives down the road, Rowan. He’ll find out you’re in town. He might stop by.”
Rowan snorted. “I’ll sic the dogs on him.”
Emma peered at her for a long moment. “Why do I get the feeling you might actually do that?”
“If he sets one foot on this property, Emma, I’ll blow it off with Dad’s Remington. I swear to God.”
Emma stood up and tossed the empty Band-Aid package into the trash. “Well, then, I guess things are just about settled.”
Rowan looked at her curiously. “Just about?”
“I’ll talk to my boss. See about bumping down to part-time.”
“Emma!” Rowan protested. “You said yourself, you just got that job!”
“Well, it is what it is. This is serious, and it’s not going away any time soon. So either my boss is on board or…”
“Or what? You’ll go back to waiting tables at the Rusty Bucket like in high school?”
Emma shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll work it out. If you’re going to do this, then I’m in it with you. We can’t lose the farm. If the heart attack didn’t kill Dad, losing this place will.”
Rowan nodded grimly. That was the God’s honest truth. Without this place, they’d lose the only parent they had left. She let out a long sigh and slumped back against the counter. “God, I could use a drink.”
“Me, too,” Emma agreed and opened the cabinet over the stove. “Crap,” she said pulling out Dad’s only bottle of tequila. The yellow liquid barely covered the bottom of the bottle.
“Let’s go out,” Emma suggested, putting the bottle away.
“Out? Are you serious?”
“Why not? I’m not tired. You’re not tired. Troy can watch Willow. We’ve both slogged sheep shit and taken turns at the hospital. I need a break from all this.”
Rowan laughed, for the first time since she could actually remember. “A break?” she asked. “We haven’t even started.”
“Exactly,” Emma replied, grabbing her cell phone. “We need food anyway,” she said as she dialed. “Unless you like TV dinners and frozen corn dogs. We’ll get a drink, hit the Stop’N’Save, accomplish some things. Maybe I’ll put in an application at the Rusty Bucket,” she joked.
Rowan shook her head. “I wouldn’t let you. I’d work three jobs first. That place is gross.”
“Well, you’re going to have to ditch your fancy Cheyenne ways and get used to the food there. It’s the only game in town.”
Rowan groaned as she remembered. “My boots smell like sheep shit.”
“I’ll lend you some shoes.”
And like that, there seemed to be light at the end of the tunnel. A long tunnel. A very long tunnel. And Rowan wasn’t going to fool herself that this wasn’t going to be the most difficult thing she’d ever done. But she’d always said she’d do anything for family.
It was time to make good on that promise.
Chapter Seven
‡
Seth stepped into the blue-smoke haze of the Silver Spur behind Sawyer and Court and let his eyes adjust to the dim light. The crowd was decent, as usual, because there wasn’t much to do in Star Valley in the evenings. Or ever. Cowboys in shiny boots lined the walls and the tables as the jukebox blared Rascal Flatts. Seth preferred outlaw country himself, but he’d forgive a lot for a shot of smooth tequila and a beer.
The pool tables were in the back, and Sawyer snagged one while Seth put in their order at the bar. It was early yet, and the women were few and far between compared to the men, he noticed, but that didn’t bother him. He didn’t need a lot of women. Just one, just the right one, would do.
When he returned to the table, Court and Sawyer had already racked up for the first game. Seth slid into a chair at the closest table to wait for his drinks and his turn to play the winner. Both came fast, as Court beat Sawyer handily, though there was none of Court’s usual crowing about the win.
Sawyer didn’t seem overly concerned about it, either. Something else altogether seemed to have captured his attention. Seth followed his younger brother’s gaze to see Cassidy Conroy striding toward them. He was a little surprised she didn’t just wear her latest Lincoln County Fair Queen crown and sash wherever she went, but then she carried herself like she was still wearing them. Seth supposed winning a beauty contest every summer since you were tall enough to walk could do that to a person. She was nearly at their table, ignoring them entirely, or maybe she just couldn’t see them with her nose that high in the air.
“Hey, there’s toilet paper on your shoe,” Sawyer called out as she passed.
Cassidy turned. She didn’t look down at her high heels but instead right at Sawyer, taking a long perusal of him. “Your fly’s undone,” she replied with a smirk.
Seth watched as Sawyer met her gaze straight on, seemingly unintimidated by Cassidy’s knockout good looks and haughty air. “Maybe I’m getting a head start on the night,” he drawled.
“You’re not even going to check?” she asked, swirling her glass in her hand.
Sawyer put his pool cue down and leaned closer to her.
Seth saw Cassidy’s breath hitch slightly, the only indication that she wasn’t quite as calm, cool, and collected as she seemed.
“If it were really unzipped,” Sawyer told her, “I’d feel a cold breeze on my dick, especially standing this close to you, Princess.”
Normally Seth would’ve intervened. It wasn’t right to insult women, not even Cassidy Conroy. But Cassidy, unbelievably, looked
like she was enjoying the exchange, despite her raised eyebrows at his brother’s harsh words. A slight smile played on her lips.
She took a sip of her drink and glanced at Seth then turned her gaze back to Sawyer. “Just the three musketeers tonight?”
Sawyer grinned. “Why? You need us to call in a few more guys?”
“Sawyer,” Seth snapped. That was a step too far.
Cassidy must have thought so as well because she turned on her heel without a word and walked away.
“Jesus, Sawyer,” Seth hissed.
Sawyer shrugged, and Seth might have taken it for a dismissal if it hadn’t been for the gleam in his brother’s eyes as he watched Cassidy move on to greener pastures.
“That was rude,” Seth chastised.
“She’s tough,” replied Sawyer, eyes never leaving her retreating form. “Like a guy,” he mused. “Like one of us.”
Seth was surprised to see something like…grudging admiration in Sawyer’s gaze. For Cassidy Conroy? It was hard to believe.
After Cassidy’s quick departure, another girl, younger, blond and blue eyed, started making her way to their table. Sawyer elbowed Court, but for all his earlier posturing, Court turned his nose up at her. This one was wearing a skirt too short for the cold spring night and a shirt that she apparently wasn’t quite old enough to button accurately. Her cleavage spilled out of the top like ten pounds of grain in a five-pound sack.
She wasn’t Seth’s type, to be sure, but it was surprising that Court didn’t sweep her off to the dance floor then out to the parking lot after the song.
“Hi!” she said brightly.
Sawyer gave her a polite smile, but Court didn’t even greet her at all.
She twisted one lock of hair around her finger, looking confused. “Want to dance?” she asked Court.
Amazingly, he merely shrugged. “Maybe later,” he told her then turned away.
The girl pouted then moved away from them, casting a disappointed look over her shoulder.
Sawyer stared at Court. “Are you playing some kind of screwed-up version of hard to get? ’Cause I don’t think that’s required.” He eyed the girl as she shuffled away. “And if you make it too complicated for her, it’ll go right over her bleached-blond head.”
