Accidental Hero. Loralee Lillibridge

him a chance to back away. Just marched up to him before he could turn his face. His heart flipped upside down when her unflinching gaze raked him up and down.

      Dark blue eyes flashed undeniable disgust. Her summer-blond hair whipped around her face when she shook her head in apparent disapproval of what—or was it, who—she saw. He didn’t blame her for despising him.

      “You smell like a brewery, Ramsey. Maybe this chili will burn off the excess alcohol. Enjoy.” With one swift move, she shoved the dish into his stomach so hard he had to grab it or end up wearing the contents.

      She ran from the room and out to her car without another word. Bo heard the crunch of gravel as she drove away.

      He turned to Shorty. “What the hell was that all about?”

      Shorty gave him a look sour enough to curdle milk. “You ought to know, boy.”

      Bo carried the dish to the table, wishing he’d never made that phone call asking Shorty for help. He hated being a damn charity case.

      “You shouldn’t have brought her here,” he grumbled. He uncovered the yellow bowl and inhaled deeply. His mouth watered at the tantalizing aroma of fiery spices. He’d always been a sucker for IdaJoy’s chili.

      “Brought her here?” Shorty’s voice rose and two shaggy eyebrows peaked over dead-serious eyes that bored straight through Bo. “The way I see it, she brought me here. You took my truck and left me stranded, remember? And that’s a whole ’nother matter. Who said you were fit to drive yet?”

      “I got back here okay, didn’t I?”

      “Maybe,” Shorty conceded, “but don’t try it again.”

      “Hhmmph.” Bo hated being treated like a ten-year-old. He pulled out the chair to sit down. Before he could blink, Shorty was right there, spoon in one hand and a glass of water in the other. His explanation was typically Shorty—gruff and to the point.

      “Get used to it, boy. From now on, water or milk’s the drink around here. The choice is yours.”

      The older man’s no-nonsense tone drew a tight smile from Bo. It had been a helluva long time since he’d been handed an ultimatum like that. A long time since anyone even cared. Well, he’d deal with Shorty and his rules just as soon as he finished eating. Right now, all he wanted was the chili. He picked up the spoon and dug in.

      A volcano erupted inside his mouth the instant the first bite hit his tongue, lava-hot and scalding a path clear through to his unsuspecting stomach.

      Bo let loose with a bellow and a string of colorful cuss words, sending Ditch scurrying out of the room. His chair toppled backward and his water glass went flying in his haste to reach the kitchen sink. Angling his head under the faucet, mouth wide open and swallowing frantically, he almost cried with relief as the gush of cold water tumbled down his scorched throat.

      When the fire in his gut finally subsided, Bo shook his wet head, spit, sputtered and glared at Shorty through watery eyes. He was helpless to form his question into words. His tongue—shoot, his whole damn mouth—was numb.

      “Oh, yeah,” Shorty said, poker-faced, as he bent to retrieve Bo’s water glass from the floor. “I think Abby might’ve added a few extra chili peppers.”

      Twilight pulled the sun below the horizon, leaving behind a rosy haze that promised another hot night. The air hung like a wet curtain, heavy and unmoving. Mosquitos, buzzing lazily alongside an occasional lightning bug, flitted past the two men sitting on the long, covered porch. The tension between them was as thick as the air.

      Bo slumped back in his chair, a glass of milk, compliments of guess-who, in one hand. Some nightcap. At least, it wasn’t flavored with chili peppers. Granted, he’d never been much of a drinker until the accident.

      For the past two weeks, the two men had done nothing but argue about his newly acquired habit. Shorty nagged and Bo ignored. He wasn’t even sure why. It wasn’t like he thought the beer tasted good. He stretched out his legs and got ready for the argument he knew was sure to come. He wasn’t disappointed.

      “I just cain’t figure you out, boy,” the old rancher began. “Ain’t like you to look to a bottle for answers. That never solved a problem yet.”

      Bo grunted. “Save your sermons for the Sunday congregation, okay?” The sarcastic words spilling out of his mouth of their own accord tasted sour on his tongue, but he couldn’t pull them back for the life of him. Didn’t try. What the hell difference did it make anymore?

      He hated being so damned dependent, but who would hire the likes of him now? He was about as useless as a bucket of warm spit. Until he could manage to walk without tottering like an old man, there wasn’t much he could do but sit on his backside and complain. He was getting to be an expert at that.

      But Shorty wasn’t about to cut him any slack, it seemed.

      “You’ve been back here nigh on two weeks now and so far, the only thing getting better is your leg, ’cause your attitude sure ain’t improving. It’s time you stopped wallowing in self-pity. I don’t aim to be wet-nursin’ you no more. Time for you to play the hand you been dealt, and get on with the game. Plain and simple.”

      Bo muttered under his breath. Shorty was right, as usual. He knew his attitude sucked. He knew why, too. He just wasn’t ready to tell his friend the whole story. Not yet. There’d been a lot of things he’d meant to say the day Shorty picked him up from the therapy clinic, but the words had stuck in his throat. Hell, what do you say to the man who has just bailed you out of the hospital, chased the bill collectors from your door, and offered you a home without asking a single thing in return? “Thanks” just didn’t seem to cut it. And Shorty hadn’t even asked about Marla yet.

      Marla. Shorty’s niece and the reason Bo had left Sweet River. The reason he’d left Abby Houston with a broken heart. Not to mention the damage he’d done to his own.

      Ditch snored softly, his big head resting on Shorty’s boots, seemingly oblivious to any danger as his long tail darted back and forth underneath the chair’s wooden rocker. Every time Shorty rocked forward, the dog’s tail swished under and back, under and back, like a metronome with a mysterious timing device, never missing a beat.

      Bo had been watching the dog’s laid-back attitude for the last half hour. “You ever catch his tail with that rocker?” he finally asked, pointing to Ditch.

      “Nope.” Shorty kept on rocking. “Dog’s got more sense than most of us humans. Knows how to stay out of trouble, don’t back talk, and is a heap more grateful for small favors than most folks.”

      Bo pushed out of his chair and shoved his hat back without giving a thought to the way it bared his face.

      “Dammit, Shorty, I am grateful,” he said, plunking his glass so hard on the nearby wobbly metal table that Ditch thought it best to slink off to the other end of the porch. “There’s not a minute goes by that I don’t remember I’m in debt up to my eyeballs to you. Don’t you think I’m ashamed of the mess I made of things? You can’t begin to know how it really was.”

      Shorty raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Then maybe it’s time you told me, son.”

      The word son sucker punched him right in the gut. He couldn’t avoid the truth any longer. Especially not with the only man who had ever called him son.

      Chapter Three

      Pale morning light filtered through the open barn door, haloing the clock on the wall with dust motes. Abby glanced up wearily. Almost six o’clock and already the barn was hotter than a mouthful of jalapeños. The air hung heavy with the pungent smell of the horses. Hay, feed and freshly hauled manure combined in a uniquely familiar odor that Abby barely noticed.

      She’d been out in the barn since four-thirty. At this rate, she’d have all the chores finished before Pop even woke up. Monday’s chores always seemed to take longer. She mopped her damp forehead with