“You’re sweet to offer, but I’m sure your talents could be put to better use helping animals than washing dishes.”
“Go on, Doc.” Wiley stood. “Get back to work, and I’ll handle things on this end.”
“You’re a good man, Wiley James. Charlie might not cotton to you, but I sure do.” After much manly backslapping, and a hug from Macy, Doc Carthage resumed his rounds, which left Macy in the once again uncomfortable spot of being alone with Wiley.
Sure, Henry was with them, but at a time like this, a napping eight-month-old didn’t do much to ease tension.
When the vet’s truck reached the end of her short drive, Macy said, “You don’t have to help.”
“I want to.” He turned to head back into the house, but struggled walking.
“Have you been pretending to be normal for Doc Carthage?”
He grunted.
Macy sighed. Here we go again. Any second now, Wiley’s dark side would make an appearance.
She caught up with him at the table, where he’d grabbed two plates on his way to the kitchen sink, but his leg locked and he stumbled. Both pieces of her grandmother’s wedding china crashed to the floor, each shattering in dozens of pieces.
“Shit, Mace...” He tried kneeling, but couldn’t. The strain on his drawn mouth made her heart ache for him. “Sorry. I know how much that china means...”
“It’s okay.” She stepped in to help.
“I’ve got this.” Still trying to lower himself, he gestured her away.
“No, Wiley, you don’t. But that’s all right.” She took a chair from the kitchen table and placed it before him. “Here, use this to pull yourself up.”
He did, and then hunched over the kitchen counter, looking like a sad shadow of his former self. Tomato sauce splattered his jeans and plaid shirt and cheeks.
At the sink, she dampened a dishcloth. She’d clean Wiley first, then the floor. But when she touched the cloth to his face, he flinched.
She ignored him, daubing at twin red splotches on his cheek.
The set of his lips was grim, as was his lightning-quick grasp of her wrist. “I said I didn’t need help.”
“But you do.” When their gazes locked, her lungs refused to take in air. With her face only inches from his, she realized they hadn’t been this close since their almost-kiss the night of his graduation.
He leaned forward, shocking her by pressing his forehead to hers. “I can’t need help.” He straightened, leaving her shockingly bereft without his touch. “It’s a man thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
He took the rag from her, then used the chair for leverage on his way down to clear the broken china. “I am sorry about this. Your grandma told me how she bought it piece by piece.”
Macy remembered the story. As a young bride, her grandmother had purchased a saucer or bowl or plate each time she’d gone to the grocery store as part of a special store promotion. “She had stories to go along with each new find. My favorite was one of the serving bowls that she’d earned the money for by selling jam.”
“She made the best huckleberry jam I’ve ever had. Still have any?”
“There are a few jars tucked away. If you play your cards right, I might be willing to part with one.”
“That’s a great offer, but I’ve never been good with cards. I’m sure she’s got a recipe around here somewhere. Why not make more?”
“I could, but that would require picking huckleberries that aren’t yet in season.”
“Always excuses from you.” He winked.
“Always more indecipherable mood twists from you.”
“I’m trying, okay?”
“I appreciate your efforts, but again—it’s me. We’ve known each other forever, so please stop feeling like you have to try. I’m not asking for perfection. Just civility.”
Chapter Six
Against his wishes, or even better judgment, Wiley accepted a ride from Macy back to his house.
Upon exiting the truck and climbing the cabin’s stairs, he gripped the porch rail tight enough until she drove away that he could no longer feel his fingers.
The pain was so intense he feared passing out. Putting on a good show for Macy and the doc had cost dearly.
Wiley stumbled inside, grateful that when Doc had met him in the driveway to coerce him into joining Macy’s lunch party, he’d already brought the morning’s liquor run prizes as well as the dog’s food inside.
After opening the Jack Daniel’s and taking a few big swigs, he felt fortified enough to mix yogurt into a bowl of the new high-dollar puppy food the feed store clerk recommended for the nursing momma.
He grabbed a more compact fifth of whiskey to stash in his back pocket, then used his trusty hoe for support while carrying the food to the barn.
“How’re you doing?” he asked the pretty girl, gritting his teeth while setting the food in front of her, then picking up her water to fill.
The day was sunny and chilly with a brisk north wind, but inside, the barn felt calm and warm. Sunshine streamed through the gaps in the plank walls his and Macy’s grandfathers had built.
After placing the water in front of the dog, he lowered himself to the hay bale he’d placed alongside her, then reached for his whiskey, taking a nice, long pull.
“I had quite a day,” he mentioned, noting that the puppies still hadn’t opened their eyes. “But then I’m sure you did, too. Poor Macy has her hands full with one baby, but you’ve got five.” He took another swig, welcoming the alcohol’s mental fog. “Always thought I wanted a big family, but with this bum leg, I can’t ever see myself making much of a dad.” Glug, glug. The more he drank, the better he felt. The pain was still there—but different. No longer screaming, but calling for his attention in a normal conversational tone.
Didn’t make sense—how he refused to take pain meds he knew worked because he was afraid of getting addicted, yet he drank more than ever. Sucked that this was what his life had come down to—choosing between two addictions.
He leaned forward, rubbing the silky fur between the hound’s ears. The dog gobbled her food, drank some water and now seemed to have a tough time staying awake.
“Go ahead and take a nap, pretty girl.” He finished off the bottle, then chucked it into a metal trash barrel—at least he’d tried. The plastic bottle twanged against the barrel’s lip, then bounced onto the plank floor. “Hell, I might join you.”
He tipped sideways, resting his shoulder against the barn wall.
His chin drooped to his chest.
“Macy’s grown into a helluva fine-looking worm, don’t you think?” His sluggish brain caught up with his grammar snafu and he laughed. “I meant woman—no offense if you prefer worms.”
Dust motes danced in lazy sun.
What he wouldn’t give to once again dance with Macy the way they had the night of his graduation—before her dad had interrupted and certainly before his parents’ accident.
If he wasn’t plastered, he’d have much more to think on the subject, but right now, all he wanted was a nice rest.
* * *
WHERE THE HELL am I?
Wiley was slow to wake.
His head felt like a concrete block, and his body even worse. The barn was cold and dark—creaking under the pressure of a gusty wind. The night carried too many uncomfortable noises.
His brain told him branches scratched the old tin roof, but his runaway pulse said rats—worse, the enemy, creeping in for an ambush. Something thumped against the far wall. He tensed, automatically reaching for the SIG SAUER P226 9 mm that was no longer there.
Forcing deep breaths, he covered his face with his hands.
He was home. Montana. The only thing even remotely threatening on this mounta
in was his sassy neighbor and her nuisance llama. He had a shotgun for the occasional bear or mountain lion, but he hadn’t seen signs of either since he’d been back.
He glanced down to find the momma hound staring, her dark eyes shining in the gloom. “What are you doing awake? Cold?”
He rubbed behind her ears. She felt warm to the touch and wasn’t shivering, but just in case, he’d return to the feed store in the morning to find a barn-safe heater.
“Okay, well...” After a sharp exhale, he nodded toward the door. “I’m going to bed for whatever’s left of the night. I’ll bring more of your special grub in the morning.”
In the house, he drank enough to help him fall asleep.
In the morning, he woke hating himself even more than he had the night before.
This cycle had to stop. But how?
His physical therapist had given him exercises, but they’d only worsened the pain. In his whole freaking life, he’d never been more out of shape both mentally and physically, and he didn’t have a clue what to do about it.
The fact that he drank too much was a given.
When he’d been on active duty, he’d consumed four-to five-thousand calories a day. Now, he doubted he even got a third of those—not that he needed them for what little activity he managed. Regardless, drinking all of his daily calories sure as hell was contributing to his problem.
While his mind wandered to the previous day, he rubbed his aching chest. The last thing he’d wanted had been to join Macy and the doc for lunch, but it turned out to be an okay time. Good eats. Even more enjoyable company—at least until the pain had taken over, and he’d once again made a fool of himself by falling and breaking Dot’s china.
He’d make it up to Macy, starting by unearthing his laptop, then heading down to the local coffeehouse to launch an online search to hopefully replace the plates he’d broken.
But first, he fed the momma dog who had gobbled her yogurt mix faster than he had Macy’s lasagna.
In town, he stopped by the feed store and picked up a heat lamp that was usually used for chickens, but he figured it would work for a dog family, too.
He had a hell of a time finding a parking spot for the coffeehouse, but as far as he knew, it was the only place besides the library that had public internet, and he sure wasn’t risking a chance meeting with Mrs. Runyan—the librarian who’d caught him smoking with his friends while they’d been flipping through breastfeeding books, looking at boobs. Not one of his prouder moments, but at fifteen, he hadn’t had many.
Overseas, he’d acquired a taste for Turkish coffee and The Baked Bean surprised him his first day back in Eagle Ridge by making it just right.
Wiley left the truck in front of the post office, then stashed his laptop under his arm for the hike to the coffee shop. His leg hurt like hell from the effort of walking as normally as possible. Pride was a real bitch, considering his doctor had offered to authorize a handicapped parking permit.
He was sweating by the end of the block. Two blocks later, he’d need more than coffee to put him back on an even keel.
Focus, he told himself. Finish the job.
At the coffee shop’s counter, he ordered his usual and a couple blueberry muffins from the too-cheery woman behind the counter. She wore her long dark hair in a ponytail. A sunflower barrette held it in place.
“This is your third time here in two weeks. That makes you a regular, and I know we’ve met before, but remind me. I’m Wendy.”
I’m not in the mood for chitchat. “Wiley.”
“Of course—” The size of her already toothy grin doubled. “You’re the Wiley who used to go to Eagle Ridge High, aren’t you?”
“One and the same.” And I’d prefer to sit down instead of rehashing glory days.
“Must have been the hair and whiskers that threw me off.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re on the mountain, I’ll bet you’ve seen Macy. Isn’t her baby a charmer?”
“Yeah. How much do I owe you?” He nodded to the coffee she held and the muffins she’d already put on the plate sitting on the counter.
“No charge. You’re practically family.”
“Thanks, but—” he withdrew a ten from his wallet “—I pay my own way.”
“Sure.” She handed him his coffee, and he prayed for the strength to maintain his grip long enough to make it to the corner table he’d claimed by leaving his computer on top. Her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to figure him out. He must have bored her, as a few seconds later she tallied his purchases, then punched the figure into the cash register before the drawer popped open and she delivered his change.
He planted two bucks in her tip jar, then grabbed his muffins and walked away. With his back to her, he gritted his teeth, focusing for all he was worth to walk the way he used to—the way she no doubt remembered.
It took about twenty minutes to find Macy’s gift, then input his credit card information for the Des Moines antique shop owner. He downed his coffee and food before answering a couple emails from Rowdy and Marsh, then made the excruciating march to his truck.
On the way out of town, he stopped at the liquor store where thankfully the same clerk who’d checked him out before wasn’t working.
His last stop was the grocery store for more of the momma hound’s yogurt. He should have grabbed food for himself, but what was the point when as soon as he fed the hound, he planned on drinking his way straight to bed?
* * *
“YOU’RE NEVER GONNA guess who just came in.”
“Who?” Macy set her cell phone on the kitchen table—surprised she even had service—putting it on Speaker for Wendy’s call. She’d need both hands for feeding Henry his pureed peaches. She’d spent the morning sorting bundles of Peruvian alpaca and llama fibers that she’d use for spinning and then knitting and weaving the sweaters she sold at pricey ski-resort boutiques. Her grandfather had made do with the fiber from his own herd for his woven art pieces, but when a certain Hollywood starlet had been spotted in a tabloid wearing one of Macy’s sweaters, her business had taken off, necessitating the need to import fibers from all over the world.
“Your cranky neighbor. Boy, was he a cool customer. Talk about a dark stare—looked like he wanted to kill someone.”
He must have been in pain.
“I’ve never seen anyone gulp Turkish coffee as fast as him. Then he ate a pair of muffins as if he was starving.”
And hungry.
“He’s spooky hot, but in a tortured way. I agree with your dad. Wiley’s no good. You need a Hallmark sort—you know, someone good with the whole wine and roses and candlelight routine. The only thing Wiley’s probably good at is making a woman wish she’d never met him.”
A problem, considering Macy was already at that stage, yet still magnetically drawn to him. No matter how much he’d changed, he was still Wiley James, the toughest, most badass cowboy she’d ever known. He’d tamed horses deemed lost causes. He’d tossed hay bales as if they were tissue paper. To see him reduced to a man so devastated by pain that he could scarcely control his emotions didn’t sit well.
He didn’t need her scorn. He needed help. But what could she do for him? Wiley needed round-the-clock nursing care.
Maybe it would be cheaper to find him a wife?
No. Even though he’d proven he was no good for her, Macy wasn’t sure she could stomach the thought of him being with another woman so soon after he’d limped back into her life.
“Macy? You there?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m multitasking. Wiley’s a mess to be sure, but I think with time, he can rebuild his life.”
“Like Steve Austin? The Six Million Dollar Man.”
Grimacing, Macy asked, “Watch much retro TV?”
“Don’t knock it. From what I can tell, the seventies weren’t as bad
as everyone says. And my cable’s so crappy that’s practically my only channel besides sports, news and the local channels—which are usually only playing sports or news.”
“You’re lucky to have cable. It’s like the Stone Age up here.” Which was just as well. No TV meant more time to spend with Henry and the garden and her knitting.
And Wiley?
The mere thought of him revved her pulse. Being near him produced the same sort of chemical rush as the last time she’d spotted a bear—cautious excitement. Her runaway pulse didn’t care that he was no good for her, or that her mind should be focused on a hundred other more important tasks than figuring him out. Her only productive thought was that she had to help him. But how?
What if you married Wiley and took care of him? That six-year-old girl who’d once proposed? Yeah, she was clearly still lurking in Macy’s subconscious. The idea was crazy. Yet that buttinsky girl kept talking. You’ve dreamed of becoming Mrs. Wiley James since like forever...
Wendy said, “I dated a guy who’s a satellite company rep. Want me to have him give you a call?”
“No!” Macy had been so deep into her strictly theoretical fantasy about her old friend Wiley that she’d forgotten her equally important friend Wendy was still on the line. “But thanks for the sweet offer. Maybe in the winter, but for now, I’m not in the house enough to even justify having it.”
“Understood. So back to Wiley, what have you decided? Cut him off cold-turkey like you did with sangria when you found out you were pregnant?”
“Sounds extreme. I mean, we are neighbors, after all. I have to at least be courteous.”
“Even if he isn’t?”
Yes, but now that she understand the reasoning behind his bad behavior, what was stopping her from trying to fix him?
Or marry him?
Stop! She mentally scolded the silly teen who’d joined the six-year-old and were now both still crushing on Wiley.
“Macy? Promise unless Charlie winds up at Wiley’s cabin again that you’ll stay away?”
“I think you’re being a bit overprotective, Mom.”
The Baby and the Cowboy SEAL (Cowboy SEALs 2) Page 6
