Trish Milburn - Cowboy to the Rescue

But dreams sometimes turned into nightmares.

Stop it!

Brooke took in a slow, cedar-scented breath. No more thinking about the past. From this moment on, she was Miss Looking Forward, at whatever the future might bring. As she started up the hill, her steps fell lighter against the gravel. Hey, she liked this new positive attitude. She felt as if she was shedding anxiety on the road behind her. It could stay there and be ground down even further on her way out. Maybe she’d give it a swift kick for good measure.

At the top of the hill, she spotted Ryan’s home—

a small cabin with what looked like an outdoor woodshop at one end. She wondered what kind of furniture he made. Curiosity as much as necessity drove her forward.

She scanned the outside work area as she approached. Tools and wood shavings lay scattered across a tall workbench. Freshly cut pine and a hint of past fires filled the air. She stepped into the shade provided by the shop’s roof. That’s when she heard cursing from inside the house. She edged closer to the open door.

“Ryan?”

He jerked at the sound of her voice, turning enough that she was able to see the blood on the hand he held under a stream of water flowing from the kitchen faucet.

She rushed toward him. “Oh, Ryan, what did you do?”

“Knife slipped.” His words came out slowly, and now that she was closer she could see how pale he looked.

Brooke took hold of his arm and gently guided his hand back under the water. He closed his eyes and shook as his blood began to mix with the water flowing down the drain. She had to distract him so he wouldn’t pass out.

“Where are your clean hand towels?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he opened his eyes a fraction. “Drawer in front of you.”

She retrieved a mostly white towel and set it on the counter next to the sink. “So, how’d you manage this feat of brilliance?”

“Unparalleled talent?”

She laughed. If he could joke, maybe he wouldn’t collapse in the middle of the floor. “I’ve heard of putting blood, sweat and tears into your work, but this seems a tad excessive.”

When she squeezed some soap into her hand and proceeded to wash the wound on his left palm, she noticed he gripped the edge of the sink tighter with his other hand.

“We’re almost done.” She rinsed the soap away then shut off the water. Careful not to hurt him more than necessary, she pressed the towel against the wound and lifted his hand level with his shoulders. With her other hand pressed against his back, she guided him toward a comfy-looking chair facing his TV.

“I’m fine,” he said just as he reached for the back of the chair to steady himself.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“That sounded sarcastic.”

“Really?” She smiled when he looked at her. “I had no idea. Now, how about you sit before you fall?”

He didn’t argue. Once he was seated and holding the towel against his cut, she returned to the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the dish drainer. As she filled it with water, she tried to get her racing pulse under control. She was here just to help him, not to think about the texture of his work-roughened hands or the hard heat of his back. Not how pretty his eyes were up close. Not how easy she found it to be with him, especially in the past few minutes when parts of her true personality had shown themselves.

Get a grip.

She took the glass of cold water back to Ryan. “Here.” She extended the glass as she sat on the end of the coffee table in front of him. When he reached for the glass, she resumed pressing the towel against his palm. “I think you need a few stitches.”

Ryan shook his head. “It’ll be okay.”

“This part of one of those tough-guy routines?”

“No. Just don’t like hospitals.”

“You and most of the rest of the population.”

“Really, no need for stitches. I’ve had worse.”

Something about the way he said it, low and far away like the previous wounds were as much emotional as physical, kept her from insisting he go to the hospital. After all, she couldn’t force him.

“Okay, then, where are your first-aid supplies?”

He met her eyes and she got the feeling that he changed whatever he’d been about to say. “Under the bathroom sink.”

As she walked farther into his house, she couldn’t help the feeling that she was also stepping deeper into his life.

Ryan’s bathroom was classic bachelor. Single towel hanging over the shower rod. Shaving cream, razor, hairbrush and a half-used bar of soap on the sink. No frills. Even with so little to see, it felt strangely intimate to be standing in the midst of it. Her gaze drifted toward the shower and her imagination started forming a picture of Ryan below an entirely different flow of water. She jerked her attention back to the sink and knelt to retrieve the first aid supplies.

When she stood, Brooke eyed her reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t even thought before running into Ryan’s house to help him. Not that she could have left him alone and injured, but it had felt oddly natural. Maybe they were just in the early stages of an easy friendship. That certainly would be nice. New life, new friends. As long as she didn’t get too close.

“You find everything?” Ryan called out.

“Yeah.” She returned to the living room.

“I’ve stopped bleeding like a stuck pig,” he said.

“Yay, progress.” Brooke resumed her spot on the end of the coffee table. “Looks like your color’s coming back, too. You were pulling a Casper a few minutes ago.”

“Can’t say I’m a fan of the sight of blood.” There it was again, an echo of meaning beyond the actual words.

She took his hand in hers, ignoring the zing of unwise awareness, and removed the bloodstained towel. “Then I suggest not stabbing yourself.”

When he smiled, she smiled back. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

She cleaned the wound, washing away the last remnants of blood, then applied antibacterial cream and a gauze bandage.

“She cooks, she plays a mean game of Scrabble and makes a pretty fair nurse.”

“A necessity when your sister is the clumsiest person on the planet.” Brooke wasn’t sure why she’d said that, but Holly’s various mishaps had been what sprang into her mind. She hadn’t revealed too much, and if she kept too private that might invite as many unwanted questions as being too open. The trick was finding the right balance between saying enough but not too much.

Mentioning Holly brought on a wave of homesickness—not for her condo in Arlington but for the mountains of West Virginia and her older sister, her only remaining family.

“You all right?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah.” Brooke realized she was still holding Ryan’s hand so she released it and scooted back on the table. “How does your hand feel?”

“Like some idiot stabbed it with a carving knife.”

“Hey, accidents happen.”

He glanced out the door toward his shop. “But never at a good time.”

“Is there ever a good time to stab yourself?”

He lifted his good hand from the arm of the chair then let it drop. “You have a point.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“You a wood carver by chance?”

“Nope, sorry.” She stood and walked toward the door. “Anything else on your to-do list?”

“I have a table and chairs ready to deliver. Maybe I can get Simon or Nathan to help.”

“Or me.” She lifted her hands, holding the palms out, and wiggled her fingers. “See, two good hands.”

“You looking for a second job?”

“How much you paying?”

He raised an eyebrow. “How much do you charge?”

She crossed her arms, hugging herself against a flicker of innuendo she thought she might be imagining. She leaned against the doorframe. “Actually, I just need a ride into town. You might be the idiot who stabbed himself, but I’m the idiot who barreled into that pothole this morning.”