A loud laugh echoed in the small room before she covered her mouth with her hand and gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Uh, I don’t think I’d ever use tender as a way to describe Jack.” She shook her head but sobered. “No, I’m talking about his hand.” She arched a brow.
“Oh. Son of a bitch deserves it.”
“Yeah, well, people with cancer don’t exactly heal…”
He waited for her to finish, but she didn’t. “Don’t heal…” He let the sentence linger, waiting.
“Period.” She blinked at him, her expression curious. She opened her mouth then closed it. “I think you need to have a conversation with Jack. One that uses words.” She gave a quick roll of her eyes. “Think you can do that, Rocky?”
“No.”
“A for effort.”
“I’m not here to try.”
She sat down on the bed, tilting her head slightly. “Then why are you here?”
He exhaled a deep breath, debating on what exactly to say.
“Never mind. Not my business.” Laken held up her hands in surrender, stood, and walked to the door. She paused, placing her hand at the doorframe. As she glanced over her shoulder, she bit her lip, her body tense. “Just talk.”
As she left, Cyler closed his eyes. He wasn’t going to let her soft spot for Jack mess with him.
Rolling over, he slowly rose into a sitting position, the dull throb in his head going into a mad pounding. “Damn, I’d kill for some ibuprofen,” he muttered.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“You again?” Cyler glared through his narrowed eyes, trying to see through the pain.
“Yup. Sorry.” She shrugged, handing him two small brown pills and a glass of water.
“Laken, right?” he asked as he took the meds and water, giving her a quick glance.
“Yup. Laken Garlington.” She extended a hand.
“Cyler Myer,” he answered as soon as he swallowed. “But I guess you probably already knew that.”
“The general animosity gave me a clue,” Laken answered, a slight grin at her lips, pulling them wider and capturing his attention. Her lower lip was plumper than her top one, the off balance of it somehow perfect.
“Really? That’s what gave it away?” He slowly stood, his body aching, but it was better than being worthless and in bed.
“Easy there. Pretty sure you got a small concussion.”
“Damn it, old man will never let me live it down, even if the blasted coffee table did his dirty work.”
Laken’s laughter filtered through the room, lightening his mood.
“It’s not my first concussion. Probably won’t be my last.” He narrowed his eyes as he watched her. “There’s only one of you, so I’m good to go.” He slowly grinned and started toward the door.
“Just take it easy. It might be a better idea if you laid—”
“I’m fine,” he clipped, bracing his hand on the doorjamb, his head pounding like mad.
“Backing off.” She held up her hands and took a step back, but before he turned away, he noticed she started forward again.
“Look, I’m fine. I’m sure you’re used to having to care for whomever you’re stuck with—” He paused. “That came out wrong.”
“I’ll blame it on the concussion,” she answered, her tone serious.
He shifted back to her, concerned that he’d offended her by his careless remark. But as her full lower lip twitched at the corner, he relaxed.
“I’ve got thick skin.” She shrugged and walked toward him, waiting as he walked through the door and into the hall. “Jack’s in the living room, in case you were curious.”
Cyler watched her walk toward the kitchen, the slow sway of her hips capturing all his attention. She filled out her jeans damn well, just the right amount of muscle and curve. His lips twitched as she paused, placing her hands on her hips and taking a deep breath as if facing a huge endeavor, rather than just standing in a kitchen.
As he turned, he heard stainless steel pots clanging together. It was both comforting and painful; memories of his mother in that very same kitchen came flooding back.
With a firm set to his jaw, he walked into the living room. Jack was sitting in his recliner, flipping through the satellite guide, and making annoyed grunts with each highlighted show. “A thousand channels and not a damn thing on.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
At the sound of his voice, Jack jumped, the remote launching out of his hand and landing on the coffee table, sending the plastic backing and batteries sailing across the surface.
“Well, that sucks.” Cyler watched as a battery rolled off the table. He took a seat on the other side of the room. This seems familiar.
“I’m sorry I cuffed you,” Jack grumbled, his expression wary and shockingly apologetic.
What the hell?
“As I understand it, the coffee table needs more credit than you,” Cyler replied, leaning back into the sofa.
Jack huffed, casting a glare at the offending piece of furniture.
“Angry that it stole your glory, old man?” Cyler grinned, unable to resist poking the bear.
“You damn well know it,” Jack retorted then gave him a sidelong glance. “For being so hardheaded and stubborn, you should have at least dented the damn thing.”
“When you kick the bucket, that coffee table and I are going to have a bonfire,” Cyler shot back. Like hell was he going to let him forget that his time was ticking, slowly sifting away. And when it was gone, there wasn’t a damn thing the old man could do to stop Cyler from doing whatever he wanted.
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’ll try to put a damper on my excitement.”
“Damn it, Cyler. I know you’re just trying to be the largest pain in the ass, but think for one moment.” Jack turned in his seat, facing Cyler. His jaw was set in a firm line as he lifted his hand to gesture then winced.
White gauze wound around his fist, blood staining the white with a deep red. Cyler glanced away. The last thing he wanted was to feel sorry for him. It was the last thing he deserved anyway.
“Cyler, look at me,” Jack commanded.
It was the same tone Jack had used when he was just a kid. The same edge to his voice that made Cyler remember the sting of the apple tree switch across his ass and the tears of his mom when she tried to protect him.
Defiantly, he glanced up, daring Jack to continue.
“Did it ever occur to your thick head that maybe, even though you’re the biggest pain in the ass that ever did walk this earth, that I’m happy you’re here?”
“No. A lot of things crossed my mind, Jack. But I can honestly say that not once have I ever deluded myself into thinking you actually wanted me around. You made that abundantly clear when I was about twenty-one. You remember?”
Cyler leaned forward, watching his reaction. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t even right, but he was spoiling for a fight. Call it preying on the weak, but Lord only knew how many times Jack had done the same to him. It was payback.
“I remember.” Jack’s gaze slid away, his shoulders caving slightly as he turned his attention to the TV.
“Lucky me. I haven’t forgotten either.”
The silence stretched as Cyler trained his gaze on Jack, feeding off the tension that rolled off him as the old man tried to ignore him. Try to pretend I’m not here. I’m not going anywhere.
“Jack?” Laken broke through Cyler’s concentration, shattering the tension with one word. She walked into the living room as if there hadn’t just been a declaration of war. “Are you getting hungry?” She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, tilting her head slightly as she cast a curious glance back to Cyler.
“Not now, sweetheart. I think I’m going to just take a rest.” Jack glanced up, giving her one of his t
rademark grins, one that Cyler had watched him use on every single female at every rodeo they’d ever attended.
He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
To hell with it. He took an annoyed breath and rolled them anyway. “Hey, Casanova. She’s not going to keep you warm, so stop trying.”
“Ass,” Jack answered back.
“I learned from the best,” Cyler retorted.
“Yeah, we’re going to get you out of hostile territory, Jack.” Laken scowled a warning to Cyler.
He flashed her a grin. He wasn’t about to cave to her scolding just because she had a nice ass and a sexy smile. He’d learned that lesson long ago.
Laken frowned a moment then helped Jack rise from his recliner. His movements were stiff, but as he took a few steps, his swagger returned. Her arm braced his back as he walked, helping him along. And just before they made it to the hall, Jack looked over his shoulder, giving him a challenging glare. He hunched farther, requiring more of Laken’s help, and Cyler ground his teeth. The old codger was taking shameless advantage of her!
Was he surprised? No.
But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
With a snort, he stood and all but stormed out of the room. He needed to clear his head, and he knew just what would do the trick.
Chapter 6
Laken glared at Jack. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing,” she hissed as they walked down the hall. “You’re not helping. Trust me.”
“Aw, let an old man have some fun in his last days.”
“You’re not having fun. You’re planning your funeral, and your son—”
“Son. Ha!”
“Whatever, he’s going to be the one who gets you there early.”
“At least I’d take him down with me.”
“Hey! What happened to calling him and wanting to make things right?” Laken asked as she released her support from his back and helped him ease into his bed.
“He’s an ass.”
“So that justifies you being an ass too? Logic at its finest,” Laken replied with heavy sarcasm.
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“Nope. I’m simply immature.”
“Such an accomplishment at the ripe old age of seventy-five.”
“It’s taken hard work to get here.”
“Alive,” Laken added, pulling up his blankets.
“Eh.” Jack shrugged, closing his eyes. “Just make sure he doesn’t ride her too hard and fast.”
Laken coughed. “Say what?” She blinked, replaying exactly what she’d heard. “Who?”
“Margaret. She’ll be hell to deal with later. And you’ll be the one taking care of her because I’m not feeling up to dealing with her drama in the barn.” He yawned and rolled over.
“I’m missing something.”
“Margaret.” Jack rolled back enough to meet her gaze. “You know, that old mare you keep eyeing in the barn? She’s a beauty but has a stubborn streak a mile wide. And I’d bet my last bottle of scotch that Cyler’s out there saddling her up.” He narrowed his eyes. “You ride?”
Laken bit her lip. “Yeah?”
“That’s always what a horse responds well to. Uncertainty.” He huffed.
“I’m sure it will be fine.” She took a step back, watching as Jack rolled to his side.
“You’re the one dealing with it if it’s not fine,” Jack mumbled.
As she walked into the hall, she glanced to the kitchen then turned to study the back door. She should finish prepping for dinner, but her curiosity beckoned her toward the barn. Jack was right. She had been slipping sugar to the chestnut mare. With her long black mane and four white socks, Margaret was a beauty with a sweet temperament as well. At least she was sweet when she had her nose stroked and was given a treat.
Would Cyler ride her too hard?
Her curiosity made the decision for her, and soon she was making her way to the barn. The thick scent of sagebrush and hot dusty earth swirled around her as she crossed the gravel between the house and yard. Yet as soon as she stepped through the large red-and-white doors of the barn, the sweet smell of hay and leather tack welcomed her. She glanced to the mare’s stall, noticing that she was still there. As soon as Margaret saw her, she nickered and stomped, sending up a faint cloud of dust.
“Hey, baby,” Laken crooned, walking toward her, and reaching to rub the warm velvet of her nose.
Warm breath huffed out as Margaret gently rubbed harder against Laken’s hand; then she dropped her head and sniffed as if searching for her treat.
“I’m sorry I didn’t stop in the kitchen before I came out. I’ll sneak you some sugar later.” Laken leaned in to whisper.
The mare tossed her neck slightly as if offended but calmed down as soon as Laken gently petted her nose once more.
“I take it this isn’t the first time you and Margaret have had a chat.” Cyler startled Laken, and she gasped.
Margaret’s ears turned forward, but she didn’t seem afraid; rather, she nickered welcomingly.
“You two have a history?” Laken asked, taking a step back so that she could see Cyler better.
“You could say that.” His lips twisted to the side, showing off a dimple.
“I sense a story.” Laken gently pushed the topic.
Cyler’s brows rose as his grin broke through, showing off straight white teeth. “Well—” He reached up and scratched the star in the middle of Margaret’s head. “Let’s just say that some kids dream of driving their dad’s sports car. And all I ever wanted was to ride Margaret.” He shrugged. The gesture was self-deprecating. “So, I did. Whenever the old man turned his back or pissed me off enough, I’d take her out and ride her.”
“Ah, that explains what Jack said.” Laken shook her head.
The bolt squeaked as Cyler unlocked the stall and swung the door open. Laken stepped out of the way, letting the worn wood door pass her by.
“I know I’m going to regret asking.” He clipped a lead rope to Margaret’s halter. “But what did Jack say?”
The mare stomped but followed Cyler out of the stall and into the hall of the barn. He lined her up with the tack room and tied her lead to the post. The wood was worn smooth from age, giving it a dull shine.
Laken eyed the rear of the mare with caution and walked a wide circle around her. “Just that you rode her.”
“Yeah, I’m betting he didn’t say it like that. Don’t protect him.” Cyler gave her an irritated glance, all remnants of his earlier grin evaporating.
“More or less.” Laken shrugged.
“Yeah, I’m betting on more. But that’s fine. I don’t need more ammunition against him. I’ve got plenty.” He placed an old Navajo blanket on the mare’s back and settled it so that it was even.
Laken stepped to the side, watching as he gently patted the horse’s hindquarters, whispering gently. He lifted an intricately detailed western saddle then slowly rested it on the blanket. She imagined that the weight of the saddle caused the muscles in his shoulders to tense, molding around his back, tightening into a V toward his waist. He made a few adjustments, each one causing his shirt to shift under the tension of his muscular back moving. Laken watched in fascination at the strength, yet was impressed by the contrast of his gentle care of the mare.
Cyler patted Margaret’s neck, smoothing it as he leaned down, grasping the cinch and securing it. When she nickered, he glanced up, watching carefully.
“She’ll bite if I’m not careful. Gotta watch your backside,” Cyler murmured as he cast a furtive glance from Margaret to the cinch and back.
“I’m guessing she’s done that before?” Laken asked with a thick tone. She cleared her throat delicately, hoping he didn’t notice.
If he had noticed, he didn’t indicate it as he shrugged, patted Margaret’s l
eg and quickly secured the cinch. The mare huffed, turning her head, and giving what looked like a glare at Cyler.
“I don’t think she likes you right now.” Laken leaned against an empty stall, resting her hip against the wooden door.
“She never does when I saddle her. I used to ride her bareback. That ended when she shied from a rattler out toward the ridge and threw me.” He rose and turned to her. “My nose was laid over, and I got a nice gash on my head. My mom about had a fit. Blood was everywhere.” He chuckled as if reliving a great memory, rather than a traumatic one.
“Head wounds bleed like none other,” Laken replied, giving a delicate shudder. Just because she was a nurse didn’t mean she enjoyed the triage side of her career.
“You’re not kidding. This scare is my only lasting war wound from the ordeal.” He traced a faint line across his right eyebrow. “It’s also why my nose is oddly perfect.” He winked.
Laken chuckled. “Perfect, huh? When you were thrown, it obviously didn’t damage your ego,” she shot back, grinning.
“Nope. Happy to say my ego was the only thing not bruised.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “My nose is perfect because…well, when it was jacked up to hell, I had to have some fancy doctor in Seattle fix it up. Plastic surgery isn’t just for cosmetic stuff. Sometimes it’s really damn helpful.” He flashed her a grin and turned back to the mare. Margaret stomped her foot impatiently.
“You’re fine, girl. Don’t get your dander up.” He leaned in, whispering loudly. “You’re prettier anyway, so don’t get jealous.”
Laken rolled her eyes.
Quickly, he made sure the cinch was tight enough then put on the bridle. Margaret chewed it, causing the metal pieces to click together.
“Ready, aren’t you, baby?” he crooned.
Laken took a silent breath, simply amazed by the way he and Margaret worked together, as if this were an everyday occurrence.
And it probably had been.
A decade ago.
“How old is Margaret?” she asked, trying to add pieces of the story together.
“About seventeen. She’s not a young filly anymore, but she’s far from being an old nag.”
Heart of a Cowboy Page 4
