Jillian Hart - His Country Girl

“I’ll be asleep,” Owen laughed.

“Sure, but you’re going to be the best patient ever. The surgeon is going to be in awe at how well things go.” Tucker didn’t like thinking of the precious little boy undergoing something so serious. Strange and unwelcome pain bored deeper into his chest and it took hard work not to let it show. He grabbed the pen Sierra offered him, seeing the same dread reflected on her beautiful face.

“This time tomorrow,” he went on, turning his attention to scrawling out numbers on the napkin, “your mom will call and tell me how fantastic you’re doing and that I had better find me a good sheep because you’re ready to start learning the trade.”

“All right!” Owen clasped his hands together, as if overcome with joy.

Only then did Tucker realize what he’d done. He’d promised to teach the boy without clearing it first with his mom. Ouch. That was one big mistake. He stared hard at the pen and napkin in hand, knowing recrimination was about to come in one form or another. It was his experience that most mothers did not want their sons to grow up to join the rodeo.

“I’ll give you a call.” When Sierra spoke, there wasn’t veiled anger layered beneath her quiet alto. Not even a hint of coolness or a tone of disapproval. What he heard instead made him turn toward her, surprising him like nothing could. She smiled, taking the pen and napkin from him. “It’s a good thing your neighbors raise sheep. We’ll know just where to look.”

“Right.” His throat tightened. Words tumbled straight out of his head. He felt awkward and wooden as his boots hit the tile and he grappled for his cane and his hat. He didn’t know why he could see her heart, but he could. She was grateful for his offer because it gave Owen hope; it gave her hope, that there would be a lifetime of tomorrows yet to come for her and her son.

“You be sure and watch some of those movies,” he told the boy. “The one with the wooden toy cowboy is my favorite. When I talk to you, I want to hear what you think.”

“Sure. ’Bye, Tucker.” Owen wrapped his arm around the stuffed bull and held on tight.

The picture he made, sitting frail and small in his hospital bed, tore at him.

“Thanks for having me over,” he said, taking a step into the hall before he realized it was true. He thought he’d been doing a favor for the charity, but he’d been wrong. The favor had been for him.

Sierra was on her feet, following him into the hall. Light played in the multihued layers of her hair, golds, honeys and platinums glinted beneath the fluorescent lamps. She looked lighter than when he’d met her a few hours ago, so luminous it hurt to gaze at her.

“I can’t believe everything you did for Owen today.” Her fingertips landed on his forearm. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Her touch felt like the sweetest comfort he’d ever known and he did not pull away. “You promise to call? I want to know when he’s out of surgery. I’ve got a sheep to find.”

But that wasn’t what he meant and judging by the gleam of emotion pooling in her gray eyes, she knew it, too. The sheep wasn’t the problem. It was his concern for the boy.

“Promise.” Her lower lip trembled and she fell silent, as if she could not risk saying more. She firmed her chin and straightened her slender shoulders. So much strength for such a wisp of a woman, and seeing it made him admire her all the more.

“Goodbye, Sierra.” The emotion wedged between his ribs arrowed impossibly deeper. He forced his feet to carry him down the hall and away from the woman responsible. It had to be sympathy he felt for her because, as every woman he’d ever dated had told him, he wasn’t capable of more.

Sierra yawned wide, covered her mouth with her hand and hated that her brain felt full of cobwebs. She stared at her phone, wondering why her mother’s cell kept going to voice mail. It was probably the storm that had blown out sometime in the night. Still, a lot of services were compromised this morning. She sat straighter in the chair, trying not to make any distracting sounds in the surgical waiting area. A handful of other people anxiously waited on the surgeries of their loved ones, too.

She dialed again, tucked her phone to her ear and sighed. She missed her mom, but it strengthened her to hear the sound of her voice on the recorded message. She waited for the beep. “Hi, Mom. I don’t know where you are. The home phone isn’t in service either. Owen has been in surgery for about an hour. So far, so good—at least there hasn’t been any word otherwise. I’ll try calling you in a little bit. I love you.”

She disconnected, hating the lonely, frightening feeling creeping in around the edges of her heart. That same worried terror had haunted her the night through, keeping away all chances of real sleep. Open-heart surgery came with risks, ones she had vowed not to dwell on but they surged around her now like a tidal wave. What would she do if something went wrong? She couldn’t lose him. Owen was her world, every part of her life that was good and beautiful.

Lord, please keep me on the right path here. She swallowed hard, slid her phone into the outside pocket of her purse and gathered up her knitting from the empty chair beside her. Help me to see the positive and keep all doubt away. Help Owen’s surgery to go perfectly.

Those words made her think of Tucker Granger’s visit yesterday. He’d found it so easy to be optimistic and the assurance in his rumbling baritone had been strong, strong enough to touch her now.

Footsteps came to a rest beside her. She glanced up, shocked to see the man towering above her, handsome, thoroughly masculine and invincible. Tucker Granger tossed her a strained grin, a shadow of the bright one he’d mesmerized her son with yesterday.

“Thought you could use a friend.” He held out a cardboard drink container with three covered paper cups. “And if I don’t qualify as a friend, then I figured bringing three different kinds of coffee might give me that status for the morning.”

“It’s possible, but only a temporary one.”

“Awesome.” He settled into the chair beside her and stowed his cane. “I’ve got a regular, a latte and a mocha. You get first pick.”

“Definitely the mocha. Thank you.” Her hands started to shake, so she let her knitting fall into her lap. Relief flooded her. “Why aren’t you warm and comfortable in your hotel room?”

“I felt cooped up.” He extricated a cup from the container and held it out to her, his fingers a shocking warmth against hers as she took the coffee.

“Cooped up? So you thought going out in the aftermath of a blizzard with half the city streets still unplowed would be a good alternative?”

“Absolutely. A little blizzard doesn’t scare me. Besides, I’ve been where you are before. Years ago when my dad was shot in the chest scaring off cattle rustlers.” His ease faded and he tensed up as if in memory. Pain crept into his features, giving him character, making him real to her in a way he’d never been before. He chose a cup of plain coffee and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll never forget the waiting while he was in surgery. It was touch-and-go the whole time.”

“I remember. That was a long time ago.” She took a sip. “And your sister was shot before Christmas, wasn’t she?”

“One of the dangers of cattle ranching, I suppose. The occasional well-armed cattle rustler.” He stared into his cup, more somber than was comfortable. “It’s been a tough winter. I was trussed up in traction in a hospital room worrying the whole time Autumn was in surgery. I felt the same sick, scared feeling when Dad was fighting for his life. Turned out she wasn’t hit as bad, but we still could have lost her.”